by Otto Penzler
“Wonderful, Combs, wonderful,” I cried.
“Merely observation,” he replied. “Some day I think that I shall write a monograph on the subject of buttons. It is a very interesting subject and the book ought to sell well. But, hello, what is this?”
The sound of a cab halting before the door caused Combs’s remark. Even as he spoke there was a pull at the bell, then the sound of hasty footsteps on the stairs. A sharp knock sounded upon the door. Combs dropped into his armchair, stuck out his legs in his familiar way and then said: “Come in.”
The door opened and there entered, in great perturbation, a young lady, twenty-three years of age, having on a blue tailor-made suit, patent-leather shoes and a hat with a black pompon ornamenting it. She wore some other things, but these were all that I noticed. Not so Combs. I could see by the penetrating glance he threw at her that her secret was already known to that astute mind.
“Thank heaven,” she cried, turning to me, “that I have found you in!”
“Are you ill, madam?” I began; but suddenly realizing that I was not in my office but in Combs’s consultation-room, I drew myself up stiffly and said: “That is Mr. Combs.”
The young lady turned to him. Then, lifting her handkerchief to her beautiful eyes she burst into tears as she said: “Help me, help me, Mr. Combs.”
The great man did not reply. An answer to such a remark he would have regarded as too trivial. The lady took down her handkerchief and, after glancing dubiously at me, said to Mr. Combs, “Can I see you privately?”
Once, and once only did I ever before or, indeed, since, see such a look of rage on Combs’s face. That was when Professor O’Flaherty and he had that altercation in Switzerland. (See “Memoirs of Oilock Combs.” Arper & Co. $1.50.)
“Madam,” said he in frigid tones, “whatever you desire to say to me you may say before Dr. Spotson. How under the sun, woman,” he cried, losing control of himself for a moment, “would the public know of my adventures if he were not here to write them?”
I threw Combs a grateful look while he reached for the soda water. The visitor was momentarily crushed. At last, however, she recovered her equanimity.
“Well, then,” she said, “I will tell you my story.”
“Pray, begin,” said Combs rather testily.
“My name is Ysabelle, Duchess of Swabia,” the visitor commenced.
“One moment, please,” interrupted Combs. “Spotson, kindly look up that name in my index.”
I took down the book referred to, in which Combs had made thousands of notes of people and events of interest, and found between “Yponomeutidae” and “yttrium” the following item, which I read aloud:
“Ysabelle, Duchess of Swabia; Countess of Steinheimbach; Countess of Riesendorf, etc., etc. Born at Schloss Ochsenfuss, February 29, 1876. Her mother was the Duchess Olga, of Zwiefelfeld, and her father was Hugo, Duke of Kaffeekuchen. At three years of age she could say ‘ha, ha!’ in German, French, English, Italian, and Spanish. Between the ages of five and fifteen she was instructed by Professor Grosskopf, the eminent philosopher of the University of Kleinplatz. By sixteen her wisdom teeth had all appeared. A very remarkable woman!”
As I read this last sentence, the duchess again burst into tears.
“Pray, pray, compose yourself, duchess,” said Combs, taking a pipe from the table and filling it with some tobacco which he absent-mindedly took from my coat-pocket.
The duchess succeeded in calming herself. Then, rising majestically and gazing at Combs with those wonderful eyes which had played havoc with so many royal hearts, she said, in solemn tones:
“I AM LOST!”
The manner in which she made this statement as well as the declaration itself seemed to make a deep impression upon Combs. Without uttering one word he sat there for fully four minutes. The way in which he puffed nervously at the pipe showed me that he was thinking. Suddenly, with an exclamation of delight, he dashed out of the room and down the stairs, leaving the amazed duchess and myself in his apartments. But not for long. In forty-three seconds he was again in the room and, dropping into his chair thoroughly exhausted, he triumphantly cried:
“I have it!”
Never had I seen my friend wear such a look of victory. The achievement which merited such an expression upon his countenance must have been remarkable. By and by he recovered from his fatigue. Then he spoke.
“Madam,” he said, “I have the answer.”
The duchess sobbed in ecstasy.
Combs continued:
“The moment that you said you were lost,” he began, “an idea came to me. You must have noticed, Spotson, how preoccupied I seemed before. Well, that is the sign of an idea coming to me. Before it had time to vanish I dashed down the steps, into the vestibule, looked at the number of this house and jotted it down. Madam,” he cried, drawing out a book and looking at one of the pages, “madam, you are saved! You are no longer lost! This is No. 62 Fakir Street. You are found!”
During this entire recital the duchess had not said a word. When Combs had finished she stood for a moment as if she did not understand and then, realizing the fact that she was rescued, she wept once more.
“My savior,” she cried as she prepared to leave the room, “how can I ever thank you?” And she pressed into Combs’s outstretched hand a large gold-mesh, diamond-studded purse.
The door closed, the carriage rolled away and the Duchess of Swabia was gone.
“Spotson,” said Combs to me, “don’t forget to write this one down. It has a duchess in it and will sell well to cooks and chambermaids. By the way, I wonder what she gave me.”
He opened the purse and there, neatly folded, lay two hundred pounds in bills.
“Bah!” cried Combs contemptuously. “How ungrateful these royal personages always are.”
The Marriage of Sherlock Holmes
GREGORY BREITMAN
(Translated from the Russian by Benjamin Block)
IT MAY BE true that Russians have a spectacular sense of humor, but it is equally true that this most precious of traits has not always been evident in the translated literature. It is an uncommon day indeed when even the best-natured individuals ache to share the laugh riot they encountered in a Dostoevsky novel or the hilarity of Tolstoy’s dialogue.
Gregory Breitman has produced a story far funnier than one might have expected. That statement is true. When expectations are nil, any hint of humor is a welcome surprise. Actually, the premise of this story is extremely witty, and while its execution is unlikely to be confused with the best of Mark Twain or Dave Barry, it is more than tolerable.
Breitman was born in Russia on June 20, 1873, and emigrated to the United States in 1923; he died on June 11, 1943.
“The Marriage of Sherlock Holmes” was first published in the December 1926 issue of a man’s magazine, The Beau Book; it was first published in book form in The Beau Book, a bound volume containing the issues of December 1926 through October 1927, edited by Samuel Roth and limited to five hundred copies, bound for subscribers (New York, Beau Publishing, 1927).
THE MARRIAGE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
Gregory Breitman
“IS THAT YOU, Watson?”
Doctor Watson briskly entered Sherlock Holmes’s cabinet and pressed warmly the extended hand of the host.
Sherlock shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other and pointed out the armchair to his friend.
Doctor Watson seated himself opposite the host and said:
“Sherlock, you have not changed a wee-bit! Think of it! We have not seen each other for three months, yet, as soon as I put my foot across the threshold of your apartment, you recognized me immediately!”
The famous detective did not smile, but an effort to do so was quite evident. Perhaps he only stirred his pipe, and the movement of his lips suggested a gentle smile.
“Who else, besides you, my dear friend,” he began, “would have come into my apartment and freely groomed his hair before the big mirror
, without even inquiring about me from the servant-maid? Every person possesses some subjective nuances of manner which accompany him wherever he goes and expose themselves unconsciously. Don’t we recognize people by their gait?”
Watson, without doubt, was pleased silently with his friend’s explanation. He leisurely lit his cigar and when his head, at last, became enveloped in clouds of gray smoke, he asked carelessly:
“My friend, you are married?”
Holmes raised his eyes at his friend, only to meet the latter’s cynic glance; either was pretending to look less surprised than the other, as if some play was hidden in it. Holmes replied:
“You have reached your conclusions because of the new order in my house, the odor of perfume and a lady’s apparel hanging on the clothes-rack in the ante-chamber?”
“Not at all, Sherlock, I haven’t noticed that,” calmly retorted Watson, “but I judge by the smooth, unmistakable marriage ring on the fourth finger of your left hand. To be sure, Sherlock, you never cared for trinkets!”
Holmes brought up the palm of his left hand to his face and for several minutes thoughtfully examined the gold ring on his finger.
“You are right, my friend,” he murmured, “this is the proof, sure proof for any detective. Yes, I am married.”
“What on earth has come over you, Sherlock?” inquired the doctor somewhat sympathetically, gazing reflectively at his friend.
Sherlock Holmes took out the pipe from his mouth and after having ascertained that the fire had burned out completely, he then remarked:
“One successful adventure, Watson!”
“Poor Sherlock!” sighed the doctor compassionately. A brief, but serious silence followed. Holmes was meditating and Watson was waiting.
“Watson,” at last began the famous detective, “as you know, I was always wont to report to you all my adventures; at all times I feel the need to share with someone my observations and impressions; my thought works much faster then, and during a conversation I may arrive at a more practical decision much easier than during the process of thinking.”
“If that be the case, my friend,” fired back the doctor, “I very much regret that we have not seen each other for such a long time, still I presume that, had there been someone for you to have a heart-to-heart talk with, your situation would not have become so sadly complicated.”
“Why do you suppose that I am unhappy in my marriage, Watson?” curiously rebutted Holmes, as sparks seemed to be playing in his eyes.
“Only because of my conviction that such a serious and self-existing person like yourself can never be satisfied with married life, however supernatural qualities your lively consort may possess. It is mainly up to you, not to her. Coupled life, especially with a woman, is a thing unnatural, as much as love without a woman is unnatural. Matrimony, in its present form, is a savagery, a survival of barbarism and ignorance, a violation of the nature of the modern human being, an impurity of some sort.”
“And, most of all, it is a great inconvenience,” concluded Sherlock Holmes. “Life begins to resemble a piano, into the strings of which a cane with a gold head has been stuck. Absolutely incompatibility.”
“What a misfortune it is for mankind that the woman is denied the ideal franchise with the man!” remarked the doctor bitterly.
Sherlock spoke up slowly: “I would gladly bear her name, carry out all household duties, make her the head of the family, just to be given the means to reckon with a definite quantity, only to know with whom I am dealing!”
“You are right, Sherlock; the psychic life of the woman is utterly inconceivable to the man, while the woman proper is always a puzzle to him. In that alone lies the nature of her relationship to him. Since Creation there was not, nor will there be such a man who could understand a woman. Not because there were not and there will not be any erudite and perspicacious men, but simply because it would be almost as supernatural if there were a man who could understand the languages of dogs, birds, and jackasses.”
“Why, then, does a woman understand a man so well?” asked Sherlock sighingly.
“Because this is one of the peculiarities of her nature. She was thus created by God,” quickly and assuredly asserted Watson. “It is one of her inborn qualities, without which she is—a weakling, a defective, like a cat without whiskers and special pupils, a dog without his scent, a hedgehog without his prickles. This is the weapon she employs in her struggle for her existence and against the man.”
Watson began to reek with perspiration; he took out his handkerchief and wiped his high forehead. Sherlock lit up his pipe and puffed away at it till a thick, gray smoke enveloped him fully. Then, as if speaking to himself, he said:
“Most remarkable! During my life I had fought with all possible criminals, such criminals that police the world over refused to mingle with; I caught the most ingenious swindlers, cleverest thieves, brave robbers and beastly murderers; I traced the most amazing crimes, conceived the secrets of the most complicated adventures and unfolded them; I had dealt with prisoners, bullies, half-wits, and maniacs.”
Watson’s face bubbled with astonishment, and stretching himself out to a comfortable position, he interrupted his friend:
“Only your wife you cannot catch!” he shouted.
The pipe in Sherlock’s mouth began to tremble, as if someone had struck it. A minute later the famous detective made the following reply:
“My good friend, Watson, I love you so, that I know not what to answer you!”
A stifled reproach was heard in the detective’s voice. Watson grasped his hand and flared up in ardent exaltation:
“My dear teacher, whatever has come over you? You seem to have forgotten your first and main principle; to regard everything subjectively and seriously! I fail to recognize you, Sherlock!”
“I am not at all sure whether she has committed any crime at all.”
“Then, you are jealous, Sherlock!”
“No, not jealous, but suspicious. I have sufficient proof to sustain my contention. I alone am aware of it. To another man she would seem an ideal wife, true and loving. It does not seem as if she had many male acquaintances. She does not spruce or receive letters from anyone, nor does she mention any names in her sleep; in a word, she conducts herself superbly.”
“What do you want from her, then?”
“To know to whom she is betraying me!”
“Are you sure about it?”
“You, Watson, if anyone else, should know me at least a little bit!”
“Forgive me, Sherlock! But what is it, namely, that makes you suffer?”
“I am not suffering at all, Watson, I am merely interested. Two hearts have met in collision; hers and mine. My nature, however, does not tolerate a concrete secret.”
“Of course! But, on what do you base your assumption, Sherlock?”
“I am certain, for instance, that she is taking someone home before she returns to the house. The individual she is riding with is a man, and lives not far from here. Judging by your raised eyebrows, you are deeply interested in the affair. Very well, then. I have observed her through the window several times when she was returning from an appointment. She never sat in the center of the seat, but always on the right-hand side. I conclude, therefrom, that at her left-hand side sat her escort who, undoubtedly, left the cab before. That her escort is a man is evinced by two outstanding incidents: First, that he sat at her left-hand side; second, that my wife never paid the driver. Consequently, he must have been paid off before, by a man, of course.”
“The observation, in all probability, is correct!”
“Then, after the appointment, my wife usually brings home with her the odor of his perfume and cigars. One thing, Watson, you must admit, that I am endowed with a very keen, almost dog-like scent, and I can very easily discern the difference between a cigar and a pipe. Besides, you know well yourself that tobacco smoke assails the nostrils of the non-smoking neighbor more readily than the smoker himself.”
The detective filled up his pipe with fresh tobacco; lighting it, he puffed away at it for a brief moment. Then, he stretched and straightened up his back awhile and continued:
“As you can see now, I possess a sufficient supply of watchfulness and observation; both of us are engaged in a definite, silent, but stubborn struggle. My wife, for instance, knows well that not until I bear witness of her actions will I utter a single syllable of rebuke to her; I am too serious a man for that. Her general behavior toward me is beyond reproach; neither do I suspect nor feel that she has grown cold toward me; she pretends not to be bored in my company; on the contrary, she is very kind, sweet, and amiable. Yet, I have on hand some well-founded material which proves to me that it is nothing but make-believe on her part, that she is playing a very subtle game—which must end some day.”
“Still, I believe she will come out of this unmarred,” remarked the visitor somewhat sadly, “unless you get her in the very act, when it will be impossible for her to prove or to deceive you any longer; when all roads leading to it will become locked. Otherwise, it is very difficult to test a woman; you cannot subject her love to an examination. She can make-believe and simulate as much as she desires. It is not like us men; we are mere mechanisms in the process of love.”
“You are perfectly right, my friend; but my profession and art have forced me to discount all the time the views on love and women you have just propounded, and which so opportunely coincide with my own convictions. May I not, therefore, take the liberty of asking you, who is deceiving you, my friend?”
Watson doubtless became confused, but succeeded in retaining the composure of his mind. He met Sherlock’s keen look with real fortitude, and discharging heavy clouds of smoke, he charged back, slowly, but very emphatically:
“This is a groundless accusation, Sherlock. I merely expressed my views and convictions. They bound me to nothing whatever.”
“Perhaps! Yet, I firmly believe that they come to one only through personal experience, and their origin, I may say, is without doubt, the same as mine. But, whereas you are an admirer of concrete facts, I shall permit you to avail yourself of my material with regards to your case.”
