The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  I was sitting in the front room at Baker Street, the flat we shared together, some two years after his disappearance, neatly dressed, as is my custom, in a bowler-hat and morning tail-coat. In the interval, I had read over again and again the notes of the strange cases he had so considerately forgotten to take with him to Switzerland, and I had come to the conclusion that his disappearance—as I gave it to the world—was a mistake on my part. I had a very fair working knowledge of his methods, and had learned to distinguish fifty-seven sorts of blotting paper, forty-three cigar-ashes, and with the aid of his pocket-glass, which he had also left behind, could from the marks on the carpet ascertain with fair correctness whether anyone with extremely muddy boots had lately been in the room. Consequently, if only I had not given to the world the story of his disappearance, I might have gone on to write almost any number of these reminiscences which have so taken the world by storm. Then, to my inexpressible relief, came the story of his marvellous power of intuition in the matter of the phosphorescent dog, and since the public swallowed that, they might be pleased to swallow more, or indeed anything. The story, as every reader will remember, was supposed to be told by me, but somebody else really made it up. As soon as I saw it, I thought of applying for a breach of patent, but Mrs. (now Lady) Watson restrained me. But from that moment I began to plan a whole new series of tales, and if these should ever see the light, I do not think that anyone will fail to be thrilled over “King Cophetua’s Beggar-maid,” “The Mystery of Hampstead Heath,” “The Moth-eaten Boa Constrictor,” “The King of Spain’s Purple Inkstand,” and the short monograph on the tails of cab-horses.

  As I said, I was sitting in the front room at Baker Street—what had happened to my wife I can’t remember. As every reader will have noticed, she disappears at intervals from these stories. Some day I shall watch her, after the methods of my revered master, Sherlock Holmes. Anyhow, I was sitting in the front room at Baker Street when the door-bell rang. I had already learned to distinguish many sorts of ringing—the routine ringing, for instance, of the baker; the Wagnerian ringing of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s relations, who think they have a claim on me; the hopeless ringing of the dun; the expectant ringing of the boon-companion; and the merely enragé ringing of the incurable maniac. But I had hardly time to turn up my classification of ringing when my visitor was announced, and a middle-aged woman of below the middle height was ushered into the room. She had a splash of yolk of egg on her jacket, from which I concluded that she was not penniless, or she would have had no breakfast, and that she was of an untidy habit, while, from the muddy bootlace that trailed on the carpet, I inferred with lightning rapidity that she was in a hurry and had also probably walked here. At her throat she wore a diamond, which I saw at once to be worth a king’s ransom, and from the fact that she was smoking a short clay pipe I gathered she was not English, or, at any rate, not belonging to the so-called fashionable world of London. So, adopting my usual confidential professional manner—“Well, my good woman,” I said, “what can I do for you?”

  The crone replied in a slightly cracked voice. “Is it Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she said.

  The temptation—if indeed it was a temptation—prevailed. It would have been tedious to explain to her that I was his greater chronicler, adducing the obvious parallel of Johnson and Boswell; and, indeed, I doubted whether she had ever heard of either.

  “You may speak to me quite frankly,” I said. “I only wish my friend Lord—I mean Mr. Watson was here, whom I often consult in cases where superior penetration is required.”

  As I spoke I dropped my eyes to adjust the stethoscope that was sticking out of my pocket. It is my custom—rightly or wrongly, I do not know—to carry my stethoscope somewhere where it can be easily seen, as it leads to patients. As I did this, I heard a faint chuckle, and remembered whom I impersonated.

  So I lit an ounce or two of shag tobacco, and, closing my eyes slightly, extemporised on my late friend’s violin.

  “Mitral regurgitation,” I said, referring to the chuckle. “I perceive, also, that you have walked some distance, and are of an untidy temperament. This is apt to grow on elderly females. From your height, I should infer you had rickets when young, but that your father was a man of wealth.”

  “You mean my diamond,” said she; “it was given me by my husband.”

  This was weary work.

  “Then where is your wedding-ring?” I asked, looking at the thin tapering hands, and striking a series of consecutive fifths.

  My visitor made a movement of impatience.

  “The E string is slightly out of tune,” she observed.

  I handed her the violin. The E string was altogether missing.

  “You forget whom you are talking to,” said I. “But pray name your business! Two kings and three marchionesses are already on the telephone, and I cannot give you long. Also the purple Emperor of Paraguay has been consulting me on a matter of the most urgent importance.”

  I had learned this trick, I must confess, from Sherlock. Whenever, in the old days, I challenged his deductions, he always used to refer me to the case of the Green Sparrow of Pesth, or the Aurora of Candahar. Even as I spoke, I got up and rang up a false telephone, with which it was my custom to impress patients. Once Mrs., I mean Lady——

  But even as I turned, I heard a well-known voice——

  “You have gone up a little in weight, Watson,” it said; “I should say you were seven-stone-six.”

  In an instant I knew who it was.

  “Holmes, this is unworthy of you!” I cried. “Besides, I am thirteen stone,” and I stood on the weighing-machine. It only registered fourteen stone and instantly burst with a loud report.

  “That convinces us both of its fallibility,” he remarked. “I should be obliged, Watson, if you would sit down, and not pretend to ring up imaginary people. It was I who invented the purple Emperor of Paraguay. But it was you who broke my E string.”

  Even in this short space of time he had entirely divested himself of the habiliments of the slovenly spinster, and in the chair there lay back the figure of Sherlock Holmes, clad in his usual dressing-gown, his thin, hawk-like, athletic face irradiated by a painful kind of smile.

  “You have attempted to impersonate me,” he said.

  “You have been fooling around in Devonshire long after I had killed you,” I retorted.

  His face became filled by that egotism which I have often deplored in these and similar pages.

  “I do not deny,” he said, “that you have been on occasions of some slight use to me. But the times when your infernal tail-coat and bowler-hat have irritated me beyond endurance are without number.”

  This roused me.

  “If it hadn’t been for me,” I said, “you would never have been heard of.”

  “We are quits,” he replied; “if it hadn’t been for me you would never have found anything to write about. Oblige me by the tobacco.”

  I handed him his purple shag, and watched him with extreme interest, for I saw he was in his most intuitive mood. I should get copy out of this.

  “I observe,” he said, “that in my absence you have not been idle. A lady of title has called here today; you were very busy before dinner; you planted a polyanthus at Uxbridge a few days ago, and have an idle servant; you have lately read a volume by Mr. Alfred Austin; you have a young dog which it has been necessary to chastise because he dug up the polyanthus; you smoked a cigarette just before I came into the room; and replied, this afternoon, to a letter from your mother-in-law, who proposed herself to come and stay with you; you have a brother who used to drink, but who was buried on Thursday; Sir Richard Calmady’s mother has married again; you went to the wedding.”

  I paced up and down the room in incontrollable agitation.

  “Holmes, this is not fair!” I cried. “You have been spying on me!”

  A look of pained surprise covered his face.

  “Do you not know my methods yet?” he said. “All this is, or should
be to one who has access to my note-book, perfectly simple. To begin with—there is a countess’s coronet lying on the floor: I inferred a countess had been to see you. A large ink-stain on your forefinger, my dear Watson, indicates that you have been writing, and in a man of your scrupulous cleanliness, it is fair to infer that if you had written before lunch you would have washed before dinner. On your instep there is a withered polyanthus leaf, imbedded in a small crust of pleiocene clay, which occurs only at Uxbridge, where I know you have a cottage. The clay is rather dry, and from that I inferred a lazy servant, who did not clean your boots properly. The volume of Mr. Alfred Austin which you have lately read is surely indicated by the fragments in the grate, on which, even from here, I detect Veron…Gar…, surely Veronica’s Garden. Out of your pocket is sticking a small dog-whip with a leaf of polyanthus on it; I infer you have beaten the dog that dug up the polyanthus at Uxbridge. The fact of a cigarette before dinner was purely guesswork, but I see no cigar-butt in the ash-tray, from which I assume you smoked a cigarette before dinner, just before I came into the room. The letter from your mother-in-law proposing to come and stay with you I inferred from the fact that in the hall there was lying a reply from you, addressed to Mrs. Smith, and in the top corner the word “Damn,” instead of “To be forwarded.” Your drunken brother I have often heard you mention; the fact that he was buried on Thursday is an easy deduction from the funeral card on the mantelshelf. Sir Richard Calmady’s mother is a rather longer shot; but I see footprints of a heavy man on your carpet only a few inches apart. No one but Sir Richard with his deplorable absence of shin could have made them. The orange-blossom on your table, in conjunction with the piece of wedding-cake, indicates the rest. Besides,” he added, “I saw it in the evening paper.”

  His fascination and extraordinary brilliance instantly asserted their old spell over me. There sat Holmes the sleuth-hound; Holmes the violin virtuoso; Holmes the hero of the Speckled Band; Holmes the authority on cigar-ashes; Holmes my friend. The room, too, was a monument to him. On the walls was the elaborate design of revolver bullets instead of a paper, which he used to idly plant there while thinking out some crime which had baffled all Scotland Yard; the bookshelves were filled with his monographs, and behind the door hung up several of his more remarkable disguises. Even the tail-coat and bowler-hat that I wore were indirectly the fruits of his incomparable brain.

  “Holmes!” I cried with unparalleled devotion, forgetting all his egotism, forgetting even the vast store of thrilling adventures I could have made from his note-books, “Holmes, welcome home!”

  I could see from his half-closed eye that he was much gratified.

  “And tell me,” I went on, “what really happened to you.”

  He shifted in his chair.

  “You will not altogether like it, Watson,” he said, “but it is fair you should know. My disappearance was carefully planned to deceive you into thinking I was dead. I led you to believe that Moriarty was on my track, intent to kill me. That was not the case. The supposed Moriarty was none other than my brother, who joined me in Switzerland. Since then we have been investigating crime in Turkestan.”

  “But why this elaborate ruse?” said I.

  He paused a moment.

  “Well, my dear Watson, the reason is not very complimentary to you; but the fact is, that I simply could not stand any more of you. You got on to my nerves quite indescribably, and it was necessary for my peace of mind that you should not be with me. I knew your almost too faithful nature. I knew how you would leave your practice to take care of itself if I evinced the slightest desire for your companionship; and the only thing to do was to make you think I was dead. In fact, my dear fellow, I rather thought you would commit suicide as soon as you were convinced I was no longer living—but you did not. I must confess my deductions were a little at fault there. Well, you may blame me if you wish, but neither my brother nor I could stand you. So we made this extremely simple little plot to throw you off the track. And now I have come back because I find I can’t do without you any more.”

  I was indescribably touched at his frankness; at the same time, I was a little hurt.

  “What was it in me that got on your nerves?” I asked.

  Holmes shook his head impatiently.

  “Your hat, your coat, your obtuseness, your whole personality,” he said.

  “Then why have you come back?” I asked. “My hat, my coat (or others exactly like them), my—my obtuseness and personality are all here.”

  “I know my dear fellow,” he said; “but you have something which I now know outweighs them all. It is your matchless mediocrity of mind and literary style which is the one and proper medium for the telling of my adventures, since it leaves the mind of the reader entirely free to follow what I do. You are my pen, my right hand. I am your brain. We are both perfectly useless alone. Together we dominate the English-reading public. So, Watson, I came back.”

  Even as he spoke a prodigious peal came from the door-bell, followed by a succession of piercing screams. “And adventure meets me on the threshold,” said Holmes. “That is a good omen for our future work.”

  He hastily refilled his pipe, his eyelids half closed, and the room grew dense with tobacco smoke.

  “My landlady is out,” I shouted to make myself heard above the screaming, “and no one will answer the bell. In the meantime somebody is being murdered on the doorstep.”

  Holmes sighed wearily.

  “You will never distinguish the essential from the incidental, Watson,” he said. “Those screams—I think I recognise the timbre of the Queen of Bohemia—are not those of pain but of passion. We will wait till they are quieted. Then you shall bring her Majesty in.”

  “Have you seen much of them lately?” I asked.

  “Yes; I have been able to be of some small service to the King,” said Holmes, “whereby I saved a European war. It was a very simple little problem. He rewarded my services in a manner quite beyond their deserts by presenting me with the remarkably fine diamond that perhaps you noticed I was wearing.”

  The door-bell had long since had its wire broken, but our fair visitor continued to hammer on the door. The screams had died down, and at a sign from Holmes I took off my bowler-hat, and went to let her Majesty in.

  A woman of transcendent loveliness was standing on the threshold. She was tall and commanding in figure, but her face was distorted with passion.

  “Take me to Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she said.

  I preceded her upstairs and threw open the door. The room was quite empty, but a sound of furniture being pushed as a barricade against the bedroom door from the inside told me that my friend was exercising his usual caution in dealing with this problem.

  “He is in there!” she cried. “Come out, Mr. Holmes! I will not hurt you! I only want my diamond! Otherwise, I shall shoot this man, whom I recognise as Watson, barricade the bedroom door from this side, and set fire to the house. You know my hasty temper.”

  Some unusually strong emotion must have been excited in Sherlock Holmes at this speech, for he trembled so much in the adjoining room that the whole house shook.

  “Does your Majesty swear not to make an attack on my person?” he asked.

  “I would not touch you with a barge-pole,” she replied. “Come out!”

  We heard the barricade slowly moved away, and in another moment Sherlock Holmes emerged, and with an impressive sweep of his right arm deposited the diamond in the Queen’s hand.

  “I restore the stone to your Majesty with pleasure,” he said. “it is false, and worth about £10.”

  She looked at it a moment curiously.

  —

  “Very stupid of the King,” she said; “he telegraphed to me in London that you had stolen the Blue Gem and left for England. But I see you only got hold of the imitation one, which I wear on second-rate occasions. One does not leave valuable gems about, Mr. Holmes, when people of shady character are at the Palace. Goodbye! Next time you leave Bohemi
a you will leave it sitting on a donkey’s back, face to the tail.”

  She swept from the room, and for a few moments there was silence. Then the dreamy look that I know so well came into my friend’s face.

  “There are a few little lacunae to be supplied,” he said, “in what, after all, is a very commonplace affair. You see, the theft could not have been found out till I had left Bohemia, which, as you know, has no extradition treaty with any other country. Therefore I was safe in that respect. But a superficial examination of the stone by a jeweller in Paris convinced me it was false. Therefore I had not stolen the real gem. I did not tell you it was false, my dear Watson, because the announcements made by you that I have been engaged in investigations for crowned heads help my prestige very much, and to let you know that my reward has been only a £10 paste diamond would not lead you to believe I have been of any great service to them. And now that you do know all, I am sure my secret is safe with you, for otherwise you would spoil the market for both of us. The Queen is a woman of great force.”

  He reached out for his violin.

  “Let me play you a little thing of my own which I have not published,” he said. “Tomorrow we will begin writing some more adventures.”

  The Unmasking of Sherlock Holmes

  ARTHUR CHAPMAN

  ARTHUR CHAPMAN (1873–1935) is most widely known as a writer of cowboy poetry—verse that depicts the people and the land of the Midwest frontier in early twentieth-century America, most famously “Out Where the West Begins,” which, a decade after its creation in 1910, was hailed as the “best-known bit of verse in America.”

  Frequently reprinted, quoted, and parodied, it was published in book form in 1916. Out Where the West Begins, and Other Small Songs of a Big Country was a modest fifteen-page volume issued by Carson-Harper in Denver but was such a huge success that Houghton Mifflin quickly published a larger collection with fifty-eight poems, Out Where the West Begins, and Other Western Verses, in 1917. In addition, the poem was put to music composed by Estelle Philleo in the same year.