by Otto Penzler
“Confession?” spluttered the doctor, and Mrs. Hudson stared in amazement.
“Exactly.” Two fine, gaunt old hands rose and placed their finger tips together. “When you came here I couldn’t be sure about you, things being as they are these days.”
“Quite so, quite so,” interjected the doctor. “Alien enemies and all that. You understand, young man.”
“Of course,” Boling smiled winningly.
“And so,” continued his host, “I was guilty of a lie. But now that I’ve had a look at you, I am sure of what you are. And let me say that I do have a telephone, after all. You are quite free to use it. Through the door there.”
Boling felt his heart warm with self-satisfaction. He had always considered himself a prince of deceivers; this admission on the part of the scrawny dotard was altogether pleasant. Thankfully he entered a dark little hallway from the wall of which sprouted the telephone. He lifted the receiver and called the number he had memorized.
“Hello,” he greeted the man who made guarded answer. “Is that Mr. Philip Davis?…Your nephew, Amos Boling, here. I’m coming to town at once. I’ll meet you and the others wherever you say…What’s the name of your pub again?…The Royal Oak? Very good, we’ll meet there at nine o’clock.”
“That will do,” said the dry voice of his host behind his very shoulder. “Hang up, Mr. Boling. At once.”
Boling spun around, his heart somersaulting with sudden terror. The gaunt figure stepped back very smoothly and rapidly for so aged a man. The right hand dropped again into the pocket of the old blue dressing gown. It brought out a small, broad-muzzled pistol, which the man held leveled at Boling’s belly.
“I asked you to telephone, Mr. Boling, in hopes that you would somehow reveal your fellow agents. We know that they’ll be at the Royal Oak at nine. A party of police will appear to take them in charge. As for you—Mrs. Hudson, please step across the back yard and ask Constable Timmons to come at once.”
Boling glared. His right hand moved, as stealthily as a snake, toward his hip.
“None of that,” barked the doctor from the other side of the sitting room. He, too, was on his feet, jerking open a drawer in the center table. From it he took a big service revolver, of antiquated make but uncommonly well kept. The plump old hand hefted the weapon knowingly. “Lift your arms, sir, and at once.”
Fuming, Boling obeyed. The blue dressing gown glided toward him, the left hand snatched away the flat automatic in his hip pocket.
“I observed that bulge in your otherwise neat uniform,” commented the lean old man, “and pondered that pocket pistols are not regulation for infantry privates. It was one of several inconsistencies that branded you as an enemy agent. Will you take the armchair, Mr. Boling? I will explain.”
There was nothing to do, under the muzzles of those guns, but to sit and listen.
“The apparition of a British soldier trying hard to disguise an American accent intrigued me, but did not condemn you at first. However, the knee of your trousers—I always look first at the trouser knee of a stranger—was so violently torn as to suggest a heavy fall somewhere. The rest of your kit was disarranged as well. But your boots—I always look at boots second—were innocent of scuff or even much wear. I knew at once that your story of a long night’s tramp, with trippings and tumblings, was a lie.”
Boling summoned all his assurance. “See here,” he cried harshly, “I don’t mind a little joke or whatever, but this has gone far enough. I’m a soldier and as such a defender of the realm. If you offer me violence—”
“There will be no violence unless you bring it on yourself. Suffer me to continue: You caused me even more suspicion when, calling yourself a private of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, you yet patently failed to recognize the name of my old friend here. He, too, was of the Fifth, and in civilian life has won such fame as few Fusiliers can boast. The whole world reads his writings—”
“Please, please,” murmured the doctor gently.
“I do not seek to embarrass you, my dear fellow,” assured the lean host, “only to taunt this sorry deceiver with his own clumsiness. After that, Mr. Boling, your anxiety to show your credentials to me, who had not asked for them and had no authority to examine them; your talk about the service, plainly committed to memory from a book; and, finally, your glib talk about one Major Amidon who does not exist—these were sufficient proof.”
“Does not exist?” almost barked the doctor. “What do you mean? Of course Major Amidon exists. He and I served together…”
Then he broke off abruptly, and his eyes bulged foolishly. He coughed and snickered in embarrassed apology.
“Dear me, now I know that I’m doddering,” he said more gently. “You’re right, my dear fellow—Major Amidon exists no longer. He retired in 1910, and you yourself pointed out his death notice to me five years ago. Odd how old memories cling on and deceive us—good psychological point there somewhere…”
His voice trailed off, and his comrade triumphantly resumed the indictment of Boling:
“My mind returned to the problem of your disordered kit and well-kept shoes. By deductive reasoning I considered and eliminated one possibility after another. It was increasingly plain that you had fallen from a height, but had not walked far to get here. Had you traveled in a motor? But this is the only road hereabouts, and a bad one, running to a dead end two miles up the downs. We have been awake for hours, and would have heard a machine. A horse, then? Possible, even in these mechanized times, but your trousers bear no trace of sitting astride a saddle. Bicycle? But you would have worn a clip on the ankle next to the sprocket, and that clip would have creased your trouser cuff. What does this leave?”
“What?” asked the fat doctor, as eagerly as a child hearing a story.
“What, indeed, but an airplane and a parachute? And what does a parachute signify in these days but German invasion—which has come to our humble door in the presence of Mr. Boling?” The white head bowed, like an actor’s taking a curtain call, then turned toward the front door. “Ah, here returns Mrs. Hudson, with Constable Timmons. Constable, we have a German spy for you to take in charge.”
Boling came to his feet, almost ready to brave the two pistols that covered him. “You’re a devil!” he raged at his discoverer.
The blue eyes twinkled. “Not at all. I am an old man who has retained the use of his brains, even after long and restful idleness.”
The sturdy constable approached Boling, a pair of gleaming manacles in his hands. “Will you come along quietly?” he asked formally, and Boling held out his wrists. He was beaten.
The old doctor dropped his revolver back into its drawer, and tramped across to his friend.
“Amazing!” he almost bellowed. “I thought I was past wondering at you, but—amazing, that’s all I can say!”
A blue-sleeved arm lifted, the fine lean hand patted the doctor’s tweed shoulder affectionately. And even before the words were spoken, as they must have been spoken so often in past years, Boling suddenly knew what they would be:
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” said old Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The Adventure of The Marked Man
STUART PALMER
AFTER A SUCCESSFUL career as a novelist, Stuart Hunter Palmer (1905–1968) became a prolific screenwriter, writing thirty-seven scripts, mostly mysteries about the adventures of such famous characters of detective fiction as the Lone Wolf, Bulldog Drummond, and the Falcon. While working at a wide variety of jobs, Palmer began writing for pulp magazines under his own name and as Theodore Orchards. When he was only twenty-six, his first novel, The Penguin Pool Murder (1931), was published. It introduced his famous series character, Hildegarde Withers, a spinster sleuth often referred to as the American Miss Marple, though she is far funnier than the Agatha Christie heroine.
A film version of The Penguin Pool Murder was released the following year, starring Edna May Oliver, with James Gleason as a crusty New York City policeman. The success of the
book induced Palmer to write thirteen additional adventures of the acerbic amateur sleuth, including Murder on the Blackboard (1932), which was adapted for a film of the same title in 1934 with the same casting of the chief protagonists; The Puzzle of the Pepper Tree (1933), filmed as Murder on a Honeymoon (1935), again with Oliver and Gleason; The Puzzle of the Silver Persian (1934); The Puzzle of the Red Stallion (1936, published in England as The Puzzle of the Briar Pipe), filmed as Murder on a Bridle Path (1936), with Helen Broderick replacing Oliver but with Gleason still present; and The Puzzle of the Blue Banderilla (1937), among others.
Palmer wrote two Sherlock Holmes pastiches while working as a trainingfilm instructor and liaison officer between the army and Hollywood’s war effort at a military outpost in Oklahoma during World War II. In addition to the present story, he produced “The Adventure of the Remarkable Worm” (1944).
“The Adventure of the Marked Man” was first published in the July 1944 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; it was first collected in a chapbook titled The Adventure of the Marked Man and One Other (Boulder, Colorado, Aspen Press, 1973).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MARKED MAN
Stuart Palmer
IT WAS ON a blustery afternoon late in April of the year ’95, and I had just returned to our Baker Street lodgings to find Sherlock Holmes as I had left him at noon, stretched out on the sofa with his eyes half-closed, the fumes of black shag tobacco rising to the ceiling.
Busy with my own thoughts, I removed the litter of chemical apparatus which had overflowed into the easy chair, and settled back with a perturbed sigh. Without realizing it, I must have fallen into a brown study. Suddenly Holmes’s voice brought me back to myself with a start.
“So you have decided, Watson,” said he, “that not even this difference should be a real barrier to your future happiness?”
“Exactly,” I retorted. “After all, we cannot—” I stopped short. “My dear fellow!” I cried. “This is not at all like you!”
“Come, come, Watson. You know my methods.”
“I had not known,” I said stiffly, “that they embraced having your spies and eavesdroppers dog the footsteps of an old friend, simply because he chose a brisk spring afternoon for a walk with a certain lady.”
“A thousand apologies! I had not realized that my little demonstration of a mental exercise might cause you pain,” murmured Holmes in a deprecating voice. He sat up, smiling. “Of course, my dear fellow, I should have allowed for the temporary mental aberration known as falling in love.”
“Really, Holmes!” I retorted sharply. “You should be the last person to speak of psychopathology—a man who is practically a walking case history of manic-depressive tendencies—”
He bowed. “A touch, a distinct touch! But Watson, in one respect you do me an injustice. I was aware of your plans to meet a lady only because of the excessive pains you took with your toilet before going out. The lovely Emilia, was it not? I shall always remember her courage in the affair of the Gorgiano murder in Mrs. Warren’s otherwise respectable rooming house. And indeed, why not romance? There has been a very decent interval since the passing of your late wife, and the widow Lucca is a most captivating person.”
“That is still beside the point. I do not see—”
“None so blind, Watson, none so blind,” retorted Holmes, stuffing navy-cut into his cherrywood pipe, a sure sign that he was in one of his most argumentative moods. “It is really most simple, my dear fellow. It was not difficult for me to deduce that your appointment, on an afternoon as pleasantly gusty as this, was in the park. The remnants of peanut shell upon your best waistcoat speak all too plainly of the fact that you have been amusing yourself by feeding the monkeys. And your return at such an early hour, obviously having failed to ask the lady to dine with you, indicates most clearly that you have had some sort of disagreement while observing the antics of the hairy primates.”
“Granted, Holmes, for the moment. But pray continue.”
“With pleasure. As a good medical man, you cannot fail to have certain deep convictions as to the truth contained in the recent controversial publications of Mr. Charles Darwin. What is more likely than that in the warmth of Indian Summer romance you were unwise enough to start a discussion of Darwin’s theories with the Signora Lucca, who like most of her countrywomen is no doubt deeply religious? Of course she prefers the Garden of Eden account of humanity’s beginning. Hence your first quarrel and your hasty return home, where you threw yourself into a chair and permitted your pipe to go out while you threshed through the entire situation in your mind.”
“That is simple enough, now that you explain it,” I admitted grudgingly. “But how could you possibly know the conclusion which I had just reached?”
“Elementary, Watson, most elementary. You returned with your normally placid face contorted into a pout, the lower lip protruding most angrily. Your glance turned to the mantelpiece, where lies a copy of The Origin of Species, and you looked even more belligerent than before. But then after a moment the flickering flames of the fireplace caught your eye, and I could not fail to see how that domestic symbol reminded you of the connubial felicity which you once enjoyed. You pictured yourself and the lovely Italian seated before such a fire, and your expression softened. A distinctly fatuous smile crossed your face, and I knew that you had decided that no theory should be permitted to come between you and the lady you plan to make the second Mrs. Watson.” He tapped out the cherrywood pipe into the grate. “Can you deny that my deductions are substantially correct?”
“Of course not,” I retorted, somewhat abashed. “But Holmes, in a less enlightened reign than this our Victoria’s, you would be in grave danger of being burned as a witch.”
“A wizard, pray,” he corrected. “But enough of mental exercises. Unless I am mistaken, the persistent ringing of the doorbell presages a client. If so, it is a serious case and one which may absorb all my faculties. Nothing trivial would bring out an Englishman during the hour sacred to afternoon tea.”
There was barely time for Holmes to turn the reading lamp so that it fell upon the empty chair, and then there were quick steps on the stair and an impatient knocking at the door. “Come in!” cried Holmes.
The man who entered was still young, some eight and thirty at the outside, well-groomed and neatly if not fashionably attired, with something of professorial dignity in his bearing. He put his bowler and his sturdy malacca stick on the table, and then turned toward us, looking questioningly from one to the other. I could see that his normally ruddy complexion was of an unhealthy pallor. Obviously our caller was close to the breaking point.
“My name is Allen Pendarvis,” he blurted forth, accepting the chair to which Holmes was pointing. “I must apologize for bursting in upon you like this.”
“Not in the least,” said Holmes. “Pray help yourself to tobacco, which is there in the Persian slipper. You have just come up from Cornwall, I see.”
“Yes, from Mousehole, near Penzance. But how—?”
“Apart from your name—‘By the prefix Tre-, Pol-, Pen- ye shall know the Cornishmen’—you are wearing a raincoat, and angry storm clouds have filled the southwest sky most of the day. I see also that you are in great haste, as the Royal Cornishman pulled into Paddington but a few moments ago, and you have lost no time in coming here.”
“You, then, are Mr. Holmes!” decided Pendarvis. “I appeal to you, sir. No other man can give me the help I require.”
“Help is not easy to refuse, and not always easy to give,” Holmes replied. “But pray continue. This is Dr. Watson. You may speak freely in his presence, as he has been my collaborator on some of my most difficult cases.”
“No one of your cases,” cried Pendarvis, “can be more difficult than mine! I am about to be murdered, Mr. Holmes. And yet—and yet I have not an enemy in the world! Not one person, living or dead, could have a reason to wish me in my coffin. All the same, my life has been thrice threatened, and once attempted, in the las
t fortnight!”
“Most interesting,” said Holmes calmly. “And have you any idea of the identity of your enemy?”
“None whatever. I shall begin at the beginning, and hold nothing back. You see, gentlemen, my home is in a little fishing village which has not changed materially in hundreds of years. As a matter of fact, the harbor quay of Mousehole, which lies just beyond my windows, was laid down by the Phoenicians in the time of Uther Pendragon, the father of King Arthur, when they came trading for Cornish tin…”
“I think in this matter we must look closer home than the Phoenicians,” said Holmes dryly.
“Of course. You see, Mr. Holmes, I live a very quiet life. A small income left to me by a deceased aunt makes it possible for me to devote my time to the avocation of bird photography.” Pendarvis smiled with modest pride. “A few of my photographs of terns on the nest have been printed in ornithology magazines. Only the other day—”
“Nor do I suspect the terns,” Holmes interrupted. “And yet someone seeks your life, or your death. By the way, Mr. Pendarvis, does your wife inherit your estate in the unhappy event of your demise?”
Pendarvis looked blank. “Sir? But I have never married. I live alone with my brother Donal. Bit of a gay dog, Donal. Romantic enough for us both. All of the scented missives in the morning mail are addressed to him.”
“Ah,” said Holmes. “We need not apply the old rule of cherchez la femme, then? That eliminates a great deal. You say that your brother is your heir?”
“I suppose so. There is not much to inherit, really. The income stops at my death, and who would want my ornithological specimens?”
“That puts a different light on it, most certainly. But let us set aside the problem of cui bono, at least for the moment. What was the first intimation that someone had designs upon your life?”
“The first threat was in the form of a note, roughly printed upon brown butcher’s-paper and shoved beneath the door last Thursday week. It read: ‘Mr. Allen Pendarvis, you have but a short while to live.’ ”
