EQMM, February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

"What bad dreams?"

  "Don't get near me, will you. I want to know whether I'm awake or if this nightmare is still going on."

  "You're awake, my dear."

  "Prove it."

  "I'm telling you, you're awake."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Come on, you must be kidding. You had a violent dream and fell out of bed."

  Since he refuses to take her word for it, she finds a small carafe and starts to sprinkle him with ice-cold water. “Do you believe me now?"

  Abou Seif lets the water trickle down his face, down to his waist, down his pajama pants. He is attuned to its coldness, its flow.... With his fingertips, he feels his wet skin, gives himself a pinch, is distinctly aware of his nails biting into his chest ... there's no doubt about it: He's awake.

  "What time is it?” he asks.

  "Five o'clock."

  "When is that damned sun going to come up?

  "Go back to sleep, love. We have a long trip this morning. You'll need all your energy."

  Abou Seif remembers. This stimulates him.

  "I'll take you wherever you want to go, but I have no intention of going back to sleep. Sleep is untenable for me right now."

  He staggers into the living room, falls into an armchair, and turns the radio on. He is slightly comforted by Cheb Mami's crystal voice. Unable to remain still, he goes towards the kitchen, finds some cheese in the fridge, and bites into it voraciously. He goes back to the bathroom. For a split second, he's afraid of getting near the sink. He gets ahold of himself, and, with a firm grip, turns the faucet on, gets undressed, jumps in the shower, hums a little tune. Soon, a bubbly soap rises from his hairy chest. He's thinking of the road trip that awaits him, of all the shortcuts he needs to negotiate; he smiles as he thinks of that good old mother whom he misses and whom he can't wait to see again.

  He quickly puts his bathrobe on and returns to the living room. The radio is sizzling. The bathroom door slams shut behind him. Someone has turned the shower on. Torrents of water inundate the hallway.

  "Nora..."

  He opens the door, and stops dead in his tracks: Nora is lying on the floor with her arms crossed and her guts flying. Duhv! duhv! duhv! The floor shakes. A quiet crowd has gathered in the staircase. In one fell swoop, a ragtag mob begins to swarm excitedly all over the foyer. The walls disappear again.

  "Have you bloody well finished!” Abou Seif roars. “You no longer exist. You're dead and buried."

  A blistering hand scorches his shoulder.

  "Let go of me,” Abou Seif demands as he tries to wrench himself free. “Let go of me."

  "It's just me,” Nora tells him as she shakes him by the shoulder.

  Abou Seif finds himself back in bed, with his wife watching over him benevolently. “No,” he nods as he pushes Nora's hand away and leaps out of his covers. He is pale; his hair is disheveled; his knees are rubbery. “You're not going to get me this time, you old witch."

  "But what on earth are you talking about?"

  "Don't even get near me!"

  In a complete frenzy, he looks all around and finds the candelabrum.

  "It's me, Nora."

  "You're not Nora. And I'm not fully awake. I've had it up to here and I'm going to squash you all, you bunch of scum, you."

  Caught in a tenebrous spiral, he throws himself onto his wife and starts to bang, bang, bang...

  Outside their window, the sun rises and turns a deaf ear to Nora's cries. Slowly, the city awakes. A truck growls somewhere. The early birds are making a groggy but steady ruckus. Abou Seif stares at the bloodstained candleholder now punctured with bone fragments. The phone rings, seven times in fact. Abou Seif continues to stare at the candleholder.

  "I know it's that wretched dream,” he says, crouching over his wife's inert body. “I'm not going to let them do it to me again. I'm going to just wait here until I wake up once and for all."

  He waits, waits, waits...

  He'll wait a long time.

  The new day has now fully engulfed the room. Its light ricochets off the furniture. The children's screams smash against the window. Nora is no longer bleeding. The brownish pool in which she cowers has now coagulated. Abou Seif releases the candelabrum, which falls to the floor, hits his ankle, and rolls under the bedside table. “This isn't happening,” the penitent grouses belligerently. At last, he realizes exactly what is happening to him and he holds his head in his hands.

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Yasmina Khadra; translation (c) 2007 by Peter Schulman

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: A SCANDAL IN MONTREAL by Edward D. Hoch

  The central idea for the Holmespastiche with which Edward D. Hoch concludes this issue—a meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Stephen Leacock—came to him after writing the foreword to the collection Leacock's Mysteries, published in 2007 by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box. Next month Mr. Hoch returns in his own voice with a new Stanton and Ives story.

  * * * *

  1. The Crime

  My old companion Sherlock Holmes had been in retirement for some years when I had reason to visit him at his little Sussex villa with its breathtaking view of the English Channel. It was August of 1911 and the air was so still I could make out a familiar humming. “Are the bees enough to keep you busy?” I asked as we settled down at a little table in his garden.

  "More than enough, Watson,” he assured me, pouring us a little wine. “And it is peaceful here. I see you have walked from the station."

  "How so, Holmes?"

  "You know my methods. Your face is red from the sun, and there is dust from the road on your shoes."

  "You never change,” I marveled. “Are you alone here or do you see your neighbors?"

  "As little as possible. They are some distance away, but I know they look out their windows each morning for signs of a German invasion. I fear they have been taking Erskine Childers too seriously."

  It was eight years since publication of The Riddle of the Sands, but people still read it. “Do you fear war, too?"

  "Not for a few years. Then we shall see what happens. But tell me what brings you here on a lovely summer's day. It has been some time since you spent a weekend with me."

  "A telegram was sent to you at our old Baker Street lodgings, all the way from Canada. Mrs. Hudson couldn't find your address, so she brought it to me."

  "How is she these days?"

  "Infirm, but in good spirits."

  "I have a housekeeper here who tends to my needs. But she is off today. If you wish to stay for dinner I can offer you only a slice of beef and bread."

  "There is no need, Holmes. I came only to deliver this telegram."

  "Which could have been delivered more easily by the postal service."

  "It seemed important,” I told him, “and I have little enough to do in my own retirement. Not even bees!"

  "Well then, let us see about this urgent message."

  He opened the envelope and we read it together. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London. Dear Mr. Holmes, Excuse intrusion on your time, but am in urgent need of help. My son Ralph Norton gone from McGill University. Police suspect him of murder. Please come! I beg you!” It was signed simply, Irene.

  "What is this, Holmes?” I asked. “Do you know the meaning of it?"

  "All too well,” he answered with a sigh.

  "What Irene is this? Certainly not Irene Adler. She has been dead some twenty years."

  "She was reported to have died, but I always doubted it. Irene was born in New Jersey, and after her marriage here to Godfrey Norton I suspected they might have fled to America to escape questions about the Bohemian affair. If this is truly from her, she would be fifty-three now, four years younger than me and not an old woman by any means. She might well have a son of university age."

  "But what can you do from here, Holmes?"

  "From here, nothing.” He pondered the problem for several minutes, staring at her address at the bottom of the telegram. “I must re
spond to her at once,” he decided. “This telegram was sent four days ago, on the twelfth."

  "What will you tell her?"

  "She begs my help, Watson. How can I refuse her?"

  "You mean you would travel to Canada?” I asked in astonishment.

  "I would, and I shall be immensely grateful if you are able to accompany me."

  * * * *

  Within a week's time we were at sea, approaching the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. I wondered how Holmes ever persuaded me to accompany him on such a lengthy journey, and yet I knew the answer. I had to be present when he met Irene Adler one more time. I had to see her for myself, after all these years.

  Our ship docked at one of the quays adjacent to the center of Montreal and we took a carriage to our hotel. I was surprised at the number of motor cars in the streets, and astounded at the sumptuous mansions in the city's center—the sort of homes that would be far removed from London back home. Our driver informed us that these were the homes of the city's financial and industrial magnates, an area known as the Golden Square Mile.

  We checked into a small hotel across the street from the site of a new Ritz-Carlton Hotel under construction. It was on Rue Sherbrooke Ouest, close to the university, and after a telephone call to her Irene said she would join us at the hotel. I could see that Holmes was a bit fidgety at the prospect of the meeting. “I trust I will be able to help the woman with her problem,” he confided. “I have never forgotten her, over all these years."

  Presently the desk clerk telephoned to say that Mrs. Irene Norton was downstairs. Holmes and I went down to find her waiting in a secluded corner of the lobby, seated alone on a sofa wearing a long skirt and flowered blouse and hat. I recognized her at once from the photograph Holmes kept of her. She was still as slim and dainty as she had been on the opera stage, with a face as lovely as ever. Only a few gray hairs hinted at the passing years. “Good day, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she said by way of greeting, almost duplicating her words when once she had followed him disguised as a boy. “And Dr. Watson. I must say, both of you have changed very little since our London days."

  "You are most kind, madam,” Holmes said with a little bow. “I am sorry we cannot be meeting under more pleasant circumstances."

  She bid us be seated with her on the sofa. “These have been terrible weeks for me. I was at my wit's end when I telegraphed you, not even knowing if you were still available as a private consultant."

  "I am retired,” he told her, “but always available if you need me."

  She smiled slightly. “I am honored that you should travel across an ocean for me."

  "Have you lived in Montreal long?"

  She nodded. “After our wedding, Godfrey felt we should leave England. Following a brief time on the Continent, he established quite a successful law practice here and we had a wonderful son, Ralph."

  "I remember Godfrey as a remarkably handsome man,” Holmes said.

  "Sadly, he passed away three years ago. If he was with me now, perhaps I would not have summoned you across an ocean."

  "But what of your son? In the telegram you said he had disappeared following a murder."

  "That is so. I must tell you the entire story from the beginning. I believe it was his father's death that set Ralph off. He was never the same after that. He took to carousing at night and neglecting his schoolwork."

  "What is his age?"

  "He is nineteen, about to enter his second year at McGill. He met a young woman during his first year, a pretty red-haired classmate named Monica Starr. She seemed like a nice girl and I had no objection to their friendship. I thought it might get him back on track. But this summer he discovered there was a rival for her affections, a German student named Franz Faber who was entering his final year at McGill. I know the two boys had a fight, and Ralph came home a few weeks ago with a bloody nose. But it wasn't anything more than that. Ralph couldn't have—” Her voice broke then.

  "What happened, Irene?” Holmes asked her softly.

  "Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, Franz Faber was stabbed to death outside a pub frequented by McGill students. It has caused a great scandal here. Things like this don't happen at McGill."

  "The university was in session during August?"

  "They offer some summer courses each year. Apparently Faber was taking a language course. He was a German student with only a basic knowledge of English and French. My son was seen in the pub earlier and the police came to our house to question him. He'd come home about an hour before they arrived and went to his room without speaking to me."

  "Was that unusual?"

  "He's been moody lately. I thought nothing of it, but when I went to his room to summon him for the police, he wasn't there. Apparently he'd gone out the back door. The next morning I discovered that Monica Starr was missing too. The police are convinced he killed Faber, but I can't believe it. He was moody, yes, just like his father, but he'd never kill anyone."

  Holmes tried to calm her. “I will do whatever I can for you, Irene. You must know that. Tell me, is there any place in the city or near here where they might have gone?"

  "I'm not even convinced they're together."

  "I think we can assume they are, whether or not he committed the crime. Was he friendly with any of his professors or instructors at McGill?"

  She considered that for a moment. “There's Professor Stephen Leacock. He's a lecturer at McGill and he's published some economics books along with collections of humorous stories. Ralph was quite friendly with him."

  "What about fellow students?"

  "Only Monica, so far as I know."

  "I'll speak to Leacock,” Holmes said. “What about you? Are you still singing?"

  She gave him a wan smile. “Very little, occasionally in local productions."

  "That's too bad, Irene. You have a lovely voice."

  "Find him for me, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You're the only one who can help me now."

  "I'll do everything possible."

  * * * *

  We walked the short distance to the university, a series of stone buildings reached by a tree-lined carriageway from the street. A monument to James McGill, whose legacy helped found the institution ninety years earlier, stood in front of the central pavilion. Only a few students and faculty members were about, preparing for the upcoming autumn term. We asked directions to Professor Leacock's office and were directed to the political economy department in an adjoining building. Holmes led the way, moving with an intensity that surprised me.

  "We have no time to lose, Watson. If the young man has indeed fled the scene it is important that we find him and convince him to return for his own good."

  "Do you believe him to be guilty, Holmes?"

  "It is much too soon to form an opinion."

  When we located Leacock's tiny office, it was occupied by a slender young man who introduced himself as Rob Gentry. He'd been studying a map on the professor's desk and he told us, “Professor Leacock is out right now, but he should be returning shortly. There's an election coming up, you know. Please take a seat, gentlemen."

  "Is he active in politics?” Holmes asked.

  "Very much so, on the Conservative side. He's campaigning against our Liberal prime minister."

  Almost at once a handsome broad-shouldered man with a thick moustache appeared in the doorway. “What's this? Visitors? We will need an additional chair, Rob."

  "Yes sir."

  "I am Professor Leacock,” he said, extending his hand. I guessed him to be in his early forties, with just a hint of gray in his hair. “What can I do for you?"

  "We have traveled here from London. This is my companion, Dr. Watson, and I am Mr. Holmes."

  "Holmes? Holmes?” Leacock seemed astounded. “Surely not the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

  "The same,” I replied, speaking for Holmes.

  "I have published some humorous pieces about your great detective work, Mr. Holmes. At least I trust you will find them humorous."


  Holmes ignored his words. “We have come on an urgent matter, Professor Leacock. Irene Norton has asked my help in finding her son, Ralph, who is suspected of murder."

  Leacock seemed to pale at his words. “A terrible tragedy,” he murmured.

  "His mother says you were a friend of his."

  "I still am. This entire business is beyond my comprehension.” He shifted some papers on his desk.

  "If you know his whereabouts, it would be best for the lad if we found him before the police."

  "I know nothing,” he insisted.

  "Perhaps, but your assistant was studying a map on your desk when we entered, and now you have covered it up."

  Leacock was silent for a moment, perhaps weighing his choices. Finally he said, “You are quite the detective, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I know where the boy is."

  * * * *

  2. The Chase

  Professor Leacock explained that he did his writing during summer vacations at a family cottage north of Lake Simcoe in the town of Orillia. It was some distance away from Montreal, actually north of Toronto. “It's on Old Brewery Bay on Lake Couchiching, but that's really an extension of Lake Simcoe."

  "How do you get there?” Holmes asked.

  "By train. The Canadian National Railway runs a line from Toronto through Orillia. It passes quite close to my cottage. I came back here with my family in early August as I always do, to prepare for the new term. It was just a few days before Franz Faber was killed."

  "Did you know Faber?"

  "Not personally. Rob here knew him."

  Gentry nodded. “I used to see him in the pub on weekends. If he was between girlfriends we might have a few beers together."

  Holmes looked thoughtful. “Did you see him the night he was stabbed?"

  He shook his head. “I was at a picnic with some friends."

  Holmes turned back to Leacock. “You said you know where young Norton is."

  "He came to see me just after I returned to Montreal with my family. He wanted to get away for a few weeks, until the new term began. He wondered if I might know a place where he could go."

  "And you suggested your cottage in Orillia?"

  "I did."

  "When was this?"

  He consulted his desk calendar. “It would have been Wednesday, the ninth."