“For some hours I confess to having been completely baffled. I even tested the telegram form for hidden writing, applying benzedrine hypochloric colloid solution to both surfaces, but other than an old shopping list which some post-office clerk had apparently written and then erased, there was nothing to be discovered.
“It was then that I recalled that Mr. Jno. Wimpole was acquainted with a mummy-unwrapper, and the possibility occurred to me that in the course of their many conversations, it was possible that the secret of ancient Egyptian secret writing had entered their discussions. Beginning again on this basis, I applied the system originally developed by Tutankhamen for the marking of palace laundry, and at once the thing began to make sense. Here, Watney; look at this!”
Bending over triumphantly he underlined the letter W in the word Wimpy, and then proceeded to underline the first letter of each alternate word, glancing at my startled face in satisfaction as he did so. The message now read: WHOS ON FIRST.
“Remarkable, Homes,” I said dubiously; “but if you will forgive me, I find I am as much in the dark as before.”
“Ah, Watney,” said my friend, now laughing aloud. “When I first read this message, I also found myself baffled. But that was some hours ago, and I have not spent this time idly. I am now in possession of the major outline of the plot, and while it does not involve any serious crime, still it has been quite ingenious and clever. But there is nothing more to be done tonight. Pray send a telegram to our client advising her that we shall stop by and pick her up in a cab tomorrow morning at ten, and that we shall then proceed to the locale where the entire mystery shall be resolved.”
“But, Homes!” I protested. “I do not understand this thing at all!”
“You shall, Watney; the first thing tomorrow,” said Homes, still smiling broadly. “But no more for tonight. The Wreckers are at Albert Hall, I believe, and we just have time to change and get there if we are to enjoy the performance.”
The following morning at ten o’clock sharp our hansom pulled up before a small building of flats in Barrett Street, and Miss Wimpole joined us. Both the young lady and myself looked askance at Homes, but he leaned forward imperturbably and said to the driver, “Ascot Park, if you please, cabby,” and then leaned back smiling.
“Ascot Park?” I asked in astonishment. “The solution to our problem lies at a racing meet?”
“It does indeed, Watney,” said Homes, obviously enjoying my mystification. Then he clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Pray forgive my very poor sense of humour, Watney; and you also, Miss Wimpole. I have practically solved the problem, and the solution does indeed lie at Ascot Park. Watney here knows how I love to mystify, but I shall satisfy your curiosity at once.”
He leaned forward in thought, selecting his words. “When I first decoded the message and found myself with another message almost as curious as the first, namely, WHOS ON FIRST, I considered it quite carefully for some time. It could have been, of course, some reference to a person or commercial establishment named ‘Whos’ which was located on a First Avenue or Street. While I did not believe this to be true, it is in my nature to be thorough, and since New York is the only city to my knowledge with a First Avenue, I cabled my old friend Inspector LeStride, asking him to take steps. His reply in the negative eliminated this possibility, and I returned to my original thesis.
“Note carefully the last word, which is ‘First.’ This might, of course, have been an obscure reference to the Bible, in which it is promised that the last shall be first, but in perusing the original message I sensed no religious aura, and I am particularly sensitive to such emanations. No; instead I allowed myself to consider those cases in which it might be important to be first. I do not, of course, refer to queues or obstacles of that nature. The logical answer, naturally, is in wagering. The various means available to the Englishman of today to place a wager are extremely proscribed, and after checking the team standings and finding Nottingham still firmly in the lead, I turned to the racing news.
“And there I found, as I had honestly expected to find, that in the second race at Ascot today, the entry of the Abbott-Castle stables is a three-year-old filly named Who’s On First.”
He turned to the young woman at his side. “My dear,” said he, “I fear that your uncle is involved in a touting scheme and that the group with whom he has been meeting lately have been using the telegraph system to send advices regarding probable winners. This is, of course, frowned upon in most racing circles; but as I have so often stated, I am not of the official police, and therefore feel no responsibility for bringing people to their so-called justice over minor vices. I shall look forward, however, to the proof of my ratiocination at the track in a few moments.”
“Oh, Mr. Schlock Homes,” cried Miss Wimpole, clasping his hand in gratitude, “you have relieved my mind greatly. I have been so worried, especially since I have accidentally come across large sums of money hidden in obscure places in the house and feared that my uncle had become involved with some desperate characters engaged in nefarious practices. Now that I am cognizant of the nature of the enterprise, I can relax and may even replace at least a part of these sums with my conscience at rest, knowing that they were not gained through fearful means. But you must let me pay you for your efforts in this matter, Mr. Homes. Pray tell me what your fee is.”
“No, Miss Wimpole,” replied Homes with simple dignity. “If my theory is as good as I believe it to be, there shall be no question of payment. I shall take as payment the benefits of the information which you yourself were so kind as to bring to my attention.”
Within a few minutes our hansom drew up at the ornate gate of the famous racing meet, and while Homes went to study the posted odds and speak with some of the bookmakers with whom he enjoyed acquaintance, I purchased the latest journal and retired to the stands to await his return. He was with me in a few moments, smiling broadly.
“It is even better than I had imagined, Watney!” said he. “The true genius of these people arouses my profoundest admiration. I note that in addition to Who’s On First in the second race, this same Abbott-Castle stable has entered a horse named What On Second in the first race. And when I spoke to one of the track stewards just a moment ago, he informed me that because of rumours which have been flooding the steward’s office—rumours apparently started by one of the hansom drivers at the gate—they propose to combine the two races. Now, at long last, the true nature of this ingenious plot finally emerges!”
“But what might that be, Homes?” I asked in bewilderment. “Can it be that the stewards are cognizant of the touting scheme and are using this means to combat it?”
“Your faith in track stewards is touching, Watney,” said Homes dryly. “I am quite convinced that without the aid of one of their members, named Joseph, the entire scheme could not have been contemplated. No, no, Watney! The plan is far more intricate. These people know that if they go to a bookmaker with a bet on any one horse to win, the maximum odds which they can expect will be in the nature of five, or at most ten, to one. But think, Watney, think! Consider! What would the odds be against a tie?”
At once the devilish cleverness of the entire business burst upon my brain. “What do you propose to do, Homes?” I asked, searching his strong face for a clue.
“I have already done it, Watney,” he replied calmly, and withdrew from his waistcoat five separate betting slips, each for the sum of £20, and each to be redeemed at the rate of 200 to 1 should the combined race end in a tie.
“Well, Watney,” said Homes, when we were once again seated comfortably in our rooms in Bagel Street, “I can honestly state that to my mind this was one of my most successful cases—certainly from the financial standpoint. I feel that the ingenuity involved in codifying the betting information, while leaving out certain obvious factors, places our Mr. Wimpole and his associates in a special category of brilliance. We must be thankful that they have selected this relatively harmless means of breaching the law, and no
t something more nefarious. I certainly do not begrudge him his gains, although I must say that in seeing through their clever scheme, I feel quite justified in keeping mine.”
Homes lit his pipe, and when it was pulling to his satisfaction, spoke again. “And now, Watney, we must search for another case to ward off boredom. Is there any crime news in that journal you are perusing which might prove to be of interest to us?”
“Only this,” I said, folding the sheet in half and handing it to Homes with the indicated article on top. “Some three million pounds’ worth of diamonds were stolen last night from the home of the Japanese ambassador. They were known as the Ogima Diamonds, and were considered the most valuable collection of their type in the world. The article states that the police believe it to be the work of a gang, but that otherwise they find themselves without a clue.”
“Ah, really?” murmured Homes, his nostrils distended in a manner I had long since come to recognize as indicating intense interest. “May I see the article, Watney? Ah, yes! Ogima … Ogima … There is something faintly familiar …” He reached behind himself to the shelf where the reference books were kept and, drawing one out, opened it to the letter O.
“Ogima in basic Swahili means pencil-sharpener,” he said, half to himself, “while the same word in ancient Mandarin referred to the type of pick used with the one-string guitar. No; I doubt if this is of much help. It would be far too subtle.”
He returned the reference book to the shelf, and studied the article once again. Suddenly his face cleared, and he leaned forward excitedly.
“Of course! You will note, Watney, that Ogima spelled backwards becomes Amigo. I shall be very much surprised if the answer to this problem does not lie somewhere south of the border. Your timetable, Watney, if you please.”
The Adventure of the PRINTER’S INC.
The summer of ’58 had been a rather quiet one. My friend, Mr. Schlock Homes, had returned from the Continent, where his success in disbanding a group of political fanatics given to ritual orgies had earned him the gratitude of both the British and Polish governments as well as the plaudits of the press on both sides of the Channel; a case I have already chronicled in “The Adventure of the Danzig Men.” Since his return there had been but several minor cases. For example, he had been able to uncover the defalcations of Lord Carstairs, with the result that this gentleman was forced to resign from all six of his exclusive clubs; a case I find detailed in my notes under the title of “The Adventure of the Dismembered Peer.” There had also been other inquiries of lesser interest; in general it had been a period of relative inactivity for Homes.
One evening in September we were returning home after dining in a small restaurant near our rooms at 221-B Bagel Street. Our landlady, Mrs. Essex, had gone to visit a sick sister in Sussex, and our page was enjoying holidays, so that we found ourselves unattended for the first time in years, and living a bachelor’s existence. To take any messages during our absence we had left a small lad named Finster Ismir, one of the street Arabs whom Homes employed from time to time for minor errands. As we arrived at our entrance, Homes greeted him cordially.
“And how are the Bagel Street Irregulars?” he queried kindly, smiling at the urchin.
“Oh, sir,” replied the lad, “since Dr. Watney has been treating us, we are all quite regular once again.”
Homes glanced at me approvingly and turned to enter the doorway when the street Arab spoke. “Begging your pardon, sir, but during your absence you have had a visitor. He was a man of middle age, well dressed, and he awaited your arrival in your rooms for over an hour. He has but recently left, having promised to return in a few minutes with a problem which he claims to be quite urgent.”
Homes clapped the boy on the shoulder and after thanking him for his services, we mounted the steps to our rooms.
“Until our mysterious visitor returns,” remarked Homes as we entered, “let us see what we can deduce from the evidence he must have left during his stay.”
I glanced about the room and said, “Really, Homes; I fail to see any change since we left.”
“It is not that you fail to see, Watney,” replied my friend dryly, “but that you fail to observe. For example, here are the remains of a cigar with no tooth marks on the end, nor is it damply matted as is usual. Our visitor must therefore be a man without teeth and with very dry lips, a sign, as you must know from your medical experience, of incipient diabetes. Unfortunately, we have no time for further analysis, for here, unless I am mistaken, is our mysterious friend now.”
The door opened to admit a large, bustling individual, who immediately pumped Homes’s hand vigorously, and seating himself before us, fitted a cigar neatly into a holder and began to speak.
“Mr. Homes,” he said, “I am being persecuted, and I am desperately in need of your help. My name is George Good, and I am——”
“You are a bookmaker,” interrupted Homes smoothly. “Note the callus on the inside of the index finger of the right hand, Watney; it comes from holding the needle when sewing the binding into place. Note also the spot of yellow glue on the cuff; it is a sure indication of the trade. And when we are able to observe the hilt of a knife protruding from Mr. Good’s pocket, a knife certainly employed for the cutting of pages, we can definitely conclude that Mr. Good is a bookmaker.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Homes,” said our visitor in awe. “I am indeed a bookmaker, and in the course of writing the many betting slips each day, I have developed this callus which you so cleverly noted. I carry the knife for protection, for mine is not the most peaceful of occupations. I apologize for the egg stain, but in all honesty I have been so disturbed of late that I scarcely know what I am doing, let alone what I am wearing.”
“Tell us your problem,” Homes said in a kindly manner. “At the moment I am between cases and can devote my full attention to it.”
“Well, Mr. Homes,” said the large man, leaning forward in his chair, “as I have stated, my name is George Good and I operate a small book which is known throughout the trade as the ‘Good Book.’ While it is not the largest of its kind, I have been able through the years to develop a small reputation, and my income from this endeavor is both steady and satisfactory.
“As you must know, in my profession there are many dishonest people, but I pride myself that I have been able to place myself on the same footing of respectability as my friends Amos Roggi and Job Weldon in keeping bookmaking a decent profession.
“I am here for the sake of these two friends as well as for myself, because today we are all being threatened. Of late, Mr. Homes, the dock area of London, which is where we all operate for the most part, has been flooded with leaflets of this nature.” And he took three papers from his pocket and handed them to Homes.
I leaned over my friend’s shoulder and we both perused them. The first read:
THE GOOD BOOK SAYS:
Gambling is a Deadly Sin!
Hear Professor Martin
Expound on the Evils of Gambling——
Place: Johnson’s Warehouse——
Time: Every Night at 9 O’Clock
Directly after the Lecture there will be A
DEMONSTRATION
The other leaflets were quite similar, except that one began: THE BOOK OF AMOS SAYS: while the other began: THE BOOK OF JOB SAYS:. Otherwise the three were identical in text.
“Now, Mr. Homes,” said our visitor earnestly, “you must believe me when I swear to you that I never said anything of the sort. Nor did my friends Amos or Job. You must realize that a canard of this description can be ruinous to our profession.” The sincerity of his voice left no room for doubt as to the truthfulness of his statement. “My friends and I are prepared to pay any reasonable amount to have you trace this to its source and stop these fiends from jeopardizing our livelihood!”
Homes studied the leaflets with intense interest. There was a shadow of a frown in his eyes which indicated to me that there was something of a puzzling nature in the message w
hich for the moment he could not fathom.
“Tell me, Mr. Good,” said he finally, “have you any enemies?”
“Well, Mr. Homes,” replied the bookmaker, “you must understand that in my business, as in all businesses, there are occasional disgruntled clients. It is true that I have been the object of several armed attacks, and I was once flung from a Thames riverboat after having been handcuffed and gagged, an occasion on which I consider myself fortunate to have escaped with only a dipping. At one time I also admit to having discovered an infernal machine attached to the brake pedal of my hansom, but since I seldom apply the brake, I was saved from any unpleasant accident.” He paused, and then continued.
“However, an enemy in the sense of one who would deliberately threaten a man’s livelihood is difficult to imagine.”
“Well, Mr. Good,” said Homes after considering this information, “if you will leave these interesting leaflets in my hands I shall get to work on the problem at once. Please leave your address with Dr. Watney here, and you may expect to hear from me within a very few days.”
For some moments after our guest had taken his leave, Homes remained in a brown study, the offending papers held tautly in his strong, thin fingers. Finally he sighed heavily and arose.
“It is best to strike while the iron is hot, Watney,” said he. “I suggest we attend tonight’s lecture and see what we can learn. In a way it is a pity, as Crippen is singing tonight at Bow Street, and I had hoped we might attend. However, business before pleasure; so if you will excuse me for a few moments, I shall hurry into suitable raiment and we can be on our way!”
In a few minutes we were rattling along Old Holborn on our way to Limehouse. Homes, a veritable master of disguise, was dressed as a retired brewmaster, and was busily chewing on a small cake of yeast.
The Incredible Schlock Homes Page 2
