The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  “Hold your foul tongue and be off with you, you miserable specimen!” I cried, brandishing my stick. “No finer person ever breathed the clean, sweet air of Putney, and I shall tolerate no word against his memory! Be off, I say, or you shall suffer the worse for it!”

  “My, my, Watney, such devotion would better to have been deserved,” came the voice of my friend Schlock Homes with a low chuckle. “No, do not look now, but meet me in fifteen minutes at the Uppin Arms in Jermyn Street!”

  I could not help myself; I turned in astonishment but the small figure had disappeared and I was left with my mind awhirl, watching the coffin lowered into the cold grave.

  I found my way to Jermyn Street after the funeral, but to this day I do not know how. It was difficult to believe that I had not been dreaming, for I had seen his body with my own eyes; yet the memory of that voice in my ear left me no choice. Afraid of what I might find, I pushed open the heavy door of the pub and entered into the gloom. The cockney, still with scarf, but lacking his grotesque mustache, confronted me from a corner booth, and his twinkling eyes could belong to nobody in this world except my old friend Schlock Homes!

  “Homes!” I cried, sinking into the seat opposite as my legs weakened under me. “How is it possible? What is the reason for this macabre joke? Why have you given this terrible shock to all of your friends?”

  “Only to you, I am afraid, Watney,” replied Homes. “It was essential to a case I am engaged upon that I disappear, and ever since the time I disappeared in that tavern in Switzerland for several months, only a buried corpse could have satisfied my enemies. Both Criscroft and the police agents were aware of the scheme, and I believe I have made Mrs. Essex quite happy by allowing her to play a role in one of my cases. You, however, are too honest and open in your feelings, and any of my enemies, seeing your countenance, would have known at once it was a trick. I am indeed sorry, Watney, for the shock you have suffered today, but believe me, it was of vital necessity!”

  “And your sending me to Elbow Twisting?”

  “A part of the same plan, I am afraid. I had planned to die of a virulent disease, and I was sure that I could scarcely hope to deceive you on that score!”

  “But the body, Homes! I saw it myself!”

  “An excellent example of Madame Tussaud’s art, Watney. They have owed me a favor since the time I foiled those two miscreants who concealed themselves on the premises for the purpose of robbing the safe during the night. You, yourself, chronicled the case in ‘The Adventure Of The Waxed Pair.’”

  “But your appearance, Homes! Your extra weight!”

  “Only stuffing; actually, one of Mrs. Essex’s pillows.”

  “And your height, Homes! You are fully a foot shorter!”

  “Special shoes. But this involved procedure was not formulated either to demonstrate my ability at disguise, nor to needlessly cause you anguish, Watney. No, it was necessary as, if you will allow me, I shall explain at once.”

  We ordered drinks, and once they were before us, Homes leaned back and proceeded to explain the strange events of the past few weeks.

  “You are, of course, acquainted with my brother Criscroft,” said he, “and you know of his important position in the Home Office. You must also be familiar with the high regard in which I hold him, not only for his intelligence, but also for his almost infallible sense of prescience.

  “Well, some three weeks ago, while you were out on a call, Criscroft appeared in our rooms on Bagel Street. He had not sent any previous notice of his coming, which in itself was highly unusual, and he was not his usual calm self. He wandered about the room making small talk, as if reluctant to state the purpose of his visit. I waited patiently for him to approach the subject, but he continued with his evasions.

  “‘You were familiar with the Brace-Partridge plans?’ he asked, obviously making conversation.

  “‘Certainly; a lovely couple,’ I replied. ‘Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the nuptials.’

  “‘But you sent a fish slice?’

  “‘Of course. Halibut, I believe. However, I am sure that you did not remove yourself from your busy desk in Whitehall for the purpose of discussing London’s social season with me. Pray tell me what is actually bothering you!’

  “He threw himself into a chair and stared at me broodingly. ‘If only I knew,’ he replied. ‘In truth I have nothing to go on but a feeling of foreboding, and I hate to interrupt your schedule with something which could well be only a wild-goose chase!’

  “‘Simply state the facts and let us proceed from there,’ I said. ‘You have never given me cause for complaint until now.’

  “‘Very well, then,’ said he. ‘The facts are these: Quite recently a person giving his name as Frederic Adam appeared at the War Office and claimed to have invented a new type infernal machine which he wished to patent under the name of the Adam Bomb. The War Office wanted more detailed information; he refused to disclose any of his secrets. They then offered him the use of the Sussex Proving Grounds for him to demonstrate his new invention, but he declined on the basis that the proving grounds were too small, and that the test would jeopardize near-by residents. Since the Sussex Proving Grounds are fully four acres in size, the War Office considered his excuse quite spurious, and sent him about his business.’

  “‘I should tend to agree with their action.’

  “‘I am not so sure. Well, a few days later a colleague of mine in the Explosives Section happened to mention the case to me in our club, not for action, but merely in idle conversation as demonstrating the type of annoyance they suffered at the hands of cranks. For some reason a feeling of foreboding seemed to overcome me, and I pressed him for all details of the man and their conversations, but other than the facts which I have just stated, he was unable to be of further assistance.’

  “‘What did you do then?’

  “‘Actually, there was little that I could do officially. However, unofficially I began making inquiries into Mr. Frederic Adam’s past, and while I could find nothing actionable in his activities, I did discover that while a student he had studied under Professor Marty, who, as we both know, is not only a brilliant scientist, but the most dangerous criminal in all England.’

  “‘Professor Marty, you say? You interest me deeply!’

  “‘I thought I should. Well, my investigation seemed to show that there had been no contact between them since Adam graduated University, but this in itself means nothing. Adam, it appears, had private means, and established a laboratory near Glasgow, where he pursued his researches, and from whence he traveled when he appeared at the War Office.’

  “‘And since that time?’

  “‘He has recently purchased an abandoned coal mine near Newcastle in Northumberland County and is even now moving his scientific equipment into it. It is heavily guarded, extensively fenced, and quite impossible to enter. Other than his previous acquaintance with Professor Marty, and this feeling of foreboding which I have, I admit to small basis for further investigation, but I cannot rid myself of the conviction that it is vital that we know what he is planning!’

  “‘And what do you wish me to do?’

  “‘I suggest that you attempt to gain entrance to this mine in one of your inimitable disguises. Since I know that you are under constant surveillance by the criminal element of London, you must first convince them that you have taken sick and succumbed to your illness. You will then be free to pursue your investigation without undue suspicion on their part.’

  “We therefore decided on the plan which you are now witnessing. I am very sorry that it was necessary to include you among the victims of the deception, Watney, but the assurance of every scoundrel in England tonight that Schlock Homes is safely disposed of beneath six feet of earth owes much to your touching performance at the grave!”

  “But, Homes,” I inquired, “is this not basically a matter for the police? Can they not demand entrance to this mine and see what deviltry is afoot?”

&nbs
p; Homes smiled at me pityingly. “The police,” said he, “may serve to locate something of the size of an elephant, assuming the area of search were sufficiently proscribed; but in the first place, there is no evidence that Mr. Adam is engaged in anything nefarious, which would seriously complicate the possibility of obtaining search warrants. In the second place, I doubt if the police would be in a position to recognize a clue should they encounter one. No, Criscroft is right. I shall have to go down there myself and attempt to gain entrance to this mysterious mine in some fashion.”

  “And what is my role in all this?”

  Homes leaned forward impressively. “This mine which Adam has purchased,” said he, “is located at Seldom-on-Tyne, a suburb of Newcastle, in Northumberland County. We shall select a country inn on the river, sufficiently distant from the mine to avoid suspicion, but close enough to allow easy travel. There we shall share quarters, for I am certain to have errands for you to do. Besides, it is always well to have a friend in the vicinity when one is working underground.”

  “And our luggage?”

  “All has been arranged. Even now your baggage and mine are awaiting us at King’s Cross. Our reservations on the sleeper are being held at the ticket office. I suggest we dine at some small restaurant where my disheveled appearance will not cause comment, and then, if you wish, we can pass the hours until train time in shilling seats at Queen’s Hall, where the Minsk dancers are performing.”

  “I should like that!” I cried with enthusiasm. “I have always wanted to see the Russian Minsk dancers!”

  “Actually,” said Homes, “I believe these are the Harold Minsk dancers from the United States.”

  “But, Homes,” I said in disappointment, “this is misrepresentation!”

  “Yes,” replied Homes thoughtfully, “I suppose you might call it a ballet ruse, but we do have the time to pass in some manner, and I understand that their talent is quite revealing.”

  The following morning I found myself ensconced in a fairly clean inn at Skeleton Quay, but a few miles from the heavily guarded mine. Homes had separated from me at the station, selecting to hire a ramshackle bicycle and pedaling off along the road ahead of my trap. I was amazed at his appearance; with his cap pushed back, his scarf waving in the breeze, his mustache rampant, and his shrill whistle, he appeared in all respects to be what he pretended to be, a Tyne-side worker on his way to the job.

  It was evening when he came whistling up the stairs to our room and entered the door. As soon as it was closed, he quickly locked it and fell into a chair, laughing.

  “There was little to it, Watney,” he said. “I managed to combine the stupidity of a natural with the native cunning of the local folk, and this, plus my pure Geordie accent, did the job. They hired me at once! You are now looking at the new sweeper in the Adam mine.”

  “A sweeper?” I asked in amazement. “Certainly you could have obtained a better position than that!”

  “I am not there to make a living,” he remarked dryly, “and the sweeper, my dear Watney, is one person who has access to all parts of the installation. Also, in order not to interfere with the work, my duties require me to be in places when the other workers are having meals, which will allow for opportunities for observation which might otherwise be difficult.

  “It is an interesting operation, and one which must have cost a pretty penny. Huge equipment is arriving constantly and being unpackaged. My duties take me to many parts of the mine, and I find it to be far more extensive than I should have imagined. I suggest, Watney, that tomorrow you take a trap into Newcastle and visit the local Coal Board for the purpose of obtaining a copy of the original survey of this mine. I am beginning to have a glimmer of the aim behind this tremendous imposture, and I shall need to be familiar with the terrain!”

  When Homes had left the following morning on his bicycle, I arranged transportation and went into Newcastle. While the Coal Board would not permit the original drawing to leave the premises, there was no difficulty in arranging to trace the underground map comprising the various tunnels of the old abandoned mine. With the tracing safely concealed on my person, I returned to Skeleton Quay and spent the remainder of the day strolling along the river and admiring the fortitude of the brave people who could tolerate such a place.

  The usual whistle announced the arrival of my friend, and once in the room I could tell from the excited gleam in his eyes that he was on the trail of some interesting discovery.

  “We are getting warmer, Watney!” he exclaimed. “You have the underground map?”

  “A tracing of it,” I replied. “It is indeed extensive. Some of the tunnels cover many miles.”

  “Fine! Please spread it out on this table and allow me to study it!”

  Taking a standard one-inch map from his jacket, he laid it side by side to my tracing, and began to pore over the two maps with the greatest of concentration. Finally he shoved them to one side and leaned back.

  “I begin to see light, I believe, Watney. Let me tell you of an interesting discovery which I made today. During the lunch hour it is my duty to clean the offices while the staff are eating, and I naturally took the opportunity to make a thorough search of the desks and drawers, as well as of the papers lying about. I found them to be covered with many scientific symbols, and I knew that if the solution to our problem lay in decoding all of these, our task would be a difficult one indeed! However, there was one formula which was recurrent, appearing at the head of each sheet of paper, and I memorized it, rather than take the chance of having it discovered during the nightly search which all employees must endure on leaving the premises.”

  “And what is this formula, Homes?” I asked breathlessly.

  He leaned over the table and scrawled on a piece of paper. I stared at the figures in bewilderment, for he had written: E=Mc2!

  “You believe that this strange formula might throw light on our problem?” I asked in amazement. “But it is so short that it barely permits of decoding!”

  “True, but still it is the only formula repeated on all the papers, and must therefore be vital to our case. As to its lack of length, I have solved shorter. I once located the body of a murdered man with nothing more to go on than the single letter X which appeared mysteriously on a newspaper diagram of the scene of the killing.”

  He rubbed his hands together nervously, in that gesture which I well knew indicated a desire to be alone with an interesting problem. “And now, if you will excuse me, Watney,” he said, “I shall get right to it while the events are fresh in my mind, for I feel that I have all of the necessary facts within my possession!”

  The following morning I awoke to find Homes pacing the floor in smiling satisfaction, and he chuckled at my startled expression, for he was no longer in disguise.

  “Yes, Watney,” said he in high good humour, “the masquerade is over! The problem is solved! I am afraid that Mr. Adam will have to apply to the Labour Board for a new sweeper, although in truth I doubt if they will be in business long enough to require such services!”

  “But, Homes,” I exclaimed in awe, “do you mean that with the little information which you showed me last night you have managed to arrive at an answer to this mystery?”

  “The importance of information is in direct relationship to our ability to interpret it,” he replied. “Come to this table and allow me to show you the connexion between the facts which we were able to collect.”

  Spreading the one-inch district map upon the table, he placed the mine tracing over it and carefully oriented the two until they were properly superimposed.

  “I began my cogitation,” he said, “by considering the possible reasons Mr. Adam might have for locating his so-called scientific experiment in a mine. In the papers which I perused during my search of the office, I recalled reading something about a ‘mushroom cloud,’ and mines, of course, because of their dampness and constant temperature, are ideal for the cultivation of mushrooms; but since I was—and am—convinced that these pap
ers were spurious in intent, I disregarded this line of thought.

  “I then considered what more logical reason he might have for this odd selection of location. Suddenly a possibility struck me! Mine tunnels, Watney, run for many miles underground, and are a perfect means of getting from one place to another without detection! I immediately began to trace the various tunnels, comparing their location with the surface objects under which they passed. And then I had it!” He placed a long tapering finger on one spot of the superimposed maps and continued. “Here, Watney, is the answer! Tunnel No. 5 runs in a north-easterly direction, passing beneath nothing more important than farm country and several small villages, until it reaches here, at which point, you will note, it stops directly beneath Eastland Prison!

  “It was now quite obvious that the E of the formula stood for Eastland, and I therefore returned with even greater enthusiasm to the study of the remainder of these mysterious symbols: Mc2! I attempted to rationalize the M for either miles or meters, or the c for either cubits or cells, but the answer refused to appear. It was only after many hours of pondering that I realized that I was being unnecessarily complex in my reasoning. The equal sign in the formula clearly indicated that the symbols were mathematical in nature, and I therefore reapplied my efforts to the problem, studying it from a purely mathematical approach. And then I finally saw it! Do you recall from your school days what the small 2 above the c stands for in mathematics, Watney?”

  “The square, does it not?” I hazarded.

  “It does indeed,” said Homes, his eyes twinkling. “But is it not also called the power?”

  And then, suddenly, I saw the answer. “McPowers!” I cried. “Angus McPowers, the Glasgow assassin!”

  “Precisely! The man known in thieves’ argot in Glasgow as the ‘Scotch Cooler!’ His execution at Eastland Prison is scheduled for next week, and his friends and criminal associates have sworn they would arrange his escape at all costs! In the mine, Watney, I also came across a large machine which was marked ‘Cyclatron,’ and which can only be an electrically operated cycle of some new scientific design intended to spirit this murderer beyond reach once they have tunneled him to freedom! But I am afraid they did not plan on the interference of Schlock Homes when they designed this ingenious escape!”