I stared at my friend in complete astonishment, for I could see nothing in the torn sheet which could possibly lead to this startling conclusion. “Homes!” I ejaculated, “how can you possibly arrive at these statements on the basis of this paper?”
“Later, Watney,” he replied, arising with a smile and removing his dressing gown. “At the moment I am not prepared to satisfy your curiosity, for my own has only been whetted until now. I fear I must interrupt my holiday and travel down to town, for it is there that the answer lies. If you will be so kind, Watney, as to arrange a trap to take me into the station, I shall change and be ready in a moment.”
I had the trap at the door as he descended from our rooms, and I fear that my astonishment caused me to gape, for he was dressed in old clothes of solid black, with white shirt and string tie, and he had adapted the straggling mustache and black velour hat of the Bohemian.
“Strangers to Soho, Watney, do not garner information easily,” said he, smiling broadly at my puzzlement. “One must appear to be of the neighborhood in order to elicit relevant data from the denizens of that romantic district. I shall plan to return on the 5:12, should you care to meet me, and we can spend the evening discussing my findings.”
I passed the balance of the day exploring the historical inns and well-equipped public houses of the little town, but still I managed to be on hand at the station when Homes’s train came puffing to a halt alongside the rustic platform. I fully expected my friend to descend with that broad smile which I knew indicated the successful conclusion to a particularly involved problem, but when the train ground to a halt, Homes stepped down with a worried frown on his face, and scarcely acknowledged my greeting.
“I am afraid that my efforts today were not crowned with success,” said he bitterly as our trap bore us to the hotel. “It appears that I shall have to decipher the cryptic message after all, and with no help from the writer!”
“You were able to locate him?”
“Oh, that was no problem! I located him easily enough! But he denies having written the thing—a further proof, if one were needed, of his amnesia, but certainly of no particular aid to us in solving the problem. No, I fear that further study of that mysterious paper is indicated!”
When we had finished with our dinner, therefore, Homes pulled his chair to the table and began brooding over the cryptic note, his briar filling the room with clouds of smoke. Knowing his dislike of interruption in moments like this, I buried myself in a book, but a few seconds later Homes slammed his hand on the table and arose.
“It is useless, Watney,” he said in great disgust. “I am too tired to concentrate. I suggest a good night’s rest, after which I can tackle this again in the morning, fresh and alert!” And bidding me goodnight, he stalked off to his bedroom.
The morning, however, brought no improvement, for I entered our sitting room to find Homes staring dejectedly out of the window, his long thin body drooping with weariness, and his usually sparkling eyes dull and unseeing.
“Homes!” I cried in alarm, worried by his appearance. “What is the trouble?”
“It was the incident of the dog in the night!” he replied bitterly.
“The dog in the night?” I asked in bewilderment. “But the dog barked all night!”
“Precisely,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “As a result I didn’t get a wink of sleep! However, in the course of being kept awake, I did get some glimmer of possible purposes behind this mysterious message, and since I know I shall not rest until it is solved, I shall return to the city today and follow several new leads. Possibly I can snatch a few moments of rest on the train, for my day shall be heavily proscribed. I shall return on the 5:12 unless I telegraph you otherwise.”
It was mid-afternoon, and I was lounging at the door of the public room of the hotel, waiting to see if their opening hours were in strict accordance with the law, when a uniformed messenger handed me a telegram from Homes. I ripped it open eagerly and read: “MEET ME SIX TONIGHT AT CRASHING BOAR PUB IN FLEET STREET. CASE SOLVED. BRING NOTE. HOMES.”
The Crashing Boar Pub in Fleet Street stood well back from the pavement in a little mews running between two huge printing plants, and I arrived a few minutes late to find my friend Schlock Homes ensconced at a corner table partaking of a whiskey. He called the waiter over and ordered a similar drink for me while I seated myself opposite and handed him the torn sheet of paper. Verifying it, he tucked it into his waistcoat pocket and leaned back smiling. I have never ceased to be amazed at the recuperative powers of Homes, especially when he has reached the successful conclusion of a case, for looking at his bright eyes one could never guess that he had spent two full days without sleep in pursuit of the answer to this most puzzling problem.
“Well, Watney,” said he, smiling broadly, “the answer was before my eyes from the beginning, but I was too much of a fool to see it. I have been developing a tendency lately to search for obscure and hidden meanings in the most direct things, and as a result I often waste time before coming back to the correct path.
“This case is a perfect example. As you so cleverly noted when you first saw the note, the message was obviously written by a person of slovenly habits, as witness the handprint left by a dirty hand. But what you failed to note was the size of the hand; clearly it was too small to be that of an adult, and yet a child could not have been responsible for the written words. Ergo, it was written by an adult with a hand the size of a child’s; in other words, by a midget! The fact that he failed to sign his missive could not have been the result of oversight, since the laborious forming of the block letters showed that he had put much effort into the composition. The only possible reason which I can deduce for this failure to append his name, is that at the moment he was unable to recall it—a classic example of amnesia, and not as unusual as we might like to think.
“When I was first handed the note, I was struck by the rather pungent odor that arose from the paper, and being somewhat of an expert on strange odors, I was able to immediately identify it as being of Parmesan cheese, used for the greatest part in the cooking of Sicilian pizza and encountered to my knowledge only in the Italian restaurants of Soho, and most probably in Greek Street itself!”
“But, Homes,” I interjected, “how were you able to deduce the connexion with the publishing trade?”
“The handprint, Watney! It was not ordinary dirt from the street; the most casual examination would have shown it to be printer’s ink. Shortly before inadvertently leaving that mark upon the paper, the writer had handled fresh newsprint, and some of the ink had come off on his hands.”
“A masterful analysis, Homes!” I exclaimed in admiration, grasping his hand across the table. “Once you have explained it, it all seems so clear and obvious. But the meaning of the message itself—how were you able to decipher that?”
“Quite by accident, as a matter of fact, Watney. Once I had arrived at a description of the writer, I came at once to Greek Street and began interviewing various residents. In short order I found myself directed to a corner newsstand where I encountered the owner, a midget, busily handling journals, which explained the dirty hands. He denied completely having written the message, which was the final proof of my identification, for it confirmed conclusively his amnesia. Being unable to shake his story, however, I was forced to return to Watts unsuccessful.
“Today I returned determined to revive the failing memory of that poor man, bringing with me for the purpose a small battery-operated hand buzzer, which I stopped and obtained in a fun shop in Shaftesbury Avenue, for it is a well-known principle that sudden shock works wonders in these cases. I was about to offer my hand, in which I had concealed this mechanism, when I chanced to note a magazine for sale on display there. The magazine was called Time. At once the entire affair became crystal clear!”
Taking the torn sheet from his pocket, Homes spread it on the table before me. “‘Your Time Is Running Out,’ it reads,” said he, “and it means exactl
y what it says! I immediately taxed our small newsdealer with selling subscriptions to magazines as a sideline, and he freely admitted that he did, indeed, augment his income in this fashion. He continued, however, to forcibly deny that he had reminded Mr. Fast that his subscription was running out, so I once again offered him my hand, as if in leave-taking. Unfortunately, the fun shop seems to have mounted the buzzer in an inverted position, and I am afraid that my reactions caused him some suspicion, for he threatened to call a policeman unless I left at once.
“However, his admission was not essential, for I knew now the truth of the matter. As you know, my conviction is that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth!”
“Marvelous, Homes!” I cried enthusiastically. “What do you intend to do now?”
Homes shrugged indifferently. “Actually nothing,” he said, yawning deeply. “There is no need for action that I can see. Obviously the message does not effect Mr. Fast either adversely or otherwise, and if this obnoxious boor is so careless as to allow a magazine subscription to pass the renewal date, I do not consider it my duty to so advise him. However, if you feel that our responsibility to a client demands an explanation, you might drop him a line in the morning explaining the steps we have taken and the results of our investigation.
“But now, Watney, we have interrupted our rest long enough with this minor matter. I suggest that since the hour is late, we pass the night in our own beds in Bagel Street, and return to Middlesex tomorrow to continue our holidays!”
The following morning we caught an early train back to our sylvan lodgings in Watts, and as the train passed through the beautiful Middlesex scenery, I unfolded the journal I had purchased in Euston station and carefully scanned the news. Suddenly an article claimed my attention and I began to delve into it with increasing interest.
“Something in our line, Watney?” came the relaxed voice of my companion. “I see that you appear to be quite impressed by whatever you are reading.”
“Nothing criminal; no, Homes,” I replied, folding the paper to the article and handing it to him. “But I fear there will be no need for us to give Mr. Fast a report on his query. It appears that as he was cranking his new Clark–4 yesterday, it gave an explosion more violent than usual, and as yet the police have been unable to properly separate the tangled parts of Mr. Fast and his motorcar.”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” said Homes, taking the paper from my hand and reading further into the article. “While I hold no brief for Mr. Fast, who was patently offensive, still I would be derelict in my duty if I did not express my views on these gasoline-driven monstrosities that are rapidly threatening us all with monoxide poisoning, explosions, and other ills!
“A letter to the Times, if you will, Watney!”
The Adventure of the MISSING CHEYNE-STROKE
The activities of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the year ’56 furnished me with many cases of sufficient interest to record in my journal. Among my notes I find reference to the odd problem of the elderly egg candler whose partner, Homes was able to conclusively prove, had deliberately attempted to induce blindness in the old man for the purpose of being free to juggle the company books. His method was fiendishly ingenious: He kept introducing crates of hardboiled eggs for the old man’s inspection, and only the sharp perspicacity of my friend foiled the nefarious plot. My casebook also records the name of the American barque John D. Carr, whose disappearance was a fortnight’s sensation, until Homes was able to accurately predict its exact location—in drydock—from a simple mathematical calculation and the word of the steersman that he had lashed the wheel before going over the side—a case I have already chronicled in “The Adventure of the Locked Rhumb.” However, of all the cases noted for that year, none in my estimation demonstrates the accuracy of my friend’s prognostication, nor the expansiveness of his imagination, as much as the case which became famous as “The Adventure of the Missing Cheyne-Stroke.”
It was a beautiful afternoon in June, and I was lounging at the open window of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street, enjoying the rare sunshine and resting my leg which still ached at times from an old Jezbel wound suffered in the battle of Piccidilli. Schlock Homes, an ardent chemist, had busied himself with his new Gilbert set, and an air of contentment combined with the odors of his experiment to waft through the room.
Our pleasant idyll was suddenly broken, however, by the urgent sound of footsteps in the hall, and a moment later a knock at the door announced a visitor. He was a huge young man, carelessly dressed in sport clothing, and he filled the doorway, breathing heavily from his climb up the steep staircase.
“Mr. Schlock Homes?” he inquired, glancing anxiously at my friend. “A mutual friend was kind enough to give me your address, and I hurried here as quickly as possible!”
Homes waved him to a chair and the young man flung himself into it. “Mr. Homes, there is no one else in England who can help us in this crucial hour! Charlie Charles is missing, and there is no stroke like him on the river! Miss Tompkins keeps crabbing; Cox couldn’t keep time with a metronome; and Miss Judd, to put it plainly, is a feathering idiot! Unless you are able to find Charles before tomorrow morning, I fear we are lost!”
Homes listened to this passionate outburst in amused silence, and when the young man had finished, he remarked with a smile, “I am afraid that I am the one who is lost, sir. Who is Charles Charles?”
The young man contemplated us in amazement. “Certainly you must have heard of Charles!” he exclaimed. “He took both his Black and Blue in sculling, and is the amateur oars champion of all England!”
“Possibly it would be well if you began at the beginning and told us all,” said Homes, leaning back comfortably. “I would deduce that you are referring to some species of sport, and I fear that neither Dr. Watney nor myself is an expert in that field. These names and terms which you are using are quite unfamiliar to me.”
“Well, Mr. Homes,” said the young man, leaning forward earnestly, “it seems hard to believe that you have not heard of the great Charlie Charles, but I shall attempt to clarify my remarks. My name is Legion, John Legion, and I am the rowing coach at Cheyne College in Lincs, at the little village of Clapham. Tomorrow morning the International Mixed-Foursome College Rowing Championship is being held here in London, and sculling squads from all over the world have gathered for this competition. Each team is comprised of two men and two women and we, as well as the other visiting teams, have been assigned dormitory space as the guests of Putney University. Each athlete has his or her private room to insure the necessary privacy and rest before tomorrow’s important event.
“Charlie Charles is our forward-left-stroke, and until this morning I would have wagered a week’s wages on Cheyne to win tomorrow. This noon, however, I went to his room to speak with him and found it deserted; a further search indicated that he was not on campus and had not been seen. I have questioned all of his teammates, and have searched in all possible places, but I have been unable to uncover any trace of his presence! If you are unable to locate Charles before the race tomorrow, I fear we shall lose!”
Homes’s eyes glittered with interest. “You have but the one sculling team?”
“Yes, just the one.”
“And only one forward-left-stroke?”
“Again yes, just the one.”
“And this is the one who is missing?”
“Yes, this one.”
“Singular,” said Homes thoughtfully. “Quite singular! However, I fear that we can solve little here. Let us repair to the campus of Putney University and see what can be learned from a study of the actual scene. If, as you say, the race is to be held tomorrow, we shall have need for prompt action, indeed!”
A few moments sufficed for Homes to change from his dressing gown to more suitable habiliments, and minutes later we were rattling along the banks of the Thames in Mr. Legion’s trap while the young coach gave us more details on the
sport of shell racing and the eminent reputation of the missing stroke, Charles Charles. Homes sat silent, his eyes closed, but I knew he was absorbing every word of the conversation and storing it in his colossal memory for future reference.
We turned from the Embankment, coming in on Kew, and shortly thereafter came upon the Putney campus. The dormitories assigned to the various rowing teams were huge blocks of buildings, facing upon a large quadrangle of well-kept greenery. The entrance to each building had been hung with slogans and banners, each announcing support of a different team. Across the ornately carved doorway at which our trap halted, a huge pennant waved, reading: “Clapham! Here comes Charlie!” Mr. Legion eyed this sadly, but without comment led us through the shadowed entrance to the room which had been assigned to the famous left-stroke.
A scene of utter chaos confronted us. Bedclothes were strewn about the floor; a battered portable typewriter leaned drunkenly against a chair leg; books and papers were scattered over the desk; socks lay under the bed; and neckties hung from the chandelier. At sight of this disorder, Homes’s eye brightened, and I knew from his manner that his interest in this strange case had been actively aroused.
“Charles seems to have put up a brave struggle,” he said, surveying the destruction piercingly. “With your permission I shall properly examine the room, for it is more than possible that the answer to this strange disappearance lies here!”
For the next thirty minutes the great detective searched the room with that attention to detail which had often rewarded him with success in the past. With fierce concentration he studied the closet, removed some of the socks in order to peer beneath the bed, and even explored back of the doors. One drawer of the dresser exhibited an unusually large collection of timepieces, including many wrist watches and pocket watches; a second drawer was filled with dirty laundry; while a third seemed to be the repository for old letters and clippings. Suddenly Homes stiffened to attention, and drew from beneath these papers a heart-shaped piece of coloured tinsel which I immediately recognized as an old Valentine. Scanning it carefully, he finally folded it neatly and placed it in his waistcoat pocket, after which he returned to his search with even greater energy. A sigh of satisfaction indicated to me that he had discovered something further of interest, and he arose from his perusal of the cluttered wastebasket clutching a crumpled sheet of typing paper. Placing it in his pocket with the Valentine, he gave the room a final searching glance, and then led the way to the open quadrangle.
The Incredible Schlock Homes Page 7
