“But, Homes,” I cried, turning the message over and scanning the back, “this carries no name! How are you able to even determine who your client is?”
Homes smiled at my puzzlement. “The lack of a signature is in itself a signature,” he replied cryptically. “You have obviously failed to note, Watney, that the message is exactly two hundred words in length, and therefore carries the standard two-hundred-word rate. To have signed the message would have taken it out of this special rate category and made it subject to a thruppenny-ha’penny surcharge. Only a person with arithmetical training raised by Scottish standards could have been so precise, so it is easy to deduce that Sir Angus McGrogger is the author. I have been through to his advocates and am already in possession of the key which you may note he mentions in passing.
“If you are free in the morning, Watney, I should like the pleasure of your company, since the entire business is bound to be boring. The manor is located at Yulebe, Surrey, so if you would be kind enough to consult your ABC timetable, we can schedule an early start, and return before dark. I am quite anxious to be here tomorrow, for they are hanging those four felons at Pentonville, and you know my passion for strung quartets!”
And so, in this innocent fashion, began the case which I find filed in my notes as “The Adventure of the Artist’s Mottle.” Little did we know that gloomy afternoon as we riffled through the timetable, that because of this simple house inspection Homes’s abilities for deduction would be challenged to their utmost, or that because of his decision to accept this commission his financial problems would be resolved. At the moment our only problem seemed to be in interpreting the timetable.
“There is a train that runs on even days that fall on odd dates,” I said, tracing the minute hieroglyphics with my finger, “and on odd days that fall on even dates, but unfortunately it is a military express from Southampton direct to Yulebe, and only stops in London to discharge arms. Besides, it has the notation M–W–F listed above, which I frankly do not understand.”
“Milk, Wine, Food,” replied Homes curtly, reading the list over my shoulder. “It has a combination restaurrant car and bar, is all. Here is one on the Tewksbury Line that goes to Hoolbe, Surrey, which is within kissing distance of Yulebe, and from there we might possibly get a buss.”
“But that one is annotated T–T–S. What can that mean, Homes?”
“Most probably, Tewksbury Temperance Society, indicating that on that train the bar is closed. You will note, Watney, that much thought has gone into the preparation of this schedule, for the trains that go on weekdays other than Sunday, run only on alternate afternoons, except in August. Had I the time, I am positive that I could solve this particular code, but wishing to return as quickly as possible, I suggest you arrange a hansom for us tomorrow!”
The following morning, therefore, found us racing through the lovely Surrey landscape, with Homes leaning back negligently humming a Bartok tympany concerto, while I studiously noted the various public houses along our route to clearly mark our return. It was a most pleasant journey and before we knew it we had entered the environs of Yulebe and moments later were rolling up the carriageway of the McGrogger domain. The house lay well back in a well-ordered garden; a tall thin edifice of medium squatness, neatly combining neo-antique architecture with old-modern. With a sigh of resignation, Homes descended from the carriage and we made our way up the marble steps to the ornate entrance.
“You might check the cellar and wine stocks, Watney,” said Homes, pocketing the key and eyeing the rococo hallway with faint distaste. “I shall make an inspection of the upper rooms in the meanwhile. There seems to be no visible sign of forced entry, so I should judge that a few hours at the most should see us through.”
In accordance with these instructions, I descended immediately to the lower levels of the mansion, finding myself upon arrival in a huge subterranean gallery lined on both sides with bottle racks which were filled from floor to arched roof. I had time to inspect but two bottles and was busily engaged in removing the foil from a third when a faint cry made me pause and listen intently. There could be no doubt: Homes was calling me, and even the thinness of his voice muffled by the heavy floor above could not disguise the excitement of his tone. I hurried up the cellar steps and dashed along the hallway, pausing only to arm myself with a stout cane from the umbrella stand should my friend have need of physical help. But when I arrived at the room from whence his voice was issuing I found Homes quite alone, albeit his previous ennui had completely disappeared. He was striding up and down the room in great agitation, and his firm step and glistening eye told me at once that he had unwittingly come upon a crime that gripped his imagination.
“Watney!” he cried at sight of me; “It is well that we came and came when we did! What say you of this dark deed?” And he swept his thin, strong hands about him as he spoke.
I looked about me in befuddlement, for in all honesty I could note nothing out of the ordinary. The room in which we found ourselves had apparently been transformed into an art gallery, and a large plaque mounted upon the oaken door announced that the room contained the McGrogger Abstract Art Collection. The walls themselves were completely covered with paintings, but it was not until Homes spoke again that I realized the cause of his perturbation.
“Vandalism!” he cried, his pointing finger shaking with the strength of his emotion. “Despicable vandalism!”
It was then that I saw the truth of his statement, for the canvases were a nightmare. Some were crisscrossed with bars of paint; triangles and circles had been smeared haphazardly across others; one had been brushed with a dull base and spattered with little blue and pink dots; while several others exhibited splashes of colour of the most atrocious hues.
“Homes!” I ejaculated, struck with horror at this vile deed. “This is appalling! What do you plan to do?”
“Do?” Homes thundered, his strong voice resolute with fury, “I shall trace this fiend to the ends of the earth and see that he receives his just deserts! I shall not rest until I bring him to justice! Watney, in our carriage you will find my kit. Please bring it at once while I begin my search for clues!”
A moment later Homes was on his hands and knees, his magnifying glass in hand, as he peered intently at the heavy nap of the oriental rug. A moment later he was studying the windows, after which he turned to me in deep disgust.
“The window catches are open!” he announced with a frown, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyone could have entered and left at will. However, even the most astute criminal must leave some sign of his passing, and I pride myself that few are better at noting and interpreting these signs than Schlock Homes! I suggest you return to your chores below, Watney, for I shall be some time here!”
It was fully an hour before I returned to the upper level. I had been unable to completely finish my inspection of the McGrogger wine stocks, but I flatter myself that I had no need for shame at my progress. I entered the gallery to find Homes sunk in thought in a deep chair which he had drawn up to front the defaced paintings.
“We progress, Watney,” he remarked, his gaze still fixed upon the canvases before him. “A picture of this vandal begins to form.”
“But, how, Homes?” I protested, bewildered. “I see nothing here to give any indication whatsoever as to the person responsible for this outrage!”
Homes smiled grimly. “Yet there are many clues here, Watney. It is quite obvious, for example, that the man who defaced these priceless paintings is of medium height; a Latin whose origins most probably were in Spain. I should judge that he has probably dabbled in art and been disappointed with the results. He is in excellent physical shape, and without doubt was once an athlete. He is also, without question, quite bald.”
“Really, Homes!” I exclaimed. “This is plainly impossible! This time you are pulling my leg!”
“By no means, my dear Watney! In good time you shall know all, but actually the facts I have revealed speak for themselves. Unfortunately,
I fear that this information by itself is insufficient for us to properly identify our culprit. There must be more; there must be more!” And springing to his feet, Homes began restlessly pacing before the ruined canvases, his bony hands locked behind him, his sharp features twisted in fierce concentration. I waited patiently, until with a sad shake of his head he turned to me with a sigh of defeat.
“I fear there is little more to be learned here at this time, Watney,” he said. “Let us return to London and Bagel Street. There are inquiries to be put in motion, and possibly the fresh air on our return will stimulate some further thought!”
During our drive back to London, Homes remained hunched in one corner of the carriage, his eyes closed, and his fingers tented in that pose that has always indicated to me his desire to be left alone with a problem. He did not speak until our cab had turned into Bagel Street and pulled up at our doorway.
“It occurs to me, Watney,” he said as we descended and made our way up the stairs to our rooms, “that it would be of the greatest value in identifying our criminal were we able to determine if he were right- or left-handed. In addition to the other facts which we now possess, it could well be the factor to conclusively pinpoint our man.”
“But, Homes,” I protested, “how is it possible to determine this?”
“By copying his method, Watney. Of course! By copying his method!” At the thought all signs of dejection slipped from my friend’s face, and as he slipped into his dressing gown he was his old enthusiastic self once again.
“Watney, certainly we must have an old piece of canvas about the apartment. If you would please manage to locate one, we shall get right to it!”
I rummaged through our closets until I uncovered a bit of tom schooner-sail that I had long intended to repair, but as I delivered it to Homes, another thought struck me.
“One problem, Homes,” I said. “We have no paints, or colours of any nature.”
“For our purpose we have no need for formal oils. If you would be so kind as to ask Mrs. Essex for the use of her cupboard, I am sure we can unearth sufficient materials for our experiment!”
I returned in a few minutes with catsup, a bottle of mustard, some clothes-blueing, a dish of egg white, some old ravioli sauce, and a small jar of chutney mixed with curried chives. Homes had stretched the piece of sail tautly across the fireplace and was smoothing the edges down with an old clothes brush.
“Excellent!” said he in high spirits as I laid my booty upon the sideboard. “Now, Watney, my plan is as follows: Using these makeshift colours I shall cover one part of the canvas in the same furious manner as the vandal, using solely my right hand. The balance I shall treat in similar fashion, but using only my left hand. Expert examination of the result could well determine if dexterity can be proven through this method. I suggest you stand well back, Watney, for I note you are wearing your new tweed!”
The next few moments were a blur as Homes, his enthusiasm aroused to fever pitch, attacked the canvas from all angles. Within a very short time he stood panting breathlessly over the finished product, which bore but a superficial resemblance to the vandalized paintings in the McGrogger manor. Homes carefully wiped his hands on his dressing gown and, falling back to my side of the room, studied the smeared sail in silent contemplation for several minutes. Finally he nodded his head in satisfaction.
“Right-handed, I should definitely state,” he remarked. “We shall of course require the opinion of one more versed in art, and to this end I suggest, Watney, that you take this down at once to old Mr. Braigis at Crusty’s Gallery for his conclusions. I shall continue with other lines of investigation while you are gone, for I am determined to bring this vandal to justice posthaste!” As I left the room Homes was reaching to the bookshelf at his side for a reference volume, and immediately became so engrossed that he barely nodded his farewell.
When I returned from Crusty’s Gallery, Homes interrupted his reading only long enough to cock an eyebrow at me in interrogation. I explained that old Mr. Braigis had been out, but that I had left the canvas requesting a telegraphed opinion upon the morrow.
“No matter,” said Homes, in that insufferably superior manner he so often adopted when the successful conclusion of a case was approaching. “I believe I am well on the trail of the miscreant, and so if you will favour me with continued silence, Watney, I shall continue my researches!” He buried himself once again in the reference book, and when I finally retired he was still too engrossed to even acknowledge my goodnight.
The following morning I awoke a bit disgruntled at the cavalier treatment Homes had accorded me the previous evening, but as soon as I reached the breakfast room, the warm smile of my friend across the table soon dispelled my black mood. He refused to discuss the case until my appetite had been satisfied, but as I lit my first after-breakfast pipe, he turned to me with a glint of humour in his fine eyes.
“Are you still angry with me?” he inquired.
“Really, Homes!” I replied, smiling despite myself. “At times you are quite impossible!”
“Like the solution to this mystery?” he asked, smiling broadly. “Really, Watney, you should know me well enough by now to forgive my bad manners when I am at a partial loss for the solution to a problem! However, this condition, I am pleased to state, no longer prevails. Come, I have a cab awaiting us and as we drive out to McGrogger’s Manor I shall subtly ask your forgiveness by explaining this most interesting case!”
“But, Homes,” I cried, “if you know who the miscreant is, should you not first take steps to see to his apprehension?”
The smile faded for a moment from Homes’s visage. “Unfortunately I fear it is too late,” he replied. “I have made inquiries and it appears that he is beyond our jurisdiction. However, I believe I can guarantee Sir Angus that he will never vandalize another painting in England!”
Once we were seated in our hansom and rolling swiftly along the broad avenue leading to the Great North Road, Homes carefully lighted a cigar and began to speak.
“You will recall, my dear Watney, that on our recent visit to McGrogger Manor I stated certain particulars regarding our miscreant. That he was an athlete was immediately evident: many of his colours were obviously not applied either by palette knife or brush—they could only have been thrown. The lack of overtoss—or slop, as it is known in art circles—on either frame or wall indicated the excellence of his aim; a sure sign of the trained athlete. This lack of overtoss also provided me with the basis for deducing his height; a taller or a shorter man would have tended to splash, due to the changed angle of incidence. The perfect impingement could only have resulted if the height of the throwing arm were equal to the distance from the floor to the center of the canvas.
“The temperament which could lead a man to deface paintings in what must surely have been a fit of pique at his own deficiencies, could only be Latin. His selection of colour indicated that his subconscious had led him to the hues most familiar in his youth. The predominance of the reds and oranges, coupled with the already demonstrated Latin background, clearly indicated a person raised in Spain.”
“But, Homes,” I objected, “why must it have been a painter at all? Could it not have been simply a passing vagabond?”
Homes shook his head decisively. “The normal vandal tends to slash, rather than to daub. Only a person trained to some extent in art would consider that overpainting a picture actually represents greater destruction than cutting the canvas.”
As I nodded agreement at this astute observation, Homes continued. “His excellent physical condition I deduced from the fact that he was able to vandalize these pictures in a period of time which of necessity must have been proscribed, for he could never be certain when someone might enter. Even smearing one small bit of sail caused me to become breathless, so that the over-painting of so many in a brief time must certainly have called for the utmost in physical endurance!”
“True,” I said, fascinated by this dissertation. “But how
could you possibly have concluded that he was bald?”
“Quite easily, my dear Watney! Certainly a man of the background and temperament which we have described, faced with the imagined need for destroying a large number of paintings in the minimum of time, would be led to tear his hair; yet the most minute examination of the carpet nap failed to reveal the slightest sign of ruptured follicle. Our only conclusion must be that he lacked the wherewithal!”
“And with this you were able to identify him?”
“With this and his right-handedness,” replied Homes, smiling modestly. “He is a frustrated painter named Passo Picalbo, and the answer I have received from the continental police indicates that he must have made good his escape. The Sûreté informs me that he is definitely known to be in Paris!”
“But are you positive, Homes?” I asked anxiously. “Your evidence is, after all, largely circumstantial.”
“There can be no doubt. I have brought with me a book which makes reference to the early life of this vandal, and once we have the damaged pictures before us, I am sure that I can convince you of the correctness of my analysis. But here we are at McGrogger’s Manor. Come, Watney, allow me to complete this exposition where it began—in the gallery!”
Leading me quickly along the hall, Homes opened the door to the exhibit room, and we passed within. The tragically mutilated pictures faced us as we entered, and Homes paused dramatically before the canvas spangled with the blue and pink dots.
The Incredible Schlock Homes Page 9
