The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

“The final proof, Watney!” he cried, pointing to the picture.

  “You mean these blue and pink dots?” I replied, much puzzled.

  “That was his secret, Watney! You see, they are not dots! They are periods!”

  “But what is the difference between a dot and a period, Homes?” I asked, now completely befuddled.

  “In all honesty I am not enough of an art connoisseur to know,” said Homes earnestly, “but there can be no question that these are periods, and not dots! Nor can there be any question that they identify our culprit without possibility of error! Read this!”

  He thrust the book beneath my eyes, and as I read, my admiration for the analytical powers of my friend rose to new heights. A clearly marked passage left no room for doubt, for it read: “Passo Picablo is best known, and can most readily be identified, by his blue and pink periods!”

  The following morning Homes appeared at our breakfast table as I was in the act of opening our morning mail. He seated himself opposite me, and as he reached for a rasher of bacon he inquired genially, “Is there anything in the morning post which might be of interest to two idle investigators this fine morning?”

  “A letter from Crusty’s Gallery,” I replied, reading further into the missive.

  “Now that the case is closed,” remarked Homes, helping himself to the remains of the chutney and chives, “their opinion is hardly of importance.”

  “I am not so sure,” I said, handing him a cheque that had been enclosed. “Old Mr. Braigis is offering three hundred guineas for the canvas I left there yesterday. He further states that in his expert opinion your controlled feeling for orderly chaos, particularly as exhibited in the threnody of selective contemporary media, offers you a great future. What do you suppose he means, Homes?”

  “There is undoubtedly a mystery here,” replied Schlock Homes, fingering the cheque thoughtfully, “but at the moment I do not believe I am inclined to delve into the matter too deeply!”

  The Adventure of the DOUBLE-BOGEY MAN

  A perusal of my notes for the year ’42, made in September of that year and accounting the many cases in which I had engaged with my friend Mr. Schlock Homes, gave me as rude a shock as ever I have suffered. It was in February of ’42 that I had begun the study of a new method of speedwriting, feeling that a facility in this science might well aid me in both quickly and accurately annotating our adventures. Unfortunately, a sharp increase in my medical practice, possibly caused by a section of slippery pavement near our rooms at 221-B Bagel Street, left me little time for my studies, and I came back to my case book to find I was unable to translate my own hieroglyphics. In desperation I took my Pitman notebook to a famous expert, but when he announced that it was all Gregg to him, I found myself without recourse.

  Even Homes, with his vast background of cipherology and cryptology, was able to be of small help. He did manage to decipher one title as “The Sound of the Basketballs,” but since we could recall no case involving sports that year, we were unable to go further. These many adventures are therefore lost to posterity, and I bitterly hold myself to blame for their loss.

  October, however, brought a case of such national importance that it dwarfed all work Homes had previously done that year, for beyond furnishing him with an opportunity to once again demonstrate his remarkable ability to analyze distortions in their proper perspective, it also gave him a chance to serve his country as few men have been able to serve her. In my notes, now meticulously kept in neat English, I find the case listed as “The Adventure of the Double-Bogey Man.”

  I had returned from carefully sprinkling powdered wax on the offending section of pavement, in the hope that this might resolve its slippery condition, to find that in my absence Homes’s brother Criscroft had arrived and was ensconced together with my friend on the sofa before the blazing fireplace. As I entered, they were engaged in a favorite game of theirs, and as always I stood back in reverent silence as they matched their remarkable wits in analytical reasoning. Their subject appeared to be an old-fashioned tintype of a mustached gentleman dressed in the clothing of yesteryear, stiffly seated in a bower of artificial flowers, his bowler held woodenly before him, and his frozen face reflecting the ordeal of the portraiture.

  “An ex-student of the Icelandic languages, dedicated to the growing of rubber plants,” Criscroft suggested, eyeing the discoloured photograph closely.

  “Colour blind and left-handed,” returned Homes languidly, as I held my breath in admiration.

  “A one-time trampoline acrobat, adept at playing the twelve-toned gas-organ,” observed Criscroft.

  “A victim of the hashish habit,” Homes said, smiling. “Went before the mast at an early age, and has traveled widely in Kew.”

  “The son of a Northumbrian bell ringer,” offered Criscroft. Then, turning and noting my presence, he held up his hand. “But enough of this, Schlock. Watney has arrived and we can get down to the real reason for my visit. Put Father’s picture away now, and let me tell you why I left the Home Office in such troubled times, and hurried here as quickly as possible. We are in serious need of your help!”

  Once I had placed drinks in their hands and Homes had lit a cubeb, Criscroft proceeded to lay his problem before us.

  “As you are probably aware,” he said, “we have recently allowed some of our former colonies to join us in confronting the present unpleasantness emanating from Berlin. The representative of the former American colonies is a certain General Isaac Kennebunk, Esquire, and in confidence I may tell you that it appears this gentleman will be selected to assume the duties of Chief of Staff of our combined Allied forces.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward impressively. “With this fact in mind, you can readily understand our perturbation when I inform you that, as of yesterday, General Kennebunk is missing!”

  “Missing?” I cried in alarm, springing to my feet. “Missing what?”

  “General Kennebunk himself is missing,” said Criscroft heavily. “Since yesterday morning when he left a War Council meeting to return to his rooms, he has neither been seen nor heard of. Suffice to say that the General is knowledgeable of all our secret strategy. Should he have fallen into the hands of our enemies or their sympathizers, it could prove to be quite embarrassing for us.”

  “And you wish me to locate him,” stated Homes positively, rubbing his hands together in that gesture that I well knew indicated both extreme interest and poor circulation.

  “Precisely. Needless to say, as quickly as possible.”

  “Then permit me a few questions. First, where was the General in digs?”

  “The War Department arranged a suite for him at an old inn, The Bedposts, in Bolling Alley.”

  “He stayed there alone?”

  “Except for his military aide, a certain Major Anguish McAnguish, who temporarily was sharing his quarters.”

  “And the Major?”

  “He has also not been seen since the disappearance, but as you can well imagine our principal interest is in General Kennebunk.”

  “Naturally. And what steps have been taken so far?”

  Criscroft arose and stood with his back to the fire, his hands clenched behind him, his face ashen with the strain of his great problem and overwhelming responsibility. “The War Department brought in the military police at once, in the person of a former police agent named Flaherty, whom I believe you know. As soon as the Home Office was notified we insisted on taking the assignment out of his hands and contacting you. The War Department was most enthusiastic in this regard; however, they still wish to also retain Flaherty, although they admit you are the possessor of the sharpest analytical brain in England today.”

  “Flaherty will get them nowhere,” replied Homes seriously, although it was plain to see that the compliment had pleased him. “I assume, then, that I have a free hand. The rooms are under guard?”

  “I have seen to it that they were immediately sealed, and that guards were posted. Orders have been issued to allow only you and Watne
y permission to enter.”

  “Fine!” said Homes, rising and removing his dressing gown. “In that case let us proceed there at once. One moment while I don suitable raiment and we shall be on our way!”

  Criscroft’s hansom deposited us at the mouth of Bolling Alley, and the Home Office specialist leaned over from his seat to grasp his brother’s hand gratefully. Then with a wave, he drove off and we turned down the narrow lane in the direction of the famous old inn.

  Our credentials gave us immediate access to the floor that had housed the missing officer, and after ascertaining from the rigid soldier on duty that there had been no visitors, we unlocked the door and passed within. At first view there was certainly nothing to indicate the forceful removal of the General. The beds were neatly made up, the furniture properly placed and but recently dusted, and the late autumn sun passing the white starched curtains gave the apartment a cheerful air. Homes paused in the doorway a moment, his piercing eyes sweeping the scene closely; then, closing the door firmly behind us, he began his search.

  The dresser drawers gave no clue of anything untoward. The articles of clothing therein were neatly arranged and concealed nothing. Homes dropped to his knees to search beneath the bed, but other than some regulation army boots, and a pair of what appeared to be spiked mountain-climbing shoes, the space was bare. Stepping to the closet, Homes stared at the rows of uniforms neatly arranged upon the rack; then, with sudden resolve he pushed them to one side and probed beyond. I heard a low cry of triumph from my friend, and knew he had discovered his first clue. With gleaming eyes he withdrew oddly-shaped sticks, several oversized white pellets, and some tiny wooden pins. Handling these objects with extreme care, he laid his find upon the bedspread with great delicacy and then stepped back to contemplate them, showing inordinate interest.

  “Homes!” I cried in amazement, reaching for these odd objects, “what can these be?”

  “Take care!” he advised, grasping my arm and drawing me back. “It is more than possible that these are strange weapons, and it would not do to destroy ourselves before our investigation has fairly begun! Let us leave them for a moment and continue our search!”

  The very cleanliness of the room seemed to mitigate against finding more; the wastebasket was empty, the desk top cleared of all but essentials. Opening the desk drawer, Homes withdrew a blank white writing pad and was about to replace it when his keen eyes noted faint markings on its surface. Carrying it swiftly to the window he held it horizontally at eye level against the light.

  “Quickly, Watney!” he exclaimed in great excitement. “We have something! My bag!”

  Dusting charcoal over the empty sheet, he blew it gently until it settled in the crevices left by the pressure of the quill upon the previous page, and a message appeared as if by magic. Homes placed his find carefully upon the desk, and I bent over his shoulder to read the missive with him.

  “Mammy,” it said (or Manny; the inscription was not too clear): “Only time for nine today; back up to fifty-six! Started off four, but I won’t talk about the rest. The trouble is still my right hand, and the result is the old hook! Talk about the bogey-man; the double-bogey man has me!”

  This perplexing message was simply signed with the initials of the missing colonial officer: I.K., E. I raised my eyes from this strange paper to find Homes with such a fierce look of concentration upon his lean face that I forbade speaking. At long last he looked at me frowningly, his mind returning from the far places of his thoughts.

  “We must return to Bagel Street at once, Watney!” he said, his voice taut with urgency. “I believe I begin to see a pattern in this business, and if I should prove to be correct, we must waste no time if we are to save this General Kennebunk!”

  “But, Homes,” I cried, “do you mean that the answer lies in decoding this cryptic message?”

  “This is no code, Watney, although there is no doubt that it contains a hidden message. Come, we have much to do!” Folding the paper with great care, he thrust it into his waistcoat pocket and turned to the door.

  “But these objects,” I said. “Shall I take them with us?”

  “No,” he replied, staring at them with great loathing. “They will always be here should he require them, but I believe I already know their foul purpose. Come!”

  We locked the door behind us, and passing the key to the guard, hurried to the street. A passing cab picked us up at once, and throughout our journey Homes leaned forward anxiously as if in this manner he could hasten our passage. While the cab was slowing down before our quarters Homes thrust the fare into the cabbie’s hand and sprang to the pavement even before the horses had fairly stopped. I hurried up the stairs behind him, anxious to be of immediate assistance.

  “First, Watney,” he said, turning up the lamp and hurriedly pulling his chair closer to the table, “if you would be so kind as to hand me the Debretts, we can get started!”

  I placed the tome in his hand and he slid his strong finger down the alphabetical list rapidly. “McAnguish, McAnguish,” he muttered as he noted each line. “Ah, here we are! Anguish McAnguish, 224 Edgeware Mews, Hyde Park 6–24 … No, no, Watney! This is the telephone list! The Debretts, please!”

  I replaced the volume, blushing slightly, and he fell to studying it while I watched his face for some clue as to his thoughts. He scribbled some data on a pad and handed the book back. “And now the World’s Atlas, Watney, if you please” He looked up as he spoke, and noting the look of befuddlement on my face, smiled and spoke in a kindly tone.

  “No, Watney, this time I am not attempting to mystify. In time you shall know all. It is simply that every minute may count, and there is no time at present for explanations. So if you will excuse me, I shall get on with my work!”

  I waited as he flung the Atlas open, and then, seeing that he had already forgotten my presence in his interest in the maps before him, I quietly left and went to my room.

  I awoke to find the first faint strands of dawn feathering the windowpane, and even as I wondered what had aroused me so early, I felt again the urgent pressure of Homes’s hand upon my arm.

  “Come, Watney,” he said in a low voice, “our train leaves in thirty minutes. I have a cab waiting and you must hurry if we are not to miss our connexion. Get dressed quickly and I shall meet you below.”

  His footsteps diminished as he left the room and I groped for my Oxford bags with mind awhirl, sleep fighting to once again assume control. I entered our sitting room to find that Homes had already descended, and even as I picked up my overcoat I noted that the table was still covered with many volumes from Homes’s vast reference library, and that the lamp was still lighted. It was evident that my friend had passed the night at work. I was turning down the lamp when a faint cry from below caused me to instantly slip into my coat and hurry down the steps.

  Homes was already seated in the cab, and even as I came running up he gave the driver instructions to start, his strong hand pulling me into the moving vehicle. “Forgive me, Watney,” he chuckled as we rattled off towards Euston Station. “The complete answer came to me but a short while ago, and I still had to telegraph Flaherty to meet us with some of his agents at the train. I also had to arrange our passage on the Ayr Express and see that a cab was waiting to take us to the station. I’m afraid that I left the problem of awakening you until the last.”

  “And the answer lies in Scotland?” I asked.

  “It does indeed,” replied my friend, smiling. Then, leaning forward, he cried, “Tuppence extra, driver, if we do not miss our train!”

  We came clattering into Euston Station at a terrific clip and Homes had me by the hand, dragging me from the swaying vehicle while it was still moving smartly. We ran down the deserted platform, peering into the compartments of the steaming train, and then, as the cars began to move, Homes flung open a door and sprang aboard, pulling me behind him. I had scarcely time to catch my breath when we passed beneath the first tunnel, and Homes then seated himself comfortably
in the first smoking compartment we passed.

  “Flaherty and his men are aboard,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his briar. “I noticed him in the car behind as we came along the platform. With any luck at all, we should have this case finished by nightfall!”

  “But I do not understand any of this, Homes!” I cried perplexedly. “I have seen all that you have seen, and none of it makes any sense to me at all! Do you mean you have deduced the General’s whereabouts, and the plot behind his disappearance, simply from the little data of which I am cognizant?”

  “Little data?” he replied in honest surprise. “Little data? Actually, Watney, I have never had a case before so replete with data! Allow me to demonstrate!”

  He drew the folded paper containing the cryptic message from his waistcoat pocket and placed it upon the small table beneath the train window. I moved to the other side of the compartment in order to face him, and he began his explanation.

  “First, Watney,” he said, smoothing the sheet so that I could once again read the scrawled words, “listen carefully to what the General says. He begins by saying, ‘only time for nine,’ a common colloquialism meaning quite clearly that he only has time for a few words. He follows this up with ‘up to fifty-six’ and the words ‘off four.’ What can these words possibly indicate? Only one thing—they are directions! The most positive directions that exist, Watney—latitude and longitude! Up fifty-six. Off four. Obviously fifty-six degrees north latitude, and four degrees west longitude!

  “Do we have anything to support this supposition? What else does he say? He says, ‘the trouble is my right hand.’ And who is his right hand? Major Anguish McAnguish! And Debretts gives the home seat of the McAnguish family as Carnoustie in Scotland, at exactly this latitude and longitude!”

  Homes leaned back, puffing furiously upon his briar. “Let us go a bit further,” he said, as I sat wide-eyed at this brilliant exposition. “The General next states, ‘the result is the old hook.’ I do not know if you are familiar with the slang speech of America, Watney, but the ‘old hook’ means that he is being pressured into something which is, to say the very least, extremely distasteful to him. And he finishes by saying, ‘the double-bogey man has me!’ We all know what the bogey man is; it relates to demonology and the superstitions of our childhoods. And the double-bogey man can only be twice as terrifying in the imagination of this poor chap!