The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  “On this basis, let us restate the message the General might have written if he had been permitted freedom and had not been forced to conceal his meaning from his enemies. He would have said: ‘Just time for a brief note. I must go back to Carnoustie, because McAnguish is blackmailing me. There I shall be forced to undergo an experience which is too terrible to contemplate!”

  My friend stared at me broodingly. “And I am sure that I know just what this terrible experience will be, Watney! Pagan rites!”

  I sat up in alarm. “Pagan rites, Homes?”

  “There can be no doubt. Remember the bogey man, Watney! I do not know if you are familiar with Voodoo or any of the other pagan religions based upon sorcery, but human sacrifice often plays a part in the ceremonies, and very often human sacrifice using the most primitive of weapons! You recall, I am sure, the war clubs and the wooden darts which we discovered in the rooms of the General, which are also, I might point out, the rooms of our Major Anguish McAnguish!”

  Homes leaned back once again and eyed me grimly. “Remember, Watney, our Aryan enemy has made Paganism its official religion. And Scotland has many Nationalists who are not out of sympathy with these enemies. There can be no doubt that somewhere on the heaths of Carnoustie this rite is either in progress or being prepared! I can only hope that we are in time to rescue this General from these fiends before it is too late, for it is quite evident who the victim of this sacrifice is to be!”

  “How horrible, Homes! And it is for this reason that you brought along Flaherty and his men?”

  “Precisely. There may well be fisticuffs or other violence, and besides, we have no official position in this, particularly across the border in Scotland. However, grim as the situation may be, it is certain that we shall be of small use if we do not rest before our arrival. I would suggest twenty winks while we can, for we are certain to be quite busy before the day is over!”

  I awoke to find Homes in whispered conference with a heavy-set gentleman whose pocket sagged under the weight of a truncheon, and who could be none other than the police agent Flaherty.

  “I understand, Mr. Homes,” this person was saying respectfully. “It shall be as you say.”

  “You have a photograph of this colonial officer?”

  “I do, Mr. Homes. He is a balding gentleman much given to wearing colourful knickerbockers and rather dashing shirts when off duty, and I am sure I shall have no trouble recognizing him.”

  “Good. Then we are ready. I have studied a one-inch map of the area, and I am convinced that there is but one heath sufficiently large and isolated as to be suitable for their nefarious purpose. The officials of the train have agreed to stop close by this heath to allow us to descend and deploy. Come, Watney, on your feet! I feel the brakes being applied at this very moment!”

  Seconds later we found ourselves beside the railway track while the Ayr Express slowly gathered speed again. In addition to Homes and myself, Flaherty was accompanied by three large men, all similarly attired, and all weighted down by their truncheons. At a cautious signal from Homes, we crossed the tracks and advanced, spreading out in a widening curve, fanning across the heath.

  The section of heath we fronted was well landscaped, with numbered flags, probably marking watering holes, spaced about. We were advancing slowly when, of a sudden, there was a sharp whistle in our ears and a white stone flew past to disappear in the distance. “It’s a trap, Homes!” I cried, flinging him into a nearby sand-filled depression and desperately covering him with my body.

  “I believe in Scotland they call these ditches ‘bunkers,’” he replied, rising and dusting himself off carefully. “Come, men, we must be close!”

  He leaned over the edge of the depression, studying the landscape with Flaherty beside him. Suddenly the police agent stiffened, and peering into the distance pointed his finger excitedly. “It’s him, Mr. Homes!” he cried. “I don’t know how you ever deduced it, but as always you were right! And he is surrounded by three others, all of whom are armed with heavy clubs! But wait!” The police agent turned to Homes with a bewildered air. “He, too, is armed!”

  “It is as I feared,” said Homes, watching the four men approach. “Either hypnotism or drugs, both quite common in this type of affair! In his present condition the poor man may even struggle, but at least we have discovered him before they could put their odious plan into practice! Come, men, let us spread out and surround them!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Homes,” said Flaherty, placing his hand on Homes’s arm. “My instructions are very clear. You have found him, and a very fine piece of work it was, but it is my duty to effect the rescue. You must go back to London and take no part in this.”

  “Nonsense!” Homes cried, incensed. “Come, men!”

  “No, Mr. Homes,” Flaherty replied quite firmly. “The instructions come from the Home Office itself. You are far too valuable to risk in an operation such as this. But fear not; I promise you I shall get him safely away from these culprits, and this whether he struggle or not!”

  “Do not fail, then,” Homes replied sternly. “England depends upon you! Come, Watney, we have but forty minutes if we are to catch the next train south!”

  I had opened the morning journal and was engrossed in attempting to open my eggs and turn the pages simultaneously, when Homes entered the breakfast room and seated himself opposite me.

  “I believe you are wasting your time, Watney,” he remarked genially. “I have already been informed by Criscroft that the General is back in London, and I seriously doubt that the censors would allow an account of yesterday’s proceedings to reach the public columns.”

  “I am not so sure, Homes,” I replied, noting a small article buried in one corner. “It is true that no great details of the affair appear, but it does say that because of a nerve-wracking experience that he underwent yesterday, General Isaac Kennebunk, Esquire, is under doctor’s orders to take a few days’ rest.”

  “I can well imagine how nerve-wracking it must have been,” said Homes, his eyes warm with sympathy. “However, I would judge that several days engaged in one of our pleasant English sports could well erase this terrible memory. I believe I shall suggest this to the Home Office. A letter to my brother Criscroft if you please, Watney!”

  The Adventure of the SNARED DRUMMER

  It was rare indeed that my friend Mr. Schlock Homes forsook the sanctuary of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street for the social life that swirled through the London of our day. There was one occasion, however, when he always made an appearance in public: the annual dinner of the Crones, the woman’s auxiliary of the Actor’s Club. While I have never questioned this complete reversal of his normal tendency towards seclusion, I have always suspected that it was largely due to the fact that the only women with whom Homes felt at ease were Crones.

  The dinner in the spring of ’52 was a great success. As was customary the guests furnished the entertainment, and Homes had given his celebrated imitations of William Gillette and Basil Rathbone and had been received as always with enthusiasm. Now, with the entertainment finished and dinner past, the party broke up into small groups that formed islands in the vast hall, discussing the various items of interest of the day. I was standing at Homes’s side, attempting to properly diagnose the exact proportions of gin and vermouth in the punch bowl, when a small agitated man scurried up and clutched my friend’s arm.

  “Mr. Homes!” he said in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried a note of desperation. “I am in serious difficulty. I have a problem which only you, I am afraid, can solve. I am sure that you do not remember me, but I have been fortunate enough to have met you in the past.”

  “Certainly,” replied Homes with a friendly smile. “You are Mr. Frederic Highe, as I recall, and you are a producer of musical extravagances. As to where we met before, it is not as great a problem as you suppose. As a matter of fact, we were introduced earlier this evening.”

  “So we were!” exclaimed Mr. Highe in astonishment, amazed
as were so many when, for the first time, they fronted evidence of my friend’s remarkable memory. “Well, Mr. Homes, I find myself in desperate straits indeed! I would appreciate it very much if you could find it in your power to come to my assistance.”

  “Of course!” Homes replied warmly, drawing our new acquaintance to one side. “Just what is your problem?”

  The small man glanced over his shoulder furtively. “Not here, Mr. Homes!” he whispered nervously. “Not here! If you could come to the theater tomorrow morning at eleven, I shall explain everything!”

  He looked about once more, his sharp eyes darting about the assembled throng in search of potential eavesdroppers. “I have rented the Castle in King’s Row, where I am rehearsing The Ruins Of Astolot. Do not fail me, for the love of God!” Without another word our new-found friend detached himself from our side and with one last appealing glance at Homes, melted into the crowd about us.

  “A new case do you suppose, Watney?” Homes asked, frowning in calculation.

  “I beg your pardon, Homes?” I asked. “I’m afraid my curiosity regarding this exact blend …”

  He sighed deeply as he answered his own question. “It could only be, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “He has never heard me sing!”

  At exactly eleven o’clock the following morning, Homes dismissed our hansom at the entrance to the deserted Castle Theater, and we made our way through the unattended door to the darkness within. In the distance we could see the lighted stage, with our friend Mr. Highe speaking with another man on its empty expanse, but before we could move down the deserted aisle, a shadowy figure suddenly barred our way.

  “Here, now,” he said fretfully. “No admittance, gents!”

  “But we are here to see Mr. Highe at his own behest,” Homes explained quietly.

  “He’s pretty busy,” said the other, scratching his head. “He’s casting The Ruins, you know. However, if he is expecting you, please seat yourselves until he is free.”

  We edged our way to the front row and silently slid into two empty seats while the conversation on the lighted stage continued. Mr. Highe was speaking to another man seated at a table with a paper before him, and a pencil in his hand.

  “Do you have sufficient bowmen?”

  The other ran a finger down his list, nodded, and made a mark against one of the items.

  “Enough halberd carriers? Musketeers? Pikemen?”

  These were dutifully checked off and the man once again nodded.

  “How are you fixed for blades?” But before the other could complete his examination on this point, Mr. Highe noticed our presence in the auditorium and came hurrying down the steps at one corner of the stage.

  “Mr. Homes!” he cried in embarrassment. “They should have informed me of your arrival. Please forgive me for having made you wait, but if you will be kind enough to come with me I shall explain everything!”

  He led us immediately to his office, and once the door was closed fell into a chair, his face white and strained. Homes and I settled ourselves on a divan against the wall as our friend leaned forward in obvious agitation.

  “Mr. Homes,” he said, twisting his fingers nervously, “I am in a terrible position! We are planning to open The Ruins Of Astolot in less than two weeks, and our principal tympanist has disappeared! He is absolutely vital to the production, for he is the only one who knows the score!”

  “Disappeared?” Homes asked, his voice alive with interest.

  “Completely! I have checked his rooming house, the local police precinct, and the four closest bars, and he has not been seen for over three days. He could not be visiting friends for he has been in England but two weeks and is acquainted with no one. It is essential that he be located at once!”

  Homes absorbed this information in silence, his broad, scholarly forehead creased in a frown of concentration.

  “What is his name?”

  “Richard I. Porter.”

  “And his description?”

  “He is a man in his middle thirties, approximately six feet tall, with a tanned complexion, light-browning hair, and weighing, I should judge, in the neighborhood of thirteen stone.”

  Homes nodded. “And you say he has been here but two weeks?”

  “Yes. He is an American who came here under contract to me for this one production.”

  “And he left no note?”

  Mr. Highe shook his head sadly. “Nothing. Nor any explanation in any form whatsoever. The only thing we found in his dressing room was a clipping from an American journal, and hoping that you might find it of use, I took the liberty of saving it.”

  He produced from his pocket a torn piece of newsprint, long and narrow, and handed it to Homes. The great detective took it from the outstretched fingers and leaned forward to study it. I leaned over his shoulder; it was apparently a column devoted to the type of tattling which has become so popular, and carried the byline of a certain Hilda Harper. One item had been heavily encircled with dark pencil, and read:

  Dig Those Crazy Dues Dept.: The T-men are going to nail some of those musical tax-dodgers. One square from Local 802 crossed the pond to lay low, but they have him boxed. Better kick in March 15th or find a better ’ole, pal!

  This gibberish made no sense to me at all, but I was amazed at the change wrought in my friend Schlock Homes. His eyes glittered with interest as they raced across the printed lines; his hands tightened convulsively on the fragile paper as he came to the end. He quickly read it a second time, his excitement mounting, and then fell back in deep thought, his thin, strong fingers tapping against the article.

  “Homes!” I cried. “Is it a code? Have you solved it so soon?”

  “It is no code, Watney,” he replied slowly. “Would that it were!” He rose to his feet, clutching the column of newsprint in his hand. “Mr. Highe, this promises to be a most interesting investigation. If you will allow me to retain possession of this paper, I shall begin work at once!”

  “Of course, Mr. Homes,” replied the producer, also arising. “I saved it solely for your use. Take it and pray heaven it aids you in solving this mysterious disappearance.”

  Homes smiled enigmatically. “I fear that ‘disappearance’ may not be the proper word,” he said. “However, sir, I hope to have more definite information for you tomorrow.”

  “The sooner the better, Mr. Homes,” said the producer fervently. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” replied Homes, his jaw tightening as he considered his answer. “I would suggest you begin to immediately instruct another tympanist in the vagaries of your score!”

  In our hansom back to Bagel Street I attempted to draw Homes out on the cryptic meaning of his last statement, as well as on his interpretation of the odd case, but he remained silent and preoccupied, refusing to take any of the bait I extended. As we approached our destination he suddenly leaned forward and paid our driver so that we were free to spring from the cab as soon as it wheeled itself to a halt before our door.

  No sooner were we within our quarters than he flung himself into a chair, still clutching the newspaper article tightly in one hand, and scowling at it fiercely.

  “It is here!” he said, almost to himself. “I am sure of it!”

  “But, Homes!” I exclaimed. “What is there? It appears to me to be the purest of nonsense.”

  “No, no, Watney. Far from it. Most of the message is crystal clear; it lacks but a shade to be complete.”

  I stared at my friend in astonishment. “Really, Homes,” I said slowly, “I can find no meaning whatsoever in those strange words.”

  “No? And yet, Watney, there is no attempt to disguise the message. It is extremely clear—tragically clear, I might say. It states without equivocation that a group of hoodlums from the London slums have decided to do away with our tympanist. Their reference to the place where they intend to perpetrate this foul deed is all that puzzles me at the moment.…” His voice faded as he studied the paper with renewed vigour. “O
f course! What a fool I am! Quickly, Watney, the London Directory!”

  In haste I pulled the required volume from our shelf of reference books and handed it to Homes. He ran his finger rapidly down the various listings of the book, and then with a bound he was once again on his feet and turning in the direction of the door.

  “I shall return as quickly as possible, Watney,” he said, his eyes shining as always at the thought of action. “Should I be late I suggest you prepare a bull’s-eye lantern and see to the priming of your pistol, for if I am correct in my analysis of this strange affair we shall be busy tonight, and it will not be pleasant business!”

  It was quite late in the evening when my friend reappeared. Mrs. Essex, our housekeeper, had laid on a sumptuous tea of toasted Brussel sprouts, and Homes grasped one hungrily, munching on it as he spoke.

  “You have the lantern and the pistol?” he inquired. “Good!” His face fell as he added, “I am afraid that we are too late to save Mr. Porter, but at least we shall be able to locate his body and convince our client of the uselessness of awaiting his return.”

  “His body, Homes?” I cried in dismay. “You mean …?”

  He nodded his head sadly. “Yes, Watney, it is almost certain that Mr. Porter is no longer among the living. But at least I know where they have concealed his remains, and it is there that we shall repair once it becomes dark.”

  “But, Homes!” I cried in puzzlement, “I do not see how you were able to locate Mr. Porter simply from the cryptic references in that newspaper!”

  Homes finished the last of the toasted Brussel sprouts, and wiping his lips, dropped into a chair. He lit an Armenian, and once it was drawing to his satisfaction, withdrew the clipping and presented it to me.