The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  “You will note this message, Watney,” he said in that slightly superior manner he always adopted when explaining the solution to one of his cases. “The T-men, of course, can only be teddy boys grown to manhood. And made no less vicious, I warrant, by their added years. Their exact reason for eliminating Mr. Porter is still obscure, although the motive was obviously revenge, since you will note their use of the word ‘dues.’

  “The references to death and burial are too frequent to avoid. ‘Nail,’ ‘boxed,’ ‘the better hole,’ and particularly the reference to the infamous Ides of March. No, Watney, the message was quite clear on these points. It was determining the place where this foul crime was to occur that presented the only problem.”

  “And how did you solve this, Homes?” I asked, all attention.

  He tapped the newspaper clipping with his finger. “It is all right here, Watney! You will note that the message reads: ‘One square from Local 802’—that is to say, one city block from public house No. 802. Across a pond! This afternoon I found pub 802 in the licensing listings of the London Directory, and when I left your company I went to investigate. A square from this public house is Hyde Park, and across the pond there, there is but one edifice.” His cool eyes stared at me somberly. “It is an undertaking establishment, Watney!”

  I caught my breath at the masterful manner in which Homes had managed to see light in this most puzzling of cases. But then my face fell. “That is all very well, Homes,” I said, “but how are we to prove your theory to the satisfaction of our client?”

  “It is for this reason that I requested you to prepare a bulls’-eye lantern,” he replied. “Tonight we shall break into this evil house and there I am sure we shall find the remains of Mr. Porter, for they will scarcely have had time to dispose of his cadaver.” He rose to his feet, pocketing the newspaper article. “I believe it is sufficiently dark now, Watney. Come, let us be on our way!”

  In a very short time we were rattling along High Holborn in the direction of Marble Arch. Homes was carrying the lantern well concealed beneath his cape, while I took charge of the primed pistol. At the corner of Hyde Park Road, Homes directed our driver to turn in the direction of Knightsbridge, but before we had proceeded very far my companion had the driver stop the cab and we descended.

  “We shall proceed on foot, Watney,” he said quietly as the cab rolled away. “It would not do to blatantly announce our arrival.”

  We crossed the darkened park in silence, carefully avoiding the strolling lovers and political orators, until we found ourselves at the edge of the pond. This we quickly skirted, taking every precaution not to fall in, and moments later found ourselves before a silent, deserted building. The black windows that stared down on us would have struck fear into the soul of a lesser man, but Schlock Homes, once on the scent, was beyond fear.

  “Watch the path!” he commanded, and immediately tackled the huge door with his set of picklocks. Moments later he called to me softly, and I hurried to join him, passing into the building at his side. Once within, he quietly closed the door behind us and lifted the cover from the bull’s-eye lantern, flashing the beam to all corners of the room.

  We were within an area that apparently served as a combination chapel and meeting hall, for wooden folding chairs were stacked neatly against the wall, and a lectern was pushed to one side. The keen eyes of my friend noted each detail revealed in the uncompromising circle of light cast by the lantern, and suddenly I heard him catch his breath. The light had traversed one wall and was now fixed upon two doors set side by side. Homes smiled in satisfaction at the sight, for they were clearly marked “Hymns” and “Hearse.”

  “The one obviously goes to the organ loft,” he said. “It is the other we want. Come!”

  He led the way quickly to the right-hand door and we passed into a narrow hallway that appeared to serve many rooms. With silent tread Homes went from door to door, trying each one, until I felt him pause decisively, his hand frozen on the knob.

  “The final proof, Watney!” he whispered in great excitement. “Note the wreath!”

  I crowded behind him and peered into the scene revealed by the bull’s-eye lantern. There, on plain wooden trestles, lay a coffin, and above it a horseshoe-shaped wreath of flowers was suspended. Homes flashed the beam across the satin band spanning the two sides of the floral arch, and my admiration for my friend’s analytical powers rose to new heights. Now there could be no doubt but that the body of Richard I. Porter lay within the casket—for his initials were clearly printed on the satin band!

  The following morning, having sent a report to our client on the special black-bordered telegraph forms that Homes reserves for such occasions, I returned to our sitting room to find my friend having his first after-breakfast pipe. As was my wont, I sat down and riffled through the journals in search of some item which might prove challenging to the reasoning powers of the great detective. I was reading the Old Statesman when I must have stiffened, for the voice of Homes broke into my cogitations.

  “You have found something which might prove to be of interest to us, Watney?” he asked genially.

  “In all honesty I really do not know,” I replied, studying the article more closely. “Frankly, the wording is completely unintelligible to me. It appears to be in some form of cryptology, or code.”

  “Code?” His interest immediately fired, Homes laid aside his pipe and reached eagerly for the folded sheet which I handed to him. He leaned forward and began to read aloud:

  “One American practitioner of percussion instruments who eschewed the burden of juridical assessments on his emoluments, is rumoured to have traversed the Atlantic in search of haven. His dissembling, however, is purposeless, since the personages charged with pecuniary aggregation by the American Authorities are cognizant of his locative situation.”

  Homes grasped the paper in feverish excitement, his eyes glittering as always at the challenge of a new problem.

  “Watney!” he cried. “It is undoubtedly a code; it could be nothing else! Quickly, my monograph on Common Codes and their Cures, if you please!”

  The Adventure of the COUNTERFEIT SOVEREIGN

  It was a grey, windy day in mid-April of ’51 when I returned from my medical rounds and climbed the stairs to our rooms at 221-B Bagel Street to find my friend Mr. Schlock Homes bending excitedly over an impressive array of test tubes, retorts, and similar chemical apparatus. Knowing his dislike of being disturbed while engaged in his researches, I quietly found myself a seat to one side and watched with interest as his fingers reached for a bit of litmus paper.

  “You have arrived at a crucial moment, Watney!” said he, his keen eyes glittering. “If this litmus paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red—then I am afraid we shall have to depend upon store-bought whiskey for our afternoon libations!”

  He turned back to his task and a moment later lifted his head in triumph, the still-azure strip dripping onto the carpet. Rinsing his hands he dried them carefully on his dressing gown and flung himself into a chair.

  “And none too soon!” he added in a pleased tone, “for we are to receive a distinguished guest shortly, and I fear that in my preoccupation with my last case I have allowed our liquor stocks to reduce themselves to a bit of Mrs. Essex’s cooking sherry, and nothing more.”

  “A distinguished guest, Homes?” I asked, mystified.

  In lieu of answering, he handed me a telegraph form and watched me closely as I read it. It was a request for an audience with Homes, and I noted automatically that the hour for the appointment was nearly upon us. The form was signed quite simply: Wilhelm Hans Wolfgang Herman Adolph von Saxe-Homburg, Grand Duke of Kitzle-Farbstein, King of Belgravia.

  There was something faintly familiar in the signature and I looked up to see Homes nodding at me, as, in his inexplicable fashion, he answered my unspoken thoughts.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “It is the same. You may recall that I was fortunate enough to be of service to His Majesty
before, in the matter of those incriminating letters I was able to recover from Polly Ad …” He paused. “But no names!”

  His eye fell upon the mantel clock and he sprang to his feet. “I must dress!” he exclaimed. “If you would be so kind as to handle the conventions, Watney, I shall be back in a moment!”

  He had no more than disappeared when the sound of a four-in-hand drawing up to the kerb could be heard, and a moment later the heavy tread of boots came tramping up the stairs. The door was flung open and I found myself facing a man fully seven feet in height, dressed in regal mink slashed with sable. The rich brocade of his ruffled silk shirt front was pinned at the throat by a large royal crest carved from a single opal, while his astrakhan-trimmed boots were banded by small emeralds embedded in the rich leather. Across the broad chest ran a diagonal swath of marten carrying a veritable host of medals. But the most surprising feature of his appearance was the thin strip of black that hid the upper portion of his face, although it could scarcely conceal the famous Kitzle-Farbstein nose.

  “Your Majesty …,” I began, overwhelmed by the royal presence, but before I could continue, he raised a large gloved hand imperiously.

  “Please!” he said in a deep, rich voice with but the faintest trace of accent. “I come here incognito! To everyone I must be plain Mr. Kitzle for this brief period.” He paused, peering at me with difficulty through the narrow slits of his mask. “But you are not Homes!”

  His hand flew to the jeweled dagger at his hip, but I was saved the embarrassing necessity of defending myself by the drawling voice of my friend from the doorway.

  “No, Mr. Kitzle,” said Homes, advancing further into the room. “This is my old friend Dr. Watney, and whatever you have to say may be said freely in his presence, as he is remarkably inattentive.”

  The gloved hand fell away from the dagger and I found myself breathing normally once again. Homes waved our guest graciously to a seat and sank into one opposite while I repaired to the retort and began mixing drinks.

  “You must forgive me,” said His Majesty apologetically. “I have recently had the strangest adventure, and I still find myself a bit unnerved. It is precisely for this reason, Mr. Homes, that I requested an interview, for I should appreciate your views on the entire matter.”

  Homes leaned forward politely. “As always, Mr. Kitzle,” he replied, “I am at your complete service. Please favour us with the details.”

  “Well, Mr. Homes,” said our visitor, sitting forward and accepting a drink, “as you know, I am addicted to fox-hunting, not—as so many of your countrymen—for the sport, but because I have found that a good fox-fur makes up into an extraordinarily handsome cravat. In any event, yesterday, as I was riding to the hunt this particular fox disappeared over a low wall of an enclosed estate and I therefore reined my horse and followed on foot. To my amazement the grounds, although quite extensive, were heavily populated with people all dressed in white fencing jackets, and all wandering about quite aimlessly. I might mention that their tailor was extremely careless, for it appeared that the sleeves of all of these garments had all been sewn shut at the cuff … but I digress.

  “I stopped several and asked them if they had seen a small brown fox with beady eyes and a general air of fright, but they all merely shook their heads vaguely and continued their wandering about. Not being accustomed to this cavalier treatment, I was about to remonstrate with one of them when there came the distant toll of a bell, and they all turned their footsteps in the direction of a huge house which I then noticed for the first time.

  “Determined not to leave without notice of my fox, I followed. At the head of the lawn were a set of steps leading to a portal marked ‘The Sanitarium,’ but as I approached I found my way barred by a large, burly individual who placed his hand roughly on my arm and began to interrogate me thoroughly.

  “‘You!’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you in your jacket?’

  “‘Unhand me!’ I demanded. ‘I am the King of Belgravia!’

  “‘Of course!’ this person agreed, still gripping me tightly. ‘Who said no? But what I want to know is, how did you get out this morning without your white jacket?’

  “Well, Mr. Homes, of course it would be quite gauche to wear a white jacket for fox-hunting, and for a moment I was inclined to so advise this uncouth person, but his crudeness led me to feel unobligated to explain. I therefore removed his hand from my sleeve by striking him unconscious, and as I turned away to once again seek my fox, a small person with spiky white hair, a broken nose, and a curious scar running from ear to ear, and also dressed in the same white jacket with sewn sleeves, came up and spoke to me …” He paused, eyeing Homes curiously. “You spoke?”

  “No, no!” Homes cried. He was now leaning forward most intently, his eyes gleaming. “Pray continue!”

  “In any event, then, this man with the spiky white hair said to me, ‘Pick Windsor; or Napoleon! I am the King of Belgravia!’

  “Well, Mr. Homes, naturally I was startled, but before I could clarify the situation, my fox darted out of some bushes where it had been hiding, and streaked down the driveway. I followed at once, but unfortunately the estate on that side borders the Great West Road and I lost the animal—a bit unsportingly, I still think—to a small lad on a bicycle. As I returned to my horse it occurred to me that there was something unusual in my adventure, and I thought at once of seeking your advice.”

  Homes’s eyes shone with excitement. He placed his drink to one side with a shudder and leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers in concentration. For several moments he maintained silence, but when he finally spoke it was on a subject so far removed from the matter on hand that even I, used as I am to the peregrinations of his brain, was surprised.

  “Mr. Kitzle, who handles the hiring of your kitchen staff?”

  The King of Belgravia lifted his eyebrows at this unexpected query, but did not hesitate to answer. “My Prime Minister, Baron Meiterlunk.”

  “Ah!” said Homes, nodding his head in satisfaction. He eyed our royal guest keenly. “And would I be wrong in suggesting that of late you and the Baron have not been seeing eye-to-eye on many questions, and that the Baron at this precise moment is in London?”

  The King’s jaw fell open, disclosing diamond-studded teeth. “Why, yes!” he exclaimed in utter amazement. “Although how you were able to deduce this I cannot imagine, as these are facts known only to myself!”

  Homes smiled faintly but refused to explain, remaining instead in a brown study that lasted for several more minutes. At long last he rose to his feet with a sigh.

  “I fear the affair is more complicated than it appears on the surface,” he said thoughtfully. “However, Your Majesty may be assured that I shall tackle the problem at once. If Your Highness would be so kind as to leave the exact location of this estate with Dr. Watney, here.…”

  “Of course. And thank you very much for your attention, Mr. Homes.” His Majesty arose and bowed gratefully. “I shall await your reports with great eagerness.”

  Once our distinguished guest had taken his leave, Homes flung himself back into his chair and reached for his whiskey glass with a dubious look at the murky contents.

  “A dirty business I fear, Watney,” he said, finally returning his eyes to mine. “The outlines of this dastardly plot against His Majesty are fairly easy to perceive, but the exact details remain obscure. And also, the best means of foiling the plot.”

  “But, Homes!” I cried, “I do not understand this at all. What plot is this of which you speak?”

  “The plot against His Majesty, of course,” Homes returned equably.

  “But I heard nothing here today that would indicate any plot against His Highness!”

  “You heard, but you failed to properly interpret what you heard,” Homes replied obliquely. “However, it appears to be too late to take any steps today. You have our old fencing jackets? Then if you would be so kind as to bother Mrs. Essex for the loan of her sewing basket, we had best p
repare for the morrow!”

  “Her sewing basket, Homes?”

  He turned back to his retort frowning thoughtfully and paying no heed to my bewildered question. “And, Watney, if you will, while you are up you might hand me a bit of charred oak. I have just noticed that it was not a piece of litmus paper I used this afternoon, after all; but rather a thruppenny-ha’penny return slip for passage on the Hammersmith omnibus!”

  The following morning Homes had me up at seven, and after a hurried breakfast of curried kippers led me swiftly down the steps to a trap he had engaged earlier. The chill of the morning was acute, and the fog that was so normal over Whitehall had not as yet burned away, so that our heavy quilted fencing jackets proved a welcome protection against the sharpness of the morning air. Homes gave our destination to the driver, and then leaned back frowning.

  The questions that had boiled within me since the previous evening now erupted, but they fell upon deaf ears. “A dastardly affair, Watney,” was my companion’s only comment on the long drive, after which he lapsed into a silence which did not invite interruption. I therefore leaned back and reviewed in detail our conversation of the previous day, but try as I might I could find nothing there to justify the look of introspection that Homes was wearing.

  We drew up at the estate at approximately the same place His Majesty had described as the point where he had tethered his horse. Requesting the driver to wait, Homes led the way over the low stone wall and into the cover afforded by a clump of bushes that margined the area. At that hour there were but few other jacketed figures in sight, but our luck was in for one of them was a short man with spiky white hair, a broken nose, and a scar that traversed his face completely. This one was idling his time away by pointing his sewn coat sleeve in various directions and saying “Bang!” At the sight of this strange figure Homes was seized by uncontrollable excitement and drew me deeper into the obscurity of the brush.