The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  “Watney!” he whispered in great agitation. “I feared there was something familiar in the description His Majesty gave yesterday of his impersonator! That ‘Bang!’ has revived my memory! That is none other than Colonel Moron, the finest shot in all Europe, and the second most dangerous man in all of England”

  “But, Homes,” I objected, “did you not tell me that Colonel Moron …”

  “Exactly! I had thought him safely incarcerated, but it appears that he is free once again! This development must be given considerable thought!” He leaned against a bush in fierce concentration, his strong, thin fingers biting hard on my arm, and once again I was thankful for the protection of the fencing jacket. When at last he straightened up there was a light in his eye that boded ill for some miscreant.

  “Of course!” he said, almost to himself, and turned to me. “Colonel Moron must wait. At the moment it is more important that we see the inside of the house. Come!”

  We waited until the small man with spiky hair had wandered out of earshot, and then emerged from the bushes and walked quickly across the grass towards the large house that dominated one end of the estate. There seemed to be no one in attendance at the entrance, and without a word Homes swung open the door and stepped within. I followed closely and we found ourselves in a deserted passage, from one end of which came the clatter of pots and pans. Motioning me to maintain silence, Homes led the way down the passage and we peered in at the doorway.

  It was a huge kitchen with eight or nine cooks busily preparing food. Homes turned to me, chuckling in pleased satisfaction. “I was sure of it, Watney!” he said. “It is the final proof!” But at that moment a large man wearing a chef’s cap firmly set upon his head turned and noted our presence for the first time.

  “You!” he cried fiercely. “Why are you snooping in this kitchen like some Schlock Homes?”

  Both the smile on my friend’s face, and his lazy drawl, indicated to me that he had indeed found the solution to the problem, and no longer felt the need for subterfuge. “Because,” he replied coolly, “I am Schlock Homes!”

  “Sure you are,” returned the other. “And I am Pierre of the Ritz!” But when we put forward our hands to accept this introduction, the large man turned away abruptly and called over his shoulder, “Come, come, now! It’s still two hours until lunch!”

  “You must forgive him,” Homes explained as we left the house and crossed the grounds. “All great chefs are temperamental, and I have heard of this Pierre. However, it is of small importance. I see the entire scheme now, as well as the means of foiling it!”

  “But, Homes …,” I began.

  “Explanations must wait, Watney. We must return to Bagel Street as quickly as possible, for I must send a message to my brother Criscroft asking him to intercede with the authorities!” He hurried me across the wall and moments later we were clattering over the cobblestones of the Great West Road heading back to the city.

  Once in the cab I could contain myself no longer. “Really, Homes!” I cried in exasperation. “This is too much! You speak of plots and solutions; I do not understand any of this! Why do you insist on all this secrecy? Do you not trust me?”

  Homes laughed and laid his arm affectionately about my shoulder. When he chose to exert his great charm it was difficult to remain angry with him. “No, no, Watney,” he said, chuckling. “The truth is that only at ‘The Sanitarium’ did I see the plan with all of its ramifications, plus the ideal means of thwarting it. Tell me, what is your opinion of the establishment we have just left?”

  “Well,” I said, mollified by this request for my help, “it is obviously the home of a very wealthy man, for the grounds are quite extensive and well cared for.”

  “And the large number of persons in evidence?”

  “Relatives?” I hazarded.

  “But if they were relatives,” Homes pointed out, “how do you account for their clothing?”

  “Hand-me-downs?” I suggested.

  “No, Watney,” he replied, serious once again. “There can only be one explanation that explains the uniformity of the white jackets and the huge kitchen which we saw.”

  “And that is …?”

  “The place is obviously a restaurant! As you should know, it is the modern custom to name roadhouses in such a manner as to attract customers, and the name ‘The Sanitarium’ is ideal for this purpose. The name comes from the Latin and suggests cleanliness, which is the prime concern of people eating out. And in line with this same custom, it is also quite common to dress the waiters in keeping with the decor; hence the white jackets, which also suggest cleanliness.”

  “But the sewn cuffs, Homes!” I cried. “How do you explain those?”

  “Quite simple, Watney! A further extension of the sanitary theme and the final proof of my deduction. Obviously to keep their fingers out of the soup!”

  I leaned back, amazed at the way Homes could bring clarity out of confusion. Once it had been explained, of course, it appeared quite simple, but I realized the gifts with which my friend was endowed, to be able to cut so cleanly through the fog of misleading facts. Then another thought struck me.

  “But, Homes,” I said. “You spoke of a plot.…”

  “Precisely, Watney! As soon as His Majesty described the white jackets I thought of a restaurant. The story of someone impersonating him brought up the possibility of a plot in connexion with this restaurant. It was for this reason that I inquired if Baron Meiterlunk handled the hiring of the servants, and if he were in London. Seeing Colonel Moron in person confirmed my suspicions, for it was then apparent that Meiterlunk planned on smuggling an assassin into the palace in the guise of a waiter!”

  I nodded at the certainty of Homes’s theory, but then my face fell. “But how can you stop the plot, Homes?” I asked in discouragement.

  Homes leaned forward, his fine eyes fixed seriously upon mine. “It is apparent that Colonel Moron, in the short time since his escape, cannot have completed his training as a waiter,” he said calmly. “Baron Meiterlunk is too much of a realist to attempt to place a person disguised as a servant on the palace staff unless he were completely trained in his duties. If we are able to prevent Colonel Moron from completing his training, the plot is bound to fall through!”

  “But might not Meiterlunk find another instrument, then, for his scheme?” I objected. “A buxom upstairs maid, for example?”

  Homes shook his head decisively. “You underestimate the Baron, my dear Watney. Once he finds himself foiled he will soon make it his business to discover who was responsible. And once he knows it was Schlock Homes who put an end to his dastardly scheme, he will realize the hopelessness of his position and never try again. No, you may be sure that the Grand Duke of Kitzle-Farbstein, King of Belgravia, is safe. Baron Meiterlunk will return to Belgravia without his assassin, and be content to be Prime Minister and nothing more!”

  Our cab rolled up to our door and I managed to pay the driver despite the sewn sleeves of my jacket, and then followed Homes up the stairs. Once within the privacy of our chambers, Homes flung off the restricting jacket and reached for the Iranian wagon-lit* in which he kept his tobacco.

  “And now, Watney,” he said, once his briar was going to his satisfaction, “the wire to Criscroft that shall scotch this nefarious plot once and for all!”

  As he dictated to me, my mind reared at the sheer brilliance of his scheme. It was now certain that Colonel Moron would never complete his training as a waiter, for Homes was arranging to have “The Sanitarium” deprived of its food-dispensing license!

  It was several days before the fruits of Homes’s efforts on behalf of the King of Belgravia became apparent. I had come in to a late breakfast of kippered curry to find Homes deep in his newspaper, and with a smile of triumph he handed it across to me, the article he had been perusing uppermost.

  It detailed an account of the return to Belgravia of its Prime Minister, Baron Meiterlunk, and noted that he returned alone. The King was remaining f
or a few days for the poule-shooting at Sandringham. Having already praised Homes for his coup several times, I felt it best to give his ego a rest, and for that reason pretended interest in another article, but his keen eyes immediately noted my defection.

  “You have noted something of interest to us?” he asked, alert at once.

  I could not keep up the pretense. “No, Homes,” I replied, a bit ashamed of my subterfuge. “Actually, it is nothing but a tragic story of a food riot in some insane asylum.”

  “Poor souls!” said Homes softly, displaying that humanity that never ceased to surprise me. “I wish I could help!” He looked up, laying aside his pipe.

  “Do you know, Watney,” he added, his fine eyes serious, “whenever I read of places of that nature, I cannot help but think: ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Schlock Homes …!’”

  * Persian sleeper, of course!

  The Adventure of the LOST PRINCE

  It was a bright Thursday morning in May, in the year of ’48. I had come into the breakfast room of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street to find my friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the process of lighting his after-breakfast hookah, a gift from the Sultan of Swatt, the former Bey Beruit, After exchanging our usual morning courtesies I sat down to eat, selecting one of the journals from a pile by the desk and perusing it intently as I attacked my first kipper. A moment later my thoughts were disrupted.

  “I should not even think of the tweed, my dear Watney,” Homes remarked, a mischievous smile lighting his face.

  “On the contrary,” I replied absently, and then looked up in startled amazement. “Really, Homes! I fail to see …”

  “Precisely, Watney,” my friend interjected. “And yet it is neither mindreading nor legerdemain. You have a set method of attacking your Daily Times. You begin by reading the headlines of the extreme right-hand article; your eye then travels to the left-hand article, and you finally concentrate on the centre article. The right-hand article in today’s Daily Times deals with a red-petrol case, which held no interest for you. On the left you found a column head concerning a state visit of an African potentate and his retinue who are here for conferences and to enjoy the theater season. When this proved of no interest to you, you continued to the centre. Here you read that a stock merger was to be effected, and your eyebrows lifted in interest. As you continued further into the article, a smile appeared on your face. Obviously this merger will affect your holdings, small as they are, and you wondered at this point if you might afford some small extravagance. Your eye then traveled speculatively to the wardrobe chest. I recall that a few days ago we paused at a window in Regent Street and you commented upon a tweed suit you saw displayed there. Therefore my remark.”

  “It does seem simple when you explain it,” I admitted, my original annoyance abating a bit. “Actually, however, this is the Herald Press in my hand, and I have been reading—with pleasure, I admit—an article on the advantages of passing one’s holidays on our lovely English rivers. I had more or less decided on the Tweed, and was wondering if my wardrobe still contained the straw floater I won on Boat Race night in ’14, when you spoke.”

  Homes smiled in congratulation at my adroit escape from his trap, and returned to his hookah.

  “Incidentally,” I added smugly, matching Homes’s smile, “I see that you have another case coming up, which should be a lucrative one. The person coming to see you should be here very soon, if he is not already overdue.”

  “Excellent, Watney! You are improving! It would be interesting to learn the reasons for your statement.”

  I shifted in my seat, imitating the pedantic tones of my colleague. “You have preceded me to breakfast, which indicates to me that you have an appointment, obviously an early one. Your selection of costume indicates that the person is an important one, since you often receive your brother Criscroft and others in your dressing gown. Hence a lucrative case.”

  “But why a case at all, my dear Watney?” asked Homes, his eyes twinkling. “Certainly in our many adventures we have made sufficient acquaintances, many of high station, so that one might be calling for no reason other than to extend his regards.”

  “That was the simplest of all deductions,” I answered dryly. “To be frank, your good humour this morning is a welcome change from the irritability that has had you in its grip for the past fortnight. Only a new case could have wrought this change in your nature.”

  Homes laughed aloud in pure enjoyment. “Actually,” he said, copying my tones with a faithfulness that was characteristic of his great histrionic ability, “I had a dentist’s appointment this morning and dressed accordingly. Then, one-half hour ago, I received a telegram cancelling it, as my dentist himself has been taken severely with the toothache. Hence, as you say, my good humour.”

  To hide my chagrin I ate another kipper. Homes arose and laid his arm in a kindly fashion across my shoulders. “At least, Watney,” he said, smiling in a friendly style, “we are free of other appointments today. Possibly we can spend the afternoon at the concert hall. Joshua Lowfitz and his Trumpeters are doing the Waltz of Jericho, and I understand their performance brings the house down.”

  “I should really enjoy that, Homes!” I cried, rising to my feet. But our plans for a musical afternoon were not to be realized, for at that moment there came the sound of a carriage wheel scraping against the kerb and we looked out of the window to see a heavily-veiled woman descend and enter our doorway. A moment later our page ushered in our visitor, who was followed by a liveried footman carrying a small bundle.

  “Mr. Schlock Homes?” The voice was musical, but taut with suppressed emotion.

  Homes bowed slightly, moving his hand in a gentlemanly gesture towards a chair. The veiled woman seated herself gingerly on the very edge as she spoke.

  “Mr. Homes, believe me when I say that the secrecy of any of your past endeavors is as nothing to the confidential nature of the case which I now bring you. Because of the eminent position of the family which I represent, even the little information I am able to give you must be treated with the utmost circumspection.” She paused as if seeking further words, and then with a muffled sob she fumbled in her reticule and withdrew an envelope which she handed to Homes.

  He removed from the envelope a wrinkled sheet of paper, perusing it quickly, his eyes glittering with scarcely-suppressed excitement. I passed to his side and read the message over his shoulder. It was printed in crudely formed letters, and read:

  No sens lookin under the bed or wistlin. We got him. If you wanna see him agin put eleven millun quid in a shu-box. Give it to the cooks boy he nose wat to do with it. Dont tell the busies or you wont never see him no more.

  (sined) The Gang

  Ps. if you cant rase that much you kin put in less but dont go under five quid or you rely wont see him no more.

  Pss. better put in some toffies too it cant do no harm.

  Homes was breathing heavily with excitement as he finished the strange note. He folded the wrinkled paper carefully and laid it upon the desk before turning back to our distrait guest.

  “Can you give me a description?” he asked softly.

  There was another muffled sob from behind the veil. “He is eight years old,” she said, “with long silky hair, black eyes, and the cutest pointed ears! And his nose is all speckled.”

  “And the family wants him back?” I asked in amazement.

  “Desperately,” she answered simply. She turned back to Homes. “When he was taken they also took his little blanket. However, I brought with me the little blanket that was his father’s when he was small. I did not know if it would help, but they are identical and I felt I should bring anything that might prove to be of use.” She took the bundle from the footman and placed it in Homes’s hands. His eyes lit up as he saw the word “Rex” embroidered in gold thread in one corner.

  “Of course!” he muttered audibly. “I should have recognized the crest on the carriage! It is Prince …”

  “Hush!” com
manded the veiled figure. “No names!” She rose to her feet and passed to the door. “I am sure there is no need to remind you, Mr. Homes, that time is of the essence!”

  “I swear I shall not rest until I resolve this,” Homes promised fervently. “If your Ladyship could pass at this same hour tomorrow, I hope to have some definite news for you.”

  “Oh, pray heaven that you shall!” came the muffled reply, and with no further word she passed through the door, to be followed immediately by the silent, liveried servant.

  As soon as the sound of the carriage had died away in Bagel Street, Homes fell into a chair and began studying the note with fierce concentration. I stood behind him and also re-read it, but it provoked no startling ideas.

  “Do you suspect it of being in code, Homes?” I asked, watching his frowning features carefully.

  “No, no, Watney!” he replied impatiently. “It is precisely what it purports to be: a note demanding ransom. Still, a fairly clear picture of the writer begins to emerge from his note.”

  I studied the crumpled paper in his hand once again. “But I see nothing in it to give any clue whatsoever as to its author,” I objected.

  Homes laughed shortly. “Do you not? Really, Watney, there are times when I despair of you! Certainly it should be evident to all that the writer of this note comes from a tropical climate, is visiting London for the first time, and is a great admirer of George Bernard Shaw!”

  “Now really, Homes!” I cried. “This is a serious case! You gain nothing by levity at a time like this!”

  “Oh, I am quite serious! In time you shall know all, Watney, but at the moment there is little time to lose!” He sprang from his chair, beginning to undo his cravat. “It is essential that I go out for a few hours. If you would be so kind as to arrange a hansom for me, I shall hurry and change into more suitable vestments!”

  “But, Homes,” I said, studying his neat clothing with surprise, “there is nothing wrong with your costume.”