He smiled enigmatically without answering and disappeared into his room. I sent our page out to flag down a passing cab, and he managed to have one waiting at our portal when Homes emerged from his room once again. I gaped in astonishment; for had it not been for the familiar grin of my old friend, I should have been forced to swear that I was facing the famous actress Diana Dors.
“Homes!” I cried in astonishment.
“Later, Watney,” he chuckled, and with the supreme artistry that marked every detail of his incredible impersonations, he rearranged his features and minced from the room.
It was dusk before Homes returned. His high heels tapped quickly up the steps and once in the room, he removed his spike-heeled shoes, slipped off his blonde wig, and flung himself into a chair.
“It is as I suspected!” he said heavily. “An inside job! However, I have the miscreants located, and tonight we shall see an end to their foul scheme! I suggest, Watney, that you make a visit to Mrs. Essex’s domain and arrange a bite of supper, for we must go out again tonight. And you had also better arrange a bull’s-eye lantern and take along your pistol, for I know not what deviltry we may encounter!”
“You mean …,” I began.
“Yes!” he said. “Our case is nearly finished. Tonight I hope to effect the rescue. But now, if you will call upon Mrs. Essex I suggest we satisfy the inner man, for I have gone without lunch and we have a long night ahead of us!”
He refused to speak further until our supper had been placed upon the table, and then the only words he offered were a subdued request for the salt. It was not until our supper was represented by a pile of soiled dishes that Homes leaned back and sought solace from his hookah. Another person might have appeared ridiculous sitting there in a low-cut gown sucking on a curved pipe, but Homes appeared quite natural.
“Well, Homes,” I said, leaning back in surfeit, “if we have the time, I would certainly appreciate an explanation of this very odd affair.”
“Certainly, Watney,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “Actually, we have almost an hour before we must leave.” He laid aside his hookah, adjusted the strap of his gown, and reaching for the note which he had left upon the desk, opened it and handed it to me.
“There are several things which are evident from this note, Watney. First, you may note that they request eleven million pounds to be placed in a shoebox. It should have been apparent to you at first glance that this amount of money, even in the maximum of denomination, represents a volume far too great for even the largest of shoeboxes. Hence the deduction that the writer was unfamiliar with shoeboxes, and therefore, of shoes. The only conclusion one can logically draw is that he comes from a tropical climate where shoes are not a necessity.
“Then, too, you will note his instructions to pass the money to one of Cook’s boys. It is evident that the writer of this note did not realize that Thomas Cook have eleven branches in London, or he would have been more specific. That this fact was unknown to him forces one to the conclusion that this is his first visit to London.”
“But his admiration for George Bernard Shaw?” I cried.
“That was the simplest of all the deductions,” Homes replied. “Surely you must have noted in studying the message that it was written in reformed English!”
I sat in silent admiration of this masterful exposition. “But even knowing all this, Homes,” I finally said, “I fail to see how you were able to locate the miscreants.”
Homes reached over and took the Daily Times from the pile in the corner, tapping it with one finger. “You have a short memory, Watney,” he said, smiling briefly. “Do you not recall that just this morning I mentioned an article regarding the visit of an African prime minister and his retinue? In that group there are bound to be some who are visiting London for the first time; moreover, they come from a climate where shoes are unnecessary. And among other things, they came to enjoy the theater season. I would wager that Shaw was their first choice!”
“And from this you deduced an inside job?”
Homes nodded. “They are guests at the Palace,” he said. “I know it is difficult to pass the Palace guards at any time. Certainly trying to take a small boy past who might be recognized, or who might attract attention by screaming, is quite impossible. No, Watney, there can be no doubt. He is being held in the Palace itself.”
“In their quarters?”
Homes shook his head. “I do not believe so. With the constant passage of upstairs maids and housekeepers, it would be extremely foolhardy. I should imagine, rather, that they have him locked in one of the unused basement rooms; possibly in one of the coal cellars, since in this weather they would be rarely visited.”
He arose and stepping into his high-heeled shoes, adjusted his blonde wig. “But it is getting onto the hour for our departure. I suggest you arrange the accoutrements, Watney, for we must be on our way!”
Moments later we were seated in a cab heading in the direction of the Palace. I had slipped the bull’s-eye lantern under my cape, and my pistol was concealed in my waistcoat pocket.
“But are you familiar with the room arrangement at the Palace?” I asked as our cab clattered over the cobbled pavement along Piccadilly. “Have you ever been in the Palace?”
“I spent the afternoon there,” replied my friend simply. “The guard allowed me, as a returning celebrity, to visit my humble old aunt, who I convinced him is housekeeper in charge of the royal linens. And I explained, as I left, that I would be coming back tonight with an aged uncle to have one last chat with Aunt Liz before sailing for the colonies.” He turned to me seriously. “In the course of searching for the powder room I was able to make sufficient search of the premises to determine the location of the basement area. When we arrive, I suggest you to allow me to do the talking, as I made, I believe, quite an impression upon the guard!”
Our hansom drew up to a back entrance of the great, ornate Palace, and within seconds Homes was engaged in a giggling conversation with the uniformed figure at the gate. Moments later we found ourselves inside, in a long, empty corridor.
“This way, Watney!” Homes whispered in great excitement, once the outer door had closed upon us. He drew me by the hand to a staircase in one corner, leading downward. Once on the steps he removed his shoes, tucked them in his purse, and slipped silently ahead of me. The lower level was dark, and I handed him the lantern. Removing the cover he sent the light flickering over a series of cellar doors, each one labeled with the name of a different preserve. We made our way silently along the narrow passageway, and Homes paused at each door listening intently. Suddenly he raised his hand for complete silence and turned to me with triumphant satisfaction engraven in every line of his face.
“In here, Watney!” he whispered. “Where it says ‘Peaches!’ Come! We must break it down!”
Making as little noise as possible we placed our shoulders to the door and heaved with all our strength. The door sprang open with a clatter that we feared might bring our adversaries down upon us, but apparently the heavy floors and thick walls of the Palace had been built for such an eventuality, for they contained the sound and there was no outcry. Homes immediately swung the lantern about the small room and there in one corner, as he had so accurately predicted, was the figure of a small boy huddling back in terror on a pile of empty jars. At his feet was a dog who came bounding up, licking our hands.
“There, there!” said Homes soothingly, drawing the terrified boy to his ample breast. “It is all right! We are friends.” He stroked the boy’s hair as I inspected the young lad. It was true that his ears were slightly pointed, but the smear of peach jelly across his face prevented us from noting the speckles on his nose. The small figure clung to Homes, weeping copiously.
“I assure you there is nothing to fear, Your Highness,” Homes said in a kindly voice, still stroking the sobbing boy. “Come, let us take you to your suite. I am sure that no further attempt will be made against your person.”
He led us from th
e darkened cellar, up the curving stairway to the corridor above. The little dog followed behind faithfully, trying to lick our heels. Once in the upper reaches, however, the boy made a sudden twisting motion, and with a low cry broke away and dashed down the corridor and out of sight. I began at once to follow, but Homes laid a restraining hand upon my arm.
“No, Watney. Let him go his way alone,” he said, a happy smile creasing his face. “There has been sadness in this house tonight, and it will be a nice surprise for their Majesties!”
He turned to the rear door, with the little dog following us and whimpering softly.
“But what shall we do with the dog, Homes?” I queried.
He paused in deep thought. “Why, Watney,” he finally said, “I have long felt that we have the need of a mascot. Let us take him home with us, in memory of a case where we have been able to serve our country!”
I lifted the little creature, placing him under my cape for warmth, and we made our way back to the street. A few whispered words and a muffled slap and we were back in our cab, rolling across London in the direction of Bagel Street.
Although our activities the previous evening had consumed many hours normally devoted to sleep, the following morning found us both neatly dressed and at breakfast at eight o’clock, prepared to welcome the veiled emissary from the Palace. Our little mascot lay quietly at our feet while Homes fed him scraps from the table. At the sound of the carriage below, the great detective quickly arose and opened the door to our quarters, and before anyone could stop him our little mascot had sprung outside and was racing down the steps.
“After him, Homes!” I cried, jumping to my feet.
“Not now!” Homes cried. “We cannot keep a messenger from Her Majesty waiting! It is a shame, but there is nothing that we can do!”
There was a commotion in the street and moments later the door was flung open and the lady from the carriage, her veil now tossed back from her radiant face, stood in the doorway, our mascot clutched in her arms.
“Thank you, Madam,” I said, reaching forward. “These streets are most dangerous with the traffic of countless vehicles.”
But she paid me no heed. “Mr. Homes!” she cried. “You have done it! You have found him!” She clasped his hand in hers in profound gratitude, lifting shining eyes to his.
“It was really nothing,” Homes said modestly, although the sparkle of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.
She pressed a signet ring firmly into his hand. “This is in gratefulness from an appreciative country,” she said, and without another word she turned and left our quarters.
“Homes!” I cried. “She has inadvertently taken our mascot!”
“It matters not,” said Homes, his eyes still lifted in dreamy speculation to the empty doorway. “Actually, the Palace is probably a better place for him with their countless forests.” His eyes fell again to his hand.
The mark of the signet ring is still there, and Homes often looks at it in silent contemplation on those long evenings when we sit about the fireplace and recall his most successful case.
THE FINAL ADVENTURE
It was in the fateful year of ’62 that I first began to notice the effects of the many years of devoted sacrifice and profound mental effort on my friend Mr. Schlock Homes. Aggravated by the lingering effects of those early days when he was a Coke addict, and brought to a climax by his more recent habit of filter tips, the signs were all too plainly noticeable. It was with heavy heart that I advised Homes that unless he saw fit to take a complete rest from his labours, I should not care to speak for the results.
I had first noted his looking seedy in early May of that year, and had attributed it at the time to an increase in his consumption of pomegranates. When this was replaced in his diet with watermelon and no improvement ensued, I knew there was no choice left but to plan a complete cessation of his efforts, and the passing of at least the summer in absolute relaxation on the Continent.
To this end, therefore, we packed our bags early in June of ’62 and departed our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street for our European holidays. In line with my strict admonition, Homes left all elements pertaining to his profession behind, taking with him only the barest minimum of clothing and, of course, his beloved violin. The newly-formed Flying Squad of Scotland Yard, led by Inspector “Hansom” East himself, escorted us from our rooms to Victoria Station, and Homes was quite touched by this mark of esteem.
We passed an idyllic month on the Costa Brava, at a little town just north of Cape Ouf-de-Grasse. In this time Homes’s appearance improved greatly; his weight rose to ten stone and the old sparkle returned to his eyes. Although at first he seemed to evidence signs of restlessness at his enforced idleness, in time he proved to be an ideal patient, whiling away his hours in the healthy sunlight that flooded the sidewalk cafes, and even playing his violin for the musical connoisseurs who frequented those places. Nor, oddly enough, did he seem to lack for funds. Although we had left London with proscribed purses he appeared to be in excellent financial shape, even going so far as to augment his meager wardrobe with a new hat, a very fine white cane, and a quite attractive pair of dark glasses.
But even the Costa Brava in time began to pall. The appreciation—I assume he meant “musical”—of his listeners, Homes said, was dropping, and for this reason I readily fell in with his suggestion that we continue along the Riviera to what Homes called, in his literary manner, “new hunting grounds.” The following morning, therefore, found us up and out of the hotel before dawn, and Homes demonstrated his vastly improved physical condition by sliding from our room, even burdened by our bags, on a rope placed there, apparently, for that purpose. Minutes later we were driving our trap smartly along the lovely winding road that skirts the blue Mediterranean.
But the pleasant relaxation of our holiday was not to continue, for in the picturesque principality of Monaco, fortune contrived to involve Homes in a case which I record here with heavy hand. We had arrived in the early afternoon and immediately set about finding quarters. Cheap rooms, however, were not to be had, and in the end we were forced to accept a suite in a major hotel at a quite disgraceful rate. Homes, however, waved the cost aside, and once our bags had been deposited there, picked up his violin and announced his intention of inspecting the local sidewalk cafes. I attempted to point out to him that it was quite late in the day, and that the beneficial rays of the sun would shortly disappear, but he was adamant.
We had threaded our way through the densest part of the throng before the Chez Guavara when of a sudden a hand shot out of the crowd, reaching up from a table to grasp Homes’s coat sleeve. A voice cried out in pleased surprise.
“Mr. Homes! And Doctor Watney! How fortunate to have encountered you in this fashion! We have been searching all through Europe for you!”
We turned to find ourselves facing none other than Inspector “Hansom” East, whom we had thought safely in England. He drew us hastily into two idle seats at his table and with a swift glance about, leaned forward and spoke in a confidential low voice.
“Mr. Homes, the Flying Squad at this moment is engaged in checking every village along the Corniche for you! Although you are not aware of it, your brother Criscroft in the Home Office has arranged that my services be placed at the disposal of the authorities here in an effort to resolve a problem of dire consequence. And only you can help me find the answer!”
Homes looked at the eager face confronting us with a slight frown.
“I shall be honest with you, Inspector,” he said slowly. “I have more or less decided to abandon detection for all time. This holiday has opened my eyes to far greater possibilities for, shall we say, a richer life.”
I am afraid that my mouth gaped at these words. The Inspector’s face fell.
“Mr. Homes,” he said fervently, “it is vital that you aid us, at least in this one case. England has given her word to Monaco that this affair will be clarified, and it would look poor indeed for the British Lion were we to fail!�
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Homes’s eyebrows went up. “Very well, then,” said he with small enthusiasm. “In that case it appears I have little choice. Pray favor us with the details.”
The Inspector sighed with relief. “I knew you would not let us down, Mr. Homes! Well, then, the story is this: As you know, the Casino here at Monte Carlo is the principal source of revenue for the country, and it is to the interest of the Western powers that Monaco remain free and solvent. We are, therefore, most interested in the continued success of the Casino. Yet, Mr. Homes, all this is in grave jeopardy today!”
Despite his air of indifference I could sense a quickening of interest in my friend at these words. He leaned forward. “In which way?” he inquired quietly.
“Hansom” East glanced about secretively to make certain we were not being overheard. “Mr. Homes, of late there have been a mysterious series of rapping and chipping sounds from somewhere beneath the floor at night in the Casino. These frightening noises are clearly audible in the gaming rooms. The Directors have attempted to explain them to the players as merely the rumblings of an incipient earthquake in the neighborhood, but it is doubtful if these thin excuses can serve for very long.” He bent closer, wringing his hands.
“Mr. Homes, there is every indication that the Casino is haunted! I need not describe to you how disastrous it would be if this fact were to be disclosed. Gamblers being notoriously superstitious, the gaming tables could lose their customers within a week, and the entire country fall into bankruptcy! The blow to the Western powers in that event would be incalculable!”
Homes received this information with narrowed eyes as his brilliant mind encompassed the problem in all its ramifications. “You have investigated the possibility of human agency?”
The Inspector shook his head. “The Casino employees flatly refused to do so, and frankly, I have been so busy searching for you that I have not had the time. However, I believe you can rule out this likelihood; it is hard to conceive of a person so unpatriotic as to threaten our national security for any urge so minor as that of frightening people. No, Mr. Homes, only some supernatural phenomenon can explain this mysterious affair!”
The Incredible Schlock Homes Page 14
