The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  “Your logic appears unimpeachable,” Homes admitted, and pushed himself to his feet. “However, I suggest we repair to the Casino itself, where we will be better able to test the validity of your theory.”

  To this end we left the cafe, with Homes still grasping his violin tightly. Our trap being the closest, the three of us entered and I handled the reins as the Inspector gave directions. Homes leaned back, his fingers tented, his broad forehead wrinkled in concentration. Within minutes we were entering the curved driveway and drawing up before the broad marble stairway leading to the gambling salon where, as the Inspector had so clearly explained, the freedom and liberty of us all was being protected. The Inspector began to usher us into the building, but Homes desisted.

  “If you do not mind, Inspector,” he said, “I should prefer to begin my inspection with the grounds. If you would be so kind as to explain my presence to the Directors, I shall meet you later in the office and we can discuss my findings.”

  “Very well, Mr. Homes,” the Inspector agreed. “And may fortune attend your search!”

  As soon as the Inspector had disappeared within, Homes began to circle the huge building, his sharp eyes noting each crevice and cranny in the walls. Suddenly he stopped short and grasped my arm tightly.

  “There, Watney!” he whispered in great excitement. “Do you see it?”

  “See what, Homes?” I whispered back, and then cleared my throat. “See what, Homes?”

  “That hidden door!” he exclaimed, and hurried forward. Sure enough, there was a small portal obscured by the tall bushes that edged our path. Bending to it with a picklock in hand, Homes soon had it open and we crept within.

  We faced a dusky passage lighted only by a series of small bulbs which were operated, as Homes correctly deduced, by a small switch beside the entrance. Motioning me to silence, the great detective edged slowly forward. A sharp turn in the passage brought us face to face with a second door, and once again Homes applied himself to the lock. Moments later the portal had surrendered to Homes’s mastery and we passed within.

  We were in a room that had, apparently, once served as some type of storeroom. Abandoned accoutrement of gambling were scattered about and moldy sofas and hassocks filled one wall. Against a second wall there was propped diagonally the upper portion of a wooden bunk-bed, which had been wrenched from its mating part and leaned almost vertically against the plaster. The mattress had been removed from this affair, and the many wooden bedslats formed a ladder-like arrangement. The remainder of the broken bed was scattered about the floor. Homes’s eyes raised to the ceiling; a hole had been started just above the bed, and bits of chipped concrete lay about on the floor where they had fallen.

  For fully five minutes Homes studied this scene, his keen eyes examining every bit of the small room, but particularly the broken bed leaning upright against the wall. When at last he turned to me, his face—to my utter astonishment—was contorted with pity.

  “Poor chap!” he murmured. His fine eyes came up to mine, compassion flooding them. “Let this be a lesson to you, Watney, even as it has been to me. When the Inspector expounded his theory of a supernatural agency at work, I could find no hole in it. And yet, here before us, is the proof that the agency was human indeed. But in sad shape, poor chap!”

  “But, Homes,” I exclaimed, “I do not understand this at all. I see nothing to indicate human occupation here, and I certainly do not comprehend your reiteration of the phrase ‘poor chap!’”

  “No, Watney?” He smiled sadly. “And yet it is all here for us to see. The man who made those sounds in the night had no thought of disturbing those above; he was merely seeking to alleviate his own distress, for he suffers great physical misfortune. Not only does he endure the torture of a serious back ailment, but it is also obvious that he is a victim of asthma. This, plus his greatly straitened circumstances, it seems to me, merit my calling him ‘poor chap.’” He turned to study the ragged hole begun in the ceiling. “There is but one further point to check in order to prove everything, but there can be little doubt.”

  “But, Homes …!” I began. My friend, however, was paying no attention. Instead, he had whipped out a pad and pencil and was busy making measurements in the room and marking them down. When he was finished he grasped his violin and strode down the passageway, noting the number of paces he had made and their direction. When he had finished he added this information to his notes, thrust the pad into his waistcoat pocket, and turned to me.

  “Come, Watney,” he said, “let us visit the office and check the location of that hole in the ceiling. Unless I am greatly mistaken, we will find it was intended to break into a fresh-air duct.”

  The Inspector was sitting with two of the Directors when we entered the large office. At sight of Homes he sprang to his feet, but Homes waved him to silence with a strong hand. “Gentlemen,” he asked, “would it be possible for you to furnish me with the architectural plans for this building?”

  The Directors were obviously puzzled by this request, but one of them immediately withdrew the plans from a drawer and handed them over. The tall detective spread them out upon a desk and began making rapid measurements. His strong, thin finger came down upon a spot.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in quiet satisfaction. “Am I correct in assuming that these lines indicate an air duct?”

  The Directors bent over the table. “That is the vault you have your finger on,” one replied.

  Homes’s face fell, but only for an instant, as his genius considered this new fact. “Tell me, gentlemen,” he said softly, “is the vault air conditioned?”

  “Why, yes, it is, Mr. Homes,” the Director replied, surprised.

  The Inspector leaned forward anxiously. “Have you found something, Mr. Homes?”

  There was a moment’s silence before my friend answered. “Gentlemen,” he said at last, “I can guarantee you the cessation of the noises which have been frightening your clients. But it will cost you ten thousand francs, and you must ask no questions.”

  The Inspector’s face lighted up. “Mr. Homes, you are wonderful! The money is no problem. But how …?”

  “No questions!” Homes said sternly. He accepted the packet of notes handed him by one of the Directors and bowed slightly. “Thank you, gentlemen. And now, good day. Come, Watney.”

  He waved away the enthusiastic thanks of the three men and led me out of the building. I started toward our trap, but Homes’s firm hand turned me from my path in the direction of the small portal hidden in the thick bushes. I pulled back violently.

  “What now, Homes!” I cried in exasperation. “You may go your way alone! I have been patient with your mystification, for I know this is your conceit, but when you accept money for aiding your country, I will have no part of it!”

  “No, no, Watney,” he said softly. “You do not understand. The money is not for me; it is for the poor soul who has been forced to bury his misery in that tiny warren! Come, we must wait for him. As we do so, I shall explain everything.”

  We drew back into the heavier of the thick bushes where our presence could not be noted, while still affording vision of the small door. Homes turned to me.

  “The answer to this entire problem lay in that broken bunkbed, Watney,” he said softly. “Mute though it be, it spoke volumes. As soon as I saw it I began to cast about for reasons, not only for its condition, but also for its position almost up-ended against the wall. And then suddenly the pieces fell into place, and I saw the only combination of circumstances that could account for all the facts.”

  His voice saddened. “That the hapless fellow was in straitened circumstances was evident. You know the difficulty we had in finding a hotel room, and had our purse been less full we might have been reduced, as this poor man was, to seek clandestine lodgings where we would. That the unhappy soul suffered from a back injury was evident from the fact that he had eschewed the softer sofas and had, in fact, even removed the mattress to leave the hard support of the beds
lats. As you know from your medical knowledge, Watney, only a hard surface such as this would serve to give him any small modicum of relief.”

  “True,” I admitted, entranced as always when Homes explained his remarkable deductions. “But, Homes, how could you know that he also suffered from asthma?”

  “By the position of the bed, Watney! Very nearly upright! I am sure that you yourself have often recommended this position to sufferers. And when I saw the attempt at making a hole in the ceiling, and learned that it led to a source of cool, fresh air, my case was complete.” He smiled. “With this ten thousand francs, however, I am sure the poor chap can arrange more comfortable quarters and need no longer unwittingly frighten the Casino clientele.”

  I clasped his hand, ashamed of my previous doubts. “Homes, forgive me!”

  “Hush!” he commanded. At first I thought it was only an exhibition of his modesty, but then I saw he was peering intently through the darkness. “Here he comes!”

  A figure was approaching, staying well into the shadows. It paused before the small door to glance backwards. Homes’s hand tightened on my arm.

  “It is Professor Marty!” he whispered, and shook his head sadly. “There, Watney, is the proof that crime does not pay, for the Professor must have gained millions in his years as the leading criminal of all Europe, yet he is reduced to this sad end!”

  “What do you intend to do, Homes?” I whispered back.

  “Despite our differences in the past, I cannot help but feel pity for one in his sad circumstances,” Homes replied warmly. “It is obvious that he no longer represents a threat to society. I shall therefore give him the money and wish him Godspeed.”

  He stepped from the bushes, confronting the crouching figure at the door.

  “Professor!” he called in a kindly voice. “All is known! Please accept …” But before he could finish, the tall red-haired man had whirled about wildly and was dashing around the building.

  “After him!” Homes cried. “In his desperate condition there is no telling what measures he may take!”

  Without loosening his grip upon his violin case, he dashed for the front of the building with me in hot pursuit. A carriage was disappearing through the curved entrance to the grounds. Without a pause Homes flung himself into our trap, grasping my hand and pulling me into the moving vehicle even as he cracked the whip over our startled steed.

  “He cannot have gotten far!” cried he, leaning over our horse and snapping the whip in his ears. “The road is but one, and with any luck we shall overtake him in minutes!”

  We fled up the rocky, winding road, our horse straining at the bit, his hooves pounding the pavement wildly. I huddled in one corner attempting to catch my breath while Homes, like some figure from mythology, leaned over the frightened beast cracking his whip madly in its ears. Beyond the sharp cliff at our side the rocks fell sheer to the dashing waves below.

  We curved with the road, our wheels scraping loudly against the low stone wall that bordered the drive and held us back from the precipitous drop to the sea. Suddenly Homes was straining wildly at the reins, pulling our terrified horse to a panting stop.

  “The Professor!” he cried, pointing to a trap skewed to a stop in the road before us. “He has a flat wheel! Now is the time to give him the money!”

  He sprang down and hurried forward, but the figure kneeling at the wheelhub was equally as quick, remarkable considering his many physical infirmities. Before Homes could reach him, he had come to his feet, reached within his carriage, and a second later was confronting my friend with a long sword in his hand.

  “Homes, you are a devil!” he gasped. “How did you know?”

  “The broken bunkbed,” Homes replied calmly. “Come, Professor …”

  “Then you shall die!” cried the wrathful figure. “You shall not live to reveal me as the man who broke the bunk at Monte Carlo!” And with no further word he sprang forward, his sword weaving dangerously in the still night air.

  But he had not counted upon the lightning reactions of Schlock Homes! With a leap Homes was at our trap, had snatched open his violin case, and was reaching within. For one horrified moment I feared he meant to defend himself with his beloved Amati, but then I saw he had withdrawn the hardened ash bow and was springing back into the roadway to defend himself with it against the crazed Professor.

  “You misunderstand, Professor!” Homes called sharply, but the whistling blade of the other almost cut off his words. There was nothing for it but to defend himself. “Stand back, Watney,” he cried to me. “I can handle this. I merely mean to disarm the poor fellow!”

  Would that I had words to describe that fearsome duel! Homes with nothing more than the slim horsehair-strung bit of ash, tipped by dainty ivory; while the Professor was armed with the latest type of buttonless foil! Back and forth they swayed, their breath loud and rasping in the night. And then, so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow, Homes flicked his wooden weapon hard against the guard of the other’s foil, and with a sudden twist sent it flying from his hand and spinning over the edge of the precipice. The Professor gave a gasp of dismay and lunged forward in a frantic effort to recover his lost blade, and before we knew it he was teetering on the very brink, waving his arms madly in an effort to save his equilibrium.

  We both sprang forward to help, but it was too late! With a hoarse shriek that still echoes in my ears to this day, the huge red-haired figure lost his balance and fell into the abyss. His fearsome screams diminished as he fell—then sudden silence held as we stood above, frozen with horror. I turned at once to my friend.

  “Are you all right, Homes?” I asked anxiously, and then paused in astonishment, for there were tears in his eyes. “Homes? What is it? You must not blame yourself, for you did everything in your power to help the poor man.”

  “No, no, Watney,” he began, but I continued, hoping to ease the pain etched on his fine face.

  “Also,” I added, “the sounds at night in the Casino will now cease, and that is all that really matters. You have preserved our English way of life, and that is no small thing.”

  “You do not understand, Watney!” he said with a tragic catch in his voice. “Not that. This!” And he held before my sight the battered remains of the weapon with which he had defended himself so valorously. The long shaft of wood was badly scarred and twisted from the violence of the struggle, and the white horsehair strands were completely severed and fluttering helplessly in the air.

  Suddenly I saw the devastating truth. “Homes!” I cried aghast. “You mean …?”

  “Yes, Watney,” he sobbed, the tears now coursing freely down the crevices of his face “It was my last bow!”

  It is painful to continue, but continue I must! Even as I watched, Homes walked brokenly to the low parapet that separated the road from the boiling chasm and with a sobbing curse flung the tattered bow from him with violence. Alas! Worn by the struggle, the muscles of his fine body betrayed him; the impetus twisted him sharply against the low wall, and before my very eyes, my friend—the dearest friend a man could have—disappeared into the churning void below!

  I cannot go on! Schlock Homes is no more! I could not even bring myself to peer over the edge of that treacherous hill which had claimed his life! True, he had died in saving his country, and at the conclusion of his most brilliant case, but his loss shall shadow my steps throughout my days!

  With faltering steps and brain awhirl I made my way back to our hotel and thence to England, carrying with me—as I shall forever—the memory of the finest and wisest man I have ever known. And if, some night in the desolate quietude of our rooms at 221 B Bagel Street, I seem to sense once again his presence, or seem to hear once again his soft voice, I shall know the truth of that immortal line by the great poet Stevenson:

  Homes is the haunter, home from the hill …

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Bagel Street Mysteries

  The Return of Schlock Homes

  It was wi
th bitter thoughts that I trudged down the broad stone staircase of St. Barts that late afternoon of a cool September day in ’62 and turned my steps in the direction of the modest quarters I had—so long ago, it seemed!—shared with my dear friend Mr. Schlock Homes. The day had gone quite badly: the cardiectomy I had performed that morning had seemed successful and yet the patient had inexplicably died. Far worse, the pretty young nurse I had asked to commiserate with me by sharing an afternoon libation had curtly refused my offer.

  It was in a black mood indeed, therefore, that I tramped through the streets, recalling in my memory the last time I had seen Homes, and the vivid scene of that struggle on the rocky cliffs of the Corniche—Professor Marty armed with gleaming sword, and my friend with only a fragile bit of ashwood, and the hungry rocks below reaching up through the angry surf! And then, when the Professor had lost his balance and gone over the edge, that horrible moment when Homes, his last bow ruined, had gone to fling it to the waves and had also fallen to his death!

  Schlock Homes no more!

  Even after these many weeks it still seemed impossible. With a deep sigh that owed, perhaps, almost as much to the memory of my friend as to that of the young nurse, I turned at last into Bagel Street, came to our rooms at Number 221B, and clumped up the shadowy stairway.

  The room was darkening with the growing evening, but sufficient light still remained for me to make my way to the bookshelf and remove my address-book without the necessity of turning up the lamp. I was in the process of tearing out the page with the young nurse’s name on it, ripping it angrily into shreds and flinging the pieces from me, when a sudden sound gave me pause. Had I not been positive of Mrs. Essex’s intense dislike of felines, I could have sworn that a cat was mewing in the room.