The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  “Most probably through the use of one of their many herbs,” Homes replied thoughtfully. “The fact that the miscreants were able to silence the Duchess—that by itself should have led me to suspect the native cunning of the American.” A faint smile crossed his fine features. “Possibly this very fact should be put to use. If you will allow me to suggest a title for this adventure, Watney, should you ever put it to paper, I would suggest The Adventure of the Disgruntled Pig.”

  I shook my head. “No, Homes,” I replied affectionately. “This case, which leads me to hope you will return permanently to Bagel Street and to your profession, can only be titled The Return of Schlock Homes!”

  It was the following week, and Homes had fallen easily into his old routine, when I came into the breakfast room one morning just as our page was delivering a large package to my friend, who was seated at table smoking his first after-breakfast pipe.

  Homes waved me to a seat while he broke the seal of the bundle and extracted a large pig-skin portmanteau. With raised eyebrows he read the accompanying message and then passed it across the table for my perusal.

  Dear Mr. Homes (the message read): Lord Epsworth has told me of your solution to the mysterious disappearance of the Duchess of Bloatings, and in congratulations may I offer this token of my appreciation.

  The letter was signed: Tomás, King of the Gypsies.

  “This is rather odd, Homes,” I said staring at the letter.

  “I’m not so sure,” Homes replied thoughtfully. “Had I not been on the scene, it is possible that suspicion might have fallen upon the poor gypsy.” His warm eyes came up to mine. “Do you know, Watney, at times the pleasure of saving the innocent can be even greater than the satisfaction of punishing the guilty.”

  “Amen to that,” I said, and reached for the kippers.

  The Adventure of the Big Plunger

  To my friend Mr. Schlock Homes, inactivity was the deadliest foe with which he was ever forced to grapple. At those times, when interesting cases were not forthcoming, he would lie slumped in his chair before the fireplace in our quarters at 221B Bagel Street, his eyes dull and unseeing, lighting one Armenian from another and allowing them to burn out in his fingers. I had warned him many times that the scars would remain, but when Homes was in one of his moods it was most difficult to reason with him.

  I was most strongly reminded of this characteristic of his quite recently when, in the course of groping blindly beneath my lowboy in search of a missing tuppence, I chanced upon an old folio of my notes which had been lost lo, these many years! I immediately squatted back upon my heels to peruse it, the years and my tuppence instantly forgotten. And there, in my own scrabbled hand, I read the delineation of the early cases in which Homes and I had been involved.

  One such period of inactivity, it appeared, had occurred in the year ’29, and had been all the worse for having followed upon the solution of a problem which had been exceptionally challenging. At the request of the Moroccan government, Homes had spent the summer in North Africa tracing down an illicit cinema theatre which had been inciting the natives to revolt through the presentation of inflammatory films.

  With his usual brilliant display of genius, Homes had eventually managed to trace the plot to an ex-German adventurer known as “Sahara” Bernhardt; the illegal theatre—called “The Desert Fox”—he had personally located and destroyed. Naturally, after such excitement, the dullness of a damp London autumn lay particularly heavy upon him, especially since there seemed to be no immediate clientele for his exceptional analytical powers.

  On this particular day, however—a gray, rainy afternoon in October, as I recall—I returned from my medical rounds to find Homes a changed man. Where I had left him dull-eyed and bored, I returned to find him pacing the floor in barely concealed excitement, his eyes alive and dancing once again. At sight of me he smiled his old smile and extended a telegraph form in my direction.

  “A message from my brother Criscroft, Watney!” he exclaimed. “He has urgent need of my services. At last my ennui shall end!”

  I nodded in delighted satisfaction. Criscroft Homes, whose position in the Foreign Office was a bit difficult to define, was not only Homes’s sole relative, but also by far his favorite. Many a time we had visited him at his club, where he usually sat alone contemplating his naval responsibilities or some other weighty military problem. For him to request aid of Homes was a sure indication of an interesting problem.

  I reached for the telegraph form, but before I could take it there came the sound of footsteps upon the stairs, and a moment later Criscroft himself had entered the room, crossed it to shake our hands fervently, and in almost the same motion flung himself into a chair by the fireplace, frowning at us both. A moment later he spoke.

  “I hope you are free, Schlock,” said he heavily, and leaned forward as if the comfort of his accommodation were somehow alien to the seriousness of his mission.

  “Free? I have never been more free!” Homes dropped into a chair across from his brother and looked at him with gleaming eyes. “What is the problem?”

  For several moments Criscroft did not answer. He cast his eyes towards the sideboard as if searching for words. I hastened to prepare libations even as I covertly studied the two men. I could not help but note, as I muddled the mixtures, the startling resemblance between the two brothers despite their great differences in height, weight, coloring, facial features, and general appearance. In silence I served them and then retired to one side to listen.

  For a moment Criscroft fingered his drink in thoughtful quietude and then, quaffing deeply, set his glass reluctantly to one side.

  “Are you acquainted with Lord Fynch-fframis?” he asked at last.

  “The noted financier? Only by name,” Homes replied.

  “I am afraid you will never know him in any other manner,” Criscroft said sadly. “He is dead, and a certain Silas Weatherbeaten, an American, is being held in custody at Bow Street on suspicion of his murder.”

  “Weatherbeaten? The American financial genius?”

  “None other. And, I might mention, the colonial denies any part in the sinister affair. His Embassy has been around to us, and we are put in the position where we must either prove his complicity or release him at once. Needless to say, relations between our great country and theirs could become strained were we to make a mistake in this matter, and for this reason I wish to enlist your aid.”

  “Give me the details,” Homes said simply.

  “Of course. Well, the story is this: Lord Fynch-fframis either fell, jumped, or was pushed from his offices on top of the Exchange this morning at 9:45. At the time of the unfortunate occurrence, the only one present with him in his office was this same Silas Weatherbeaten. The American’s story is that the two men had been talking when Fynch-fframis walked to the stock ticker in one corner, after which he gasped, turned pale, wiped his forehead and then with no further ado flung himself headlong through the window.”

  “The stock ticker? What is that?” asked Homes.

  “I have no idea. I am merely repeating Weatherbeaten’s words.”

  “No matter. It can scarcely concern us where the man walked just prior to the plunge. Pray continue.”

  “Well, Schlock, since there were no other witnesses, we have only Weatherbeaten’s story to go on. Scotland Yard has been unable to uncover any history of previous enmity between the two men, but on the other hand they have also been unable to establish the slightest reason for Fynch-fframis to take his own life. As you can well imagine, the situation leaves us in the Foreign Office in a serious dilemma.”

  “I understand. And that’s all you have to give me?”

  “All except this.” Criscroft paused to delve into a pocket, sorted through the conglomeration he extracted, and finally came up with a thin slip of paper. “When Lord Fynch-fframis was picked up, he was found to be clutching this strip of paper. To the best of our knowledge it represents a code, but a code so devilishly complicated
that to this moment Department M5 has had no success at all in solving it.”

  At these words Homes’s eyes glittered feverishly and he reached forward with eagerness, taking the slip from his brother’s fingers and bending forward to peruse it intently. At the frown that appeared on his face I stepped behind him and read the puzzling message over his shoulder. It was neatly printed on a thin strip of yellowish paper and I reproduce the mysterious hieroglyphics for the reader’s inspection.

  … T-T 7½ … AllAf 44

  … AIRs 12 … G&F 11

  … T-T 7 … AllAf 43 …

  AIRs 11½ … G&F 10⅝

  … T-T 6⅝ … AllAf 42

  … AIRs 11 … G&F 10

  … T-T 6½ …

  “Well?” The harshness of Criscroft’s voice betrayed his anxiety. “Can you make anything of it?”

  Homes remained in a brown study, his eyes scanning the strange message. Then he raised his head slowly, a curious expression on his face. “At the moment, no,” he said slowly. “It bears no resemblance to any other code or cipher I have ever seen.”

  Criscroft drew himself to his feet and stared down at his brother. “I am sure you have solved more difficult ones, Schlock,” he said at last. “You are aware of the urgency of this matter. Should you require me, I shall be available at any time. A messenger can reach me at my club.”

  “Good.” Homes came to his feet, extending his hand. “Be sure I shall get right to it!”

  Once Criscroft had left the premises, Homes fell back into his chair, staring at the mysterious message with a fierce scowl upon his face, while I studied it over his shoulder. Suddenly a possible solution occurred to me.

  “Homes!” I cried. “These odd figures could well represent street addresses! ‘T-T’ could stand for Tottenham Towers, and ‘G&F’ might well be the corner of Grantham and Frobisher Streets.”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the message. “I doubt it, Watney. I am familiar with Tottenham Towers, and as far as I know the apartment numbers run evenly. I cannot recall any Apartment 7½.”

  I attempted to bring to mind the numbering system at the famous Towers, but to no avail. Homes turned to his shelf of reference volumes and, selecting one, swiftly became lost in its pages. I waited patiently until, some moments later, he flung it from him with a barely concealed curse.

  “Useless!” he muttered, almost in anger, and returned once again to his fruitless study of the flimsy slip of paper. At length he raised his eyes to me.

  “I fear my recent spell of inactivity has dulled my brain, Watney,” he said sadly.

  “Never!” I protested as loyally as I could.

  Despite his preoccupation, a faint twinkle had come into his fine eyes. “Or possibly it is simply that I am no longer used to labor,” he said. “If labor is the answer, however, time can handle that.” And drawing his chair to the table he began the series of permutations necessary to decoding the thin strip.

  Dinnertime came, but Homes worked on. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Essex, was on holiday and I suggested that Homes join me at a nearby restaurant, but he refused. And when I left to eat, it was to leave him still at it, frozen in his chair, his eyes poring intently over the thin yellow slip, and his thin fingers racing across his scratchsheets …

  I dined leisurely, knowing that when Homes was involved in a problem he did not particularly appreciate my presence. I had a brandy and cigar and then walked slowly back to our quarters. I mounted the staircase and entered the room to find Homes in conference with a ragged street urchin. The lad, of mixed Chinese-Israeli parentage, was known as Matzo-Tung and was the leader of the Bagel Street Regulars.

  Together with Homes the boy was bent over a large street-map of the city, and as I entered both raised their eyes to me. I was shocked by the haggard expression on Homes’s face; it was apparent that he had not paused for refreshment since I had left.

  “Good evening,” I said brightly, attempting to instill some cheer in the atmosphere. “Are you any forrader?”

  Homes shook his head dispiritedly. “No, Watney,” he said wearily. “I am reduced to clutching at straws. I have exhausted all other possibilities and am compelled to accept your suggestion that these strange hieroglyphics refer to street addresses indeed. The Bagel Street Regulars will check them out for me. Should this last lead be barren, I fear I shall be forced to confess failure!” With a sigh he turned to the young ragamuffin.

  “Your instructions are clear?”

  “Raht, Guv’nor.”

  “One lad to each address,” Homes said sternly, “and the name of the tenant back here as quickly as possible.”

  “Raht, Guv’nor,” said the lad and moved to the door.

  “And mind the stairs,” I said absently as he reached for the knob.

  “The apples? I’ll take ’em cheesy, Guv’nor.”

  He started to turn the knob, then paused with an odd expression on his face, and I saw that he was staring over my shoulder at Homes. I turned and to my amazement I saw that my friend was waving his hands frantically, his face distorted. I hurried to his side.

  “Homes!” I cried anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  “All right? I am a fool! What a fool I am! You, lad! Forget your errand! And here’s a shilling for your trouble!”

  Homes turned to me; all traces of weariness fled from his face, as the puzzled street urchin took the coin and slipped down the steps. “Watney! One moment while I change to proper clothing and we are off to visit my brother. How stupid I have been!”

  And with no further comment he dashed from the room, removing his dressing-gown as he went.

  I waited in mystified silence until, a few moments later, he emerged from his room straightening his weskit, and a second later I found myself being propelled down the stairway. Homes waved a passing hansom to the curb and hustled me inside.

  “Homes!” I cried, tugging my arm free and straightening the fabric. “You have discovered the answer to this problem?”

  “I have indeed!” My friend leaned back and patted his coat pocket where the mysterious strip of paper now lay. His eyes gleamed. “But I do not apologize for my delay, for it followed none of the normal, or even abnormal, rules of cryptography. And why?” His eyes twinkled. “Because it was never meant to be a code!”

  Before I could ask an explanation of this strange statement, his eyes went to his time-piece and then to the man on the box. “Driver! A shilling bonus if you have us in Curzon Street in eight minutes!”

  We came flying down Park Lane and turned precariously into Curzon Street with squealing wheel hubs, and seconds later the driver was hauling desperately upon the reins as we approached the club of which Criscroft Homes was a member. Homes was on the pavement before we had come to a halt, had paid the driver, and was pulling me impatiently up the broad stone steps of the club.

  He brushed past the doorman, nodded distantly to the cloakroom attendant, and turned into the library, where, in one corner, Criscroft sat moodily. At the commotion our entrance provoked, he came to his feet and hurried forward as quietly as he could.

  “Schlock,” he said in a low whisper, obviously torn between the club rules for silence and his necessity for our information. He glanced about. “Not here. Come!”

  He drew us hastily from the room, led us through a series of narrow corridors, until we found the kitchen. There he ensconced us on hard chairs, seated himself, and spoke in a normal tone of voice.

  “Sorry,” he said quietly, and then added in more anxious tones, “Do you bring me the news I have been awaiting? Are you able to help me resolve my desperate dilemma?”

  “I am,” Homes replied with quiet triumph. He leaned forward, narrowly avoiding a scalding teapot. “There is but one bit of information I require in order to complete my case. Am I correct in assuming that Lord Fynch-fframis originally came from common stock? That he was, as a matter of fact, born within the decibel range of the Bow Bells?”

  We both stared at him in a
mazement.

  “That is true,” Criscroft said at last, staring hard at his brother. “Although how you ever managed to deduce it remains a mystery to me! It was knowledge that was kept secret even from Debrett’s. I only obtained the true facts myself less than an hour ago.” He leaned forward, a querying frown upon his face. “But how can this information possibly aid you?”

  Homes smiled. “You shall soon see.” His smile faded, to be replaced with a most serious expression. “The important thing is that you may now, with a clear conscience, free Mr. Silas Weatherbeaten. He was but an innocent spectator to this tragic affair.”

  Criscroft’s eyes widened. “You can prove this?”

  “I can.” Without further ado, Homes reached into his pocket and produced the mysterious strip of paper. Brushing aside some crumbs, he spread it out upon a nearby bread-board. His strong, thin fingers pointed to the words, while his tone assumed that degree of pedantic superiority which was so usual with him when he was explaining the successful solution to one of his cases.

  “When first I saw this queer admixture of letters and numerals,” said he, his eyes fixed upon us both intently, “I attempted to solve it through the standard methods of cryptology, as well as through the application of certain mathematical formulae which I have been fortunate enough to develop personally. All my efforts—I can now freely admit—were without success. Then, in desperation, I was about to send young Matzo-Tung out on what would have proven to be a futile quest, when he happened to use a phrase that immediately clarified the entire affair to me. A moment’s thought and the picture was clear!”

  “But, Homes,” I protested, “I heard every word the young lad spoke, and I can see nothing in his words that could possibly aid in the solution of this problem.”

  “Watney, you hear with your ears rather than with your intelligence,” Homes replied cryptically. “Do you not recall the young boy saying, ‘The apples? I’ll take ’em cheesy, Guv’nor’?” His mimicry was remarkable as he duplicated exactly the heavy Cockney accent of the street urchin.