The Incredible Schlock Homes

by Robert L. Fish

  I stared at him in amazement. “But how could that possibly help, Homes?”

  “He was using Cockney rhyming slang, Watney!”

  “Cockney rhyming slang?”

  “Precisely!” He laughed at my blank expression. “I can see that you are not familiar with the Cockney, Watney. He chooses many ways in which to express himself, and the most famous, of course, is his rhyming slang. In order to state a word, he chooses a phrase of which the final word rhymes with the word he is attempting to express. For example, the Cockney will say ‘storm and strife,’ when he wishes to say ‘wife.’ And many of them, with time, have come to even leave off the last part of the phrase, so that ‘storm’ becomes ‘wife.’”

  I stared at him. His eyes twinkled.

  “Yes, Watney! Take our little ragamuffin this evening, for instance. Apples, of course, is from the Cockney phrase of ‘apples and pears,’ which means ‘stairs.’ ‘Cheesy’ means ‘easy.’ He was simply assuring you that he would go down the steps with care.”

  His face sobered. “The moment he spoke I saw all. The mysterious message became crystal clear. Come, let me demonstrate.”

  His fingers slid along the lines of the strange message.

  “‘T-T’ can only be ‘Tit-for-Tat’—or ‘hat.’ ‘AllAf’ is ‘All Afloat’—or ‘coat.’ ‘AIRs’ is the famous ‘Almond Rocks’ that the Cockney uses to refer to his socks. And ‘G&F’ can only be ‘Greens-and-Fruits’ with which he designates his boots.”

  “Hat?” I asked, completely mystified. “Coat? Socks? Boots?”

  “Exactly!”

  “But the numbers, Homes,” I said in bewilderment. “What significance can they possibly have?”

  “Sizes, of course,” Homes replied quietly.

  We stared at him, considering his startling deduction. At last Criscroft cleared his throat and spoke. “But, Schlock—the numbers are continually decreasing.”

  “Precisely! And that is the answer!” The great detective’s eyes gleamed; his deep voice became even deeper. “The poor man was wasting away! In all probability from some incurable disease. He was not wiping his brow when Weatherbeaten saw him this morning; he was undoubtedly trying to check the progress of his dread condition. And when he saw that it had not abated, but had even increased in tempo, he knew there was truly no hope for him, and that death was to be preferred to waiting until he was, quite literally, a shadow of his former self.”

  Words failed both Criscroft and myself at this remarkable demonstration of Homes’s extraordinary reasoning powers. Impulsively I thrust out my hand in heartfelt congratulations.

  “Magnificent, Homes!” I exclaimed, overcome with admiration.

  Criscroft arose with shining eyes and placed his arms about his younger brother’s shoulders in a demonstration of affection quite rare for a Foreign Office personality.

  “Schlock, you may well have saved England another cause célèbre,” said he solemnly, and brushed the hint of a tear from his cheek.

  Homes shook his head modestly. “Do not thank me,” he said quietly. “Thank the Bagel Street Regulars or even Lord Fynch-fframis himself. It was his unconscious reversion to his childhood language when faced with a crisis that solved this case, not me.”

  “Nonsense!” Criscroft replied roundly. He cast his eyes about. “This calls for a drink. Cook!”

  The following morning I was in the process of simultaneously attempting to reach for my Brussels sprouts juice and open the morning journal when Homes entered our breakfast room. He nodded to me pleasantly and drew up a chair.

  Knowing my friend’s desire for the news as quickly as possible, I forewent my vegetable tonic and spread the newspaper to its fullest. Black ink in profusion sprang to my eye; it took a second or two until the full import of the startling headlines registered upon my brain.

  Homes had been reaching indolently for his napkin; at the sight of the horrified expression upon my face he paused, considering me wonderingly.

  “Something that might be of interest to us, Watney?” he queried.

  “Homes!” I cried, unfolding the journal further, and then doubling it to present him with the scare-lines. “Look! The stock market has crashed!”

  For a moment he hesitated, and then, after careful consideration, he completed the maneuver of placing his napkin in his lap. His fine eyes were warm with sympathy as he replied.

  “Well,” said he softly, “there is one consolation. At least poor Lord Fynch-fframis was spared the added pain of seeing his life’s savings swept away in the holocaust.”

  I stared at him, a wave of admiration for his understanding flooding me.

  “True,” I said, and turned the page.

  The Adventure of the Widow’s Weeds

  Two cases of exceptional interest occupied the time and talents of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes during the middle months of the year ’63. The first, which I find recorded in my case-book under the heading of Inland Revenue vs. S.H., deals with a personage of such stature that revelation of his identity could only be embarrassing and would serve no good purpose. The second, however, which I find in my notes entitled The Adventure of the Widow’s Weeds, cogently demonstrates, I believe, the devious paths of Homes’s ingenuity when applied to his famed analytical method of reasoning.

  It began one pleasant Friday morning in early June when I came into the breakfast room of our quarters at 221B Bagel Street to find Homes rubbing his hands with ghlee, an Indian ointment he found efficacious for the treatment of his recurrent attacks of itching. At the sight of me he wiped his hands carefully on the draperies and beckoned me to join him at the window, where he pointed interestedly to the street below.

  “There, Watney,” said he with a twinkle in his eye; “let us test your powers of observation. What do you make of that poor creature?”

  I stared downwards, following the direction indicated by his finger. On the sidewalk, shuffling along in an uncertain manner and pausing every few moments to peer hesitatingly at the house numerals, was a small figure who, from her braided hair, I correctly deduced to be a woman. I looked up at Homes queryingly.

  “I’m afraid I am not at my best before breakfast, Homes,” I said, temporizing. His expression of expectation did not change in the least. With a shrug of defeat I returned my gaze to the figure below.

  “I suppose,” I said after more fruitless study, “that you have deduced she is searching out our number and is coming here to visit you. Although,” I added in complete honesty, “if this be the case, I must confess to complete ignorance as to how you reached your conclusion.”

  Homes laughed delightedly and placed an arm about my shoulders.

  “Really, Watney,” he said with pretended regret, “I’m rather ashamed of my failure as a teacher. Take another look below. Here is a woman who shuffles along on feet far shorter than normal for her height, who wears trousers instead of the customary skirt, who carries her hands across her body and inserts them into the opposite sleeves of her jacket, whose complexion is almond-colored, and whose eyes are slanted. Certainly there is but one conclusion that can be drawn from these observations.”

  “I am sorry, Homes,” I said contritely, “but I really do need breakfast before tackling this sort of thing. What conclusion should I be drawing that I am not?”

  “Obviously, that it is you she is seeking, and not myself. The pain of those poor truncated feet is evident from her shuffling gait; her tendency to try to warm her hands, even on a day that promises such heat as this one, is a common symptom of anemia. The almond complexion—as I am sure you will recall once you have had your first kipper—is a sure indication of liver ailment; while the slanted eyes, obviously caused by prolonged squinting, comes from poor eyesight and undoubtedly results in painful headaches.” He shook his head. “No, Watney, this woman is seeking medical aid, not the aid of a detective.”

  I stared at my friend, open-mouthed with admiration. “It all becomes so clear and simple once you have explained it, Homes,�
�� I said in amazement, and then paused, frowning. “But, then, how do you explain the trousers?”

  “Ah, Watney,” he exclaimed, “that is the final proof! Any woman who dresses in such a hurry as to inadvertently put on her husband’s trousers, and then having discovered the fact, does not take the time to correct the error, can only be driven by a need for haste more common to those seeking medical aid than to those soliciting advice.”

  He looked down to the street again and then smiled at me triumphantly, for the woman was, indeed, turning in at our street door. A few moments later, our page had opened the door of our quarters and was ushering in an attractive Chinese woman of middle age who bent her head politely in my direction.

  “Mr. Homes?” she inquired.

  “I’m Mr. Homes,” I said, stepping forward. “I mean, I am Dr. Homes—or rather, I am Dr. Watney. If you will just wait until I get my medical kit, I shall be happy to attend to you.”

  She paid no further attention to me, turning instead to my friend.

  “Mr. Homes? I have a problem which is of such an odd and unusual nature that I believe only a man of your extraordinary talents can solve it.”

  Her English, to my surprise, was quite adequate and even made more charming by the slight accent. Homes acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod, then with a languid wave of his hand he indicated that she make herself more comfortable. She seated herself gingerly on the edge of a chair while Homes dropped into one opposite and continued to study her through half-closed lids.

  “Pray continue,” said he. “If I can be of assistance, be assured I shall be. What is the nature of this odd and unusual problem?”

  “Mr. Homes,” she said earnestly, leaning forward a bit without removing her hands from her jacket sleeves, “I am a widow. Until recently my husband and myself ran a small tobacco-shop in Limehouse where we catered in the main to the upper-form students at the nearby academies, plus a few sailors who dropped in from the docks from time to time. We even furnished a small room on the premises where the students could smoke, since of course it is against the regulations for them to do so in their dormitories.

  “And then, Mr. Homes, about a month ago my husband died. Needless to say, it was a terrible blow, but the philosophy of my race is that life must go on. I therefore arranged for the services of a fellow Chinese to help me in the shop. He has proven more than worth his wage and keep, even adding a new cigarette to our line which he makes himself at night in order to keep our costs at a minimum, and the sale of which has surpassed our greatest expectations. Nor is he lacking in commercial instinct; he advises our clientele that his new cigarette is ‘Mary-Juana,’ two feminine names undoubtedly selected to appeal not only to the British, but also to the many Spanish-speaking Lascars who frequent the docks. And to appeal further to the sailing trade, he has named them—”

  She paused and frowned in an embarrassed manner. “But I digress—please forgive me.” She leaned forward again. “Mr. Homes, with our increased custom one would think my problems at an end, but in truth they are just beginning. For the past two weeks—ever since I employed this man—there has been nothing but trouble.”

  Homes raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Trouble?”

  “Yes.” She nodded her head sadly. “The students, who have always been most tractable in the past, are now quite the opposite, singing or fighting at the slightest excuse, and even becoming destructive, scratching their initials on the walls of the smoking-room with whatever instrument is available. One even attempted the feat with a banana and became quite belligerent when he failed to obtain legible results.”

  I could not help but interrupt.

  “It appears to me, Madame,” I said a bit stiffly, “that you require the services of the official police, rather than those of a private investigator.”

  She raised her eyes to mine. “At one time,” she said softly, “not fully recognizing the problem, I thought the same, and even mentioned it to my helper. But he was quite horrified at the suggestion and insisted that Mr. Homes would be more suitable to our problem.” She turned her head to my friend once again. “You see, Mr. Homes, he has heard of you.”

  Homes disregarded the flattery, continuing to stare at her over his tented fingers. “You state that at one time you did not recognize the problem fully. I assume, therefore, that you do now.”

  “I do, but it is difficult to put into proper words. To me there can be no doubt but that my late husband’s spirit is causing this havoc, that he is expressing his disfavor because I did not carry on his enterprise alone.” She withdrew a petite hand from her jacket sleeve and raised it to forestall disagreement. “I know you English do not believe in ancient superstitions, but it is an integral part of our honorable doctrines. I am convinced that it is my late husband’s spirit which is inflaming the students in their present ways. Obviously, the police would be of no help in this matter.”

  She hesitated a moment and then forced herself to continue, her eyes boring into those of my friend.

  “Mr. Homes, I know that what I am about to ask is not easily understood, but I am desperate. Will you attempt to placate the spirit of my dead husband and persuade it to leave us in peace?”

  I stared at her in amazement, fully expecting Homes to terminate the interview quickly and send the poor woman on her way; but to my surprise he failed to do so. Instead, he sprang to his feet and began to pace the floor rapidly, his hands locked behind him and a fierce look of concentration on his hawk-like features. At last he paused, turned, and nodded his head.

  “I shall give the matter my undivided attention, Madame,” he said. “If you will leave the address of your shop with Dr. Watney here, I promise you an answer in the very near future.”

  She rose, smiling tremulously at her unexpected good fortune, and pressed an already prepared slip of paper into my hand. Before I had a chance to suggest that my medical services were now available, she had closed the door behind her and disappeared down the steps. I shook my head at my friend in disappointment.

  “Really, Homes,” I said chidingly, “I am ashamed of you! Why do you promise such nonsense as placating the spirit of a dead man? Your failure can only lead to further disillusionment for that poor suffering soul!”

  Homes stared at me calmly. “You noted that, despite her obvious infirmities, she still insisted upon discussing her problem?”

  “Of course I noticed it,” I said a bit warmly.

  “Then they must play a role of such importance that we are forced to respect her desires.”

  “But still, Homes,” I said, “to promise to placate a dead man’s spirit!”

  “I promised her an answer to her problem, Watney, nothing more. Tell me, do you believe in superstition?”

  “Of course not,” I replied disdainfully.

  “Nor do I. The fact that the trouble started with the advent of this excellent assistant, therefore, must only be coincidental, and the answer must therefore lie elsewhere.” He withdrew his time-piece and glanced at it. “A trip to the tobacco-shop after lunch is indicated, I think. A pity, though—I had hoped to hear that program of religious music at Albert Hall this afternoon.”

  “Religious music, Homes?” I asked curiously.

  “Yes. The Suite Sistine is being sung there to-day. By the Beadles, of course.” He shrugged. “Ah, well, duty before pleasure …”

  I was quite busy that afternoon myself, having scheduled a trepanning operation to relieve a hemorrhage—a bloody bore, I might mention—and it was therefore quite late when I returned to Bagel Street and let myself into our rooms.

  To my surprise Homes had not yet returned, but thinking it quite possible that he had managed to finish in time for the concert, I turned up the lamp and prepared to await his return with a bit of research. No sooner had I taken down the proper volume and opened it to the section on malpractice, however, than I heard the sound of feet coming wearily up the staircase, and a moment later Homes had come into the room and dropped heavily into
an easy chair.

  One look at his drawn face and I moved to the sideboard and began to prepare a drink.

  “No luck, Homes?” I said.

  “Nothing of any importance,” he replied in a discouraged tone of voice. “I did manage to have a fast walk-around of the two main academies in the area, Twitchly and St. Pothers, and I also, of course, visited the tobacco-shop. Oddly enough, none of the students was present, which was equally surprising to our client, and I was therefore unable to interview any of the little—” He leaned over, accepted the proffered drink, then leaned back once again. “However, I did see the damage they had wrought in the smoking-room, and I must say the British schoolboy has improved greatly in imagination since my days at Wreeking.”

  “Improved, Homes?” I asked, mystified.

  He chuckled. “Have you ever attempted to write your initials using a banana as a stylograph, Watney?” he inquired.

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid it is scarcely an improvement to brag about,” I said tartly. “In my days at Barbour College it would not have been considered cricket to destroy the property of others.”

  “Destroy? I thought it rather an improvement. The original wallpaper—”

  “Still,” I insisted, “I’m afraid in my day we would not have considered it cricket. Or at least not very cricket.”

  “You may be right,” Homes admitted lazily, eyeing his drink. “But times change, Watney. To-day—”

  He paused abruptly, and then sat up so suddenly that for a moment I thought his libation would be spilled in my lap. “Watney!” he cried. “You have it! Of course! Of course!”

  “I have what, Homes?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “The answer! The answer to it all!” He sprang to his feet, setting his drink impatiently to one side. “The evening journal, Watney! Where is it?”

  “On the table,” I replied, completely puzzled. “But I do not understand, Homes. I have the answer to what?”