When he reached the greensward he righted himself and drew the bird from beneath his cape. “I thank you, my dear Dupin, for the lessons you have given me, equally in observation and in deduction. Our prey is recovered.”
So saying he held the black bird toward me. Even through its black coating I could make out the shape of its feathers, its claws, its beak, its eyes. It was clearly a magnificent example of the sculptor’s art. My student asked me to hold the figurine while he once more donned his stockings and boots. The weight of the black bird was so great that I felt even greater astonishment at his ability to descend the wall of the chateau with it strapped beneath his clothing.
We spent what little remained of the night exploring the interior of the chateau, utilizing torches which remained from that sad structure’s happier era. The only clues that we uncovered were further evidence of the brutality of the invaders who had slaughter the Duke and Duchess as well as their retainers, all in a futile attempt to learn the whereabouts of the treasure which my pupil and I now possessed.
With morning our hackman arrived, somewhat the worse for wear and—one inferred—for the consumption of excessive amounts of spirit.
I instructed him to take us to the village of Lagny, where we concealed the bird inside the boot of the hack, promising the hackman a generous tip in exchange for his silence. We thereupon made a full report of our gory findings at the chateau, making no mention of the bird. The reason we gave for our visit to the chateau was the truthful one that I was an old acquaintance of the Duke and Duchess and had been eager to introduce to them my visitor from England.
The mayor of the village of Lagny and the chef des gendarmes were duly horrified by our descriptions, but permitted us to depart for Paris upon our pledge to provide what information and assistance we could, should these be called for at a later stage of their investigation.
In due course, the hack pulled up at my lodgings in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. A light snow had fallen in the metropolis, and I picked my way carefully to my door lest I slip and fall to the stones. Exhausted by the activities of the past day and night, I turned my key in the lock of my lodgings and pushed the door open so that my guest and I might enter. When we did so we were confronted by an unanticipated sight. My quarters had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned, drawers were pulled from their places and inverted upon the floor. The carpeting had been torn up and rolled back to permit a search for trapdoors or loosened boards.
Every picture was pulled from the wall and thrown to the floor, including that of my friend and idol, the great Vidocq. Shocked and offended by the invasion of my quarters I proceeded to examine their contents, assessing the damage and grieving for the destruction of precious mementos of a long career. I clutched my head and expostulated my outrage.
Drawing myself together at length and hoping in some manner to mitigate the harm which had been done I turned to confer with my visitor, only to find that he had disappeared without a trace.
I flew to the doorway and exited my premises. The hack had of course departed long since, but a row of dark footprints showed in the fresh snow. Following without heed to the risk of falling I dashed the length of the Rue Dunot. At length I found myself standing upon the doorstep of the establishment of M. Konstantinides. I sounded the bell repeatedly but without response, then pounded upon the door. Neither light nor movement could be seen from within the shop, nor was there response of any sort to my summons.
At once the meaning of these events burst upon my tortured brain. The Englishman was a dope fiend, the Greek apothecary the supplier of his evil chemicals. How Konstantinides has obtained knowledge of the bird was unfathomable, but it was at his behest rather than that of either the Carlists or the Bourbons that I had been recruited.
Konstantinides had ransacked my lodgings merely as a distraction, to hold my attention while the Englishman brought the bird to his shop. By now, even though mere minutes had passed, it was a certainty that both the Englishman and the Greek, along with the black bird, were gone from the Faubourg and would not be found within the environs of Paris.
What would become of the bird, of the English detective, of the Greek chemist, were mysteries for the years to come. And now at last (Dupin completed his narrative) I learn of the further career of my student, and of the scorn with which he repays my guidance.
* * * *
As I sat, mortified by my friend and mentor’s humiliation, I saw him clutching the small volume from which he had read the cruel words as if it were a dagger with which he planned to take his own life. All the while he had been telling his tale I had been carried away by the narrative, to another time and place, a time and place when Dupin was young and in his prime. But now I had returned to the present and saw before me a man enfeebled by the passage of the years and the exigencies of a cruel existence.
“What became of the bird?” I inquired. “Did it disappear entirely?”
Dupin shook his head. “The apothecary shop of the Greek Konstantinides was reopened by a nephew. Of the elder Konstantinides nothing was ever again heard, or if it was, it was held inviolate in the bosom of the family. I attempted to learn from the nephew the whereabouts of his uncle and of the Englishman, as well as of the bird itself, but the younger Konstantinides pled ignorance of the fate the two men, as well as that the bird. For two generations now the shop has remained in the family, and the secret, if secret there is, remains sealed in their bosom.”
I nodded my understanding. “And so you never again heard of your pupil, the strange Englishman?”
Dupin waved the book at me. “You see, old friend? He has become, as it were, the new Dupin. His fame spreads across the seas and around the globe. Did he but make the meanest acknowledgment of his debt to me, I would be satisfied. My material needs are met by the small pension arranged by our old friend G———of the Metropolitan Police Force. My memories are mine, and your own writings have given me my small share of fame.”
“The very least I could do, Dupin, I assure you.”
There followed a melancholy silence during which I contemplated the sad state to which my friend had fallen. At length he heaved a sigh pregnant with despair. “Perhaps,” he began, then lapsed, then again began, “perhaps it would be of interest to the discerning few to learn of a few of my other undertakings.”
Shaking my head I responded, “Already have I recorded them, Dupin. There was the case of the murders in the Rue Morgue, that of the purloined letter, and even your brilliant solution of the mystery of Marie Roget.”
“Those are not the cases to which I refer,” Dupin demurred.
“I know of no others, save, of course that which you have narrated to me this night.”
Upon hearing my words, Dupin permitted himself one of rare smiles which I have ever seen upon his countenance. “There have been many others, dear friend,” he informed me, “many indeed.”
Astonished, I begged him to enumerate a few such.
“There were the puzzle of the Tsaritsa’s false emerald, the adventure of Wade the American gunrunner, the mystery of the Algerian herbs, the incident of the Bahamian fugitive and the runaway hot-air balloon, and of course the tragedy of the pharaoh’s jackal.”
“I shall be eager to record these, Dupin. Is the list thus complete?”
“By no means, old friend. That is merely the beginning. Such reports may in some small way assuage the pain of being aged and forgotten, replaced on the stage of detection by a newer generation of sleuths. And, I suspect, the few coins which your reports may add to your purse will not be unwelcome.”
“They will not,” I was forced to concede.
“But this,” Dupin waved the book once more, “this affront strikes to my heart. As bitter as wormwood and as sharp as a two-edged sword, so sayeth the proverb.”
“Dupin,” I said, “you will not be forgotten. This English prig has clearly copied your methods, even to the degree of enlisting an assistant and amanuensis who bears a certain resemblance to mys
elf. Surely justice forbids that the world forget the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin!”
“Not forget?” my friend mumbled. “Not forget? The pupil will live in fame forever while the master becomes but a footnote to the history of detection. Ah, my friend, my dear, dear friend, but the world in which we live is unjust.”
“It was ever thus, Dupin,” I concurred, “it was ever thus.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES—STYMIED! by Gary Lovisi
“I see you have been unable to resist the allure of the links once again,” my friend Sherlock Holmes said to me one afternoon upon my visit to our old digs at 221B Baker Street. He was running his eyes over my attire with disdain, having obviously surmised that I had come over straight from playing a round of golf.
I nodded my acknowledgement. Since my marriage and the sometimes-heavy workload at St Barts, I’d seen Holmes only sparingly during the last year, so these occasional visits were moments of great joy for me to see my old friend again and catch up on his cases. My only spare time of late had been taken up with my new guilty indulgence; that fascinating creation called golf.
“A most stimulating and enjoyable exercise,” I told my friend.
“Hah!” Holmes huffed sarcastically, “a gross and unmitigated waste of time. Adult men chasing around a little ball in a game of simple and utter luck. I’m afraid that is not for me.”
“It is a sport, Holmes, not merely a game,” I countered inexplicably upset by his words, feeling it was somehow my duty to defend the sport. “I have found it an enjoyable pursuit over the last few months and have been invited to play at some of the most prestigious courses in England and Scotland, including the very home of golf, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews. I have even become friends with Tom Morris himself, Old Tom Morris as he is called, a legend of the game. I tell you it is not a game of luck, it is fraught with hazards and challenges which require a high level of skill.”
Holmes brushed all this aside with a casual wave of his hand. If it was not criminal in nature, nor fell within the narrow scope of his interests, he was rarely engaged.
“You know, Holmes,” I told him allowing a hint of annoyance to enter my voice, “we are now four years into the 20th Century, a time for new beginnings and newer things—such as golfing. The game has lately set up strict rules of play affecting every contingency. I would think this is one aspect of it that you would find appealing and even approve of.“
“Rubbish! You mentioned rules as in a sport, yet you yourself just called it a game. Checkers would be more stimulating.”
“Oh, come now, Holmes!” I retorted peevishly.
“You yourself called it a game,” he countered with a wry grin.
“That was merely a figure of speech.”
Holmes looked at me shaking his head in mock despair, “Watson, poor, poor Watson, I am saddened to hear that you have succumbed to the frippery of such a game of chance. Far better it would be to spend your time and your meager funds on the roulette wheel. Better odds, eh?”
“I beg to disagree. I have found there is great skill involved in every aspect of golfing, from the opening drive down the fairway, to the chipping, and of course putting on the green. It can be most stimulating and challenging. You of all people should not be so quick to disparage a game—or dare I say sport—which you have never once tried yourself.”
Sherlock Holmes looked thoughtful and then gave me a wry grin, “You have me there, old fellow. You may be correct. Perhaps some day we shall have a go at it.”
“I would be most delighted to do so, Holmes. Perhaps when you are not so heavily engaged with cases?”
“Well, Watson, you have come at the perfect time. Cases have been few and far between lately. It seems the criminal classes have gone on holiday. Most disappointing.”
I laughed at his dilemma, “Well, I am sure something of merit will turn up soon.”
“Obviously it shall, but tell me more of this golfing mania you have contracted like a bad London cold. I see that there is something that evidently disturbs you about it.”
I looked at Sherlock Holmes closely. The man was remarkable. So far I had been quite careful, through neither word nor gesture, to let on to him the true nature of my visit. “You are as perceptive as ever. How did you guess?”
“Guess! Did you say ‘guess‘?”
“I meant… What I meant to say…” I fumbled quickly.
“Never mind, old boy,” Holmes smiled indulgently at my discomfort. “Put it down to my knowledge of your person through our long association. I can see there is something bothering you, and yet you are loathe to bring it up, but it picks at you nevertheless. It is about this game of yours, is it not?”
I sighed, “Yes, Holmes, it is a most depressing problem, but surely it does not rise to the level where your magnificent talents need to be employed.”
“Why not let me be the judge of that. As I told you, interesting cases are scant right now so if you have something of merit I should be happy to hear the details.”
I nodded with relief that my friend was concerned, collected my thoughts and then began my narrative as I sat down in my old chair across from his own. “You are correct that it has to do with golfing. I have already mentioned that I have made the acquaintance of Old Tom Morris. He is a most decent and gentlemanly fellow. These days he is the greenskeeper at the R&A, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, in Scotland.”
“Yes, where they play the British Open. I believe Old Morris even won the championship four times in the ’60s?” Holmes stated.
“Why, yes,” I smiled. “So you know something of the game?”
“A niggling bit here and there. I heard about the fellow primarily through the mystery that befell his son, Young Tom Morris.”
“Young Tom?” I asked casually, but curious. “I had not heard.”
“A most tragic affair, Watson. Old Tom’s son, Tommy—these days known as Young Tom—was a golfing prodigy. He was a legend in his own time who followed his father into golfing history by winning four British Opens. He was young, barely 24 years of age when his wife and child died in childbirth. Young Tom died three months later on Christmas Day in 1875 of unknown causes. It was all quite mysterious, but most people at the time blamed it on a broken heart.”
“A sad tale,” I said softly.
“Sadder still was the loving father’s reply when asked if such a death could be possible.”
“What did he say, Holmes?”
“It is said Old Tom replied that if it were possible for a person to die from a broken heart, then he would surely have died himself at the time.”
I sighed, “That is sad. I had no idea.”
“Old Tom has outlived his son by a quarter of a century. By all accounts, he is a man of unique and outstanding character and talents. I should very much like to meet him some day.” Holmes stated, then he looked directly at me and asked, “So, now Watson, tell me what you came here for.”
“Well, Holmes, the Open will be concluded tomorrow evening with the presentation of the Championship Cup to the winner—it is a large silver trophy more commonly known as the Claret Jug. The problem is, the Claret Jug has turned up missing.”
“Is this jug valuable?” Holmes asked with more interest now.
“Yes, sterling silver, worth a considerable sum—but it is priceless to the club.”
Sherlock Holmes nodded, looked at me from his seat and said calmly, “Tell me, has anyone at the club turned up missing?”
I looked at Holmes, shrugged, “No, not that I know of. However Old Tom mentioned to me that one of his boys—a caddy—has gone sick and not reported to work for the last two days. Old Tom says it is most unlike the lad not to be available for any match, much less a championship.”
“And is this boy interested in the game?”
“Well, I assume so, most of the caddies are enthusiastic about golfing. Old Tom told me this boy is well-mannered but rather more fanatical than most about the game.”
> “I see,” Holmes said thoughtfully. Finally he looked up at me with an inexplicable smile upon his face. “Well, Watson, you must know there is little I can do about this here in London.”
“I understand, Holmes,” I replied softly, apparently defeated, but grateful he had at least listened to my story. “It’s just that Old Tom is very upset over the loss of the trophy. It will be a disaster for the Open, for the club, and for the game of golf itself.”
Holmes suddenly stood up from his seat and looked at me sharply, “Well then, there is nothing else to do but set off for Scotland at once and remedy this situation. Come, Watson, the game—of golf this time—is afoot!”
* * * *
Due to the efficiencies of the British railway system, Holmes and I reached Saint Andrews in no less than eight hours. Once at the club I introduced the great detective to Morris. Old Tom had also been a winner of the British Open no less than four times, but these days he was a famous ball-maker, club-maker, and course designer. For many years he had been the head greenskeeper at Saint Andrews.
Old Tom Morris certainly looked every one of his 83 years of age, sporting a long, flowing white beard that rested on the centre of his broad chest. He was dressed in golfing attire, a sporting jacket, and plaid cap on his grey head. His left hand often rested in his trouser pocket where he kept an ever-present pipe; and he used an upside-down hickory-shafted mashie niblick as a cane. While he never seemed to smile, his piercing blue eyes exuded intense energy and gentle kindness.
I introduced the golfing legend to the detective legend.
“Ach, as I live and breathe, can it be none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes come hither to Scotland to visit our lovely club?” Morris asked with a thick Scottish brogue and a joyful face that lit up with mirth. He proved a most hearty and cheerful fellow. While it appeared he never cracked a smile and was the epitome of the dour Scot, Old Tom was truly a kind and warm-hearted man. His eyes fairly twinkled as he spoke. “I am so honoured to meet you, sir, and I welcome you to Saint Andrews. I assume Doctor Watson has told you about our wee problem?”
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 17
