“Do you have many dances here?” asked Holmes.
“Frankly, sir, we do not. The members seem unwilling to put in the effort to organize formal balls or cotillions. This room is used mostly by the members for roller-skating.”
“Good times,” murmured Bingo Little. He dreamily extended his arms and shuffled his feet out onto the dance floor, obviously remembering past glories. Sherlock Holmes’ voice snapped him out of his reverie and brought him quickly back to heel.
“Mr. Little! Please do not disturb the evidence. Watson, keep him and Mr. Cavendish by the doors.” Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and began to examine the room. He started with the stacks of chairs then spent a lot of time looking at the floorboards. When he finished that he shifted his attention to the mirrors and curtains. He ended up on the faraway stage, searching the carpet underneath the musicians’ chairs and music stands. Twice he picked up something from the floor and placed it in an old envelope and tucked the envelope into his pocketbook. Finally he walked back to our little group, returning his glass to his coat pocket and dusting the knees of his trousers.
Just at that moment a distinct series of loud thuds were heard overhead. We all looked up at the ceiling. The effects of the thuds’ vibrations were obvious. The chandeliers overhead swayed while the numerous cut-glass crystals that adorned the gold frames of each tinkled against each other. The thuds seemed to have come from a portion of the floor above that was covered with a painted scene of Rome’s founding.
“It’s the ghosts!” gasped Mr. Cavendish.
Holmes moved toward the hall doors.
“Mr. Little, Mr. Cavendish, please stay here. Watson, come with me.” He led the way up the last flight of stairs.
The door at the top of the steps opened into a weird scene worthy of a Bram Stoker novel. Dimly-lit rooms led off to other rooms, each filled with ghostly white forms. It took me a moment to recognize the massive irregular shapes as various piles of furniture and miscellaneous objects, all covered with old linen sheets. We walked through chambers of silent white forms, the scenes lit only by weak November light coming through dusty windows. Tiny motes hung in the air and some of the sheets were an inch thick in grey dust. We threaded our way through the labyrinth, dodging sharp edges and peering into cobwebbed corners, until we reached the doorway of the last room. It, too, was filled with massive dim forms. Set in the far wall was a large Gothic window, its smeared stained glass panes depicting a fox hunt. Before it was a heavily-carved table with thin elegant legs ending in carved hairy paws clutching ebony balls showing under the ubiquitous white cover, lumpy like the rest. As we approached I heard a moan and the white sheet began to rise up.
I watched in horror as the white shape grew larger, filling the window and looming over Holmes as he stood between the table and me. The vision was backlit by the window’s light, and that fact only served to increase the awful effect. My spine prickled in fear and I longed for my revolver or a stout walking stick or even a silver cross to hold out toward that apparition to stop its progress. The moaning grew louder and the spectre swayed forward toward my friend. I grabbed at his shoulder.
“Holmes, watch out!”
The white shapeless mass, a figure out of a nightmare, loomed over us both. I had seen and endured much during my service in Her Majesty’s Service, but no Afghan campaign or jazail bullet had ever put such a terror into my soul as that terrible sight in the gloomy half-darkness of that cramped and spooky room.
Sherlock Holmes reached out and pulled the sheet off the apparition before us.
That action revealed a huge black animal with gleaming blood-red eyes standing on the table before the window. It was enormous, with long black legs and a miss-shaped head that resembled a bad cross of mastiff and bloodhound and something else, like no dog’s head I had ever seen. Spittle dripped from its loose, sagging lips as it opened its enormous jaws and howled at us.
“Heel, Cuddles!” At Holmes’ command the animal jumped down and landed loudly on the boards in front of us. The whole building seemed to shake. His mouth was open and his long scarlet tongue lolled out between rows of sharp white teeth as he looked from my friend to me. Holmes pulled a leash out of his pocket and clipped it to Cuddles’ collar.
The dog looked back at the table. I followed his glance, and saw a small orange kitten huddled on the spot where Cuddles had stood. I picked it up and followed Holmes and Cuddles as they made their way back to the others.
“Cuddles! Here, boy! Here, boy! Oh, Cuddles, I have been so worried!” Bingo Little fell upon the dog’s neck like the old father greeting his prodigal son. Bailey Cavendish accepted the orange kitten but took care to stand back from the master and dog reunion. It did take up a lot of space. Joyous Cuddles’ fast-moving bushy tail, nearly four feet long, whipped back and forth, threatening to knock down anyone who came within reach.
After several minutes of Cuddles, his front paws on Little’s shoulders, leaving his face and neck with its enormous red tongue and growling in his ear, our client managed to calm his pet and lead us down into the dining room. The room quickly cleared at the sight of us and Holmes, Little and I were shown to a centre table. Mr. Cavendish disappeared into the kitchen with the cat and presently a delicious lunch was sent out. Cuddles was presented with his own large platter of sliced roast beef. Bingo Little handed Sherlock Holmes a folded check and could hardly eat for all the questions he had for my friend. Finally Holmes put down his knife and fork and addressed our client.
“After I examined your flat and found nothing that had not been included in your story, I relied upon the efforts of the Baker Street irregulars. It would have been futile for one man or even two to try to canvass the entire Greater London area looking for one dog. The many eyes of the irregulars, however, can cover the city easily.” He pulled out the telegrams he received from his pocketbook. “I kept track of the reports Wiggins sent me on a map of London.” He showed us a small folded map with a meandering line drawn on certain streets that described a rough spiral. “As you see, the first sighting was at Trafalgar Square. Then there was a disturbance at Buckingham Palace. The animal was frightened off and headed east. The police were called to surround the bank of England in the City when gigantic footprints of an enormous hound were discovered on its front steps. Obviously this was our quarry. Cuddles got as far as the Tower, where it’s heartbroken howling kept the guards and neighbours awake all night. Lost and confused in the fog and, I am sure, missing you, Mr. Little, the dog headed northwest. He disrupted a funeral at Highgate Cemetery that turned his steps toward the southwest. He was seen in Piccadilly at the Criterion Bar, which is near the Drones. Mr. Little had mentioned that when he and Cuddles took their walk he had shown off his new pet to the barman at the club. Among many other things, Cuddles is part bloodhound. I therefore deduced that when the sightings stopped, the animal had remembered that walk and managed to reach what he would consider a safe haven, i.e. his master’s club.
“I requested that you, Mr. Little, bring us to the Drones for lunch. As soon as we entered Mr. Cavendish announced that he believed the building was haunted. I connected the two problems and realized that Cuddles was the active agent. I asked to see the last place the disturbances had occurred. In the ballroom I found hairs from both a black dog and an orange cat.” He extracted the envelope from his pocketbook and showed us the contents. It was a blended wad of animal hair, some coarse and black, the rest fluffy and orange.
“The most logical place for a large animal such as Cuddles to hide in an occupied London club would be the least-travelled part of the building, the attics. The club kitten had obviously joined forces with him. The scuffling the barman had heard last night were the sounds of the two animals gambolling about in the ballroom. The thuds we heard from the rooms above pinpointed his location. Since I do not believe in Hounds from Hell dancing in ballrooms, I searched the attics for Cuddles. It was
child’s play to uncover the dog’s hiding place. And just in time for lunch.”
Bingo Little’ jaw hung open as he listened to my friend’s explanation. His eyes travelled from Holmes, seated at the table, to Cuddles, crouched protectively over the platter on the floor, which he had licked clean.
“That is wonderful, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Jeeves couldn’t have done any better. It is amazing how you wove it all together. Please, call me Bingo.”
Mr. Cavendish approached our party. “Mr. Little, there is a lady asking for you at the front desk. You know the Club’s policy about females. You will have to go out to the foyer to see her.”
“A lady asking for me here? I can’t imagine who it could be. Excuse me, gentlemen, I must toddle off and see about this.” He rose and gathered up Cuddles’ leash.
Since our meal was over, Holmes and I followed him out to the entrance. There we saw a stylishly-dressed woman, with brown eyes and a lissom figure, carrying an over-sized handbag and wearing a brown travelling suit and matching hat. Bingo Little gave a start.
“That is no lady, that is my wife! Rosie, what are you doing here?”
She greeted her husband affectionately with a kiss on the cheek. “I had the chance to catch an earlier train, darling. I took a cab from the station back to our flat. When I found it empty I figured you would be here and so I came by. I have something to show you.”
“I must show you my surprise first, darling.” Bingo Little tugged on the leash and Cuddles stepped out from behind him. Mrs. Bingo gasped and retreated behind the coat rack. Her face went white and her knuckles pale where she gripped her handbag.
“What in the name of all that is holy is that?”
“Why, darling, it’s Cuddles.”
“Who is Cuddles?”
“This dog.”
“It’s a dog? Are you sure?”
“Yes. His name is Cuddles.”
“Where on earth did you find him?”
“You sent him to me the day you left on your trip.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you did.”
“Why would you harbour such an insane thought?”
“I signed for him.”
“Bingo, darling, I love you dearly, but after all this is sorted out you must have your head examined at the earliest opportunity. I never sent you that beast.”
“He was delivered with a note, written by you.”
Mrs. Bingo frowned.
“Is that animal safe?”
“He’s on a leash and just had lunch. He’s as safe as he ever is. What is it, my love?”
Mrs. Bingo stepped out from behind the coat rack and opened her large handbag. Out popped the head of a tiny black and white dog, notable for a pair of large long-haired pointed ears and two intelligent black eyes. A silky tail curled over its back. Cuddles shifted his weight and gazed at the little dog with interest. His massive tongue ran over his chops. I thought what a good thing it was that he had just finished that large platter of roast beef.
“This is Ruggles,” announced Mrs. Bingo.
“Who is Ruggles?” asked Bingo Little.
“This is Ruggles. He is the dog I sent you.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, dearest, he is not. I would have remembered. This is the dog you sent me.”
“I didn’t send you that monster. I sent Ruggles. When I got back to our building today he was with Carlton, the doorman.”
“Dearest, I can tell the difference between Cuddles and something that looks like a squeaker toy. Why do you think you sent me that dust ball?”
“I went to the pet shop the day before I left on my book-signing tour. I wanted you to have a companion, a little friend we could take on walks and keep me company while I wrote. I chose Ruggles, who is a Papillon, and gave instructions for his delivery to our flat to the clerk.”
Sherlock Holmes had a suggestion. “It is a capitol mistake to theorize without having all the data. Why not call the pet shop and ask them about this?”
Mrs. Bingo stepped into the telephone booth in the foyer and made a quick call. She came out shaking her head.
“The pet shop made a mistake. I went to the front desk to have the clerk fill out the order. I told him I wanted Ruggles, but he must have misunderstood and wrote down Cuddles. The two dogs were sent to the wrong addresses. Ruggles was shipped back to the store and the shop sent him to us this morning. Since you were not home Carlton the doorman signed for him and kept him until I arrived.”
“The fatheads! Well, we’ll just keep both dogs.”
Ruggles ducked down into the handbag. I saw its sides quiver. Cuddles licked his chops again. Mrs. Bingo shook her head. “We can’t. That beast has already been sold. A man from Devonshire or Cornwall or someplace is going to pick it up tomorrow and take it back with him on the train.”
“But Cuddles and I get along so well!”
“Nevertheless, darling, it must be returned. The pet shop is sending a delivery van right now. It will be here in a few minutes.”
Bingo Little’s face was a study in sorrow. He leaned over and scratched behind Cuddles’ ears. “I’m sorry, old man,” he choked. “I shall never forget you. Be a good dog. Take care of yourself.” He dejectedly shuffled out the front door to the pavement. We all followed and stood by the steps. Shortly thereafter an unmarked delivery van appeared and the driver stepped out.
Little and the driver, who seemed very familiar with Cuddles, put him into a large steel crate in the back. The animal whimpered as they clicked shut the padlock. Our client said a few more words of farewell to his pet, which was endeavouring to lick his face through the bars, and the driver shut the doors. Little joined us as the driver pulled into traffic. We heard a mournful howl as the van disappeared around the next corner.
“Now what?” he sighed.
Mrs. Bingo was brisk. “I noticed that we needed to buy some new throw cushions for the couch,” she said cheerfully. “After than you can take Ruggles and me to tea.”
Bingo Little shook hands with us. “Thank you for all your help, gentlemen,” he said. “Please, call me Bingo. I will never forget this week. I’ll have quite the story for Bertie and Jeeves next time I see them. Goodbye.”
He turned to his wife and took her elbow. “By the way, darling,” he said, “what was the name of that pet shop?”
Mrs. Bingo was busy arranging Ruggles so he could peer out of the handbag and see his surroundings. “I found it in Fullham Road. The name on the door was Ross and Mangles.”
Holmes smiled and looked up in the sky. “The fog has quite retreated, Watson,” he said. “I propose we walk back to Baker Street. You and I have had an interesting time and a good lunch, and I think we can both agree that we are glad we shall never see that hound again.”
The Case of the Bewildered Bootblack
“I deduce that we are about to entertain visitors, Watson,” Mr. Sherlock Holmes remarked one morning in early spring. I was finishing the last of my breakfast while Holmes stood at the window of our shared sitting room gazing down into a busy Baker Street.
“You see someone in the street coming this way.”
“That is correct. You do know my methods.”
“Who is it?”
“It is my lieutenant Wiggins of the irregular Baker Street forces and a young friend. I would put the stranger’s age as about ten. He lives with his mother who keeps him in clean, mended clothing, and he has one sibling. A sister, judging from the new hair ribbon peeking out of his pocket and obviously bought as a gift. He earns his living as a bootblack. His father is an able-bodied seaman in her Majesty’s service. That is evident from the cut-down shirt made from a sailor’s kit that he wears. The thrifty mother makes ov
er her husband’s clothes to fit the boy. He brought his problem to Wiggins and Wiggins has brought him here to consult me.”
The doorbell rang. Holmes stepped to the head of the stairs. “Send them up, Mrs. Hudson,” he called before our landlady could begin her usual objections in admitting any of Holmes’ street Arabs. The Baker Street irregulars might have been “sharp as needles” that “went everywhere and overheard everything” but they were not known for high levels of personal cleanliness.
A few moments later Wiggins and his companion were ensconced on the sofa, tucking into the last of the toast and fruit left from our breakfast. I took my usual seat by the fireplace with my notebook and pen. Holmes stood before the boys, his hands clasped behind his back and his grey eyes fixed on the pair.
“Wiggins, I can see this call is your doing. Report, please.”
The youth sat up straight and looked from his friend to the detective. “Mr. Holmes, this is Jeremiah Hopwell. We call him Jerry for short. He lives on my street with his mum and little sister. He came to me last night with his story and I promised to bring him to you. I told him you could figure out how he could collect his reward from the lady. Jerry, tell Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson here what happened in that alley.”
Jerry Hopwell leaned down and patted the shoeshine box that had told Holmes his occupation. It must have given him reassurance, for he straightened up and replied in a clear, steady voice. He was tow-headed and slender and his fingers were stained by the polish he used on his customers’ footwear.
“I lives with me mum and me sister Jenny by Wiggins’ place, like he said. Me dad’s in the Navy, stationed on the HMS Golden Ball out in the Indian Ocean. He’s been gone for over a year but he’s due back next Christmas. His allotment doesn’t go far, so Mum does sewing and I shines shoes. Jenny’s just a baby so she stays with Mum.
“I works as a bootblack, you sees. I got a corner where I gives shoe shines, but about four o’clock every other day I gots a regular route in an insurance building near St. Paul’s. The manager lets me go from office to office offering to shine shoes for the gentlemen who works there. I pays him a percentage of my tips, but it’s worth it. Then I picks up some bread or whatever Mum needs from the stores and goes home.
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