Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch

by Edward D. Hoch

  “But what of your son? In the telegram you said he had disappeared following a murder.”

  “That is so. I must tell you the entire story from the beginning. I believe it was his father’s death that set Ralph off. He was never the same after that. He took to carousing at night and neglecting his schoolwork.”

  “What is his age?”

  “He is nineteen, about to enter his second year at McGill. He met a young woman during his first year, a pretty red-haired classmate named Monica Starr. She seemed like a nice girl and I had no objection to their friendship. I thought it might get him back on track. But this summer he discovered there was a rival for her affections, a German student named Franz Faber who was entering his final year at McGill. I know the two boys had a fight, and Ralph came home a few weeks ago with a bloody nose. But it wasn’t anything more than that. Ralph couldn’t have—” Her voice broke then.

  “What happened, Irene?” Holmes asked her softly.

  “Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, Franz Faber was stabbed to death outside a pub frequented by McGill students. It has caused a great scandal here. Things like this don’t happen at McGill.”

  ”The university was in session during August?”

  “They offer some summer courses each year. Apparently Faber was taking a language course. He was a German student with only a basic knowledge of English and French. My son was seen in the pub earlier and the police came to our house to question him. He’d come home about an hour before they arrived and went to his room without speaking to me.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “He’s been moody lately. I thought nothing of it, but when I went to his room to summon him for the police, he wasn’t there. Apparently he’d gone out the back door. The next morning I discovered that Monica Starr was missing too. The police are convinced he killed Faber, but I can’t believe it. He was moody, yes, just like his father, but he’d never kill anyone.”

  Holmes tried to calm her. “I will do whatever I can for you, Irene. You must know that. Tell me, is there any place in the city or near here where they might have gone?”

  “I’m not even convinced they’re together.”

  “I think we can assume they are, whether or not he committed the crime. Was he friendly with any of his professors or instructors at McGill?”

  She considered that for a moment. “There’s Professor Stephen Leacock. He’s a lecturer at McGill and he’s published some economics books along with collections of humorous stories. Ralph was quite friendly with him.”

  “What about fellow students?”

  “Only Monica, so far as I know.”

  “I’ll speak to Leacock,” Holmes said. “What about you? Are you still singing?”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Very little, occasionally in local productions.”

  “That’s too bad, Irene. You have a lovely voice.”

  “Find him for me, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You’re the only one who can help me now.”

  “I’ll do everything possible.”

  We walked the short distance to the university, a series of stone buildings reached by a tree-lined carriageway from the street. A monument to James McGill, whose legacy helped found the institution ninety years earlier, stood in front of the central pavilion. Only a few students and faculty members were about, preparing for the upcoming autumn term. We asked directions to Professor Leacock’s office and were directed to the political economy department in an adjoining building. Holmes led the way, moving with an intensity that surprised me.

  “We have no time to lose, Watson. If the young man has indeed fled the scene it is important that we find him and convince him to return for his own good.”

  “Do you believe him to be guilty, Holmes?”

  “It is much too soon to form an opinion.”

  When we located Leacock’s tiny office, it was occupied by a slender young man who introduced himself as Rob Gentry. He’d been studying a map on the professor’s desk and he told us, “Professor Leacock is out right now, but he should be returning shortly There’s an election coming up, you know. Please take a seat, gentlemen.”

  “Is he active in politics?” Holmes asked.

  “Very much so, on the Conservative side. He’s campaigning against our Liberal prime minister.”

  Almost at once a handsome broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache appeared in the doorway. “What’s this? Visitors? We will need an additional chair, Rob.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I am Professor Leacock,” he said, extending his hand. I guessed him to be in his early forties, with just a hint of gray in his hair. “What can I do for you?”

  “We have traveled here from London. This is my companion, Dr. Watson, and I am Mr. Holmes.”

  “Holmes? Holmes?” Leacock seemed astounded. “Surely not the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

  “The same,” I replied, speaking for Holmes.

  “I have published some humorous pieces about your great detective work, Mr. Holmes. At least I trust you will find them humorous.”

  Holmes ignored his words. “We have come on an urgent matter, Professor Leacock. Irene Norton has asked my help in finding her son, Ralph, who is suspected of murder.”

  Leacock seemed to pale at his words. “A terrible tragedy,” he murmured.

  “His mother says you were a friend of his.”

  “I still am. This entire business is beyond my comprehension.” He shifted some papers on his desk.

  “If you know his whereabouts, it would be best for the lad if we found him before the police.”

  “I know nothing,” he insisted.

  “Perhaps, but your assistant was studying a map on your desk when we entered, and now you have covered it up.”

  Leacock was silent for a moment, perhaps weighing his choices. Finally he said, “You are quite the detective, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I know where the boy is.”

  II. The Chase

  Professor Leacock explained that he did his writing during summer vacations at a family cottage north of Lake Simcoe in the town of Orillia. It was some distance away from Montreal, actually north of Toronto. “It’s on Old Brewery Bay on Lake Couchiching, but that’s really an extension of Lake Simcoe.”

  “How do you get there?” Holmes asked.

  “By train. The Canadian National Railway runs a line from Toronto through Orillia. It passes quite close to my cottage. I came back here with my family in early August as I always do, to prepare for the new term. It was just a few days before Franz Faber was killed.”

  “Did you know Faber?”

  “Not personally. Rob here knew him.”

  Gentry nodded. “I used to see him in the pub on weekends. If he was between girl friends we might have a few beers together.”

  Holmes looked thoughtful. “Did you see him the night he was stabbed?”

  He shook his head. “I was at a picnic with some friends.”

  Holmes turned back to Leacock. “You said you know where young Norton is.”

  “He came to see me just after I returned to Montreal with my family. He wanted to get away for a few weeks, until the new term began. He wondered if I might know a place where he could go.”

  “And you suggested your cottage in Orillia?”

  “I did.”

  “When was this?”

  He consulted his desk calendar. “It would have been Wednesday, the 9th.”

  “Was he accompanied by the missing young woman, Monica Starr?”

  “So far as I knew he went alone.”

  “And is still there now?”

  “I believe so, yes. He planned to return the second week in September.”

  “Do you have a telephone at the cottage?”

  “No. I like to spend the summers there with my wife and son, without needless interruptions.”

  “Then tell me how to get there by train.”

  “It is a full day’s journey from here, well over three hundred miles.”

  “Watson and I
are used to riding trains in England.”

  Leacock smiled. “I am British myself, you know. My parents migrated to Canada when I was seven and I decided to go with them.”

  “A wise decision,” Holmes said with a smile. “Now about your cottage—”

  “I don’t know what is happening with Ralph, but I seem to be responsible in part, since I allowed him to use my place. If you insist on going, I will journey with you. I don’t want two strangers accosting him by surprise.”

  I sensed something unspoken, as if he feared Irene’s son was indeed capable of violence. “Very well,” Holmes agreed. “Let us take the first available train.”

  Professor Leacock turned to his assistant. “Can you handle things here for a few days, Rob?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Leacock telephoned his wife to tell her of our plans. Then he said to Holmes, “There is an early morning train tomorrow. We can be at the cottage before nightfall.”

  “Very well.”

  “Windsor Station is several blocks south of here. Go down Rue Peel, past Dominion Square, and it will be on your right. You can’t miss it. I will meet you there at eight in the morning.” As we were leaving he thrust a book of his writings into my hand. “Please read this tonight, Dr. Watson, especially my little story ‘Maddened by Mystery.’ I trust you and Mr. Holmes will find it all in good fun.”

  Once outside, Holmes stared up at the sky. “An odd sort of chap, but friendly enough. Before we travel to the cottage, though, I wish to speak with the local police.”

  Dealing with the Surete du Quebec proved to be both better and worse than our frequent encounters with Scotland Yard. Better, because they tended to treat Holmes with a bit more respect than some of their British counterparts, but worse because it was difficult finding the detectives investigating the murder of Franz Faber. We finally were shown to a squad room where a detective named Jean Leblond greeted Holmes with a degree of respect.

  “You are certainly well-known to us here,” he said. “Is this your first journey to Canada, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It is.”

  “I trust you will find our country to your liking. Now what can I help you with?”

  “I have been asked to look into the murder of a McGill University student named Franz Faber. I believe he was stabbed to death outside a pub a fortnight ago.”

  Leblond flipped through the files on his desk. “Exactly a fortnight, on Thursday, the 10th. He lived only a few minutes after the attack.”

  “Were there any witnesses?” Holmes asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you attempting to arrest Ralph Norton for this crime?”

  “The two had fought over a woman. A police officer on patrol was the first to see Faber lying in the road. He’d been stabbed in the chest and was bleeding badly but still alive. The officer asked who stabbed him and he said Norton.”

  I could see that this dying statement had caught Holmes by surprise. “He’s sure of that?”

  The detective nodded. “He said Norton. The officer was certain. Add to that the fact that Ralph Norton fled when we came to question him and it makes a strong circumstantial case.”

  “Who was the woman they fought over?”

  “Name is Monica Starr. She’s disappeared too.”

  “Have you talked to her family?”

  “They have a home up north, in Gaspe. She’s been living on campus. They know nothing about her disappearance and claim they haven’t seen her all summer. She’d remained at the university for some extra courses.”

  “Something of a coincidence, all these extra summer courses,” Holmes mused. “Was Ralph Norton at the pub that night?”

  “The bartender saw him earlier, but he wasn’t there with Faber.”

  “Was the murder weapon recovered?”

  “Not yet. We’ve searched the area without any luck.”

  When we left the Surete du Quebec, I asked Holmes what he thought. “It seems that Ralph is the prime suspect,” he answered. “We should call on Irene today, before we leave in the morning.”

  We called at her home, a smaller version of those mansions we’d seen on our way to the hotel. It was obvious that her husband’s law practice had been profitable. Over tea Holmes explained about Leacock’s cottage and told her we’d be traveling there in the morning. “You must prepare yourself, Irene. The police evidence is strong, even if not conclusive. If he’s at the Leacock cottage he might not be alone.”

  “That girl—”

  Holmes nodded. “Monica Starr. She was here all summer with him. Something happened with the other boy, Franz Faber. They fought once and they may have fought again, outside the pub a fortnight ago. He spoke Ralph’s name as he was dying.”

  “No!” She shook her head. “I can’t believe my son would harm anyone.”

  “If I find him, I will have to bring him back.”

  She turned away, not wanting to meet his quick eyes. “He’s my only child, all that I have. You must be able to help him somehow.”

  Holmes sighed and told her, “I will do whatever I can.”

  That evening, as we prepared to retire to our rooms, I took the time to read the little story Stephen Leacock had given me earlier. “Holmes!” I exclaimed before I’d finished the first few pages. “This thing of Leacock’s actually makes sport of you and your methods. He refers to you as the Great Detective and describes you wearing foolish disguises as you attempt to help the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury!”

  “Am I mentioned by name?”

  “No.”

  “Then I would view it as a compliment if readers like you immediately identify me as the Great Detective.”

  But that did little to calm my outrage. As I finished my reading I gasped. “At the end he has you disguised as a dog and destroyed by the dog-catchers! The man is a scoundrel and a slanderer!”

  Holmes smiled just a bit. “Or a humorist.”

  “Do we really want to travel with such a person?”

  “I am doing it for Irene and her son, not for Leacock.”

  And in the morning we met him at the station as planned. His teaching assistant, Rob Gentry, had come with him which was something of a surprise. “I have some papers at the cottage,” Leacock explained. “Since we’ll be there at least overnight, Rob can sort through them for me and decide what I need to bring back here.”

  As it turned out, Gentry’s presence was a good thing. It gave me someone to converse with on the long journey, and an excuse for addressing none of my remarks to the blackguard Leacock. The journey across eastern Canada was a picturesque one, and Leacock explained to Holmes why he’d chosen a summer home so far removed from Montreal. “I grew up in this area, after we came here from England. We had a place in Egypt, not far from the south shore of Lake Simcoe. A colorful country, especially in summer. The winters in Montreal are often brutal.”

  “It is a large country,” Holmes remarked.

  “Indeed it is. One can travel hundreds of miles in western Canada and see nothing but wheat fields. I believe the Lord said ‘Let there be wheat’ and Saskatchewan was born.”

  It was late afternoon when we left the train at Orillia and took a carriage the few short blocks to Leacock’s cottage. Since there was no telephone he’d been unable to announce our arrival in advance. A handsome young man with sandy hair and a few freckles was seated on the porch as we left the carriage. He immediately put down the Rider Haggard novel he was reading and stood up.

  “Professor Leacock! What brings you here?”

  “I have bad news for you, lad. Franz Faber was murdered the night before you left Montreal. The police want to question you about it.”

  At his words the screen door behind him opened and a lovely red-haired girl in a blue shift appeared. She had a dimple in her chin and a smile to charm any man. “Ralph was with me all the time,” she told us. “He couldn’t have killed anyone.”

  Holmes inserted himself into the conversation. “Would t
his be the missing Miss Starr?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” Norton demanded.

  “Sherlock Holmes. I am an old friend of your mother, who summoned me from England to find you.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I’m not going back to see the police. We’re staying right here.” His glance shifted to me. “Who is this man?”

  “My associate, Dr. Watson,” Holmes responded.

  He studied me more closely. “A medical doctor?”

  “Of course,” I told him.

  “And you know Rob, my assistant,” Leacock said.

  Ralph smiled slightly. “We see each other at the pub.”

  Leacock glanced around. “We only have three bedrooms. Is there room for us all overnight?”

  “Sure,” Ralph conceded. “Follow me, Mr. Holmes. We’ll get everyone settled and have a bit of supper. You must be hungry after that long train ride.”

  Holmes and I drew a small bedroom at the rear of the cottage. When we were alone I asked, “Why was he so interested that I was a doctor?”

  “You must try to be more observant, Watson. We now know why she didn’t spend the summer at home with her parents. Even wearing that large shift I could detect a bit of a bulge. I believe Monica Starr to be at least six months pregnant.”

  III. The Capture

  Seeing her seated at the dinner table later that evening, I had to agree with Holmes’s diagnosis. The girl was certainly pregnant, probably entering her third trimester. It appeared that Ralph was planning to remain here with her rather than return to McGill. I wondered if Leacock and Gentry were aware of her condition. After we ate there was still enough light for us to walk along Old Brewery Bay. It was a small arm of the lake, with Leacock’s house at the innermost part. I could see that Irene’s son and Monica Starr were supremely happy, even with these unexpected guests. They played catch with a red rubber ball, occasionally tossing it to Leacock or Gentry as well. At one point Ralph ran ahead and shouted to her. “North! Catch!”

  “North?” Holmes questioned after she’d caught the ball and tossed it on to Gentry.

  “I’m from up north, so naturally the guys started calling me North Starr, or just North.”