by Bill Peschel
From Le Journal de Geneve, 19th July.
What we maintained in face of the whole world’s press some years ago has at last been proved correct, and the notorious Sherlock Holmes is proved a greater liar and fraud than even we ventured to suggest he was. It will be remembered by our readers that Holmes, while on a wild-goose chase over the Continent, found his way to Switzerland, and was stated (with many plausible details) to have fallen from the ledge of an Alpine pass, along with a scoundrel of the Dynamite English party named Moriarty. The story was circulated everywhere, and the result was that Alpine-climbing was rendered very unpopular for two seasons. From the very first we disbelieved the story, which had many suspicious elements in it. The only witness of the extraordinary and inexplicable accident whereby the two men were said to have lost their lives was one Watson, a friend of Holmes, who, so far as we have been able to ascertain, earned his living by narrating the exploits of Holmes. That Watson was in a state of intoxication when he returned from the mountain to ask for a search expedition was well known at the time, though delicacy prevented us from mentioning the fact. The search party, consisting of nineteen guides, went all over the pass, and left not a yard of it unexplored, but they failed to find a scrap of evidence in support of Watson’s story. This of itself would have been sufficient to throw grave doubts upon the story, but two days later, Watson, pretending to go out for a toothbrush, eluded the vigilance of the genial proprietor of The Bear of Berne Hotel (whose advertisement will be found on page 4), and decamped from the district, leaving his bill unpaid. Influenced by the serious injury which was done to the popularity of mountaineering by the narratives of Holmes’s death, we boldly expressed a doubt of the whole affair, and were threatened with an action for damages by the English canon named Doyle, who appeared to be a relative either of Watson or Holmes. At the time we apologized to Canon Doyle for suggesting that the story was false, but now we withdraw our apology, and brand Holmes and Watson as unprincipled ruffians. We hope soon to be able to lay bare the plot whereof this cock-and-bull story was an essential part.
Letter from Holmes to Watson.
Zermatt, 5th May.
Don’t you think it is about time I was permitted to leave this confounded place? I’m sick of it. It is all very well to maintain that the longer I stay away the keener will be the interest in my return to active work again; but I am not blind to the possibilities of a generation rising “who know not Joseph.” I hear about a new fellow called Captain Kettle, who seems to be a little in our line. I hope you are not ass enough to let him get a position we cannot easily bounce him out of. But, first and last, I’m sick of this d— place. And the fleas!
From Watson to Holmes.
London, 8th May.
On no account venture into the open for a while yet. Doyle’s far too busy to have anything to do with us at the moment, for he’s over head and ears in the war movement. There’s nothing at all in the Kettle story. Kettle is simply a low, maritime bully, who could not maintain the regard and affection of the British for more than six months. Besides, he’s given up that business and has been cavorting in The Messenger Boy at the Gaiety for a year back. I believe he has started a farm somewhere about Hythe lately. There was never the slightest danger that Kettle would interfere seriously with your position. Why—you are unique, my boy, unique! There has been nothing like you since old Lecoq, and if you stayed away ten years you would be hailed like an emperor on your return. But make no mistake; if it is “oof” that is wanted I will send it. I can’t see that the work of waiter at a Swiss hotel is any harder work for you than investigating, and if you continue to wear the false whiskers you’ll never be discovered. In any case, it’s not the time to come back here. We’re all in a mess over the war; money is tight, and our particular form of entertainment would scarcely go, I fear.
From Holmes to Watson.
Zermatt, 3d June.
False whiskers! That’s the confounded thing. The boss of this place insists on my shaving, and if my hirsute adornment goes it’s all up with us, for I’ll be spotted, sure. And you say I’ll “never be discovered.” I begin to fear that is what you want. Why, man, I long to be discovered. Discovery, let me remind you, Watson, was my business. It is all very well for you and Doyle to live like lords on the strength of my alleged reputation, but I’ll be hanged if I stay here any longer waiting on Cook trippers and hunting Swiss fleas. Unless you send me enough money to get back to London comfortably, I shall blow the gaff. That’s flat!
Telegram—Watson to Holmes.
5th June.
For Heaven’s sake don’t! Will see what Doyle says. Newnes encourages the idea, but I think it suicide.
Telegram—Holmes to Watson.
5th June.
I’m off. Will be in London this week.
Extract from Letter by Lord Rosebery to the London City Liberal Club.
The paralysis of Liberalism is due to a fundamental and incurable antagonism of principle with regard to the Empire at large and our consequent policy. More vital than that is the fact that we want a Man—a Mind sufficiently strong to influence the warring elements of party; to placate the Opposition, now howling like wolves out of all harmony. In the great crises of history the hour has almost invariably brought such a Man, and I need scarcely recall to you the case of Napoleon, who took the scraps of Empire and welded them to his mighty purpose, But where are we to look for such a Man? I have in my mind at the moment the name of one who, it seems to me, is alone able to save the party, whose name some years ago was on every lip, though since then there has been an interregnum of mysterious silence. Need I say that I allude to Mr. Sherlock Holmes? If there is one in Europe to-day who could discover the mind of Liberalism, who could see what lies at our hearts as a party, it is this great and world-eminent investigator. It could not fail to gratify many of you to learn that Mr. Holmes, whose death in Switzerland some years ago we were led by some as yet inexplicable events to deplore, has within the past fortnight been reported alive and well. If that is so—and there is every reason to believe it is so—we have in Mr. Sherlock Holmes the Man and the Mind. I myself shall never, voluntarily, return to public life associated with the party; but I have the utmost confidence in recommending Mr. Holmes to your notice.
From the Agony Column, London Times.
20th July.
Sh-rl-ck H-lm-s.—If you are in town, come to us at once. All will be forgotten and forgiven.—W-ts-n.
30th July.
W-ts-n.—Rats! Simply Rats! It’s all over between us. Have seen Sir George and C.D., and we propose to leave you out of the show altogether.—The Ex-Waiter, Soho.
From the London Star, 1st August.
Sherlock Holmes is said to be back in London again, and residing in Soho. He is described as looking younger than ever, and we see, indeed, little reason why the suggestion of Lord Rosebery should not be followed, and Mr. Holmes be intrusted with the discovery of the Liberal party.
Dr. Doyle Interviewed. From Literature, 2d August.
“So it really is the case that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been discovered alive?”
“I do not commit myself in any way upon that point,” said the distinguished author. “You have seen, doubtless, as much of the evidence as I have. I know that my friend Mr. Watson is a most trustworthy man, and I gave the utmost credit to his story of the dreadful affair in Switzerland. He may have been mistaken, of course. It may not have been Mr. Holmes who fell from the ledge at all, or the whole thing might be the result of hallucination. I confess the stories now being published seem circumstantial enough, and that Holmes may be alive. But I have not seen him. There has been an advertisement in the Times suggesting that I have, but it is not true; I have never seen Holmes. Watson, however, lately came on certain old documents dealing with a part of the career of Holmes early in life, and I propose to publish these. They may be interesting; they may, indeed, induce Holmes, if he is really alive, to manifest himself again.”
Padlock
Bones
Mabel McGinnis
Mabel McGinnis (born 1876) spent much of her life in Rome and drew on her experience to write Simple Italian Cookery (1912), the first Italian cookbook published in America. Apart from this and short pieces for Life, in which this one appeared in the Sept. 5 issue, she is not known to have written anything else. Even her death date could not be determined, except that she outlived her husband, the novelist and diplomat Norval Richardson (1877-1940).
I was standing on the top of a lonely mountain in Switzerland, thinking of my dear friend Padlock Bones, who was no more. It was just a year now since he took his fatal plunge off this very mountain. I moved a step further to look over the edge and stubbed my toe against a loose rock, almost dashing myself down.
“You’ve been drinking, I see,” said a quiet voice at my side. “Also you have a new white horse, and you are afraid of him.”
“Bones, my dear fellow!” cried I, throwing myself on his neck and sobbing.
“Yes, it is I,” he answered curtly.
“But tell me,” cried I, “first, before you relate your marvelous return to this world, how you knew that I had a white horse and was afraid of him?”
“That is easily explained,” said he, swallowing his cigar. “You are dressed in a riding costume which is covered with white hairs; this leads me to induce that you have a white horse, and I know that you are afraid of him, for I saw you riding him yesterday.”
“You are a marvelous fellow!” I gasped in admiration.
“And as for my coming back to this world, I never left it at all, Chumpson. I simply hypnotized you into seeing me plunge over the cliff, a little trick I learned in India. I had a fancy for being alone up here for a time. But, come, let us go back now to the hotel. I feel a fever on me to return to the old life.”
On the way down he said suddenly: “I have a presentment, Chumpson, that something interesting is about to occur.”
Just as he said this we came in sight of a little cottage with a few fine trees about it. From out of the cottage was coming the most agonized screaming; shriek after shriek, in a high feminine voice.
“Here, I think, we have it,” said Bones, stepping up to the front door of the cottage and knocking.
The door was opened by two footmen in pink livery. I remember thinking at the time it was an odd color. Bones tossed them each a guinea.
“You have stolen your master’s watch-chain,” he said suddenly, fixing his eyes coolly on one of the footmen. “And you,” turning to the other, “have drunk ten bottles of his best wine. I will not tell your master, however, if you will go upstairs instantly and tell the lady who is screaming to come down to the drawing-room.”
I wondered at his temerity, but in ten minutes the curtains at the drawing-room door parted, and an exquisite creature, in a tea gown of black lace over red satin, entered. Her lovely face was all distorted by weeping, and her hair was disarranged. She only glanced at me, and then walked straight up to Padlock Bones and held out her hands.
“You are going to help me in my trouble, aren’t you?” she asked.
This made Bones a little angry, as it was rather infringing upon his copyright of being the only person to ever hit the nail on the head. However, beyond growing a trifle paler than was usual with him, he gave no sign of this.
“Yes, Mrs. Masters,” he said, “I came here with that express purpose.”
“How did you know my name?” she asked, and looked really frightened.
“Your husband being a physician, I saw his name on the door-plate; but that is not important. Tell me your story, if you please, so that no time shall be lost.”
“Six months ago,” began Mrs. Masters, “my child climbed into one of the trees you see in front of the house. When we thought he had been up there a sufficient time we went out and called him. He sat crouching on the topmost branch, with a look of such indescribable terror on his face, and he refused to come down or to speak to us. I cannot explain this terrible mystery. He is wasting away, and yet he remains there through sheer terror. It is breaking my heart.” Here the poor lady burst into tears.
“Leave it all to me,” said Bones; “only answer me one question. How old is the child?”
“He was two when he went up into the tree; he must be two and a half now. You and your friend must make yourselves at home here, and everything shall be at your command.”
“Thank you,” said Bones. “I should like a shoulder of lamb, a camera, and a dog’s leash.”
When he was provided with these things he went out and took a casual look about the place. Then he went back of the house and lay down flat on his back on the grass and stared at the sky for the rest of the afternoon. I knew his methods were odd, but this seemed almost lazy. Right after dinner, he went out into the garden with the camera, and as soon as it was dark he began taking flashlight pictures. All through the night, I could hear his step upon the gravel, and at intervals the slight explosion of the flash-light powder. The next morning, he slept until noon. Then, with his magnifying-glass and tape measure, he went over every inch of ground around the house. Suddenly, at two-forty exactly, he cried: “I have it, Chumpson! I have it!” Then I knew the wonderful train of thought that had been going on in his mind.
“By four o’clock this afternoon, that child will be safe in his mother’s arms.”
He condescended to explain his theory to me. The child had climbed the tree and probably had gone higher than it had meant to and had become a little frightened; then, turning to come down, it had discovered a fierce bulldog seated at the foot of the tree, and it had simply not dared to pass it.
“That dog, with the tenacity of its race, has continued to sit there for six months,” he said.
“But why didn’t the child speak?” I asked.
“Because it was too young; it didn’t know how. I know about the bulldog, because I have discovered paw-prints in the garden. Now, my plan of action is this: This afternoon, I shall throw the dog the leg of mutton, and while it is devouring it, I shall put the leash on it; then you will take it away, while I climb up the tree and rescue the child.”
It happened just as he had planned. The dog was a savage brute, and even after the leash was on him I felt afraid of him; but I led him to the barn and chained him up. When I came back to the house I found Mrs. Masters with the emaciated child in her arms, tears of gratitude rolling down her cheeks.
“Come,” said Bones to me. “I need something with more blood and thunder in it than this; let us go back to London.”
Shylock Holmes
A Sleuth Whose Sensibilities Were Trained Down to a Wonderful Acuteness.
Leon Harman
This story from Judge, the U.S. humor magazine, was reprinted in the Nov. 7 edition of the Jennings Daily Record in Louisiana. No information could be found about the author.
My friend Shylock Holmes entered the office with his customary catlike tread. He hung his hat on a chair and sat down upon the piano.
“I perceive,” he said, “that a man with large feet and long whiskers has been smoking a Pittsburg stogie in this room.”
I did not refrain from appearing astonished—I did not want to discourage him.
“He was a populist,” Holmes continued, “and carried an umbrella with a rip in the cover and a Cuban flag tied around the black walnut handle.”
I could not conceal my wonder. “How did you guess all that?” I gasped.
“Strange,” said Holmes. “I could read your thought. I knew you would ask me that very question. It is very easy,” he continued, referring to my question. He transferred a piece of chewing gum from underneath the what-not to his mouth. “In the first place,” he began, fixing his eagle eye upon the end of his boot, “he had large feet. He stepped on your corns as he went out. You drew your feet under the chair as I came in. Besides, there is his footprint. It is muddy out.”
I stared at him, aghast at his wisdom. His powers of observation are beyond me sometimes. It was he w
ho detected that red hair on my shoulder last week.
“He wore long whiskers, because I notice that my comb is full of long, coarse hairs, exactly one-tenth of a shade darker than my own. Do you follow me?”
I gasped assent. He removed a tack from the carpet and proceeded:
“I know that he has been smoking a Pittsburg Havana from my extraordinarily acute sense of smell. Not one in a million can detect the difference between the smoke of a cigarette and of a steam engine. I can.”
He paused for effect, and, moved by his tremendous intellect, I sat in awe.
“I can understand all,” I said, “except your reason for believing that he carried the umbrella you described.”
“That, my dear boy, is the simplest proposition of all. The umbrella mentioned stands over there in the corner.”
I fainted. When I regained consciousness Shylock Holmes lay on the divan, rapidly taking notes on his cuff.
“You were just four hours and 13 minutes coming out of that,” he remarked. “During your indisposition, I have ferreted out three murders, a bank robbery and a plagiarism for the New York Wild, besides borrowing the price of a dinner from your pocket.”
“Tell me one thing more,” I begged.
“What is it?” he asked.
“How in the name of the queen did you know he was a populist?”
