by Bill Peschel
“Worse! I’ve fallen in love!”
“Ah, I knew there was a woman in the case,” said Romes. “Wherever there are motors there are women,” he added, sententiously.
“I am in love,” said the young man. “My name I should tell you is Gerald Goodley, and the lady I love is named Miss Seebrighte.”
“And the other man?” queried Romes, with another flash of his marvellous intuitive powers.
“Ah! how did you guess there was another man?” said the motorist, deeply impressed. “Certainly there is; his name is Ferdinand Smickton, confound him! He is a motorist also. The lady is romantic and unable to decide between her two suitors, and declared her hand should be given to the winner of a motor race between us.
“I at once bought the guaranteed fastest car in Europe, and Smickton bought another, which he declared was quite as fast. The race was to take place in a few days’ time. It would have been a neck-and-neck contest; but this morning, as a result of foul play, my car has been tampered with and has lost its Compression!”
“My car has been tampered with and has lost its compression.”
The young man paused to give full weight to the horror of this terrible revelation, glanced searchingly from Romes to me, and the muscles of his face twitched.
Romes, leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling, his long fingers meeting, made no remark. Mr. Goodley resumed:
“Now the car runs dead slow. I shall be beaten. No one else has been able to help me. In despair I appeal to you, Mr. Romes.”
“Lost your Compression!” said Romes slowly, “that’s serious! By-the-by, for Dr. Scotson’s information, you might tell him what you do with the Compression when you have it. When did you see it last? Did you notice any peculiar habits in it? Have you a photograph of it?”
“No,” said the poor young fellow, disconsolately. “You see it’s in the engine—inside, don’t you know! I’ve never seen it; but my man tells me that unless it’s there the engine won’t go!”
“But can’t you buy a new Compression?” said I, venturing, as I thought, a safe question, for I did not care to be thought entirely ignorant of motoring. The young man’s features contracted painfully.
“No. My mechanic has tried everywhere; he has done everything. . . . all in vain! The affair was wrapped in mystery, and up to this morning I had not the faintest clue. Then, I discovered a peculiar hobnail on the road fifty yards from the motor house; and on the panel of my racing car, I found the following mysterious word cut with some instrument, which, from the nature of the incision, could only have been accomplished by a fine cutting tool used exclusively by surgeons.”
“Ha!” said Romes, “that may be an important clue. Is your rival a doctor?”
“No; but his grandfather was an apothecary.”
“Good! that’s important! It may be the first link in our chain. What was the word?”
“It is a strange one, and it appears to be ‘Watoe’ . . . I can make nothing of it. I knew at once, however, that it had some connection with the injury done to the engine. The discovery of the hobnail strengthened this belief.”
“You are a very intelligent young man, Mr. Goodley.”
“Ah! I study your methods closely, Mr. Romes.”
“Could you tell me some more about this Compression?” asked Romes.
“Well, it’s inside the engine, don’t you know, and it helps it to go!”
“Compresses something, no doubt.”
“Yes, that’s it!—that’s it!” And both Goodley and myself were amazed at the deep knowledge which Romes evidently possessed of motor cars, a subject which I thought he had never taken up.
“Well, good-by Mr. Goodley, for the present. Kindly give me your address and that hobnail. I shall visit you this evening and inspect the place. By to-morrow I shall restore that lost Compression.”
“Oh, how can I thank you, Mr. Romes?” said the young man, in a burst of gratitude, “I owe you more than my life! I am certain now to win the race, and with it the sweetest girl in England!”
Since my solitary patient who keeps me going did not require me that afternoon, I determined to accompany Romes, and so, taking the train from St. Pancras, we reached the country house where Mr. Goodley and his aged mother dwelt. Romes with his microscope examined three acres of ground surrounding the motor house; took a casting and a photograph of the mysterious word “Watoe” scratched on the car; discovered several finger-marks on the engine, and interviewed the servants—all of whom looked equally guilty.
Romes . . . took a photograph of the mysterious word.
During the railway journey back to town Romes spoke very little; but I felt sure he had a clue.
“The culprit,” said he, after a long silence, “is a stout man, with a slight halt in his left leg; he has served in the army, and lives in London.”
Not another word did he utter, and thus I left him on reaching his rooms.
Late that evening, after four hours’ smoking, Romes came to me and said, “If you are not tired, Scotson, we will go out. Put a few revolvers in your pockets. As I anticipated, this simple affair is going to be serious. You must have noticed that all the simple affairs that I took part in have become serious also.”
I assented, and watched my gifted friend prepare for the night’s work.
Having disguised ourselves as seafaring men (Romes looked the part to the life, with his keen, intellectual face and long, white hands), we journeyed into the East End, and after a long walk called at a villainous little public-house well-known to Romes as the habitual resort of criminals.
“Tom Fowler is to meet me here,” he said, in a low voice. “He’s the most dangerous man in London; but I have him under my thumb. He was once a policeman, but was dismissed from the force for prosecuting horse-drivers who exceeded the legal limit! At first it was thought that he was insane, but afterwards his extraordinary behaviour was traced to drink and a desire to tell the truth. He went to the bad after this disgrace and became a notorious criminal—his knowledge of police traps standing him in good stead. He has a strong taste for motoring, and now I believe acts as a ‘fence’ for receiving stolen motor cars—S-s-h! here he comes!”
A low-sized, square-jawed man entered the room cautiously and hobbled towards us.
“Evenin’ mate!” Romes said, gruffly, and then, lowering his voice to its natural tone, asked: “How’s the rheumatism, Tom?”
The latter started, then assumed indifference.
“Bad, sir!—bad!” he said. “Curse them traps!”
“Got his rheumatism from sleeping in traps,” Romes explained to me aside.
“Well now, Tom, I want your help,” he continued, “and, of course, no tales will be told. A motoring friend of mine has lost a valuable Compression. It was an heirloom, I fancy; anyway it is very valuable, though, as I need hardly tell you, of no use except on its own special motor. Now, this Compression was stolen some days ago, and I want to get it back.”
Fowler screwed up his face in a rather funny way, and at first I fancied that he was restraining himself from laughing. Then I ascribed the facial contortions to the rheumatism.
“This Compression,” went on Romes, “was stolen from my friend’s car by a stout man who has a halt in his left leg, and who was in the army. I want his address, and you shall come to no harm. If not—” and Romes’ eyes glittered with that hard look which readers of the magazines know so well.
“I know the man, sir, and you shall have his address, Mr. Romes,” said Fowler, meekly. “What’s more, sir, I’ll ask him to put that Compression back at once and make it better than ever. But I warn you, sir, he’s a desperate man. He’s injured several police before he gave up motoring.”
“I come well prepared,” said Romes, quietly.
“Well, sir, you know your own business best,” replied Fowler. “By the way,” he added, “I’m a poor man, Mr. Romes sir, and information—”
They moved away to a distant p
art of the room, and I could not catch their conversation, but I heard the clink of money, and I saw a smile of satisfaction on both their countenances, Fowler slipping something into his trouser pockets, while Romes carefully placed a dirty card into his case.
The interview over, Romes and I hurried to a cabstand, and there my friend said, as he took my hand, “This promises to be one of the most serious adventures of my life, Scotson, and I must go into it alone. You are married, and I cannot allow you to share the risks. I am inflexible on that matter. Go home and await me. I shall be back by dawn if all is well. Good night old man. Give me all the spare revolvers you have.”
I parted from him sadly and went home, racking my brain over the terrible adventure he had undertaken and wondering what dangers the fates had in store for him that night.
I went to bed soon after reaching the house, and many troubled dreams came to me in the long watches of that awful night. After many hours of broken sleep, I must have fallen into a deep slumber.
Some street noises awoke me about six o’clock next morning. At last my anxiety could brook no further delay, and I hurried to Romes’s room. Thank heaven, he was sleeping peacefully in bed!
On his pale, intellectual face there was a placid yet weary look, which told me that he had triumphed, but after desperate perils, perhaps only after a life-and-death struggle! Goodness only knows what he must have gone through during that awful night!
On the floor lay a greasy book, the cover of which bore the title, The Principles of the Motor Car.” It was ear-marked at a chapter headed “Compression.” Beside the book was a dirty card—the card which Fowler had handed to Romes on the previous night. This card bore the legend, “Johnson Digby, Motor Car Expert and Engineer, Burrow Lane, London, SE.”
He was the culprit, no doubt. Romes had run his man to earth.
I stole from the room and returned to bed, happy at the success of my old friend.
At breakfast Romes was more than usually reticent. For a long while he seemed wrapped up in the Police Intelligence. For some time I curbed my curiosity; but at length, unable to restrain my patience, I broke the silence.
“Any report of the adventure in the paper?” I asked.
“Adventure! What adventure?” he asked, abstractedly.
“Why, about ‘The Affair of the Lost Compression’?”
“No,” replied Romes, abruptly, “there isn’t.”
“Your methods are wonderful!” I said. “No doubt Digby saw the game was up immediately you appeared on the scene.”
Romes looked at me enquiringly—indeed, almost suspiciously.
“What do you know about Digby?” he said.
“Ah, my dear fellow, I was too anxious about your safety to wait for news until breakfast time. I crept into your room early this morning with bated breath, and you can imagine my joy when I found you peacefully sleeping.”
“And on the floor you saw the card?”
“Exactly. Tell me what happened. Did the man show fight?”
A slight frown passed over Romes’s features.
“Will you never learn my methods, my dear Scotson?” he asked. “You may be quite sure if Digby had been the guilty party, I should not have gone to work as I did. Frankly, Scotson, in spite of your assumed knowledge yesterday, admit that you are quite ignorant of what a ‘Compression’ is.”
What foolishness to attempt to deceive Romes! I admitted it.
“If you had owned it at the time matters would have gone very differently,” said Romes.
“Then you have failed?” I asked.
“It has not been entirely profitless,” was the enigmatical reply; “and as such I do not regret the case.”
“But what of Mr. Goodley? Will he be able to race after all?”
“Goodley!” said Romes, his eyes flashing. “Goodley is a young man of depraved morals, consequent, I suppose, on his being a motorist. Here is a book called The Principles of the Motor Car. Principles! Motor cars may have principles, but I am quite sure motorists of Goodley’s type have not. Turn to the chapter (page 156) on ‘Compression’ and read it.”
I did so. When I had finished the mystery was solved. I looked at my friend, who, with closed eyes, was sucking philosophically at another very foul old pipe.
“What a ruffian,” I said, “to play a practical joke on you!”
For a few minutes no words were spoken. At length Romes opened his eyes.
“Scotson,” he said, “if you must publish this adventure to the world, I would be greatly obliged if you would use assumed names.”
And so I have.
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
“Lord Watson” (E.F. Benson and Eustace H. Miles)
Illustrated by J.R. Monsell
Edward F. Benson (1867-1940) was a novelist, biographer, memoirist, and archaeologist and best known for his Mapp and Lucia series about upper-class social climbing in the provinces. With champion tennis player Eustace H. Miles (1868-1948), he wrote books on physical fitness and golf, as well as the humorous The Mad Annual from which this story is taken. Jack R. Monsell (1877-1952) was an Irish artist who illustrated books and magazines, drew the comics Dolly Dimple and Fido and Young Reggie, wrote librettos, and designed sets and costumes for light operas.
My friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was apparently killed, as the many millions of my readers will remember, somewhere in Switzerland, by Mr. Moriarty. Since then, however, he appears to have been exercising his deductive faculties somewhere down in Devonshire in connection with a large dog painted with phosphorus. So, as the many millions of my readers will already have come to the conclusion that he was not really killed in Switzerland, I may as well tell them, in my usual manner, what really took place between his supposed death and his rather feeble reincarnation at the damp house of the Baskervilles.
I was sitting in the front room at Baker Street, the flat we shared together, some two years after his disappearance, neatly dressed, as is my custom, in a bowler-hat and morning tail-coat. In the interval, I had read over again and again the notes of the strange cases he had so considerately forgotten to take with him to Switzerland, and I had come to the conclusion that his disappearance—as I gave it to the world—was a mistake on my part. I had a very fair working knowledge of his methods, and had learned to distinguish fifty-seven sorts of blotting paper, forty-three cigar-ashes, and with the aid of his pocket-glass, which he had also left behind, could from the marks on the carpet ascertain with fair correctness whether anyone with extremely muddy boots had lately been in the room. Consequently, if only I had not given to the world the story of his disappearance, I might have gone on to write almost any number of these reminiscences which have so taken the world by storm.
Then, to my inexpressible relief, came the story of his marvellous power of intuition in the matter of the phosphorescent dog, and since the public swallowed that, they might be pleased to swallow more, or indeed anything.
The story, as every reader will remember, was supposed to be told by me, but somebody else really made it up. As soon as I saw it, I thought of applying for a breach of patent, but Mrs. (now Lady) Watson restrained me. But from that moment I began to plan a whole new series of tales, and if these should ever see the light, I do not think that anyone will fail to be thrilled over “King Cophetua’s Beggar-maid”, “The Mystery of Hampstead Heath”, “The Moth-eaten Boa Constrictor”, “The King of Spain’s Purple Inkstand”, and the short monograph on the tails of cab-horses.
As I said, I was sitting in the front room at Baker Street—what had happened to my wife I can’t remember. As every reader will have noticed, she disappears at intervals from these stories. Some day I shall watch her, after the methods of my revered master, Sherlock Holmes. Anyhow, I was sitting in the front room at Baker Street when the door-bell rang. I had already learned to distinguish many sorts of ringing—the routine ringing, for instance, of the baker; the Wagnerian ringing of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ relations who think they have a claim on me; the
hopeless ringing of the dun; the expectant ringing of the boon-companion; and the merely enragé ringing of the incurable maniac.
But I had hardly time to turn up my classification of ringing when my visitor was announced, and a middle-aged woman of below the middle height was ushered into the room. She had a splash of yolk of egg on her jacket, from which I concluded that she was not penniless, or she would have had no breakfast, and that she was of an untidy habit, while, from the muddy bootlace that trailed on the carpet, I inferred with lightning rapidity that she was in a hurry and had also probably walked here. At her throat she wore a diamond, which I saw at once to be worth a king’s ransom, and from the fact that she was smoking a short clay pipe I gathered she was not English, or, at any rate, not belonging to the so-called fashionable world of London.
So, adopting my usual confidential professional manner—“Well, my good woman,” I said, “what can I do for you?”
A middle-aged woman . . . was ushered into the room.
The crone replied in a slightly cracked voice. “Is it Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she said.
The temptation—if indeed it was a temptation—prevailed. It would have been tedious to explain to her that I was his greater chronicler, adducing the obvious parallel of Johnson and Boswell; and, indeed, I doubted whether she had ever heard of either.
“You may speak to me quite frankly,” I said. “I only wish my friend Lord—I mean Mr. Watson was here, whom I often consult in cases where superior penetration is required.”
As I spoke I dropped my eyes to adjust the stethoscope that was sticking out of my pocket. It is my custom—rightly or wrongly, I do not know—to carry my stethoscope somewhere where it can be easily seen, as it leads to patients. As I did this, I heard a faint chuckle, and remembered whom I impersonated.
So I lit an ounce or two of shag tobacco, and, closing my eyes slightly, extemporised on my late friend’s violin.
