‘I think not, Mr. Pons, if you will hear me out.’
‘Proceed.’
‘One of our most scientifically advanced bands of criminals is named the Club Cerise, after the favorite color of its leader, Moriarty. They—’
‘Moriarty!’ exclaimed Pons.
‘Yes, Mr. Pons. Moriarty. The name is familiar to you prehaps?’
‘Indeed it is!’ Pons was silent for a moment, his eyes closed. ‘You know, Parker,’ he said after a moment, ‘I have always felt that one death at the Reichenbach was as false as the other.’ He sat up in his chair, his gaze now intent on our visitor. ‘Pray continue, Mr. Athelney! Where my illustrious predecessor could achieve but a stalemate, it seems that you offer me the opportunity for complete victory!’
‘Well, then, Mr. Pons,’ our visitor resumed, ‘you will not be surprised to learn that Moriarty and his band have managed to escape retribution for some time, and it is in regard to their apprehension that I seek your assistance. The criminal method they have developed is based on the same discovery that allows my presence here. Moriarty and his Club Cerise have been making a practice of invading space-time continua in less developed eras than our own, and, utilizing our most advanced weapons and devices to assure their escape, have been despoiling these universes of their art treasures. Not long ago, for example, they went into a Twentieth Century universe and obtained a Da Vinci, a half dozen Rembrandts, and a priceless collection of Kellys.’
Pons’ eyes widened a trifle. ‘You are suggesting that the Irish have developed an artist of the stature of Da Vinci, Mr. Athelney?’
‘Indeed, yes. A fellow named Kelly created a work of genius called Pogo, which appeared in hundreds of newspapers of his day. These were Pogo originals, including some of the very rare pre-strip drawings. With his fabulously valuable treasure, Moriarty and his band managed to return to our own space-time continuum. Obviously, we cannot punish them in our universe, since they have committed no crime there. Under ordinary circumstances, it would be possible to extradite them to the universe they plundered—but there are almost insurmountable complications.’
Pons smiled, still giving no evidence of being in the slightest troubled by the mad, ingenious account of our prospective client. ‘I daresay “insurmountable” is the word to describe the problems attendant upon extradition of a group of criminals from a country which doesn’t exist in the universe where the crime was committed. I submit that a Twentieth Century nation might be compelled to adopt extraordinary protective measures—if indeed these would be adequate—to deal with criminals seven centuries in advance of the police of that period.’ But now he shook his head, with a gentle smile on his thin lips. ‘But we must stop considering these ramifactions, or we shall soon find ourselves involved in the higher mathematics of space and time.’
‘The importance of the problem is greater than might at first be evident,’ continued our visitor. ‘Given continued success on the part of Moriarty and his Club Cerise, there can be no doubt that other such bands will soon emulate them, and that eventually endless numbers of space-time pirates will give up other pursuits to devote themselves to the plundering of weaker continua with this type of snitch.’
‘Snitch?’ I repeated.
‘Elementary, Parker,’ murmured Pons impatiently. ‘Obviously idiomatic for “theft”.’
‘The ultimate possibility will not have escaped you, Mr. Pons,’ continued our client. ‘Sooner or later, the increasing numbers of criminals would arrive in this space-time continuum and in this era.’
I could not be sure, but it seemed to me that at this suggestion a little color drained from Pons’ cheeks. And, if a shudder went through that lean frame, he was again under perfect control within moments. He sat then in silence, his eyes closed, his head sunk to his chest with his fingertips gently tapping together.
Our visitor waited in silence.
Pons opened his eyes presently and asked, ‘Pray tell me, Mr. Athelney—do you have income taxes in your world?’ Athelney groaned. ‘My dear fellow, last year my taxes were unbelievably high. Bureaucracy runs rampant!’
‘Capital, capital!’ exclaimed Pons. ‘Why not prosecute Moriarty for tax evasion?’
Our visitor shook his head dolefully. ‘The criminals of our days are advanced, Mr. Pons. They pay their taxes.’ Once again Pons retreated into silence, taking time now to light up his calabash. But this time his silence was broken more quickly.
‘I have some modest knowledge of British law, Mr. Athelney,’ said Pons, ‘but your laws may well differ. What type of social system prevails in your world and time?’
‘It is usually referred to as Industrial Feudalism.’
‘I am not familiar with the term, though I can guess its meaning. Pray elucidate.’
‘In the same manner that Feudalism evolved from Chattel Slavery, and Capitalism from Feudalism, so Industrial Feudalism has evolved in our continuum from Capitalism. Ownership has contracted until a few princes of finance, a few industrial barons and lords of transportation completely control the government and practically all the wealth.’
‘Do national boundaries still prevail.’
‘Terra is united, but we have loose ties with the other planets of the Solar System.’
‘Then doubtless you have tariff laws between the various planets.’
‘Very rigid ones. Last month we apprehended some Martians smuggling duppl berries; they were given ten years.’
‘I submit you have an obvious trap in which to take Moriarty and his Club Cerise, Mr. Athelney. They must pay import taxes on those art objects. Failure to do so puts them afoul of the law.’
Our client smiled broadly. ‘I do believe, Mr. Pons, you have arrived at a solution to our problem.’
He came to his feet.
‘I suggest your government pass such tariff restrictions as to make imports from other space-time continua prohibitive. Such a move, in view of the fact that the criminals of your time are so advanced as to pay their taxes, would in all likelihood prevent further depredations.’
Though our client was manifestly anxious to be off, he hesitated. ‘I wish there were some way in which I could remunerate you, Mr. Pons. Unfortunately, we do not use the same system of exchange. All I can do is offer profound thanks in the name of my continuum.’
‘There is surely remuneration enough implied in the promise that we will not be victimized here in our time and world by such as Moriarty,’ said Pons. ‘But, stay, Mr. Athelney—I perceive you are still troubled by some aspect of the matter.’
Our client turned from the threshold, to which he had walked. He smiled wryly. ’I fear, Mr. Pons, that this is but the initial step in our problem. Moriarty, when he learned I was to travel hither in search of the greatest detective of all time, took certain protective measures. He sent one of his own men to another space-time continuum to acquire the services of a most astute lawyer named Randolph Mason.’
‘Pray be reassured,’ responded Pons instantly. ‘I can refer you to a rising young contemporary, who promises to be even greater, and is gaining a challenging reputation in the legal circles of his world. By an odd coincidence, not uncommon to fiction, he bears a similar family name. His given name, I believe, is Perry. My correspondents on the west coast of the United States have given me flattering reports of his talents. You will find him in Los Angeles, I believe. I commend him to your government. Good afternoon, Mr. Athelney.’
As soon as the door had closed behind our visitor, I turned to Pons. ‘Should not one of us slip after him and notify the authorities of his escape?’
Pons walked to the window and looked out into the fog. Without turning, he asked. ‘You thought him a lunatic, Parker?’
‘Surely that was obvious!’
‘Was it, indeed!’ Pons shook his head. ‘I sometimes think, Parker, that that happy faculty for observation which seems to come so readily to me encounters obstacles of demoralizing stubbornness in you.’
‘Pons!’ I exclai
med hotly, ‘you cannot have been taken in by this—this mountebank and his hoax?’
‘Was he both lunatic and mountebank, then?’ asked
Pons, smiling in that superior manner which always galled me.
‘What does it matter which he was? He was certainly one or the other.’
‘If a mountebank, what was his motive? If a lunatic, how did he find his way here in this fog, which is surely as thick as any we have ever had? I fear some of us have an unhappy tendency to dismiss the incredible solely because it is incredible to us. Tell me, Parker, have you ever contemplated setting forth in the form of fiction these little adventures of mine in the field of ratiocination?’
I hesitated to answer.
‘Come, come, Parker, it is evident that you have.’
‘I confess, I have thought of it.’
‘You have not yet done so?’
‘No, Pons, I swear it.’
‘You have spoken of your plans to no one?’
‘No.’
‘Our late client spoke of you as a literary doctor. “The famous literary doctor” were his exact words, I believe. If he were but a lunatic or mountebank, as you will have him, how came he then to know of your innermost hope and ambition in this regard? Or is there some secret communion between lunatics and mountebanks? I perceive, thanks to our Mr. Athelney, that, without regard to my wishes, you are destined to become a literary man at the expense of my modest powers.’
‘Pons, I swear I have never put pen to paper,’ I cried. ‘But you will, Parker, you will. May I remind you of my distinguished predecessor’s credo, that when all probable explanations have been shown false, the improbable, no matter how incredible, alone remains? This, I fancy, is one little adventure you will not be able to chronicle without a furtive blush or two.’
In this, at least, my companion was correct.
The Adventure of
the Dog in the Knight
Robert L. Fish
In glancing through my notebook delineating the many odd adventures which I was fortunate enough to share with my good friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the early months of the year ’68, I find it difficult to select any single one as being truly indicative of his profound ability to apply his personal type of analytical Verwirrung, which, taken at its ebb, so often led him on to success.
There was, of course, the case of the nefarious card-cheat whom Homes so cleverly unmasked in a young men’s health organization in the small village of Downtree in Harts—a case I find noted in my journal as The Adventure of the Y-Bridge. It is also true that during this period he was of particular assistance to the British Association of Morticians in a case whose details are buried somewhere in my files but which resulted, as I recall, in a National Day being set aside in their honor. While it remains a relatively unimportant matter, the tale still is recorded in my case-book as The Boxing-Day Affair.
However, in general those early months were fruitless, and it was not until the second quarter of the year that a case of truly significant merit drew his attention. In my entry for the period of 15/16 April, ’68, I find the case listed as The Adventure of the Dog in the Knight.
It had been an unpleasantly damp day, with a drizzle compounded by a miasmic fog that kept us sequestered in our quarters at 221B Bagel Street; but evening brought relief in the form of a brisk breeze that quickly cleared the heavy air. ‘We have been in too long,’ Homes said, eyeing me queryingly. ‘I suggest a walk to clear away the cobwebs.’
I was more than willing. Homes had spent his day at the laboratory bench, and between the stench of his chemicals and the acrid odor of his Pakistanis, the room fairly reeked. For several hours we roamed the byways of our beloved London, our coat collars high against the evening chill, stopping on occasion at various pubs to ascertain the hour. It was eight o’clock exactly when we arrived back at our rooms, and it was to find a hansom cab standing at the kerb before our door.
‘Ah,’ Homes observed, eyeing the conveyance sharply. ‘A visitor from Scotland Yard, I see!’
I was sufficiently conversant with Homes’s methods by this time to readily follow his reasoning; for the crest of the Yard—three feet rampant on a field of corn—was emblazoned both on the door and the rear panel of the coach, clearly visible under the gas-lamp before our house, and the jehu sitting patiently on the box was both uniformed and helmeted. With some curiosity as to the reason for this late visit, I followed Homes up the stairs and into our quarters.
A familiar figure rose from a chair beside the unlit fireplace and turned to face us. It was none other than Inspector Balustrade, an old antagonist whose overbearing manner and pompous posturing had long grated upon both Homes’s nerves and my own. Before we could even discard our outer garments he was speaking in his usual truculent manner.
‘My advice to you, Homes,’ he said a bit threateningly, ‘is to keep your hands off the Caudal Hall affair. We have an open-and-shut case, and any interference on your part can only cause the luckless miscreant unwarranted and futile hope. In fact,’ he continued, looking fiercer than ever, ‘I believe I shall go so far as to demand that you leave the matter alone!’
Schlock Homes was quite the wrong person to address in bach words and tones. ‘Inspector Balustrade, do not rail at me!’ said he sharply. He doffed his coat and deerstalker, tossing them carelessly upon a chair, striding forward to face the Inspector. ‘I take those cases that interest me, and it is my decision alone that determines which they shall be.’
‘Ah!’ Inspector Balustrade’s tiny eyes lit up in self-congratulation. ‘I knew it—I knew it! I merely wished to confirm my suspicions. So they’ve been at you, eh? And, by the look of things, bought you! Lock, stock, and barrel!’
‘Eh?’
‘The lawyer chappies, that is,’ Balustrade continued. ‘Well, you’re wasting your time listening to them, Mr. Homes. There is no doubt of the culprit’s guilt.’ He smiled, a sneering smile. ‘Or do you honestly believe you have sufficient evidence to contradict that statement?’
‘What I think is my affair,’ Homes said, eyeing the man distastefully. ‘You have delivered your message, Inspector, so I see little to be gained by your continued presence here.’
‘As you wish, Mr. Homes,’ Balustrade said with mock severity. He picked up his ulster, clamped his bowler firmly to his head, and moved to the door. ‘But Dr. Watney here can bear witness that I did my best to save you from making a fool of yourself!’ And with a chuckle he disappeared down the stairs.
‘Homes!’ I said chidingly, ‘A new case, and you did not inform me?’
‘Believe me,’ he said sincerely, ‘I know nothing of this. I have no idea what the Inspector was talking of.’ He contemplated me with a frown. ‘Is it possible, Watney, that we have inadvertently missed some items of importance in the morning journal?’
‘It would be most unusual, Homes,’ I began, and then suddenly remembered something. ‘I do recall, now, Mrs. Essex borrowing the front page of the Globe to wrap some boots for the cobbler’s boy to pick up, but if I’m not mistaken, the lad failed to appear. Let me get it and see if it can cast any light on this mystery.’
I hurried into the scullery, returning in moments with the missing sheet. I spread it open upon the table, pressing out the creases, while Homes came to stand at my side.
‘Ah!’ said he, pointing triumphantly. ‘There it is!’ He bent closer, reading the words half-aloud. ‘Tragic Affair at Caudal Manor. But where is the—? Ah, here it is, just beneath the headline.’ He smiled in satisfaction at his discovery, and read on:
‘ “Late last evening an unfortunate incident occurred at Caudal Manor, the country estate in Kent of Sir Francis Gibbon, the 62-year-old Knight of the Realm. A small dinner party was in progress, at which the only guests were Sir Francis’ sister-in-law, Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon, who is married to Sir Francis’ younger and only brother and who has often acted at hostess for her bachelor brother-in-law; and a Mr. John Wain, a young visitor from the Colony of California,
a chemist by trade, who is staying with Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon as a house-guest. Mr. Gabriel, two years younger than his illustrious brother, was absent, having claimed he preferred to see his romance at the theatre rather than at home, and for this reason was spending his evening at the latest Boucicault offering in Piccadilly. Readers of the society news may recall that the beauteous Mrs. Gibbon, like Mr. Wain, was also a colonial from California at the time of her marriage two years ago.
‘“The main course, chosen out of deference to their foreign guest, was frankfurters—called ‘hot-dogs’ abroad—which was also a favourite dish of his Lordship, Sir Francis. This course had already been consumed, washed down with ale, and a bitter-almond tart had also been eaten, when Sir Francis suddenly gasped, turned pale, and seemed to be having difficulty in his breathing and his speech; then, in a high nasal voice, he apologized to his guests for suffering from a stomach indisposition and stumbled out of the room. As quickly as the other two could finish their dessert, coffee, and brandy, and avail themselves of the fingerbowls, they hurried into the drawing-room to offer succor; but Sir Francis was sprawled on the rug in a comatose state and died before medical assistance could be summoned.
‘“Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon was extremely distraught, and exclaimed, ‘I didn’t think my brother-in-law looked well for some time, and I often warned him that bolting down hot-dogs was bad for his heart condition, so I really cannot claim to be surprised by this sudden cardiac seizure, although I am, of course, quite heart-broken.’ Her physician was called and offered her a sedative, but Mrs. Gibbon bravely insisted upon completing her duties as hostess, even demonstrating sufficient control to supervise the maids in the clearing and thorough washing and drying of the dishes, as well as the incineration of all the leftovers.
‘ “Students of Debrett will recall that the Gibbon family seat, Caudal Hall, was entailed for a period of ten generations by King George III, at the time the land, titles, and rights were bestowed on the first Gibbon to be knighted. The entailing of an estate, as we are sure our readers know, means that during this period the property must be passed on and cannot be sold or otherwise disposed of. With the death of Sir Francis, this condition has now ceased to be in effect, and Mr. Gabriel is now free to dispose of the estate as he chooses, or pass it on to his heirs in legal manner. Under the conditions of the original knighthood conferred on the first Gibbon, the title also continued for this period of ten generations, so Mr. Gabriel will only be entitled to be called Sir by his servants and those of his friends who dislike informality.” ’
The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes II Page 7
