The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes II

by Sebastian Wolfe (ed)

  We had been swept along to the accompaniment of this rear-action smoke-screen—through the parlour of posthumous preserves with its synthetic sunlight, firelight and flesh—into that passage leading to the final sanctuary. The small door on the left was swung open: and there was Sibon as still as the Statues of Memnon and more silent.

  The only change was that the light seemed even kinder, more rosy. But when I brought myself to scan the too too solid Form of Sibon, I viewed it with repugnance. Mr. Mycroft’s interest was as great, though without repugnance. He was peering down at it with little grunts of admiring recognition. I glanced up and saw Mr. Montalba’s own glassy good form relax for a moment with a gleam of triumph.

  ‘A pretty piece of work, you allow, Mr. Mycroft?’

  ‘Remarkable, indeed.’

  And with that Mr. Mycroft whipped out of his pocket a large pair of horned-rimmed spectacles and popped them onto his nose. I would have been far less startled had he whipped out a pair of handcuffs and clapped them onto Mr. Montalba’s wrists. For I knew my old dominie’s eyes were sharper than anyone’s. He used to say, ‘Picking up clues exercises the eye muscles.’ I could only think that the rosy glow threw out his vision temporarily. But it was clear that the glasses didn’t help. More it was clear that he couldn’t have been used to wearing them. For he had no sooner leaned forward to study the exhibit, than the spectacles slid down his long nose so swiftly that before he could catch them, they fell plump on the plump Sibon hand which lay relaxed in its lap.

  ‘Oh, forgive me. Pm new to glasses. My admiration made me anxious not to miss the really wonderful detail.’ He retrieved the glasses deftly and popped them closed into his pocket.

  ‘Too kind, too kind,’ he murmured turning to Mr. Montalba, who was already bowing us through the door. ‘Quite wonderful. Who can deny progress when at last here we see Time arrested?’

  ‘Truly glad that you appreciate our effort to round out and complete the modern programme of social endeavour.’

  The two masked fencers kept up their rally until the front door closed between them. I was at a loss to know which had scored most points. Neither seemed to have made an actual ‘touch.’

  And in the automobile Mr. Mycroft, perhaps I need hardly say, did not enlighten me. When we were back in our apartment he still preserved his silence. I took up a book. But he didn’t do anything but sit. Then after a few minutes I saw him move. He put his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out those glasses. He looked at them; not through them. He was examining the right-hand hinge. He began to work at the hinge and then drew towards him a small piece of notepaper. On working the hinge again, he seemed content and put the glasses aside on the table and picked up the small sheet. Then he took that rather melodramatic lens out of his waistcoat pocket and began to study the paper.

  Bored with watching this routine—as routine as a cat washing its whiskers when the mouse had temporarily given it the slip—I idly picked up the spectacles Mr. Mycroft had abandoned. I tried one lens and then the other. Finally I slipped them on.

  ‘But these . . .’ I began. And then the silly things slid off my nose just as, in the obsequarium, they had skidded down from Mr. Mycroft’s beak. The small clatter and my unfinished sentence made Mr. Mycroft look up.

  ‘You’re surprised at the simplicity of those lenses?’ he questioned. ‘The spectacles are made—as you’ve demonstrated—rather to give the slip than to detect it. But if you will look you’ll see they’re sharp enough in their way. That’s blood on your finger.’

  I saw I’d made a small but clean little cut on my knuckles as I’d tried to save the silly stage-property spectacles from falling.

  ‘I don’t see why you should fool about with sham spectacles that won’t even stay on, and are so badly made as to scratch one’s fingers.’

  I was a little tart. But Mr. Mycroft had gone back to considering his scrap of paper. After dabbing my finger with iodine, I saw Mr. Mycroft rise, fetch his microscope, and put his precious scrap on its specimen rack. That, though, didn’t satisfy him and he fetched an electric torch to add to the illumination. After all, I thought, maybe his eyes are going. But the torch didn’t seem to help either. Instead, he now began poking at his precious object with a small glass rod which he took out of a phial. Suddenly the whole thing seemed to bore him. He put the microscope aside, not troubling even to remove the small piece of paper which he had been studying, and remarking over his shoulder, ‘I’ve a call to make,’ left the room. He was back, though, in a couple of minutes saying, ‘It’s not to late to make a call.’

  ‘I thought you’d made one,’ I began. But he didn’t seem to hear and did assume that I was going along with him. ‘Hotel Magnifique,’ which he said to the taximan as we got into the cab, made me assume that he was going again to try and pump its bland but ultra-discreet management about its late guest. The reception clerk’s ‘M. Sibon is away’ was certainly a parry. Mr. Mycroft’s ‘But his valet’s in: I’ll leave a message with him’ swept it aside and in a couple of minutes we found ourselves standing outside the door of the late Sibon’s luxurious suite. Nor did we experience a check there. The door was opened by the dapper, very French-looking man-servant who had admitted us on our original visit. As before, he bowed so low that his black pointed beard must have stuck into his cravat while he presented to us a mass of black polished hair smooth as silk. I thought he started for an instant when Mr. Mycroft shot out: ‘Is M. Sibon at home? Then bending still lower and with a catch in his voice:

  ‘Haven’t you heard, sir? Called away, called away.’

  I was just wondering whether this was a euphemism for falling into Mr. Montalba’s very asserting hands, when the valet added, ‘He left a note for you, sir. I didn’t know you’d call this evening. I have it in the pantry,’ and he stepped back into a small side door which evidently led to the servant’s quarters. The door swung to behind him. But Mr. Mycroft was just in time to prevent it latching. He flung it back, I followed, and we hurried into the small pantry, just as the door at its other end snapped to.

  ‘Through the dining-room!’ called Mr. Mycroft, wheeling round on me. We doubled back, raced through the dining-room into the kitchen. As we reached it we heard the sound of the service elevator on the back staircase begin to whir. We were out on those stairs in five seconds but only to catch sight of the floor of the elevator ascending.

  ‘Up the stairs!’ Mr. Mycroft was already up half a dozen of the steps. What he was up to, chasing a dead man’s valet, I couldn’t imagine, but I felt I couldn’t leave the old fellow now. Fortunately Sibon had liked penthouse privacy, so we had only one fight to scramble. As we tumbled out on the roof I saw the valet looking back at us, his strained face clear in the light from the well shaft. To my huge relief he made no stand, and as even the smallest dog will chase a bull if it turns tail, I rushed after Mr. Mycroft. The roof area of the Magnifique is not only extensive, it is also rich in what golf players call hazards. I tripped over pipes, doubled round flues and chimneys in the wake of Mr. Mycroft’s comet-like coat, and stumbled in rain gutters. It was after one of these that I lost the hunt and only after peering round half a dozen smokestacks, at last came upon Mr. Mycroft kneeling. Beside him, seated rather carelessly against a cased-in pipe, was the valet. He was certainly very much out of breath—far more than either of us, though he had had a lift-start. Then, through the panting, I could hear him saying to Mr. Mycroft, ‘In my left upper waistcoat pocket. Quick. It’s Amyl Nitrate.’ Without a word Mr. Mycroft did as he was told and put something to the valet’s nose; then he remarked slowly, ‘You shouldn’t practise such exercises.’

  The other said faintly, ‘I ran because I was frightened and my heart gave out.’

  ‘No, no,’ came the reply. ‘You speak English as well as I do. I said exercises not exercise. Your heart hasn’t given out just because of this evening’s amble over the eaves.’ The valet’s ‘How do you know?’ left me more lost than ever. And Mr. Mycroft’s ‘Beca
use I’m as fit as I am,’ completed my bewilderment. But neither had a moment’s care for my unenlightened condition. They were quite taken up with each other. Evidently Mr. Mycroft could remember me as soon as I could be of any use. He had hold of the valet, how or why it was too dark to see, and without turning said, ‘Go down and get the hotel doctor at once.’

  In five minutes I was back with the very capable medico which the Magnifique retained for its guests. We brought a couple of torches with us. As soon as we picked up Mr. Mycroft I saw that the valet was gone. In his place, looking far less life-like than Mr. Montalba’s creation, lay Sibon.

  ‘Dr. Armstrong,’ Mr. Mycroft had turned on us. ‘Please examine this body. I believe he is now dead.’ The doctor knelt beside Mr. Mycroft. After a moment I heard him say, ‘Yes, yes, not a doubt about it. He’s limp enough now . . . But I don’t understand . . . how . . .?’

  ‘Oh, you were quite justified considering your premises,’ replied Mr. Mycroft. ‘I must keep the actual Hows and Whys for the Police. A plain-clothes man has at my request been stationed at the main entrance the last hour. If you would be so good as to stay with the body, I’ll drop down and have a word with him. Come, Mr. Silchester.’ The word was quite brief. They seemed to understand each other. The quietly dressed man who looked as though he might be an insurance agent slipped across the big lounge and disappeared towards the back premises.

  ‘We shan’t be wanted till tomorrow and then you needn’t come. I expect you’ve had enough of even the most modern of morgues and where Aristide Sibon’s Form will rest tonight—and be interviewed tomorrow—is not a very obsequious obsequarium. And now for dinner.’

  In spite of our hunt having ended in a morte, I must say we both did justice to our evening meal. My curiosity revived. And evidently Mr. Mycroft was also relaxed and ready to feed my mind as well as I had fed his form.

  I began naturally at the end: ‘I thought that Dr. Armstrong signed Sibon’s death certificate a couple of days ago?’

  ‘He certainly did. Without that, not even Mr. Montalba’s patter could have won him “the fair desired form.” ’

  ‘But I don’t understand

  ‘Don’t you think we might omit the obvious?’ asked Mr. My croft, smiling. ‘The story has points, I own, which only out-of-the-way knowledge would catch. I shall enjoy running over them. First, we are agreed Dr. Armstrong is capable. Dr. Armstrong sees Sibon, sees him alive, and sees him, he is equally sure, dead. The certificate is Syncope. But you remember the doctor’s remark, “He’s limp enough now”?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a natural enough remark . . . simply meant he was dead.’

  ‘That bulb is quite hot,’ said Mr. Mycroft’s voice in my ear. ‘But, you see, the scrap of mastic does not soften. So it isn’t paraffin wax, the basis for the Aeternitas treatment. But this essential oil, on the glass rod tip, does begin to melt it.’

  True enough, as the rod touched the lump it began to ‘lose form.’ Mr. Mycroft pushed the microscope away.

  ‘That scrap is not from a body treated by the Aeternitas method. It’s from a gutta-percha model. I knew in that sunset-glowing room, I’d have to touch that Form to make sure. Pink light’s the devil’s delight: you can’t see anything in it clearly and you think you can. That’s why mediums love a rosy illumination. More, I should really get an actual specimen. So I had these glasses made with the facet of one of the hinges as sharp as a razor—like a small scoop. And I took care, of course, that the spectacles themselves didn’t fit, and so would be sure to fall off my nose onto the Form’s hand as soon as I peered admiringly at it. As I retrieved my clumsy blunder, it was easy to make the little blade dredge a specimen of the skin.’

  ‘So I saw Sibon—the real Sibon!’

  ‘You had that honour. Mr. Montalba probably thought he’d better show you that Sibon was there and as the model wasn’t ready, and he feared such a call, he kept Sibon in trance. Had he felt safe and had time, no doubt he’d have taken the crook out of his catalepsy sooner. But he wasn’t going to take the risk of being found without the body and, should a search be called for, the discovery of a half-made model. That would have been too awkward. So he took the risk with his sleeping partner instead, who for once had to stay as he was put and not even speak when spoken to.’

  ‘Risk?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very considerable. He kept him longer in catalepsy than is safe. Of course, men who are amazingly fit can stay “out” for many days. But not Sibon. The exercise is not to be recommended for the heart and Sibon had a heart, either from that kind of effort at lying low or the opposite effort of keeping on the run—perhaps both combined. Well, after you leave, Mr. Montalba does bring him to and substitutes the model. Sibon can then go back to the Magnifique. The safest place, when you’re wanted, is home—if you’re disguised; and he was—as his valet.’

  ‘But where was his valet?’

  ‘He was. That was rather neat preparation, don’t you think? Remember when we called—there was a pause after the valet went to call him and then the great man graciously came out himself and welcomed us. The pause, of course, was because, in theatre language, he was “doubling the parts” and so he had to make a “quick change.” As soon as I was quite sure that was a guttapercha model, I knew that Sibon was back at his hotel. The phone call I then made was to the police—to tell them to watch the downstairs exits and arrest Mr. Sibon’s valet, if he tried to leave. I knew then he’d bolt for the roof. He’d soon find that the police were on below. Those men are always inspecting their exists, as a bird turns round between every pull at a worm—second nature. He’d feel safe, though, in his disguise, with an alibi body amply viewed elsewhere. He’d bolt only when we turned up. I guessed we’d have an easy run, for I was pretty sure with all those cataleptic tricks he’d have a bad heart. Still I thought we’d have a catch, not a kill. Both those fellows, Sibon and Montalba, are by nature largely mountebanks. But one played possum once too often. If you play at death, that grim player may take you in earnest.’

  ‘Poor Sibon! He should have been a psychologist. Fancy going to India and learning so much about the mind-body just to get away safely with a few gewgaws and trinkets—most of them in execrable taste.’

  ‘But I understand he stole some of the finest jewels in Asia!’

  ‘Still I repeat,’ said Mr. Mycroft, getting up and moving towards his bedroom door, ‘Sibon brought back only the pearl case, not the pearl, or the synthetic instead of the real pearl in the lotus, if you like that better.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ hopped out from my lips like the frog instead of the pearl in the fairy story.

  He smiled as he opened the door and passed through. ‘Well, sleep wisely but not too well and don’t dream to much about good form.’

  A Trifling Affair

  H. R. F. Keating

  Trifles, Sherlock Holmes was wont to remark, may bear an importance altogether contrary to their apparent worth, and I venture to think that there cannot have been a case more trifling in all Holmes’s adventures than that of the affair of the poet of childhood and the ink-blotted verse volume. Yet, unimportant though it was, it nevertheless had in it for me a lesson which I hope I shall not forget.

  It was a day in the spring of 1898 when from among the early post Holmes selected a particular letter, still in its envelope, and tossed it to me across the breakfast table.

  ‘Well, Watson,’ he said, ‘tell me what you make of that. A somewhat unusual missive for a consulting detective to receive, I think.’

  I took the envelope and turned it over once or twice in my hands. It appeared to be of no particular distinction. The paper was neither cheap nor very expensive. The postmark, I saw, was that of Brighton and Hove for the previous afternoon. The writing of the address, ‘Sherlock Holmes Esq., 221B Baker Street, London W.’, was plainly that of a gentleman, though the letters were not perhaps as confidently formed as they might have been. The sole peculiarity that I could observe was that the writer’s name ha
d been put upon the reverse of the envelope, ‘Phillip Hughes Esq.’.

  ‘Possibly an American who writes,’ I ventured at last, when from the tapping of Holmes’s lean fingers on the tablecloth I became aware of his impatience. ‘I believe that the custom of putting the writer’s name on the outside of a letter is more practised on the far side of the Atalantic than here. And certainly the handwriting is not that of any contintental.’

  ‘Good, Watson. Excellent. Clearly my correspondent does not come from the Continent of Europe. But is there no more you can tell from the plentiful signs that any person addressing an envelope is bound to leave behind?’

  I looked at the letter once more, a little mortified that Holmes had added his disparaging rider to the praise for my first deduction.

  ‘Perhaps the writer was in a state of some perturbation,’ I suggested. ‘The formation of some of the letters is certainly rather ragged, although the hand in itself is by no means uneducated. It is just the sort I learnt painfully at school myself.’

  Holmes clapped his hands in delight.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Watson. You have gone to the heart of it with all your usual perspicacity. ’

  I busied myself in taking s( e marmalade. The truth of the matter was that I could not for the life of me see in what I had been so perspicacious, though I was not sorry to have earned Holmes’s unstinted praise.

  A silence fell. Darting a glance at my companion from my perhaps over-busy buttering of my hot toast, I found that he was leaning back in his chair, half-empty coffee cup neglected, regarding me with unremitting steadiness.

  I was constrained to look back at him.

  ‘You have no further comment to make?’ he asked me at last.