The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes II

by Sebastian Wolfe (ed)

  The Great Detective reeled and leaned up against the side of the room. So! The cold-blooded admission of the beautiful woman for the moment took away his breath! Herself the mother of the young Bourbon, misallied with one of the greatest families of Europe, staking her fortune on a Royalist plot, and yet with so instinctive a knowledge of European politics as to know that any removal of the hereditary birth-marks of the Prince would forfeit for him the sympathy of the French populace.

  The Countess resumed her tiara.

  She left.

  The secretary re-entered.

  ‘I have three telegrams from Paris,’ he said, ‘they are completely baffling.’

  He handed over the first telegram.

  It read:

  ‘The Prince of Wurttemberg has a long, wet snout, broad ears, very long body, and short hind legs.’

  The Great Detective looked puzzled.

  He read the second telegram.

  ‘The Prince of Wurttemberg is easily recognized by his deep bark.’

  And then the third.

  ‘The Prince of Wurttemberg can be recognized by the patch of white hair across the centre of his back.’

  The two men looked at one another. The mystery was maddening, impenetrable.

  The Great Detective spoke.

  ‘Give me my domino,’ he said. ‘These clues must be followed up,’ then pausing, while his quick brain analysed and summed up the evidence before him—‘a young man,’ he muttered, ‘evidently young since described as a “pup,” with a long, wet snout (ha! addicted obviously to drinking), a streak of white hair across his back (a first sign of the results of his abandoned life)—yes, yes,’ he continued, ‘with this clue I shall find him easily.’

  The Great Detective rose.

  He wrapped himself in a long black cloak with white whiskers and blue spectacles attached.

  Completely disguised, he issued forth.

  He began to search.

  For four days he visited every corner of London.

  He entered every saloon in the city. In each of them he drank a glass of rum. In some of them he assumed the disguise of a sailor. In others he entered as a soldier. Into others he penetrated as a clergyman. His disguise was perfect. Nobody paid any attention to him as long as he had the price of a drink.

  The search proved fruitless.

  Two young men were arrested under suspicion of being the Prince, only to be released.

  The identification was imcomplete in each case.

  One had a long wet snout but no hair on his back.

  The other had hair on his back but couldn’t bark.

  Neither of them was the young Bourbon.

  The Great Detective continued his search.

  He stopped at nothing.

  Secretly, after nightfall, he visited the home of the Prime Minister. He examined it from top to bottom. He measured all the doors and windows. He took up the flooring. He inspected the plumbing. He examined the furniture. He found nothing.

  With equal secrecy he penetrated into the palace of the Archbishop. He examined it from top to bottom. Disguised as a choir-boy he took part in the offices of the church. He found nothing.

  Still undismayed, the Great Detective made his way into the home of the Countess of Dashleigh. Diguised as a housemaid, he entered the service of the Countess.

  Then at last the clue came which gave him a solution of the mystery.

  On the wall of the Countess’ boudoir was a large framed engraving.

  It was a portrait.

  Under it was a printed legend:

  THE PRINCE OF WURTTEMBERG

  The portrait was that of a dachshund.

  The long body, the broad ears, the unclipped tail, the short hind legs—all was there.

  In the fraction of a second the lightning mind of the Great Detective had penetrated the whole mystery.

  The prince was a dog!!!!

  Hastily throwing a domino over his housemaid’s dress, he rushed to the street. He summoned a passing hansom, and in a few minutes was at his house.

  ‘I have it,’ he gasped to his secretary, ‘the mystery is solved. I have pieced it together. By sheer analysis I have reasoned it out. Listen—hind legs, hair on back, wet snout, pup—eh, what? Does that suggest nothing to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the secreatry; ‘it seems perfecly hopeless.’

  The Great Detective, now recovered from his excitement, smiled faintly.

  ‘It means simply this, my dear fellow. The Prince of Wurttemberg is a dog, a prize dachshund. The Countess of Dashleigh bred him, and he is worth some £25,000 in addition to the prize of £10,000 offered at the Paris dog show. Can you wonder that—’

  At that moment the Great Detective was interrupted by the scream of a woman.

  ‘Great Heaven!’

  The Countess of Dashleigh dashed into the room.

  Her face was wild.

  Her tiara was in disorder.

  Her pearls were dripping all over the place.

  She wrung her hand and moaned.

  ‘They have cut his tail,’ she gasped, ‘and taken all the hair off his back. What can I do? I am undone!’

  ‘Madame,’ said the Great Detective, calm as bronze, ‘do yourself up. I can save you yet.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Listen. This is how. The Prince was to have been shown at Paris.’

  The Countess nodded.

  ‘Your fortune was staked on him?’

  The Countess nodded again.

  ‘The dog was stolen, carried to London, his tail cut and his marks disfigured.’

  Amazed at the quiet penetration of the Great Detective, the Countess kept on nodding and nodding.

  ‘And you are ruined?’

  ‘I am,’ she gasped, and sank down on the floor in a heap of pearls.

  ‘Madame,’ said the Great Detective, ‘all is not lost.’

  He straightened himself up to his full height. A look of inflinchable unflexibility flickered over his features.

  The honour of England, the fortune of the most beautiful woman in England was at stake.

  ‘I will do it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Rise, dear lady,’ he continued. ‘Fear nothing. I will IMPERSONATE THE DOG!!!’

  That night the Great Detective might have been seen on the deck of the Calais packet-boat with his secretary. He was on his hands and knees in a long black cloak, and his secretary had him on a short chain.

  He barked at the waves exultingly and licked the secretary’s hand.

  ‘What a beautiful dog,’ said the passengers.

  The disguise was absolutely complete.

  The Great Detective had been coated over with mucilage to which dogs hairs had been applied. The markings on his back were perfect. His tail, adjusted with an automatic coupler, moved up and down responsive to every thought. His deep eyes were full of intelligence.

  Next day he was exhibited in the dachshund class at the International show.

  He won all hearts.

  ‘Quel beau chien!’ cried the French people.

  ‘Ach! was ein Dog!’ cried the Spanish.

  The Great Detective took the first prize!

  The fortune of the Countess was saved.

  Unfortunately as the Great Detective had neglected to pay the dog tax, he was caught and destroyed by the dog-catchers. But that is, of course, quite outside of the present narrative, and is only mentioned as an odd fact in conclusion.

  The Singularge Experiece

  of Miss Anne Duffield

  John Lennon

  I find it recornered in my nosebook that it was a dokey and winnie dave towart the end of Marge in the ear of our Loaf 1892 in Much Bladder, a city off the North Wold. Shamrock Womlbs had receeded a telephart whilst we sat at our lunch eating. He made no remark but the matter ran down his head, for he stud in front of the fire with a thoughtfowl face, smirking his pile, and casting an occasional gland at the massage. Quite Sydney
without warping he turd upod me with a miscarriage twinkle in his isle.

  ‘Ellifitzgerrald my dear Whopper,’ he grimmond then sharply ‘Guess whom has broken out of jail Whopper?’ My mind immediately recoughed all the caramels that had recently escaped or escaped from Wormy Scabs.

  ‘Eric Morley?’ I ventured. He shook his bed. ‘Oxo Whitney?’ I queered, he knotted in the infirmary. ‘Rygo Hargraves?’ I winston agreably.

  ‘No, my dear Whopper, it’s OXO WHITNEY’ he bellowed as if I was in another room, and I wasn’t.

  ‘How d’you know Womlbs?’ I whispered excretely.

  ‘Harrybellafonte, my dear Whopper.’ At that precise morman a tall rather angularce tall thin man knocked on the door. ‘By all accounts that must be he, Whopper.’ I marvelled at his acute osbert lancaster.

  ‘How on urge do you know Womlbs’ I asped, revealing my bad armchair.

  ‘Eliphantitus my deaf Whopper’ he baggage knocking out his pip on his large leather leg. In warped the favourite Oxo Whitney none the worse for worms.

  ‘I’m an escaped primrose Mr Womlbs’ he grate darting franetically about the room.

  ‘Calm down Mr Whitney!’ I interpolled ‘or you’ll have a nervous bread van.’

  ‘You must be Doctored Whopper’ he pharted. My friend was starving at Whitney with a strange hook on his eager face, that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostriches and constapation of the heavy tufted brows which I knew so well.

  ‘Gorra ciggie Oxo’ said Womlbs quickly. I looked at my colledge, hoping for some clue as to the reason for this sodden outboard, he gave me no sign except a slight movement of his good leg as he kicked Oxo Whitney to the floor. ‘Gorra ciggie Oxo’ he reapeted almouth hysterically.

  ‘What on urn are you doing my dear Womlbs’ I imply; ‘nay I besiege you, stop lest you do this poor wretch an injury!’

  ‘Shut yer face yer blubbering owld get’ screamed Womlbs like a man fermented, and laid into Mr Whitney something powerful nat. This wasn’t not the Shamrock Womlbs I used to nose, I thought puzzled and hearn at this suddy change in my old friend.

  Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirage, running her hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress was cut low revealingly three or four blackheads, carefully scrubbed on her chess. She addled the final touches to her makeup and fixed her teeth firmly in her head. ‘He’s going to want me tonight’ she thought and pictured his hamsome black curly face and jaundice. She looked at her clocks impatiently and went to the window, then leapt into her favorite armchurch, picking up the paper she glassed at the headlines. ‘MORE NEGOES IN THE CONGO’ it read, and there was, but it was the Stop Press which corked her eye. ‘JACK THE NIPPLE STRIKE AGAIN.’ She went cold all over, it was Sydnees and he’d left the door open.

  ‘Hello lover’ he said slapping her on the butter.

  ‘Oh you did give me a start Sydnees’ she shrieked laughing arf arfily.

  ‘I always do my love’ he replied jumping on all fours. She joined him and they galloffed quickly downstairs into a harrased cab. ‘Follow that calf yelped Sydnees pointing a rude fingure.

  ‘White hole mate!’ said the scabbie.

  ‘Why are we bellowing that card Sydnees?’ inquried Mary fashionably.

  ‘He might know where the party’ explained Sydnees.

  ‘Oh I see’ said Mary looking up at him as if to say.

  The journey parssed pleasantly enough with Sydnees and Mary pointing out places of interest to the scab driver; such as Buckinghell Parcel, the Horses of Parliamint, the Chasing of the Guards. One place of particularge interest was the Statue of Eric in Picanniny Surplass.

  ‘They say that if you stand there long enough you’ll meet a friend’ said Sydnees knowingly, ‘that’s if your not run over.’

  ‘God Save the Queens’ shouted the scabbie as they passed the Parcel for maybe the fourth time.

  ‘Jack the Nipple’ said Womlbs puffing deeply on his wife, ‘is not only a vicious murderer but a sex meany of the lowest orgy.’ Then my steamed collic relit his pig and walkered to the windy of his famous flat in Bugger St in London where it all happened. I pondled on his state-mouth for a mormon then turding sharply I said. ‘But how do you know Womibs?’

  ‘Alibabba my dead Whopper, I have seen the film’ I knew him toby right for I had only read the comic.

  That evenig we had an unexpeckled visitor, Inspectre Basil, I knew him by his tell-tale unicorn.

  ‘Ah Inspectre Basil mon cher amie’ said Womibs spotting him at once. ‘What brings you to our humble rich establisment?’

  ‘I come on behave of thousands’ the Inspectre said sitting quietly on his operation.

  ‘I feel I know why you are here Basil’ said Womibs eyeing he leg. ‘It’s about Jock the Cripple is it not?’ The Inspectre smiled smiling.

  ‘How did you guess?’ I inquired all puzzle.

  ‘Alecguiness my deep Whopper, the mud on the Inspectre’s left, and also the buttock on his waistbox is misting.’

  The Inspectre looked astoundagast and fidgeted nervously from one fat to the other. ‘You neville sieze to amass me Mr Womibs.’

  ‘A drink genitalmen’ I ventured, ‘before we get down to the businose in hand in hand?’ They both knotted in egremont and I went to the cocky cabinet. ‘What would you prepare Basil, Bordom ’83 or?’

  ‘I’d rather have rather have rather’ said the Inspectre who was a gourmless. After a drink and a few sam leeches Womibs got up and paced the floor up and down up and down pacing.

  ‘Why are you pacing the floor up and down up and down pacing dear Womibs’ I inquiet.

  ‘I’m thinking alowed my deaf Whopper.’ I looked over at the Inspectre and knew that he couldn’t hear him either.

  ‘Guess who’s out of jail Mr Womibs’ the Inspectre said

  subbenly. Womlbs looked at me knowingly.

  ‘Eric Morley?’ I asked, they shook their heaths. ‘Oxo Whitney?’ I quart, again they shoot their heaps. ‘Rygo Hargraves?’ I wimpied.

  ‘No my dear Whopper, OXO WHITNEY!’ shouted Womlbs leaping to his foot. I looked at him admiring this great man all the morphia.

  Meanwire in a ghasly lit street in Chelthea, a darkly clocked man with a fearful weapon, creeped about serging for revenge on the women of the streets for giving him the dreadfoot V.D. (Valentine Dyall). ‘I’ll kill them all womb by womb’ he muffled between scenes. He was like a black shadow or negro on that dumb foggy night as he furtively looked for his neck victim. His minds wandered back to his childhook, remembering a vague thing or two like his mother and farmer and how they had beaten him for eating his sister. ‘I’m demented’ he said checking his dictionary. ‘I should bean at home on a knife like these.’ He turned into a dim darky and spotted a light.

  Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirrage running her hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress was cut low revealing three or four more blackheads carefully scrubbed on her chess. Business had been bad lately and what with the cost of limping. She hurriedly tucked in her gooseberries and opened the door. ‘No wonder business is bad’ she remarked as she caught size of her hump in the hall mirror. ‘My warts are showing.’ With a carefree yodel she slept into the street and caught a cab to her happy humping grounds. ‘That Sydnees’s nothing but a pimple living on me thus’ she thought ‘lazing about day in day off, and here’s me plowing my train up and down like Soft Arthur and you know how soft Arthur.’ She got off as uterus at Nats Cafe and took up her position. ‘They’ll never even see me in this fog’ she muttered switching on her lamps. Just then a blasted Policemat walked by. ‘Blasted Policemat’ she shouted, but luckily he was deaf. ‘Blasted deaf Policemat’ she shouted. ‘Why don’t yer gerra job!’

  Little did she gnome that the infamous Jack the Nipple was only a few street away. ‘I hope that blasted Jack the Nipple isn’t only a few streets away,’ she said, ‘he’s not right in the heads.’

  ‘How much lady’ a voice shocked her from t
he doorways of Nats. Lucky for him there was a sale on so they soon retched an agreament. A very high class genderman she thought as they walked quickly together down the now famous Carringto Average.

  ‘I tell yer she whore a good woman Mr Womlbs sir’ said Sydnees Aspinall.

  ‘I quite believe you Mr Asterpoll, after all you knew her better than me and dear old buddy friend Whopper, but we are not here to discuss her merits good or otherwives, we are here, Mr Astronaute, to discover as much information as we can about the unfortunate and untidy death of Mary Atkins.’ Womlbs looked the man in the face effortlessly.

  ‘The name’s Aspinall guvnor’ said the wretched man. ‘I’m deleware of your name Mr Astracan.’ Womlbs said looking as if he was going to smash him.

  ‘Well as long as you know,’ said Aspinall wishing he’d gone to Safely Safely Sunday Trip. Womlbs took down the entrails from Aspinall as quickly as he could, I could see that they weren’t on the same waveleg.

  ‘The thing that puddles me Womlbs,’ I said when we were alone, ‘is what happened to Oxo Whitney?’ Womlbs looged at me intently, I could see that great mind was thinking as his tufted eyepencil kit toboggen, his strong jew jutted out, his nosepack flared, and the limes on his fourheads wrinkled.

  ‘That’s a question Whopper,’ he said and I marveled at his grammer. Next day Womlbs was up at the crack of dorchester, he didn’t evening look at the moaning papers. As yewtrew I fixed his breakfat of bogard, a gottle of geer, a slice of jewish bread, three eggs with little liars on, two rashes of bacon, a bowel of Rice Krustchovs, a fresh grapeful, mushrudes, some freed tomorrows, a basket of fruits, and a cup of teens.

  ‘Breakfeet are ready’ I showbody ‘It’s on the table.’ But to my supplies he’d already gone. ‘Blast the wicker basket yer grannie bleeps in.’ I thought ‘Only kidding Shamrock’ I said remembering his habit of hiding in the cupboard.

  That day was an anxious one for me as I waited for news of my dear friend, I became fretful and couldn’t finish my Kennomeat, it wasn’t like Shamrock to leave me here all by my own, lonely; without him I was at large. I rang up a few close itamate friends but they didn’t know either, even Inspectre Basil didn’t know, and if anybody should know, Inspectre Basil should ’cause he’s a Police. I was a week lately when I saw him again and I was shocked by his apeerless, he was a dishovelled rock. ‘My God Womlbs’ I cried ‘My God, what on earth have you been?’