by Bill Peschel
The astute detective threw him under the wheels of an on-coming motor bus and passed on, while I followed closely in his footsteps.
He was making for Butcher Street, so I did not disturb him by talking. I knew he would think things over when we were there.
He took a seat by the fire that was blazing merrily. Noticing how distrait he was, I said;—“Why don’t you compose yourself, Sheerluck?”
“Ah, me, how can I?” he more sobbed than said.
“Yiddle on your fiddle,” said I.
“Good idea, What’s On, I’ll yiddle.” Which he did, sucking a nob of resin the while. I left him, knowing full well that his brain was intent on discovering Alice, even though he was weaving such subtle melodies.
About a week after, we were sitting at breakfast when he told me that he had recently called at Alice’s home and found that though she was still missing he had discovered there some correspondence that would help him solve the problem. What that correspondence was he would not for the moment say.
Realising that I could not render any assistance I went out.
After wandering about for an hour or so, I dropped in a café and was enjoying a cup of coffee and a cigarette when I was surprised to see a figure enter clad in a suit of armour.
After looking around for a few moments the person thus garbed made for the table where I was seated, and, taking a chair, said in a sepulchral voice, “Do you know me?”
I confessed I did not.
The mysterious one then asked me to guess.
Nothing loth, I ventured, “Oliver Cromwell.”
A scornful laugh greeted me, then: “My dear What’s On, I am Sheerluck.”
“But why this get up?” I queried.
“I am on the track of her whom I most desire to find.”
“Well,” said I, “with what result?”
“To-night’s the night, What’s On,” he answered. “Be at our rooms by seven o’clock.” With which he glided away.
I was there well before the appointed hour and found Sheerluck minus his suit of armour, idly figuring on a piece of paper.
“You will observe, my dear What’s On, that this case has been one of peculiar intricacy, complex enough to baffle the best men of Scotland Yard,” he said.
Really it had not struck me like that, but to humour him I answered, “Yes.”
I shall, however,” he continued, “take you to-night to the spot where she is whom we seek. See to it that our car is ready for the journey. You may go.”
Thus dismissed I went to the garage, filled up with petrol, oil, and water, giving the tyres the attention they needed.
The night was perfect, the starlit heavens cast an irradiating light over all, while the new moon, suspended crescent-like, added her lustre to the beauty of the night. A slight frost tinged the air, adding a piquancy that made motoring a delight.
Cars a-many have I known; cars a-many do I know, but my present 20 hp, known to you as well as me, is indeed IT.
“Speed up a little,” Sheerluck at my side remarked.
I gave her a little more, and the sharp sibilant hiss of the carburetor told us how well the car answered, as did our increased speed.
Through the Surrey lanes we sped, never stopping, but making for our goal with unerring precision.
Presently a large house, silhouetted against the sky, caused Sheerluck to cry—“Throttle down, we are there.”
I brought the car to a standstill and leaped out beside the great man.
Instead of going to the house, he made for a building a little way off, which proved to be a garage. A tiny stream of light filtered through a crack in the door, to which Sheerluck applied his eye.
He turned round to me, perspiration oozing from every pore, and said; “Look!”
I did so. There was she whom we sought, gazing fondly at a new Ford car.
We tarried no longer but burst in, Sheerluck crying as we did so: “Found at last, dear heart.”
With a glad cry of delight, she ran to him, when he put his arms around her, a noise like a back fire broke the silence. He had kissed her, Alice Nosegay, on the lips.
Little more remains to be told.
Sheerluck had found in Alice’s rooms a copy of the Ford Times, which gave him the lead, as it were.
Close by was a receipt for a new car, and a letter from the village where we found her, complaining to her mother of the petrol shortage.
Sheerluck saw the thing in a moment. He knew a Ford could only be hung up through want of petrol, and realized it was only a question of time before he found her.
As he told me later—
“You see What’s On, really she never disappeared at all.”
“No,” I echoed, “not really.”
Narpoo Rum
“By the Author of ‘Shot in the Culvert’”
Here is another Holmesian parody that was published in several installments in The Wipers Times, the trench journal discussed in “Herlock Shomes At It Again.” Because these stories were produced by untrained soldier-editors and printed under challenging conditions, there were numerous misspellings and inconsistencies, down to the missing titles of some of the chapters. To make it easier to read, this version has been edited lightly and the dialog broken into paragraphs. Narpoo—pronounced “nah poo”—was an attempt by British soldiers to say the French phrase “il n’y a plus” (ill-knee-a-ploo) meaning “there’s none left” or “no good.”
Dramatis Personae:
Cloridy Lyme—A Sanitary Inspector.
Madeline Carol—A French Girl.
Intha Pink—A Pioneer.
General Bertram Rudolph de Rogerum—The Earl of Loose.
Lord Reginald de Knellthorpe—His Son.
Q. Wemm—A Storekeeper.
L. Plumernapple—A Soldier.
Herlock Shomes—The Great Detective.
Dr. Hotsam—His Admirer
Chapter 1.
“My dear Hotsam, nothing of the kind I assure you,” said Shomes, in his comfortable dug out in Quality Street. “My methods are based on deduction. For instance, you hear someone coming up the stairs. Well, that is all the untrained ear can hear, but I know it’s a soldier with many ribbons, an Irish accent and a friend named Reggie. How do I know? My dear fellow—”
At that moment the door opened, and General Bertram Rudolph de Rogerum entered. Casting himself in a chair he demanded a cocktail.
“Well, my dear general,” said Shomes, placing his finger tips together, “how can I help you?”
“What! you know me?” gasped the general.
“Oh yes!” said Shomes, as he tilted his vermoral sprayer and squirted a quart into his left arm.
“Well,” said the general, “I have come about a very mysterious affair. Three nights running the Brigade rum ration has disappeared.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Hotsam.
“Aha!” said Shomes, “this promises to be a most interesting case.” With that he picked up his violin, and proceeded to play dreamily. “Now I am ready, general, tell me all about it.”
“Well,” said the general, “as you know, my men mostly dislike rum, so that when it comes up I have it put in one of the outhouses. Three mornings ago, when my son, a priceless lad, if I may say so, and above suspicion, went to look at it, he found it had disappeared. This has happened on both the following nights, and so I thought you might be able to help us.”
“Have you no clue at all?” snapped the great detective.
“Only that Wemm’s store seems to be more popular with the soldiers than formerly,” said the general.
“Leave the matter in my hands, general, I will find your rum,” said the detective. With that, the general went off jauntily, whistling “Another Little Drink Wouldn’t Do Us Any Harm.”
Immediately he had gone Shomes sprang up. “Now Hotsam, we must to work!” Hastily throwing off his smoking jacket, he donned a tin-hat, mackintosh and gum boots, and disappeared into the night.
Mea
nwhile in the lovely French evening, Plumernapple was paying court to Madeline Carot, the pretty daughter at the local estaminet.
“Well, it’s only ’arf past eight,” he murmured, “and there ain’t no perlice corprel about.”
“No compris,” she gurgled, as she made to shut the door. Picking up his A frame, he sadly made his way along the road.
At Wemm’s store a very merry party was in progress, and Hotsam, taking the air, strolled across there. Pushing open the door, he saw Q. Wemm entertaining many friends from among the neighbouring troops. He was immediately made welcome, and a mug of hot liquid was thrust into his hand. Casting his eyes round, they fell on a heap of jars in the corner. “The Rum!” he gasped.
Chapter 2.
It was Xmas. The sturdy figure of General Bertram Rudolph de Rogerum was plodding along the snow-covered road jauntily whistling a Xmas carol. Every now and then a frown crossed his handsome face as he thought of the missing rum ration, and how the evidence seemed to point to none other than his son, Lord Reginald de Knellthorpe. Had Reggie in a reckless moment stolen the rum? Heaving a deep sigh he fell into a crump hole which had been hidden under the white mantle of winter.
Meanwhile what was happening at Wemm’s store? At Hotsam’s exclamation “The Rum” a guilty look spread over Wemm’s face, and his assistant guiltily stole through the door. Hotsam sprang in front of the jars. “Open one,” he thundered. Shakingly Wemm compiled, and poured out a glass of the liquid. Hotsam examined this and found it to be solution for vermoral sprayers. With a nod to Wemm he went out. On returning to his dug out he found Lord Reginald de Knellthorpe in possession of the armchair shooting rats.
“Hullo, old boy,” said Knellthorpe, “what about papa’s rum?”
“Look here Reggie,” said Hotsam, “Do you know anything about it? Shomes is on the track and you might be able to help him.” Reggie paled.
“Shomes,” he gasped, picking up his helmet and gas mask, “Shomes! Good heavens, then all is lost.” Staggering to the door he disappeared into the night.
Mixing himself a drink Hotsam sat down and began to go over the evidence. Suddenly the door opened, and the Earl of Loose entered.
“Good evening, General,” said Hotsam.
“General be dammed,” snapped Shomes’ voice, “Has Reginald de Knellthorpe been here?”
“Just this minute gone,” said Hotsam.
Dashing to the door Shomes rapidly disappeared, followed by Hotsam. Suddenly two shots rang out and Shomes dropped in the snow, crying “Follow him, follow him.” Hotsam dashed madly in pursuit, and didn’t stop till he fell down the shaft at the Old Fosse.
Picking himself up, Shomes returned to his dug-out and bound up his wrist where the shot had struck him. Baring his forearm he injected a gallon out of his vermoral sprayer and picked up his violin.
Down in the village Madeline Carot sat at the door of her old mother’s estaminet. Her face brightened as she saw the sturdy figure of Intha Pink coming up the road.
“Oh Intha,” she exclaimed, “I thought you were never coming to see me. Where have you been?”
Hurriedly glancing up and down the road Pink slipped into the estaminet and closed the door. “Rum!” he gasped.
Madeline got him a glass of rum which he swallowed at a gulp. “Has Shomes been here?” he demanded. “Yes,” she replied, “He was here this morning, and had a glass of rum.”
“Then we are lost!” shouted Intha, and disappeared through the door.
Hotsam, meanwhile arrived at the bottom of the shaft. Taking his flash lamp from his pocket he proceeded to examine his position. The first thing his light fell on was a pile of jars stacked in a corner. “The rum!” he gasped.
Chapter 3.
It was raining. Shomes, who had business of a pressing nature that night, shuddered as he pulled aside the gas curtain of his dug-out, and looked up and down the trench.
Dropping the curtain hastily he injected a good dose from his vermoral sprayer, and disguised himself as a sergeant. He then swallowed half-a-pint of rum and went out into the night, to proceed on an urgent and secret mission to the “Culvert Arms” at Hooge. Making his way along the duckboards to the waiting aeroplane he jumped aboard and disappeared into the darkness.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Loose was in a very troubled state of mind about his son. In addition to the mysterious disappearance of the rum Reggie had been playing fast and loose with the pretty dark-eyed daughter at the neighbouring chateau. So much so indeed that the poor old Earl was considering the advantages of sending Master Reginald back to school. Professor Spot had just recently opened a finishing school for young gentlemen in the neighbourhood.
He had just made up his mind to send Reginald for a course when his eye fell on the young scapegoat ambling along smoking a cigarette, and without his gas helmet. Choking back an expletive the General hurried after him, and was only just in time to see him disappear into the corner estaminet where Madeline dispensed beer daily.
The general stealthily approached, and looking through the back window saw Reginald with the girl in his arms. On the ground was a stack of rum jars at which Reggie was pointing while saying something to the girl. At this sight the General clutched at his collar and swooned.
Hotsam, who on examination had found all the jars at the bottom of the Old Fosse to be empty and of a condemned pattern, gathered himself together and proceeding by the old workings soon found himself by the corner estaminet.
Hearing laughter and voices he made his way to the back and fell over the unconscious form of General Bertram Rudolph de Rogerum, the Earl of Loose. Picking himself up he looked in at the window.
“The Rum!” he gasped.
Chapter 4.
The Clue of the Torn Letter
Skilfully landing his plane in the Square of the ancient town of Ypres, Shomes resolved to dine at the Hotel des Ramparts before proceeding up the Menin Road to the Culvert Arms. Having partaken of an excellent dinner, Shomes once more donned his tin-hat, raincoat and gum boots thigh, and proceeded by way of the Menin Gate up the Menin Road. As he walked, the fearful events of his last great adventure in that district flashed through his mind with painful distinctness. He was roused from his reverie by the weary whirr of a five-nine, and realized with a start that he had reached his destination. Looking around with a dawning sense of horror he saw that the Culvert Arms was no more. Shomes amazed, perplexed, but by no means non-plussed hastily injected a double dose from his vermoral sprayer, and sought for a clue. Down in the deep and muddy ditch where once the ancient hostelry had stood, he passed a few battered stones, and in the dark and sluggish waters found an envelope, muddy and torn, and readable as far as:—
TOR
IMES
TERS (P
Shomes spoke no word, but a close observer would have noted that his face, seen in the white glare of the Very Lights had a look of grim and purposeful satisfaction.
Chapter 5.
About the same time as Shomes was making his important discovery at the ruined Culvert Arms, Hotsam was endeavouring to revive the fainting Earl and at the same time to keep a vigilant watch through the estaminet window. The General at length recovered consciousness, and joined Hotsam at the window. A strange sight met their eyes. Lord Reginald de Knellthorpe stood with his back to the window supporting the fair Madeline, who appeared to be weeping bitterly. Muttering with impotent rage the old Earl thrust open the door, and followed by Hotsom, entered the room. Lord Reggie turned an amazed and tear-wet face towards them, and simultaneously the Earl and Hotsam burst into tears. Hotsam with alacrity put on his gas helmet, corked up the open rum jar, and opened the window. The General drying his tears, furiously asked his weeping son the reason of his presence there.
“Well, you see, father,” said Lord Reggie, “Madeline” (he tenderly wiped the eyes of the beautiful girl) “told me that she had seen some rum jars in here, and, thinking that they might contain the rum that I am suspected of stealing, I came here t
o examine them, they appear to contain tear gas.”
The Earl, with a new burst of tears, joined the hands of Reggie and Madeline, and Hotsam feeling that his presence was no longer required, strode out into the night, leaving the Earl and the young lovers smiling through their tears.
Chapter 6.
The End of Shomes?
Hotsam, very fatigued, at length reached the comfortable Quality Street dug-out, where he found a signaller, who handed him one of the dreaded pink forms. He resignedly took the wire and read:
“Meet me at YPRES at once AAA Obtain bus from GEN. BERTRAM RUDOLPH de ROGERUM AAA Urgent Sick AAA”
Hotsam sighed, and after much trouble obtained the bus, and eventually reached Ypres. In the Square he found Shomes, seated in his plane. “Come, Hotsam,” he cried, “jump in, there is no time to be lost, they shall not escape us this time.” Hotsam obeyed, and Shomes, having started up the motor, jumped in, and they were off. After some hours in the air, Hotsam shouted, “Where are we going, Shomes?” He could not catch the answer, so was silent. Suddenly a flash! a crash! and two men and an Archied aeroplane were falling though the night.
Chapter 7.
At Last?
Intha sat in a large shell-hole in the grounds of Elvarston Castle. He was not happy. He had been knocked down by a G.S. wagon, machine-gunned on the road, whizz-banged in the trench, and, finally, had taken his “A” frame to the wrong dump. As he rested he thought of many things. He thought of war, he thought of snow, he thought of rum. Why had he had no rum for some days now? Because some scoundrel had stolen the Brigade supply. Suddenly a great resolve grew in the soul of the Pioneer; we would find the missing liquid! Fired by enthusiasm, he arose, and, casting away his now useless “A” frame, made his way as quickly to the Estaminet of Madeline Carot. After some protest, Madeline quietly admitted him.
