by Bill Peschel
“I’m a bloomin’ policeman now,” he said, “and don’t you bloomin’ well forget it. I saw a staff-officer leave ’ere at eight-fifteen, wot yer goin’ ter do aba’ht it?”
“You no tell,” said Madeline, “and I give you beer.”
“Narpoo!”
“I give you some rum.”
“The RUM!” thought Intha.
Chapter 8.
What Cloridy Lyme Saw
Cloridy Lyme straightened his aching back with a groan and gazed around the stricken streets of Bapaume in the cold grey light of dawn with every appearance of profound distaste.
“When I joined this here mob I ’ad visions of bayonets; and spearin’ bits o’ paper and orange peel on a pointed stick,” mused he. Gazing upwards at the lowering sky, he saw a strange sight. A sausage was drifting by, scarcely clearing the roofs of the ruined houses. Two men hung precariously in the rigging, and a trail rope dragged over the ground. As he watched, the rope caught in a tree stump, and the two men, hastily sliding down it, inquired of the astonished sanitary inspector their whereabouts. On hearing that they were in Bapaume, Shomes (for it was none other than he) said calmly, “just as I thought, my dear Hotsam, my deductions are sometimes at fault but very rarely I think.” Glancing sharply at the pointed stick held by Cloridy Lime, he suddenly seized it, and tore from the end a piece of paper which, after perusing, he handed to Hotsam, saying, “Just as I told you my dear fellow.” Hotsam took the paper and read,
EDI
WIPERS T
SHERWOOD FORES
Chapter 9.
Back at Quality Street
“But my dear Hotsam, the whole thing is so absurdly simple,” said Shomes curling his long wiry body up in his comfortable bunk.
“What! You really have solved the problem of the missing rum?”
“There never was a problem, and the rum was never stolen.”
“For heavens sake explain, Shomes, I really cannot follow your abstruce reasoning.”
“You surely remember my good fellow, that at the time the rum was supposed to have been stolen, it was almost impossible to buy whisky in this country.”
“Yes I remember it very well indeed, but what has that to do with the question?”
“My good Hotsam, cannot you follow me now?”
“I really cannot, Shomes.”
“You met the Earl and his staff many times during those trying days, did you not?”
“Yes, I saw them nearly every day.”
“Did they strike you as men who had suddenly become total abstainers?”
“No, I cannot say they did.”
“Well, just think a little, my dear Hotsam. Whisky was unobtainable then, what did they—Pass the whisky and put on the gramophone my good fellow. I think we are entitled to a tot.”
The Adventure of the Missing Group
A.S. Reeve
At the beginning of the war, there was such a rush of volunteers for the army that there was no need for a draft. A year later, the flow of willing men had subsided, and there was a debate over the need for conscription. To find out, Lord Derby, as director general of recruiting, set up a plan to allow men to register for a future call-up. Men 18 to 41 who signed up were sorted into groups according to their age and marital status. Widowers with children and ministers were exempt as well as the Irish, thanks to the Easter Rebellion that year. By the end of 1915, it became clear that not enough men had volunteered to be drafted, and compulsory conscription was introduced.
“Missing Group” appeared in Carry On, a Christmas magazine published by workers at Armstrong Munitions in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. A.S. Reeve could not be identified.
My friend, Mereluck Tombs, entered my rooms with the short hurried step of a panther, sank into the chair by the hearth, and threw his legs over the gas bracket. In his hand he held a buff envelope, thus indicating to me that he had received a telegram.
“My dear Dotson,” he began, after he had absent-mindedly eaten my breakfast egg, “this”—flourishing the wire—“this may be said to be our fifty-first little war problem. You remember the others?” I fear I had forgotten, for I was suffering from rapid consumption at the time, but the feverish contagion of the “Adventure of the Missing Dreadnought,” and the wonderful display of analytical research involved in “who made the first tank?” will linger long in my memory’s cells.
“What is it now, Tombs?” I asked expectantly.
“Read,” and he handed me the flimsy:
GROUP NUMBER 46 VANISHED, COME AT ONCE,
WILLIAM VEAL, MAYOR OF MUDCOMBE.
“Group Number 46! What’s that?”
“Think, my dear Dotson, you know my methods.”
I reached for the penny dictionary which we shared in common and looked under “G” Group, “a group of men”—Ah!
“I have it, the Derby group business!” was my triumphant exclamation.
“Exactly,” replied my friend. “The last four groups have been called up and Mudcombe has failed to respond.”
“Now, I have called in on my way to the station to see if you would like to go down to Mudcombe with me,” continued Tombs. “It’s in Suffolk. You’ll come? Right. Please bring along your magnifying glass which you use to locate mosquito bites with. Further, a bar of chocolate and a copy of Max Pemberton’s Phantom Army, and we shall do. Hark!” as the hall door opened, and a “Hoot-hoot” was heard outside, “that must be our taxi.” Tombs went to the window. “I was right,” he said briskly, “it has a number plate at the back and a meter.”
Between Liverpool Street and Colchester, Tombs read thirty-seven newspapers, and then hurled them into the hat rack. “I can see nothing of the business. Evidently the good folk of Mudcombe are keeping their shame to themselves.”
“Mudcombe,” sang out a dug-out porter, and we alighted to confront a little group of citizens.
“This will be the Mayor,” whispered my friend to me as an agitated little man came forward. “Ah, how do you do—raining, I see,” remarked Tombs as he gripped the other’s hand.
“Yes . . . how on earth . . .?” began the little man, when Tombs waved his hand in the air. “Elementary, my dear Mayor, your umbrella. It’s wet.”
The little man breathed again as he linked his arm with that of Tombs. “I’m William Veal, mayor of this place, and you can’t tell how relieved I am to see you. This business is awful. Mudcombe is a patriotic place and has given nearly half a platoon to the new army. And now, in the hour of her country’s need, to lose a group—Ah, me,” and but for the restraining arm of Tombs the distressed Mayor would have walked on to the permanent way. “Thank you, sir,” he went on, as he turned about, “let’s all go to my house.”
As we walked across the Market Square, Tombs remarked that our client’s shop indicated a nice little business concern.
“And how do you know it was my shop?” queried the mayor after the first gasp of astonishment.
“Because you have forgotten to paint your name out over the door,” was the lightning reply. I gave the Mayor a meaning glance but it was easy to see that he had already realised the marvellous deductive powers of my friend.
When seated in the Mayor’s parlour, Tombs drew forth his Calabash pipe, into which he stuffed four ounces of Latakia, observing that he always liked to envelope his client in a cloud of smoke, so that his face was hidden from him, and he could rely entirely upon the inflexion of the voice to grasp the gravity of the problem to be tackled.
Our client then proceeded to unfold his dire narrative.
“At the beginning of the war,” he began.
“The present war?” interrupted Tombs.
“Yes, the present war!; Mudcombe, as I have already told you played a truly heroic part, no less than seven men rushing to the colours at the first roll of the drum. Then recruiting ebbed a bit, and finally came to a standstill. Then Lord Derby’s scheme swept through Mudcombe and fanned the dying embers into a blaze, and every group had its local single or ma
rried representative. They have been called up one by one until the last four were left. The proclamation to call up the last four came on Monday, and by the evening of that day every man had responded with alacrity—save in group 46. I do not know how many men there were in that group, but to think that Mudcombe shelters a slacker—a man who has gone back on his oath—a man”—and our client broke down.
“Calm yourself, my dear Mayor,” said Tombs rising, “my friend Dr. Dotson will administer to you a slight sedative. The chocolate, Dotson,” and our poor friend sank back in his chair somewhat relieved as he sucked the sweetmeat.
“And where is the list of this Group? Have you not got their names and addresses?”
“Ah, Mr. Tombs, that is the most terrible thing about this business. You will pardon me I am sure, but I have long been a student of your methods as described in the Piccadilly Magazine, and I remember that somewhere you laid it down that the safest place to hide a valuable document is where everybody might look for it, so I put it in the waste-paper basket, and my house-keeper inadvertently emptied it into the fire.”
“That is certainly unfortunate,” mused Tombs as he swallowed six opium pills in rapid succession. “You cannot recall who attested?”
“No,” replied the Mayor, “I thought they would not want the elder groups.”
“A common delusion,” murmured Tombs, as he lapsed into a reverie that lasted four hours and from which we dare not disturb him. Then he signalled to me and we softly stole outside.
“It’s a faint hope,” said Tombs to me in the shadow of Mr. Veal’s slaughter-house, “but I believe the last group is for men of forty-one years. Anyway, I’ve wired to the Director of Recruiting for confirmation.”
Half-an-hour later a messenger boy handed Tombs a telegram.
YOUR SUPPOSITION IS CORRECT—DERBY.
Tombs breathed more freely. “Our next step is easy,” he remarked, the light of battle flashing from his eyes; “all we have to do now is to wait until the public houses open and then visit them one by one. We will let it be known rather ostentatiously that the last group is not to be called up after all, and all the men affected will at once stand drinks all round. You will visit the bottle and jug departments and thus unearth all the teetotallers. Meet me at the cross-roads when your cash is finished.”
Keen as I was I had to keep the appointment at the cross-roads in the gathering gloom to confess complete failure. Nothing was in sight, save an old sign-post whose arms stood out weirdly in the half-light. Suddenly, and without an instant’s warning, the two arms of the post dropped limply to its side, and the post became transformed into the thin, lithe form of the detective.
“Just one of those little dramatic touches I love so well,” smiled Tombs as he brought me round with smelling salts. I related my story of failure.
“The same here, Dotson,” he remarked. “I have drunk seventeen glasses of bad ale, retaining the eighteenth for the purpose of my forthcoming treatise on ‘Popular Poisons’. But the very paucity of our success is in itself a clue, and I leave at once for London. You must remain tonight with our poor friend the Mayor in case he dies of mortification.” He vanished into the mists of evening.
Just as we had finished breakfast next morning, Tombs strode into the Mayor’s parlour. “Came down in the guard’s van on the first train and so read all the London papers for nothing. The reporters are not yet on the scent,” he added cheerily as he seized the half-gnawed ham bone. “I have had nothing but Cocaine and Latakia since I last saw you,” was his apologetic reminder.
“Tombs!” I cried in anguish, “why will you persist in flirting with death in this fashion?”
“It’s all in the game,” he murmured resignedly.
Happily the Mayor of Mudcombe had no knowledge of my gifted friend’s habits, for he broke in, “Have you solved the mystery, Mr. Tombs?”
Tombs’s face grew grave as he resumed solemnly. “Mr. Veal, you have placed Mudcombe and yourself in an extremely dangerous position, a position that has required full share of what skill I possess to release you from.”
“Good Heavens, Mr. Tombs, what have you done?” gasped the unhappy Mayor as he reached for the brand that is “Still Running.”
“I have discovered the missing Group. He—”
“He—” we both exclaimed.
“Yes—he—but I anticipate. Let me tell you the story from its commencement. It early became apparent to me that if you had not kept a duplicate of the attestations of Group 46, the War Office could not have called the men up. Obviously, then, the paper which your house-keeper burned was really in the archives of Whitehall. But not wishing to misjudge the War Office which, my worthy Mayor, I can assure you has for some time been working under considerable pressure, I saw clearly that my next clue must be in London. Group 46, as you know, is composed of men of the age of forty-one years.” We smoked in silence as Tombs unfolded the concatenation of his logical processes.
“I therefore did myself the honour of visiting the War Office where I was most cordially received by Mr.—(deleted by Censor). He proved to my satisfaction that Group No. 46 in Mudcombe contained but one man.”
In the silence that ensued I clearly detected the insistent beating of the Mayor’s Ingersoll.
“And that man?” whispered the Mayor.
“Was yourself!” triumphantly retorted Tombs. “Quick, Dotson! He’s swooned.”
When we had brought him round we, waited for a few minutes, and slowly Mr. William Veal realised the situation.
“Great Scott, he moaned, “I recall it all now. There was not a man in the village of the age of forty-one, so rather than not have all the groups represented in Mudcombe I attested myself. I am forty-one. Then I must report myself at once?”
Tombs gazed benignly at the agitated Mayor as he softly replied, “Oh—you are forty-two now. I have seen the Commander-in-Chief about it and he does not insist.”
An Irreducible Detective Story
Hanged by a Hair, or a Murder Mystery Minimized
Stephen Leacock
Perhaps the funniest example of following a thread of logic to its inescapable conclusion was supplied by one of Canada’s most popular humorists. Stephen Leacock (1869-1944) was imported into Canada from Hampshire at the age of six, and there built a career as a political scientist, teacher, and humorist. From 1910 to 1925, he was considered the most widely-read author in the world, and an influence on Robert Benchley, Jack Benny, and even Groucho Marx. Although little read today, his name lives on in an annual award for the best humorous book by a Canadian writer.
The mystery had now reached its climax. First the man had been undoubtedly murdered. Secondly, it was as absolutely certain that no conceivable person had done it.
It was therefore time to call in the great detective.
He gave one searching glance at the corpse. In a moment he whipped out a microscope.
“Ha! Ha!” he said, as he picked a hair off the lapel of the dead man’s coat. “The mystery is solved.”
He held up the hair.
“Listen,” he said, “we have only to find the man who lost the hair and the criminal is in our hands.”
The inexorable chain of logic was complete.
The detective set himself to search.
For four days and nights he moved, unobserved, through the streets of New York scanning closely every face he passed, looking for a man who had lost a hair.
On the fifth day he discovered a man, disguised as a tourist, his head enveloped in a steamer cap that reached below his ears. The man was about to go on board the Gloritania.
The detective followed him on board.
“Arrest him!” he said, and then drawing himself to his full height, he brandished aloft the hair.
“This is his,” said the great detective. “It proves his guilt.”
“Remove his hat,” said the ship’s captain sternly.
They did so.
The man was entirely bald.
&nbs
p; “Ha!” said the great detective without a moment of hesitation. “He has committed not one murder but about a million.”
Sheerluck Holmes Deduces!
J. Raymond Elderdice
A popular genre during the turn of the century were school stories where enterprising boys and girls were sent off to boarding schools where they had to deal with homesickness, schoolmasters, bullies, and hazing, while making a name for themselves through solving a mystery, secretly breaking the rules, or standing up for themselves. The most famous example was Tom Brown’s Schooldays (1857) by Thomas Hughes. Other popular series include P.G. Wodehouse’s St. Austin’s and Wrykyn, Charles Hamilton’s Greyfriars School, Ronald Searle’s St. Trinian’s, and J.K. Rowling’s Hogwarts.
A Sherlock-related story occurs in Haviland Hicks, Junior, part of a four-book series (1915-1916) that saw the wealthy, irrepressible youth through four years of Bannister College. James Raymond Elderdice (1889-1967) was a newspaper reporter briefly before becoming a staff writer at Standard Publishing Co. of Cincinnati.
Earlier in the book, Bannister football player Butch Brewster comes across Hicks reading How to Become a Detective in Six Weeks, along with works by Poe, Vidocq, Gaboriau, Arthur B. Reeve, and, of course, Conan Doyle. Butch urges him to give up “this ridiculous detective idea” and study, but Hicks points out that studying during his senior year will knock all the joy out of him, and predicts “the time will come when you, and all Bannister, will have occasion to rejoice at me, Sheerluck Holmes, and at my phenomenal, sleuth-like powers of ‘deduction!’”
That moment comes sooner than expected at the big football game against arch-rival Hamilton. On the last play of the game, Bannister drop-kicks the ball over the goal to win, only to have Hamilton dispute it.
