Maureen’s face was serious and her voice low. “The poor man,” she said.
“It was tragic,” said Furness. “Worth’s hoax hasn’t had very pleasant results for anyone. Think of that poor Larsen girl and her relapse from the shock.”
“Any more questions?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. One. How on earth did Worth pull off that hoax in the first place? I saw him—”
“Oh,” said the Lieutenant. “That. Look—you wait here like good children. I can expound better after a trip upstairs.”
Drew Furness broke the silence almost a minute after the departure of Jackson. “While the Lieutenant is gone, are there any questions that I might attempt to answer?”
“Yes, Drew. One.”
“And what is that?”
“Tonight—oh, years and years ago—when they were putting the handcuffs on you, you said—”
Furness turned his eyes away from her. “It wasn’t fair, my dear. It was taking advantage of an emotional situation. You could never—”
“Drew! Look at me! Now. Did you mean it—what you didn’t quite say?”
“You know I did.”
Maureen smiled. “Then for my sake act like you meant it!”
“I think,” said Drew Furness a happy eternity later, “that someone is calling us.”
“Damn,” said Maureen, and listened. “It’s upstairs. Must be Andy—maybe he’s found something.”
“I suppose that we’d better—”
“I guess so. But please, darling, remember to wipe off that lipstick. I’m afraid,” she said reflectively, “you’re going to be hell to housebreak.”
Light came from the door of the empty room which they still thought of as Worth’s. A few feet back from the door stood Lieutenant Jackson, weaving drunkenly.
“Andy!” Maureen gasped. “What are you up to?”
Suddenly the Lieutenant seemed to stagger and clutched at the air in front of him. As he did so there was the sound of a shot. He crumpled, clutching his hands to his heart. Wet redness seeped out between his fingers.
Maureen turned pale and grasped Drew Furness’ arm. “Oh, God, he’s—” Then abruptly she laughed. “Swell, Andy! Magnificent.”
Another door opened, and Dr. Bottomley rushed out, calabash in hand. “Don’t tell me,” he exclaimed, “that that was a backfire!”
“I thought,” Jackson explained rising, “that it might be more impressive if I demonstrated than if I just told you. Was that what you saw, Maureen, the night Worth was supposed to be murdered?”
“Exactly,” said Maureen.
“You mean,” Dr. Bottomley broke in, “that you’ve solved the hoax?”
“Apparently I have. Come on in and I’ll show you. Where’s Evans, by the way?”
“I believe that he is in the kitchen with our fair housekeeper. Mrmfk. But we can inform him later.” Dr. Bottomley’s melancholy was slowly being dissipated by this new achievement of ingenuity.
“A chair, Doctor,” said Jackson. “You two can sit on the bed.”
Maureen did so at once. Furness hesitated until she took his hand and drew him down beside her. “You’ll get used to it,” she whispered. “Now, Pride of the Force, expound.”
“The essential clue was that glass shard. Remember what it said on it?”
“Yes,” said Bottomley. “The letters OV, with a segment of an arc above them.”
“And where,” Jackson demanded, “will you find a piece of glass with the letters OV on it? Where but on an electric-light globe! The O isn’t a letter; it’s the figure O, part of the inscription 120V or whatever the voltage is. Add that to the way Worth clutched at the air just before he ‘was shot,’ and it’s easy. Look.” He proceeded to demonstrate, talking, in his triumph, much faster and more excitedly than Maureen would have thought possible for him. “You take a fine thread and hang in across the room like this. (See the two chipped places on the wall—that’s where the tacks go in.) Then you twist some more thread around a light bulb and fasten a ring to it. Run the ring along the thread across the room and adjust it so that the bulb hangs down at one end, just over the metal wastebasket. Then you clutch at the air, break the thread, bulb falls into basket, goes boom! You clutch your heart, break a sac in your breast pocket (I just used ink; Worth probably used the real thing—you can buy it in labs—same like your ear, Doctor), and there you are.”
Furness frowned. “I’m not quite certain that I—”
“Look. Here are the notes I made on the way out here tonight. This is a bird’s-eye view:
And this is the view if you are facing the door looking straight at the setup:
Of course you couldn’t see any of that. The door hid the bulb, and you wouldn’t notice that very light thread. Afterwards Worth cleaned it all up, only he left the chipped places on the wall and the fragment of glass in the basket.”
“Lieutenant,” said Drew Furness, “that is brilliant.”
“And therefore,” Dr. Bottomley added, “a fit occasion for celebration despite all that has gone before it this night. If you care to adjourn to my room, where there is a bottle—”
Once back in his own room, Dr. Bottomley carefully placed the calabash back in its cradle, took one of his villainous black torpedoes, and lit it happily. Dr. Withers would have rejoiced at this action; there could be no better indication of successful mental convalescence. With gleeful if mephitic puffs, the Doctor brustled about the room as the Perfect Host, setting out ash trays and glasses.
“Our Buy Laws,” he announced when the drinks were poured, “prescribe that the first toast shall be drunk to The Woman—Irene Adler, to you, Lieutenant, who caused the Scandal in Bohemia. But under the present circumstances, I give you a toast not included, strangely enough, in our usual ritual. Gentlemen—and Miss O’Breen—to Watson!”
“Drew,” Maureen protested. “You just barely sipped it.”
“That was not,” he assured her, “out of any lack of reverence for the name of Watson, now doubly hallowed as it is. It was only that I can conceive of but one toast worthy of my first full drink of straight whisky.”
“Then make it, man,” Bottomley urged.
“Very well. To the future Mrs. Furness!”
He downed the whisky bravely, glurped only a little, and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his lips. A scrap of paper floated to the floor. Smiling, Maureen picked it up.
Both Bottomley and Jackson were offering profuse congratulations. “Wait a minute,” said Maureen. “Here’s a loose thread.”
“A thread?”
“In our plot, I mean. This is the message from the aluminum crutch, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. I jotted that down while I still remembered it. So much else has happened since that I’ve never thought of deciphering it. Do you suppose we might make a stab at it now?”
They looked at the paper and read:
HTR OWMOR FEVOL HTI WTEE RT
SREKA BOTST UN
“Worth’s last words,” Dr. Bottomley mused. “That outrageous voice speaking to us anew from whatever confines it now dwells within. Mrmfk. Lieutenant, what on earth are you laughing at?”
Jackson was not so much laughing as howling. “Oh Lord,” he managed to gasp between spasms, “this is marvelous.”
“Marvelous?” said Furness. “You mean you’ve read it already—the cipher is that simple?”
“Cipher? That’s the trouble all through this case; we’ve tried too hard.” Laughter choked him again. “Look. Just read it backwards.”
Slowly they spelled out the message from end to beginning. Maureen giggled. Drew Furness frowned. Dr. Rufus Bottomley looked annoyed, then smiled, at last grew solemn.
“I think,” said the Doctor gravely, “that Stephen Worth has his perfect epitaph.”
About the Author
Anthony Boucher was an American author, critic, and editor, who wrote several classic mystery novels, short stories, science fiction, and radio dramas. Between 1942 and 1947 he acted a
s reviewer of mostly mystery fiction for the San Francisco Chronicle.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1940, 1967 by the Estate of Anthony Boucher
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5734-9
This 2019 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
ANTHONY BOUCHER
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
[email protected]
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@ OpenRoadMedia
The Case of the Baker Street Irregulars Page 27