by Bill Peschel
But to my intense annoyance she took it to Lestrade and said to him:
“Isn’t this the ring you found yesterday, Mr. Lestrade?”
Lestrade examined it and said, “Of course it is absolutely identical in every respect.”
“And do you think it is an imitation?” asked this most provoking young lady.
“Certainly not,” said Lestrade, and turning to me he added: “Ah! Holmes, that is where theory leads one. At the Yard we go in for facts.”
I could say nothing; but as I said good-bye to Lady Dorothy, I congratulated her on having found the real ring. The incident, although it proved the correctness of my reasoning, was vexing as it gave that ignorant blunderer an opportunity of crowing over me.
January 10.—A man called just as Watson and I were having breakfast. He didn’t give his name. He asked me if I knew who he was. I said, “Beyond seeing that you are unmarried, that you have travelled up this morning from Sussex, that you have served in the French Army, that you write for reviews, and are especially interested in the battles of the Middle Ages, that you give lectures, that you are a Roman Catholic, and that you have once been to Japan, I don’t know who you are.”
The man replied that he was unmarried, but that he lived in Manchester, that he had never been to Sussex or Japan, that he had never written a line in his life, that he had never served in any army save the English Territorial force, that so far from being a Roman Catholic he was a Freemason, and that he was by trade an electrical engineer—I suspected him of lying; and I asked him why his boots were covered with the clayey and chalk mixture peculiar to Horsham; why his boots were French Army service boots, elastic-sided, and bought probably at Valmy; why the second half of a return ticket from Southwater was emerging from his ticket-pocket; why he wore the medal of St Anthony on his watch-chain; why he smoked Caporal cigarettes; why the proofs of an article on the Battle of Eylau were protruding from his breast-pocket, together with a copy of the Tablet; why he carried in his hand a parcel which, owing to the untidy way in which it had been made (an untidiness which, in harmony with the rest of his clothes, showed that he could not be married) revealed the fact that it contained photographic magic lantern slides; and why he was tattooed on the left wrist with a Japanese fish.
“The reason I have come to consult you will explain some of these things,” he answered.
“I was staying last night at the Windsor Hotel, and this morning when I woke up I found an entirely different set of clothes from my own. I called the waiter and pointed this out, but neither the waiter nor any of the other servants, after making full enquiries, were able to account for the change. None of the other occupants of the hotel had complained of anything being wrong with their own clothes.
“Two gentlemen had gone out early from the hotel at 7.30. One of them had left for good, the other was expected to return.
“All the belongings I am wearing, including this parcel, which contains slides, belong to someone else.
“My own things contained nothing valuable, and consisted of clothes and boots very similar to these; my coat was also stuffed with papers. As to the tattoo, it was done at a Turkish bath by a shampooer, who learnt the trick in the Navy.”
The case did not present any features of the slightest interest. I merely advised the man to return to the hotel and await the real owner of the clothes, who was evidently the man who had gone out at 7.30.
This is a case of my reasoning being, with one partial exception, perfectly correct. Everything I had deduced would no doubt have fitted the real owner of the clothes.
Watson asked rather irrelevantly why I had not noticed that the clothes were not the man’s own clothes.
A stupid question, as the clothes were reach-me-downs which fitted him as well as such clothes ever do fit, and he was probably of the same build as their rightful owner.
January 12.—Found a carbuncle of unusual size in the plum-pudding. Suspected the makings of an interesting case. But luckily, before I had stated any hypothesis to Watson—who was greatly excited—Mrs. Turner came in and noticed it and said her naughty nephew Bill had been at his tricks again, and that the red stone had come from a Christmas tree. Of course, I had not examined the stone with my lens.
Holmes’ Untold Adventure
Thomas J. Gray
As an entertainment form, vaudeville had a relatively short life but a long, profound effect on American humor. Just look at the stars it turned out, such as W.C. Fields, the Marx Brothers, Jack Benny, Fanny Brice, and George Burns and Gracie Allen. It was a tough, hard, unfair life and only those who reached the stages of New York City could be assured of having “made it.”
This story, from the Dec. 23 issue of Variety, is redolent with the slang and attitudes from that era, some of which resisted our attempts at recovering them. Thomas J. Gray (1888-1924) was a columnist for Variety and Dramatic Mirror. He was also an author and lyricist who wrote songs and special material for many Broadway stars including Bert Williams, Blossom Seeley, and Mae West.
Things had been slow for Holmes and me for about six weeks. We threw up our rooms on Baker street. Holmes had had a bet on the New York Giants, and every time he saw “Baker,” he felt ill.
We left London and sailed for New York on the “Rushthecana.” Upon arriving, we took an apartment near Hard Times Square. Holmes had received an offer to go in vaudeville from a big American theatrical man, Rules Jewby, by name. The details of his debut kept him quite busy running from the “Push ’em” Building to the railroad depot, trying to find out what day the Pennsylvania Railroad intended to send a train to Perth Amboy, his opening town.
I simply cite the above to let the public know how we happened to be in America. One morning (I think it was Tuesday, as we could see the crowds of actors around the “Push ’em” Building looking for “next week”), I had left Holmes playing “Mysterious Rag” on his violin, one of the bits he intended doing in his act, and had only been out three hours. (I ran over to one of those quick-lunch palaces for a cup of coffee.) I could see Holmes was excited as soon as I entered the room. His ears were flopping back and forth in quick succession—a sure sign of nervousness. He took his pipe from the rack, rolled two pills and smoked in silence. Finally he jumped up suddenly and said: “Quick, Watson, my ‘Kelly’ and ‘Benny’” (Holmes’ favorite terms for his hat and overcoat). He called a taxi in front of Dowling’s, gave him forty-two dollars, and told him to drive to the Foxy Agency at Forty-second street, near Broadway. As we seated ourselves, Holmes said, “Doctor Watson, this is one of the hardest mysteries I ever steered against.”
“What is it?” said I quietly. (I spoke quietly to Holmes because he was going to be an actor.) Holmes continued, “A man, known as Monologue Mike, the Fearless Funster, has disappeared. His agent came to me this morning and told me he booked him in Flushing, L.I., the day before yesterday and in Jersey City, N.J., yesterday. He hasn’t paid his commission on either of these dates. The agent fears something is wrong.”
“A tough case,” I said. (I never spoke much to Holmes on serious matters, as I knew how fast his brain was working.)
Just then we pulled up in front of the Foxy Agency. Holmes fought his way through a crowd of singers. Four quartets were in the office at the time, waiting for some act to be closed at one of the Foxy houses.
Suddenly he found himself face to face with Ted Healthy, the Booking Manager of the Circuit. “Mr. Healthy,” said Holmes, in a quiet voice. “Leave your name with the boy outside; if we need you, we’ll send for you. Who knows your act?” Mr. Healthy said—out of the force of habit, without even looking up. Holmes handed him his card. Healthy looked up quickly when he read it and apologized, saying “Excuse me, Shedlock, I thought you were a small timer. Sit down; how’s the act going? I can give you the Academy for Sunday if you work in ‘one.’”
“No, no,” said Holmes, “my business here is more important. I’m in search of a man. Do you know ‘Monologue Mike, the Fearless Funster’
?”
“No, I do not,” said Healthy in a low voice which convinced Holmes he spoke the truth. “That’s all,” said Holmes, and we both dashed out. Holmes murmured hoarsely, “The Graiety Building might help us. We’ll go there.” Arriving, Holmes walked up the stairways one step at a time, his eyes glued to the stairs. Suddenly he stooped swiftly and picked up a piece of paper containing some printed notes of music. Holmes gasped. Clutching my arm, he directed me to the stairway. Upon arriving at the ground floor he led the way to an apartment and attired himself in a very loud check suit, a soft green hat and a yellow and blue tie; from his wardrobe trunk he took a small bamboo cane.
“What’s the idea?” I said. “I must look like an actor,” he replied. “It may be necessary; come with me.” I followed as I always do (I never questioned Holmes; he admits he knows everything). We entered at least sixty moving picture theatres. Holmes directed me to stay outside each time while he spoke a few words with the piano player, always displaying the small piece of paper he found in the Graiety Building.
Finally in a small place on the East Side, bearing the sign, “Vaudeville—First Class; Moving Picture—A Number One,” Holmes rushed out and bade me follow him. We went behind the picture curtain and saw a small room (two by four to be exact), labelled “Gent’s Dressing Room.” On the floor was a man in a Prince Albert coat, with his body completely rounded like a hoop, rolling around the room like a spool.
Holmes ordered him to stop, but he refused. We ordered an ambulance, and Holmes ’phoned the agent who arrived in time to demand his two days’ commission from the man as he was being put in the ambulance, where he afterward recovered.
We returned to our rooms, and Holmes made out his bill to the agent, lit his pipe and sat down. I waited until he was thoroughly rested, then I said, “How did you do it so quickly, Sherly, old man.” He rolled a pill, lit it, and replied, “My dear Watson, it was simple; in fact, so simple I’m ashamed to collect money from the agent I solved it for. Yes, I think I’ll blush when he gives it to me.”
“Who was the agent?” said I.
“Vaudeville A. Gent,” answered Holmes.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you’ll not get the chance to blush; but tell me how you solved the mystery?”
“Well,” said the great detective, “they told me Monologue Mike sang one song, ‘Alexander’s Rag-Time Band.’ When the Foxy Circuit didn’t know him, I thought he must frequent the Graiety Building where some of the big agents are. On the second floor I found a part of an orchestration of ‘Alexander’s Band.’ Monologue Mike always used exclusive material, they said; and, as they mentioned that song to me, it was simple.
“I knew he was playing a ‘Movie’ on the East Side, because the music was laying outside of an agency that only books such places. I simply asked every piano player if a song called ‘Alexander’s Band’ had been used there. They all answered ‘No,’ until I struck the last place on Delancey street. Simple, wasn’t it?”
“But,” said I, “how do you account for the foul play?”
“What foul play?” asked Holmes.
I replied, “The condition of Monologue Mike; he was rolled up like a hoop when we found him. Surely there was foul play there.”
“My dear Watson,” said Holmes, with a yawn, “that was not foul play. Monologue Mike had played so many moving picture places he was turning into a film.”
Just then the ’phone rang. Holmes answered, “Hello, yes; this is Holmes. You are Rules Jewby; yes. Perth Amboy is off. It’s off; for good. You played too many violin acts. All right; good-bye.”
“Perth Amboy is off,” said Holmes, turning to me.
“What will you do now,” I gasped. “Return to London?”
“No” said Holmes, “I’ve made up my mind to be an actor, do or die. When the Shuberts hear I am here, they will probably put me in the Winter Garden. They’ve played every one else. Return to London? I guess not. Watson, I should worry?”
And so ended the last experience of Shedlock Holmes, his most famous case—that of “Monologue Mike, the Fearless Funster.”
The Adventure of the Lost Manuscripts
Edmund L. Pearson
Edmund L. Pearson (1880-1937) was a popular true-crime writer who was also a full-time librarian at the New York Public Library. He contributed essays on crime to magazines such as Vanity Fair, The New Yorker and Scribner’s, and published them in Studies in Murder (1924), Murder at Smutty Nose and Other Murders (1926), and Instigation of the Devil (1930). He also wrote about books, libraries, and librarians, and even successfully concocted a hoax pamphlet, The Old Librarian’s Almanack, supposedly from 1773, that fooled newspapers into believing it was real.
“The Adventure of the Lost Manuscripts” appeared in the Boston Evening Transcript in two parts (June 28 and July 12). The introduction to part two was so entertaining that it had to be printed here. The story was reprinted by Aspen Press in 1974.
The novel or story dealing with library work, we are told, has yet to be written. It will take a bold and resolute spirit to attempt it. One may, however, conjecture the manner in which certain writers would attack it.
The method of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle might be something like this:
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LOST MANUSCRIPTS
PART I
In early April of the year ’92 Sherlock Holmes and I were sitting one afternoon in the old rooms on Baker Street. The rain was beating against the windows, and I was trying to while away the dismal hour with a light novel. Close attention to the pages was a trifle difficult, however, for Holmes had taken out his revolver and was engaged, in a manner at once nonchalant and absent-minded, in shooting the buttons off my waistcoat.
Already he had fired six shots, and only the top button remained. He then paused to reload the weapon, while I marvelled at the extraordinary marksmanship which he had displayed.
Suddenly there came a tap at the door, and Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, entered.
“A gentleman to see you, sir,” she announced.
Holmes directed her to show the gentleman upstairs without delay, and then put his revolver in a table drawer.
“Let us hope it is a client, Watson,” he said, “I am nearly dead of ennui. We will reserve the top button till a future occasion. Here he comes! How his feet shuffle on the stairs—his shoes are worn out; he is hard up: I think he must be—”
At this instant the bent figure of an elderly gentleman appeared in the doorway. Holmes greeted him.
“Good afternoon, sir, I am afraid you have left things at the library in considerable confusion.”
The old gentleman sank into a chair and gazed in amusement at the great detective.
“This is astonishing, Mr. Holmes—how could you know that I am a librarian?”
Holmes closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair with an appearance of utter boredom.
“It is the merest child’s play,” he said; “on the under side of your coat sleeves are two streaks of reddish powder, such as come from nothing else in the world but an ancient book bound in sheepskin. You have a glistening patch on your right thumb, left there after affixing gummed labels to the backs of books. Moreover you wear thick spectacles, are somewhat stoop-shouldered, and have a general air of having to live on a salary about one-third as large as a white man ought to get. Finally, here is your visiting card, which Mrs. Hudson, to whom you entrusted it, duly delivered into my hands. On its face I see the name of Professor Jabez Buchwirm, chief librarian of the Houndsditch Public Libraries. Putting all these facts together, trifling as they may be in themselves, and applying to them the method of deduction, I am irresistibly led to the conclusion that your profession is that of keeper of the books, or librarian. Am I right or am I wrong?”
“You are right,” said Professor Buchwirm, “but I am astonished at the accuracy of your reasoning. Never have I seen anything like it. But that does not account for your correct inference that I left the library in a state of confusion. Affairs w
ere indeed in a sad chaos. But how could you have known that? I left the library only four hours ago, having travelled hither in one of the swiftest omnibuses in London at a speed not less than two miles an hour, exclusive of stops.”
“Again,” said Holmes. smothering a yawn, “again, the matter is of extreme simplicity. Underneath your top coat I notice the black alpaca jacket which all librarians wear while at work. You removed your hat as you stood in the door and I observed the black silk skull cap which is the well-known badge of your profession. Since you came out into the street wearing these indoor habiliments I conclude that you came away in a state of extreme agitation, and that your subordinates were also excited or they would have told you about it. But come, Professor Buchwirm, you did not travel all the way to Baker Street to hear me discuss such minutiae. What is the cause of your agitation, and how can I help you?”
The professor passed his hand over his brow.
“I am afraid it is beyond your powers, Mr. Holmes, great as they are. Have you ever heard of the Sheraton MSS?”
“Not the private correspondence of the late Duke of Giggleswick?”
“The same. Excepting the Magna Carta they are undoubtedly the most valuable documents in England.”
“But surely they are in royal custody, or else in the British Museum?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? Well, it might take too long, and incidentally bore the readers of this story too much if I should tell you how they came to be deposited in the Houndsditch Public Library, but deposited they were no later than last Saturday afternoon. And now they have disappeared.”