by Robert Barr
APPENDIX: TWO SHERLOCK HOLMES PARODIES
1. The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs
(With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle, and his excellent book, 'A Study inScarlet'.)
I dropped in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to sayabout the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in thenewspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peaceand serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances ofthose within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calmindicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such,indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers hadcontained an article eulogising the alertness and general competenceof Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for ScotlandYard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, norwould he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.
He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me,and greeted me with his usual kindness.
'I have come,' I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind,'to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery.'
'I haven't heard of it,' he said quietly, just as if all London werenot talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on somesubjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance,that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did notknow who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship agreat boon.
'The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland Yard.'
'I can well believe it,' said my friend, calmly. 'Perpetual motion, orsquaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, isGregory.'
This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. There was noprofessional jealousy in him, such as characterises so many other men.
He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated armchair,placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his head.
'Tell me about it,' he said simply.
'Old Barrie Kipson,' I began, 'was a stockbroker in the City. He livedin Pegram, and it was his custom to--'
'COME IN!' shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with asuddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.
'Excuse me,' said my friend, laughing, 'my invitation to enter was atrifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that Ispoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The factis, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about thiscrime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line.'
'Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude,' Isaid, rising.
'Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that hewas coming.'
I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinarytalents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smokequietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.
'I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but,from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection ofobjects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, andthen glanced across the street. I recognised my card, because, as youknow, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking ofthis mystery, it naturally follows that _he_ will talk of it, and thechances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that,besides there is always--_Come in!_
There was a rap at the door this time.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his loungingattitude.
'I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,' said the stranger,coming within the range of the smoker's vision.
'This is Mr. Kombs,' I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly,and seemed half-asleep.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' continued the stranger, fumbling for acard.
'There is no need. You are a journalist,' said Kombs.
'Ah,' said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, 'you know me, then.'
'Never saw or heard of you in my life before.'
'Then how in the world--'
'Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written anarticle slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, andyou will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless Itell him.'
'The devil!' cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and moppinghis brow, while his face became livid.
'Yes,' drawled Kombs, 'it is a devil of a shame that such things aredone. But what would you? as we say in France.'
When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himselftogether somewhat. 'Would you object to telling me how you know theseparticulars about a man you say you have never seen?'
'I rarely talk about these things,' said Kombs with great composure.'But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you inyour profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by makingyour paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and secondfingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal.This smeared class embraces two sub-classes, clerks or accountants,and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smearis slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelesslysmeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper inyour pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is aSpecial Edition, which will not be on the streets for half-an-houryet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to dothis you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a bluepencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own papernot written by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you havemarked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author of the bookreferred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing all books notwritten by some member of its own staff. That the author is a friendof yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinaryobservation.'
'Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You arethe equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are.'
A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on thesideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter.
'Do you mean to insult me, sir?'
'I do not--I--I assure you. You are fit to take charge of ScotlandYard tomorrow ----. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.'
'Then heaven help you,' cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.
I sprang between them.
'Don't shoot!' I cried. 'You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw,don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is acompliment!'
'Perhaps you are right,' remarked the detective, flinging his revolvercarelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party.Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary blandcourtesy--
'You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, MrWilber Scribbings?'
The journalist started.
'How do you know my name?' he gasped.
Kombs waved his hand impatiently.
'Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.'
I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seeninside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.
'You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery--'
'Tush,' cried the detective; 'do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery.There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever_was_ a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before.What about the Pegram affair?'
'The Pegram--ah--case has baffled everyone. The _Evening Blade_ wishesyou to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay youwell. Will you accept the commission?'
'Possibly. Tell me about the case.'
'I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived atPegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminusand that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by theinfluenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drewsomething like L300 in notes, and left the office at his
usual hour tocatch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the publichave been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-classcompartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between Londonand Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and his money was gone,pointing plainly to murder and robbery.'
'And where is the mystery, might I ask?'
'There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, howcame he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stopat Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would haveturned him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the ticketssold for the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, howcould the murderer have escaped? Fourth, the passengers in the twocompartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard noscuffle and no shot fired.'
'Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop betweenLondon and Brewster?'
'Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal justoutside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line wasreported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, asthere is a branch line beyond Pegram.'
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipesilently.
'I presume you wish the solution in time for tomorrow's paper?'
'Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in amonth you would do well.'
'My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you canmake it convenient to call here tomorrow at 8 a.m. I will give you thefull particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sensein taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case.Good afternoon, sir.'
Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He leftin a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hatstill in his hand.
Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his handsclasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffsat first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to aconclusion, so I said nothing.
Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. 'I do not wish to seem tobe rushing things at all, Whatson, but I am going out tonight on theScotch Express. Would you care to accompany me?'
'Bless me!' I cried, glancing at the clock, 'you haven't time, it isafter five now.'
'Ample time, Whatson--ample,' he murmured, without changing hisposition. 'I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers anddressing-gown for boots and coat, three seconds for hat, twenty-fiveseconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a hansom, andthen seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. I shallbe glad of your company.'
I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It wasmost interesting to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As wedrove under the lofty iron roof of the terminus I noticed a look ofannoyance pass over his face.
'We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time,' he remarked, looking atthe big clock. 'I dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur.'
The great Scotch Express stood ready for its long journey. Thedetective tapped one of the guards on the shoulder.
'You have heard of the so-called Pegram mystery, I presume?'
'Certainly, sir. It happened on this very train, sir.'
'Really? Is the same carriage still on the train?'
'Well, yes, sir, it is,' replied the guard, lowering his voice, 'butof course, sir, we have to keep very quiet about it. People wouldn'ttravel in it, else, sir.'
'Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartmentin which the body was found?'
'A lady and gentleman, sir; I put 'em in myself, sir.'
'Would you further oblige me,' said the detective, deftly slippinghalf-a-sovereign into the hand of the guard, 'by going to the windowand informing them in an offhand casual sort of way that the tragedytook place in that compartment?'
'Certainly, sir.'
We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news therewas a suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out,followed by a florid-faced gentleman, who scowled at the guard. Weentered the now empty compartment, and Kombs said:
'We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster.'
'I'll see to that, sir,' answered the guard, locking the door.
When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected tofind in the carriage that would cast any light on the case.
'Nothing,' was his brief reply.
'Then why do you come?'
'Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at.'
'And might I ask what those conclusions are?'
'Certainly,' replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in hisvoice. 'I beg to call your attention, first, to the fact that thistrain stands between two platforms, and can be entered from eitherside. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware ofthat fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before itstarted.'
'But the door on this side is locked,' I objected, trying it.
'Of course. But every season ticket-holder carries a key. Thisaccounts for the guard not seeing him, and for the absence of aticket. Now let me give you some information about the influenza. Thepatient's temperature rises several degrees above normal, and he has afever. When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls tothree-quarters of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown toyou, I imagine, because you are a doctor.'
I admitted such was the case.
'Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that theconvalescent's mind turns towards thoughts of suicide. Then is thetime he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. BarrieKipson's friends did _not_ watch him. You remember the 21st, ofcourse. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud underfoot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified,if possible, but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that aman about to commit a crime always forgets something.'
'But how do you account for the disappearance of the money?'
'The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man,and knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notesto an enemy. If not, they may have been given to a friend. Nothing ismore calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than theprospect of a night ride on the Scotch express, and the view from thewindows of the train as it passes through the northern part of Londonis particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation.'
'What became of the weapon?'
'That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse mefor a moment.'
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, andexamined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass.Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.
'Just as I expected,' he remarked, speaking more to himself than tome. 'There is a slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is ofsuch a nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol fallingfrom the nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weaponfar out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have falleninto the carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the lineand lies among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outsiderail. The only question that now remains is where the deed wascommitted, and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned inmiles from London, but that, fortunately, is too simple to even needexplanation.'
'Great heavens, Sherlaw!' I cried. 'How can you call that simple? Itseems to me impossible to compute.'
We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detectiveleaned back with every sign of _ennui_, closing his eyes. At last hespoke wearily:
'It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing tooblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able towork out the ABC of detection for yourself, although I shall neverobject to helping you with the words of more than three syllables.Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally inten
dedto do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are againexamined at that point. When the train began to stop at the signalnear Pegram, he came to the false conclusion that it was stopping atBrewster. The fact that the shot was not heard is accounted for by thescreech of the air-brake, added to the noise of the train. Probablythe whistle was also sounding at the same moment. The train being afast express would stop as near the signal as possible. The air-brakewill stop a train in twice its own length. Call it three times in thiscase. Very well. At three times the length of this train from thesignal-post towards London, deducting half the length of the train, asthis carriage is in the middle, you will find the pistol.'
'Wonderful!' I exclaimed.
'Commonplace,' he murmured.
At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind ofthe air-brakes.
'The Pegram signal again,' cried Kombs, with something almost likeenthusiasm. 'This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, andtest the matter.'
As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line.The engine stood panting impatiently under the red light, whichchanged to green as I looked at it. As the train moved on withincreasing speed, the detective counted the carriages, and noted downthe number. It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moonhanging in the western sky throwing a weird half-light on the shiningmetals. The rear lamps of the train disappeared around a curve, andthe signal stood at baleful red again. The black magic of the lonesomenight in that strange place impressed me, but the detective was a mostpractical man. He placed his back against the signal-post, and pacedup the line with even strides, counting his steps. I walked along thepermanent way beside him silently. At last he stopped, and took atape-line from his pocket. He ran it out until the ten feet six incheswere unrolled, scanning the figures in the wan light of the new moon.Giving me the end, he placed his knuckles on the metals, motioning meto proceed down the embankment. I stretched out the line, and thensank my hand in the damp grass to mark the spot.
'Good God!' I cried, aghast, 'what is this?'
'It is the pistol,' said Kombs quietly.
It was!!
* * * * *
Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was causedby the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed atlength in the next day's _Evening Blade_. Would that my story endedhere. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to ScotlandYard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, byjealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. Theseller testified that it had never been in the possession of MrKipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose descriptiontallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He wasarrested, and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal.It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usuallycame home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, hadbeen murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, themiscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body--asubject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before thedeed is done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangledby the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the bodyhalf-way up the embankment the express came along and stopped. Theguard got out and walked along the other side to speak with theengineer. The thought of putting the body into an empty first-classcarriage instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the doorwith the deceased's key. It is supposed that the pistol dropped whenthey were hoisting the body in the carriage.
The Queen's evidence dodge didn't work, and Scotland Yard ignoblyinsulted my friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see thevillains hanged.
2. The Adventure of the Second Swag
The time was Christmas Eve, 1904. The place was an ancient, secludedmanor house, built so far back in the last century as 1896. It stoodat the head of a profound valley; a valley clothed in ferns waistdeep, and sombrely guarded by ancient trees, the remnants of aprimeval forest. From this mansion no other human habitation could beseen. The descending road which connected the king's highway with thestronghold was so sinuous and precipitate that more than once the grimbaronet who owned it had upset his automobile in trying to negotiatethe dangerous curves. The isolated situation and gloomy architectureof this venerable mansion must have impressed the most casual observerwith the thought that here was the spot for the perpetration of darkdeeds, were it not for the fact that the place was brilliantlyillumined with electricity, while the silence was emphasised ratherthan disturbed by the monotonous, regular thud of an accumulatorpumping the subtle fluid into a receptive dynamo situated in anouthouse to the east.
The night was gloomy and lowering after a day of rain, but the verysombreness of the scene made the brilliant stained glass windows standout like the radiant covers of a Christmas number. Such was theappearance presented by 'Undershaw', the home of Sir Arthur ConanDoyle, situated among the wilds of Hindhead, some forty or fifty milesfrom London. Is it any wonder that at a spot so remote fromcivilisation law should be set at defiance, and that the one lonepoliceman who perambulates the district should tremble as he passedthe sinister gates of 'Undershaw'?
In a large room of this manor house, furnished with a luxuriantelegance one would not have expected in a region so far fromhumanising influences, sat two men. One was a giant in stature, whosebroad brow and smoothly shaven strong chin gave a look ofdetermination to his countenance, which was further enhanced by theheavy black moustache which covered his upper lip. There was somethingof the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had, infact, taken part in more than one fiercely fought battle, and was amember of several military clubs; but it was plain to be seen that hisancestors had used war clubs, and had transmitted to him the physiqueof a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number ofthe _Strand_, which he held in his hand, nor read the name printedthere in large letters, to know that he was face to face with SirArthur Conan Doyle.
His guest, an older man, yet still in the prime of life, whose beardwas tinged with grey, was of less warlike bearing than the celebratednovelist, belonging, as he evidently did, to the civil and not themilitary section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous manof affairs, shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory, and these twostrongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom Englandowes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will veryprobably feel disappointed when he finds, as he supposes, merely twoold friends sitting amicably in a country house after dinner. Thereseems, to his jaded taste, no element of tragedy in such a situation.These two men appear comfortable enough, and respectable enough. It istrue that there is whisky and soda at hand, and the box of cigars isopen, yet there are latent possibilities of passion under the mostplacid natures, revealed only to writers of fiction in our halfpennyPress. Let the reader wait, therefore, till he sees these two mentried as by fire under a great temptation, and then let him saywhether even the probity of Sir George Newnes comes scathless from theordeal.
'Have you brought the swag, Sir George?' asked the novelist, with sometrace of anxiety in his voice.
'Yes,' replied the great publisher; 'but before proceeding to thecount would it not be wise to give orders that will insure our beingleft undisturbed?'
'You are right,' replied Doyle, pressing an electric button.
When the servant appeared he said: 'I am not at home to anyone. Nomatter who calls, or what excuse is given, you must permit none toapproach this room.'
When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution ofthrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massiveoaken door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tailpocket of his dress coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings,poured the rich red gold on the smooth table.
'I think you will find that right,' he said; 'six thousand pounds inall.'
The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began tocount the coins two by two, withdrawing e
ach pair from the pile withhis extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal withgreat treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chinkof gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even thestout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch achord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously hegrasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:--
'Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?'
Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face,murmuring, to keep his memory green:--
'A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.'
'Not at home?' cried the vibrant voice. 'Nonsense! Everybody is athome on Christmas Eve!'
'_You_ don't seem to be,' he heard the servant reply.
'Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see yourmaster, and at once.'
'Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the countyball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,'answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction whichunconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humblecapacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.
'Nonsense, I say again,' came the strident voice. 'It is true that thetracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, butif you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you willsee that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to thestation before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since itsarrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hallspattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. Theblazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upona printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor;second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in Englandwhose occupation corresponds with this heraldic device is Sir GeorgeNewnes.'
'You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,' said the servant, whose hand helda copy of _Answers_.
If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-forrejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went onunabashed.
'As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must havearrived at Haslemere station on the 6.19 from Waterloo. He has haddinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir ArthurConan Doyle, doubtless in the front room, which I see is sobrilliantly lighted. Now if you will kindly take in my card--'
'But I tell you,' persisted the perplexed servant, 'that the masterleft in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal--'
'Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newlyblackleaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on anautomobile rampant.'
'Great heavens!' cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the lightof unholy desire, 'you have material enough there, Doyle, for a storyin our January number. What do you say?'
A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist's brow.
'I say,' he replied sternly, 'that this man has been sendingthreatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.'
'Then triply bolt the door,' advised Newnes, with a sigh ofdisappointment, leaning back in his chair.
'Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?' askedDoyle fiercely, rising to his feet. 'No, I will unbolt. He shall meetthe Douglas in his hall!'
'Better have him in the drawing-room, where it's warm,' suggested SirGeorge, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on thetroubled waters.
The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening's_Westminster Gazette_ over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threwit open, and said coldly:--
'Show the gentleman in, please.'
There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, withclean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.
Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture,the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from givingutterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded tointroduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equallywelcome.
'Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George--'
'It is quite superfluous,' said the newcomer, in an even voice ofexasperating tenor, 'for I perceive at once that one who wears a greenwaistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or theeditor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. Theshamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that thegentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this isSir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?'
'Rapidly rising,' replied the editor.
'I am glad of that,' asserted the intruder, suavely, 'and can assureyou that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.'
The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire,and rubbed them vigorously together.
'I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand poundsin gold.'
Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.
'You didn't see it _through_ the paper; you saw it _in_ the paper.Goodness knows, it's been mentioned in enough of the sheets.'
'As I was about to remark,' went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, 'Iam amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it incounting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereignweighs 123.44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up thekitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with alead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, SirGeorge?'
'In the name of all that's wonderful, how do you know that?' asked theastonished publisher.
Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand towardthe two bags which still lay on the polished table.
'Oh, I'm tired of this sort of thing,' said Doyle wearily, sittingdown in the first chair that presented itself. 'Can't you be honest,even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it onwith each other.'
'That is true,' said Sherlock Holmes. 'The fact is, I followed SirGeorge Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, wherehe demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned thiswould weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, andthat even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two smallbags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from Londonon the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before Icould make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was furtherdelayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself atthat charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered bytwo ruffians a century or so ago.'
There was a note of warning in Doyle's voice when he said:--'Did thatincident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in adangerous locality?'
'And likely to fall in with two ruffians?' asked Holmes, slightlyelevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round histhin lips. 'No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It wasthe man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin withme, although I expect to bear many away.'
'Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocution, whatbrings you here so late at night?'
Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head veryslowly.
'After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is itpossible that you cannot deduct even so simple a thing as that? Why amI here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He wasquite right in taking one of them to 'Undershaw', but he should haveleft the other at 221B, Baker Street. I call this little trip 'TheAdventure of the Second Swag'. Here is the second swag on the table.The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share wassome honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it istruly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance,they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag isconcerned, I have come to demand half of it.'
'I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,' said Doyle,apparently nettled at th
e other's slighting reference to his powers.'I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deducedfurther that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, youalso followed him to Waterloo station.'
'Quite right.'
'When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.'
'I did.'
'When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, DrWatson, telling him of your whereabouts.'
'You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.'
'You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at leastdropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need notmention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.'
The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled inhis superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyleawaited his answer.
'Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram, nor spoke any message,since I left London.'
'Ah, no,' cried Doyle. 'I see where I went astray. You merely inquiredthe way to my house.'
'I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the rear light of theautomobile part way up the hill, and, when that disappeared, I turnedto the right instead of the left, as there was no one out on such anight from whom I could make inquiry.'
'My deductions, then, are beside the mark,' said Doyle hoarsely, in anaccent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invitedguest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfiedlater arrival.
'Of course they were,' said Holmes, with exasperating self-assurance.
'Am I also wrong in deducting that you have had nothing to eat sinceyou left London?'
'No, you are quite right there.'
'Well, oblige me by pressing that electric button.'
Holmes did so with much eagerness, but, although the trio waited someminutes in silence, there was no response.
'I deduct from that,' said Doyle, 'that the servants have gone to bed.After I have quite satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger forfood and gold, I shall take you back in my motor car, unless youprefer to stay here the night.'
'You are very kind,' said Sherlock Holmes.
'Not at all,' replied Doyle. 'Just take that chair, draw it up to thetable and we will divide the second swag.'
The chair indicated differed from all others in the room. It wasstraight-backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates,apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms todrag it forward, he gave one half-articulate gasp, and plungedheadlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Newnes sprang up standingwith a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, aseraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips.
'Has he fainted?' cried Sir George.
'No, merely electrocuted. A simple device the Sheriff of New Yorktaught me when I was over there last.'
'Merciful heavens! Cannot he be resuscitated?'
'My dear Newnes,' said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shouldersa great weight is lifted, 'a man may fall into the chasm at the footof the Reichenbach Fall and escape to record his adventures later, butwhen two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person whoowns that frame is dead.'
'You don't mean to say you've murdered him?' asked Sir George, in anawed whisper.
'Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums upthe situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they canindite us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is alittle invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before theservants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That'swhy I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table besidethe chair, and put on it a bottle of wine, whisky and soda, andcigars. Then, if any burglar comes in, he invariably sits down in thechair to enjoy himself, and so you see, that piece of furniture is aneffective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I haveturned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking offof Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictlyspeaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn't get more thanfourteen years apiece, and probably that would be cut down to seven onthe ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit.'
'Apiece!' cried Sir George. 'But what have I had to do with it?'
'Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked, Isaw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, Ithink you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessorybefore the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.'
Sir George sank back in his chair wellnigh breathless with horror.Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however,are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time theyissue a book. Doyle laughed easily.
'I'm used to this sort of thing,' he said. 'Remember how I killed offthe people in "The White Company". Now, if you will help me to get ridof the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from themisguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is today. Heoften disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight dangerof detection. Will you lend a hand?'
'I suppose I must,' cried the conscience-stricken man.
Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of SherlockHolmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which wascharacteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor carto the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by histrembling guest, he went outside and flung the body into the tonneaubehind. He then threw a spade and a pick into the car, and coveredeverything up with a water-proof spread. Lighting the lamps, he badehis silent guest get up beside him, and so they started on theirfateful journey, taking the road past the spot where the sailor hadbeen murdered, and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed towardLondon.
'Why do you take this direction?' asked Sir George. 'Wouldn't it bemore advisable to go further into the country?'
Doyle laughed harshly.
'Haven't you a place on Wimbledon Common? Why not bury him in yourgarden?'
'Merciful motors!' cried the horrified man. 'How can you propose sucha thing? Talking of gardens, why not have buried him in your own,which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace.'
'Have no fear,' said Doyle reassuringly, 'we shall find him a suitablesepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I'll be in thecentre of London within two hours.'
Sir George stared in affright at the demon driver. The man hadevidently gone mad. To London, of all places in the world. Surely thatwas the one spot on earth to avoid.
'Stop the motor and let me off,' he cried. 'I'm going to wake up thenearest magistrate and confess.'
'You'll do nothing of the sort,' said Doyle. 'Don't you see that noperson on earth would suspect two criminals of making for London whenthey have the whole country before them? Haven't you read my stories?The moment a man commits a crime he tries to get as far away fromLondon as possible. Every policeman knows that, therefore, two mencoming into London are innocent strangers, according to ScotlandYard.'
'But then we may be taken up for fast driving, and think of theterrible burden we carry.'
'We're safe on the country roads, and I'll slow down when we reach thesuburbs.'
It was approaching three o'clock in the morning when a huge motor carturned out of Trafalgar Square, and went eastward along the Strand.The northern side of the Strand was up, as it usually is, and themotor, skilfully driven, glided past the piles of wood-paving blocks,great sombre kettles holding tar and the general _debris_ of are-paving convulsion. Opposite Southampton Street, at the very spot sographically illustrated by George C. Haite on the cover of the _StrandMagazine_, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his motor. The Strand wasdeserted. He threw pick and shovel into the excavation, and curtlyordered his companion to take his choice of weapons. Sir Georgeselected the pick, and Doyle vigorously plied the spade. In almostless time than it takes to tell it, a very respectable hole had beendug, and in it was placed the body of the popular private detective.
Just as the last spadeful was shovelled in place the stern voice of apoliceman awoke the silence, and caused Sir George to drop his pickfrom nerveless hands.
'What are you two doing down there?'
'That's all right, officer,' said Doyle glibly, as one who hadforeseen every emergency. 'My friend here is controller of the Strand.When the Strand is up he is responsible, and it has the largestcirculation in the--I mean it's up oftener than any other street inthe world. We cannot inspect the work satisfactorily while traffic ison, and so we have been examining it in the night-time. I am hissecretary; I do the writing, you know.'
'Oh, I see,' replied the constable. 'Well, gentlemen, good morning toyou, and merry Christmas.'
'The same to you, constable. Just lend a hand, will you?'
The officer of the law helped each of the men up to the level of theroad.
As Doyle drove away from the ill-omened spot he said:--
'Thus have we disposed of poor Holmes in the busiest spot on earth,where no one will ever think of looking for him, and we've put himaway without even a Christmas box around him. We have buried him forever in the _Strand_.'
* * * * *