by Otto Penzler
“He’d spot it, Bunny. He’d spot it.” Raffles picked up one of the cases. “See this nick?” he asked lightly, for all the world as if blazing eyes and a scarlet face were an invitation to confidences. “I’ve marked this case because it holds the one and only Ruby of Khitmandu, and on my life I don’t believe I could tell which ruby was which, if I once got the cases mixed.”
“And yet,” I croaked from a dry throat, “you think Holmes can do what you can’t!”
“My dear rabbit, precious stones are one of his hobbies. The fellow’s written a monograph on them, as I discovered only to-day. I’m not saying he’d spot my imitation, but I am most certainly not going to give him the chance,” and he turned on his heel and strode into his bedroom for his overcoat.
The patient readers of these unworthy chronicles do not need to be reminded that I am not normally distinguished for rapidity of either thought or action. But for once brain and hand worked as surely and swiftly as though they had been Raffles’s own, and the rubies had changed places a full half-minute before Raffles returned to find me on my feet, my hat clapped to my head, and a look in my eyes which opened his own in enquiry.
“I’m coming with you,” I cried.
Raffles stopped dead, with an ugly glare.
“Haven’t you grasped, my good fool, that I’m handing Holmes the real stone?”
“He may play you false.”
“I refuse to take you.”
“Then I follow you.”
Raffles picked up the marked case, snapped it to, and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. I was outwitting him for his own good, yet a pang shot through me at the sight, with another to follow when the safe closed on the real ruby in the dummy’s case. And the eyes that strove to meet his fell most shamefully as he asked if I still proposed to thrust my company upon him. Through teeth which I could hardly keep from chattering I muttered that it was a trap, that Holmes would take the stone and then call in the police, that I must share the danger as I would have shared the profits. A contemptuous shrug of the splendid shoulders, and a quick spin on his heel, were all the answer he vouchsafed me, and not a word broke the silence between us as we strode northwards through the night.
There was no tremor in the lean strong hand which raised the knocker on a door in Baker Street. He might have been going to a triumph instead of to the bitterest of humiliations. And it might be a triumph, after all! And he would owe it to me! But there was little enough of exultation in the heart which pounded savagely as I followed him upstairs, my fingers gripped tightly round the life-preserver in my pocket.
“Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” wheezed the woman who had admitted us. “And one of them,” drawled an insufferably affected voice, as we walked in, “is very considerately advertising the presence of a medium-sized life-preserver in his right overcoat pocket. My dear Watson, if you must wave a loaded revolver about, might I suggest that you do so in the passage? Thank you. It is certainly safer in your pocket. Well, Mr. Raffles, have you brought it?”
Without a word, Raffles took the case out, and handed it across to Holmes. As Holmes opened it, the fellow whom he had addressed as Watson leaned forward, breathing noisily. Criminals though we were, I could not repress a thrill of pride as I contrasted the keen bronze face of my companion with the yellow cadaverous countenance of Holmes, and reflected that my own alas indisputably undistinguished appearance could challenge a more than merely favourable comparison with the mottled complexion, bleared eyes, and ragged moustache of the detective’s jackal.
“A beautiful stone, eh, Watson?” Holmes remarked, in the same maddening drawl, as he held the ruby to the light. “Well, Mr. Raffles, you have saved me a good deal of unnecessary trouble. The promptitude with which you have bowed to the inevitable does credit to your quite exceptional intelligence. I presume that you will have no objection to my submitting this stone to a brief examination?”
“I should not consider that you were fulfilling your duty to your client if you neglected such an elementary precaution.”
It was perfectly said, but then was it not Raffles who said it? And said it from the middle of the shabby bear-skin rug, his legs apart and his back to the fire. Now, as always, the center of the stage was his at will, and I could have laughed at the discomfited snarl with which Holmes rose, and picking his way through an abominable litter of papers disappeared into the adjoining room. Three minutes, which seemed to me like twice as many hours, had passed by the clock on the mantelpiece, when the door opened again. Teeth set, and nerves strung ready, I was yet, even in this supreme moment, conscious of a tension in Raffles which puzzled me, for what had he, who believed the stone to be the original ruby, to fear? The menacing face of the detective brought my life-preserver half out of my pocket, and the revolver of the man Watson wholly out of his. Then, to my unutterable relief, Holmes said, “I need not detain you any longer, Mr. Raffles. But one word in parting. Let this be your last visit to these rooms.”
There was a threat in the slow-dropping syllables which I did not understand, and would have resented, had I had room in my heart for any other emotion than an overwhelming exultation. Through a mist I saw Raffles incline his head with a faintly contemptuous smile. And I remember nothing more, till we were in the open street, and the last sound I expected startled me back into my senses. For Raffles was chuckling.
“I’m disappointed in the man, Bunny,” he murmured with a laugh. “I was convinced he would spot it. But I was ready for him.”
“Spot it?” I gasped, fighting an impossible suspicion.
“Yes, spot the dummy which my innocent rabbit was so insultingly sure was the one and only Ruby of Khitmandu.”
“What!” My voice rose to a shriek. “Do you mean it was the dummy which was in the marked case?”
He spun round with a savage “Of course!”
“But you said it was the real one.”
“And again, of course!”
Suddenly I saw it all. It was the old, old wretched story. He would trust no one but himself. He alone could bluff Holmes with a dummy stone. So he had tried to shake me off with the lie about restoring the real stone. And my unwitting hand had turned the lie to truth! As I reeled, he caught my arm.
“You fool! You infernal, you unutterable fool!” He swung me round to face his blazing eyes. “What have you done?”
“I swapped them over. And be damned to you!”
“You swapped them over?” The words came slowly through clenched teeth.
“When you were in your bedroom. So it was the one and only ruby you gave him after all,” and the hand that was raised to strike me closed on my mouth as I struggled to release the wild laughter which was choking in my throat.
Chapter XVI
(Dr. Watson’s Narrative)
I must confess that as the door closed on Raffles and his pitiful confederate I felt myself completely at a loss to account for the unexpected turn which events had taken. There was no mistaking the meaning of the stern expression on the face of Holmes when he rejoined us after examining the stone. I saw at once that his surmise had proved correct, and that Raffles had substituted an imitation ruby for the original. The almost laughable agitation with which the lesser villain pulled out his life-preserver at my friend’s entrance confirmed me in this supposition. It was clear to me that he was as bewildered as myself when Holmes dismissed Raffles instead of denouncing him. Indeed, his gasp of relief as he preceded Raffles out of the room was so marked as to bring me to my feet with an ill-defined impulse to rectify the extraordinary error into which, as it seemed to me, Holmes had been betrayed.
“Sit down!” Holmes snapped, with more than his usual asperity.
“But Holmes!” I cried. “Is it possible you do not realize—”
“I realize that, as usual, you realize nothing. Take this stone. Guard it as you would guard the apple of your eye. And bring it to me here at eight to-morrow morning.”
“But Holmes, I don’t understand—”
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br /> “I have no time to discuss the limitations of your intelligence.” I have always been willing to make allowances for my friend’s natural impatience with a less active intelligence than his own. Nevertheless, I could not repress a feeling of mortification as he thrust the case into my hand, and propelled me into the passage. But the night air, and the brisk pace at which I set out down Baker Street, soon served to restore my equanimity. A long experience of my friend’s extraordinary powers had taught me that he often saw clearly when all was darkness to myself. I reflected that he had no doubt some excellent reason for letting the villains go. No man could strike more swiftly and with more deadly effect than Holmes, but equally no man knew better how to bide his time, or could wait more patiently to enmesh his catch beyond the possibility of escape. While these thoughts were passing through my mind, I had been vaguely conscious of two men walking ahead of me, at a distance of about a hundred yards. Suddenly one of them reeled, and would have fallen had not his companion caught his arm. My first impression was that I was witnessing the spectacle, alas only too common a one in all great cities, of two drunken men assisting each other homewards. But as I observed the couple in pity mingled with repulsion, the one who had caught the other’s arm raised his hand as if to deliver a blow. I felt for my revolver, and was about to utter a warning shout, when I perceived that they were the very men who had just been occupying my thoughts. The need for caution instantly asserted itself. Halting, I drew out my pipe, filled it, and applied a match. This simple stratagem enabled me to collect my thoughts. It was plain that these rascals had quarrelled. I recalled the familiar adage that when thieves fall out honest men come by their own, and I summoned all my powers to imagine what Holmes would do in my place. To follow the rogues at a safe distance, and act as the development of the situation required, seemed to me the course of action which he would pursue. But I could not conceal from myself that his view of what the situation might require would probably differ materially from my own. For an instant I was tempted to hasten back to him with the news of this fresh development. But a moment’s reflection convinced me that to do so would be to risk the almost certain loss of my quarry. I had another, and I fear a less excusable, motive for not returning. The brusquerie of my dismissal still rankled a little. It would be gratifying if I could, this once, show my imperious friend that I was capable of making an independent contribution to the unravelling of a problem. I therefore quickened my steps, and soon diminished the distance between myself and my quarry to about fifty yards. It was obvious that the dispute was still in progress. Raffles himself maintained a sullen silence, but the excitable voice and gestures of his accomplice testified that the quarrel, whatever its nature, was raging with unabated vehemence.
They had entered Piccadilly, and I was still at their heels, when they turned abruptly into Albany Courtyard. By a fortunate coincidence I had for some weeks been visiting the Albany in my professional capacity, having been called in by my old friend General Macdonagh, who was now at death’s door. I was therefore known to the commissionaire, who touched his hat as I hastened past him. With the realization that this was where Raffles lived, the course of action I should adopt became clear to me. He had the latchkey in his door, as I came up.
“By Heavens!” his companion cried. “It’s Watson!”
“Dr. Watson, if you please, Bunny.” The scoundrel turned to me with a leer. “This is indeed a charming surprise, Doctor.”
Ignoring the covert insolence of the man, I demanded sternly if he would accord me a brief audience in his rooms.
“But of course, my dear Doctor. Any friend of Mr. Holmes is our friend, too. You will excuse me if I lead the way.”
My hand went to my revolver, and as the door of his rooms closed behind us, I whipped it out, at the same time producing the case which contained the imitation ruby.
“Here is your imitation stone,” I cried, tossing the case on to the table. “Hand over the real one, or I shall shoot you like a dog.”
Accomplished villain though he was, he could not repress a start of dismay, while his miserable confederate collapsed on a sofa with a cry of horror.
“This is very abrupt, Doctor,” Raffles said, picking the case up and opening it. “May I ask if you are acting on the instructions of Mr. Holmes? It is, after all, with Mr. Holmes that I am dealing.”
“You are dealing with me now. That is the only fact you need to grasp.”
“But Mr. Holmes was entirely satisfied with the stone I handed him.”
“I am not here to argue. Will you comply with my request?”
“It is disgraceful of Holmes to send you to tackle the pair of us single-handed.”
“Mr. Holmes, you blackguard! And he knows nothing of what I am doing.”
“Really? Then I can only say he does not deserve such a lieutenant. Well, Bunny, our triumph was, I fear, a little premature.”
A minute later, I was in the passage, the case containing the genuine stone in my breast pocket. Through the closed door there rang what I took to be the bitter, baffled laugh of an outwitted scoundrel. In general, I am of a somewhat sedate temper, but it was, I confess, in a mood which almost bordered on exultation that I drove back to Baker Street, and burst in on Holmes.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I cried, waving the case.
“Delirium tremens?” Holmes enquired coldly, from his arm-chair. I noticed that he was holding a revolver.
“The original ruby, Holmes!”
With a bound as of a panther Holmes leaped from his chair and snatched the case from my hand. “You idiot!” he snarled. “What have you done?”
Vexed and bewildered, I told my story, while Holmes stared at me with heaving chest and flaming eyes. My readers will have guessed the truth, which Holmes flung at me in a few disconnected sentences, interspersed with personal observations of an extremely disparaging nature. It was indeed the original ruby which Raffles had brought with him, and which Holmes, suspecting that Raffles would attempt to retrieve it while he slept, had entrusted to my keeping. The warning which Holmes had given Raffles not to visit him again was now explained, as was also the vigil with a loaded revolver on which my friend had embarked when I burst in on him.
The arrest a fortnight later of Raffles and the man Bunny, and the restoration of the famous ruby to its lawful owner, will be familiar to all readers of the daily papers. During this period the extremely critical condition of General Macdonagh engaged my whole attention. His decease was almost immediately followed by the unexpected deaths of two other patients, and in the general pressure of these sad events I was unable to visit Holmes in order to learn from his own lips the inner story of the final stages in this remarkable case.
The Adventure of the Remarkable Worm
AUGUST DERLETH
AUGUST WILLIAM DERLETH (1909–1971) was born in Sauk City, in Wisconsin, where he remained his entire life, most of which appears to have been spent at the typewriter, as he wrote more than three thousand stories and articles, and published more than a hundred books, including detective stories (featuring Judge Peck and the Sherlock Holmes-like character Solar Pons), supernatural stories, and what he regarded as his serious fiction: a very lengthy series of books, stories, poems, journals, etc., about life in his small town, which he renamed Sac Prairie.
When Derleth learned that Arthur Conan Doyle had no plans to write more Holmes stories, he wrote to ask permission to continue the series; Conan Doyle graciously declined. Nonetheless, Derleth proceeded, inventing a name that was syllabically reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes, and wrote his first pastiches about Solar Pons, ultimately producing more stories about Pons than Conan Doyle did about Holmes.
Pons is all but a clone of Holmes. Both have prodigious powers of observation and deduction, able to tell minute details about those they have just met, deduced in seconds of observation. They also are physically similar, both being tall and slender. Holmes stories are narrated by Dr. John H. Watson, Pons stories by Dr. Lyndon Parke
r, with whom he shares rooms at 7B Praed Street; their landlady is Mrs. Johnson. Holmes’s elder brother, Mycroft, has even greater gifts than Sherlock, and Solar Pons’s brother, Bancroft, is also superior.
Among the few differences between Holmes and Pons are their time frames. The most memorable Holmes adventures took place in the 1880s and 1890s, whereas Pons flourished in the 1920s and 1930s. Pons is also a more cheerful figure than Holmes, less given to depression and bouts of drug use.
Several of the Pontine tales have titles taken from the famous unrecorded cases to which Watson often alluded, including “Ricoletti of the Club Foot (and his Abominable Wife),” “The Aluminum Crutch,” “The Politician, the Lighthouse, and the Trained Cormorant,” and the present story.
“The Adventure of the Remarkable Worm” was first published in Three Problems for Solar Pons (Sauk City, Wisconsin, Mycroft & Moran, 1952).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE REMARKABLE WORM
August Derleth
“AH, PARKER!” EXCLAIMED Solar Pons, as I walked into our quarters at 7B Praed Street late one mid-summer afternoon in the early years of the century’s third decade, “you may be just in time for another of those little forays into the criminological life of London in which you take such incomprehensible delight.”
“You have taken a case,” I said.
“Say, rather, I have consented to an appeal.”
As he spoke, Pons laid aside the pistol with which he had been practising, an abominable exercise which understandably disturbed our long-suffering landlady, Mrs. Johnson. He reached among the papers on the table and flipped a card so that it fell before me on the table’s edge, the message up.
“Dear Mr. Pons,
“Mr. Humphreys always said you were better than the police, so if it is all right I will come there late this afternoon when Julia comes and tell you about it. The doctor says it is all right with Mr. P., but I wonder.