by Bill Peschel
. . . “‘Tell me everything,’ said Holmes—‘you understand, everything. It is often in those points which seem at first glance inessential, that the key of a seemingly insoluble problem lies hidden.’ Then he leant back in his chair, closed his eyes, as his custom was when listening intently, and pressed his finger-tips lightly against each other . . .” Mrs. Chilcote, after a pause, would have told her narrative clearly enough—how her husband was sometimes a brisk and brilliant man of affairs, ardently devoted to herself, but sometimes for days together was languid, irritable, a slave to chloral. Holmes, without opening his eyes, would now and again have interpolated a brief question of which Watson could not for the life of him imagine the relevance. Presently, Holmes would have bowed the lady out, refusing a blank cheque for his well-expressed hopes of giving the lady some good news within twenty-four hours.
“‘Well, Watson,’ said my friend, ‘and what do you make of it?’
“I had to confess that I was entirely in the dark, and that I doubted whether even he, magician though he was, would be able to throw any light on this case.
“‘Well,’ said Holmes, reaching out for his Stradivarius, and regarding me with a humorous twinkle, ‘let me see whether I can throw any light on that sonata in A minor by old Beethoven. We have plenty of time for that other little problem. Some time this afternoon, I propose we should drop in at the Houses of Parliament. I was able lately to render the Prime Minister a trifling service in that matter of the forged treaty with the Argentine Republic, and I dare say he will give us a pass for the Strangers’ Gallery. And, by the way, Watson! Take your pistol with you. You may want it.”
I cannot guess the exact procedure of the story from this point. I am no match for Sir Arthur in construction of the requisite little steps. But I, or anyone, can conceive the final scene in which Sherlock, having revealed to Mrs. Chilcote her husband lying dead from an overdose of chloral, beckons from the adjoining room the brilliant and devoted double, and, joining his and Mrs. Chilcote’s hands together, wishes them all possible happiness in the future, and once more refuses a cheque, but, in the interests of morality, conjures them to take the world into their confidence. At the St. James’s, Mrs. Chilcote and her husband’s double, determining, as the curtain falls, to take the world into their confidence, inspire in us no conviction at all. Sherlock, thou should’st be with them at that hour! Indeed, they have need of thee throughout the play. But I doubt whether even thou could’st save them in dramatic form.
In fact, as I suggested, they should have started in the Strand Magazine, and stayed there. There we would gladly have accepted the premise that two men might be so exactly alike in face and figure and voice that the wife of one would mistake the other for her husband. Process-block illustrations make little strain on our credulity. But when Mr. Alexander and Mr. Thorold appear before us in flesh and blood, with the stage carefully darkened to hide their points of dissimilarity, we are straightway acutely conscious that this is a story of cock-and-bull. Even had it been treated as such by the dramatist, and presented by him as a wild romance or melodrama, we should soon have been wearied by the very absurdity of it. Mr. E. Temple Thurston takes the whole thing quite seriously—presents it as a sombre drama of psychology, relieved by scenes of high comedy. He is at fearful pains to make it realistically credible, making his characters talk about Mr. Adolf Beck, and about a book entitled Other Men’s Shoes in which two men pass themselves off as each other with complete success. And, throughout, the appeal is not to any base appetite for excitement, but to our power of understanding the inner emotions of actual ladies and gentlemen. This is really a lamentable waste of Mr. Thurston’s time, and of ours, and of the talent of Mr. Alexander, and Miss Marion Terry, and the other members of a very good cast. And all in the lifetime of Sir Arthur, who could so easily have been induced yet again to raise Sherlock from the tomb!
Mr. Dooley Discusses College Athletics
Earl Derr Biggers
Harvard and Yale were rivals long before their football teams began playing each other in 1875, but their emphasis on winning games created scandals that can be seen at universities today. Future Charlie Chan creator Earl Derr Biggers (Harvard ’07, 1844-1933) fired this shot toward New Haven in the May 12 issue of The Harvard Advocate. Mr. Dooley was the popular Irish saloon keeper created by Finley Peter Dunne—whose Holmes parody made the 1900-1904 volume—making this a double-barreled parody!
“I see be th’ pa-apers,” Mr. Dooley remarked, “that th’ interscholastic meet at Yale was a gran’ succiss.”
“An’ what is an interscholastic meet?” inquired Mr. Hennessy, vaguely.
“’T is called a meet be raison iv th’ stakes, I dinnaw,” replied Mr. Dooley lightly, “an’ ’T is invinted to take th’ place iv th’ ol’fashioned enthrance exams. Whin you an’ me enthered Yale, Hinnissy, which thank Gawd we did not, we was ordhred to write all th’ Greek an’ Latin we knew in a book, ’T is diff’rent now. All th’ la-ads who wud like to enther Yale is lined up on a mark, an’ th’ Sicrety iv th’ Enthrance Board fires a pistil. They r-run wan mile, an’ th’ first hundhred la-ads to cross th’ line is admitted to colledge.
“Th’ Sicrety makes a speech. ‘Gintlemim,’ says he, ‘ye ar-re now admitted to full fellowship in this gran’ ol’ instichoochion iv lam—I mane, iv spoort,’ he says. ‘Ye will soon take up ye’er studies in th’ sprints an’ futball,’ says he. ‘Here,’ says he, ‘amid these class—I mane, spoortive shades,’ says he, ‘ye will acquire muscle with which to fight th’ battle iv life,’ says he, ‘an’ fr’m here ye will go out into th’ wurruld, there to do great things f’r Gawd, f’r counthry, an’,’ says he, gradjoolly wurrukin’ up til th’ climax, ‘f’r Yale,’ says he. ‘An’ who knows,’ says he, ‘but that somewan among ye may be as gr-reat as Jawn L. Sullivan himsilf,’ says he.
“Thin he turrns to a thin la-ad with specs who was last in th’ race. ‘As f’r ye,’ says he, ‘be off with ye to Cambridge,’ says he, ‘Th’ home iv an instichoochion mighty wake in all things,’ says he, ‘excipt larnin’,’ says he, ‘owin’ to th’ unforchint inconpetency iv its advertisin’ depart-mint. Be off,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll be up nixt spring to proove to ye th’ supeeryority iv brawn over brain,’ says he. ‘We’ll ate ye alive,’ says he, ‘mebbe,’ says he, ‘if wan iv me men don’t strain a muscle,’ says he, ‘or an iligeability r-rule,’ says he. ‘Me la-ads can run to bate th’ ca-ars,’ he says, ‘but they ‘re liable to overthrain,’ says he.”
“What ar-re we comin’ to?” demanded Mr. Hennessy, indignantly.
“’Twud seem, Hinnissy,” Mr. Dooley replied, “that most iv us ar-re comin’ to Yale, or to some akelly interprisin’ instichoochion. Little do ye think iv roonin’ yer Terrence be sindin’ him to colledge, but wan day he displays gr-reat ability in pitchin’ f’r th’ Ar-rchy Road Terrors, an’ soon afther he is stolen fr’m ye in th’ night be a ripresintative iv Georgetown Colledge, which is th’ name giv’n to th’ bunch iv dormatories built to shelter th’ Georgetown baseball team dunn’ th’ winther months.
“Down be th’ rollin’ mills at th’ noon hour th’ la ads ar-re amusin’ thimsilves be throwin’ a twinty pound lump iv ir’n, an’ Scanlon throws it wan fut further than iny iv th’ rest. In a minyit Sherlock Holmes, who has been standin’ by disgeesed as a wheelbarrow, steps up an’ taps him on th’ shoulder.
“‘Ye’re wanted, Scanlon,’ says he.
“‘T’ was not me stole th’ dimons,’ says Scanlon.
“‘I am Sherlock Holmes,’ says th’ detective.
“‘Thin ’tis all up,’ says Scanlon, ‘f’r how long am I in?’
“‘Four years,’ says Sherlock.
“‘Where?’ says Scanlon.
“‘Yale,’ says Sherlock.
“‘Hell,’ says Scanlon.
“’Tis a ha-ard blow, Hinnissy, a ha-ard blow an’ a crool wan. Scanlon is dhragged off in spite iv his dispairin’ cries.
“‘I’
ve a wife an’ childer,’ says he.
“‘Divoorce thim,’ says Sherlock,’ ‘’T is f’r dear ol’ Yale,’ says he. ‘Come,’ says he, ‘an we’ll lam ye to be a gintlemin.’
“‘I’d rather not be wan,’ says Scanlon.
“‘All right, ye don’t have to,’ says Sherlock. ’T is an ilictive coorse at all colledges these days. Dear al’ Yale—’
“‘’T is too dear f’r me,’ says Scanlon.
“‘Niver mind about that,’ says Sherlock, ‘ye’ll get an athieteship,’ says he. ‘We’ve taken the aid fr’m the needy studints an’ ar-re givin’ it to th’ speedy athletes,’ says he. ‘Hereafther th’ la-ad that’s strong in th’ Greek but wake in th’ pole vault will have to swim th’ broad blue sea iv knowledge. He’ll get no scholarship,’ says he.
“So Scanlon is dhragged fr’m Ar-rchy Road, an’ you an’ me niver see him afther. F’r no ma-an is aver pardoned out iv Yale, Hinnissy. Afther he’s played th’ years allowed be th’ rules, an’ th’ exthray wan or two f’r luck, he’s med a coach, an’ stays a coach ’till th’ ma-an that wrote th’ rules has forgot him. Thin he’s med a studint agin, an’ goes back to th’ team. ’T is his secind childhood, Hinnissy.”
“’T is a bold scheme,” said Mr. Hennessy, dubiously, “but do ye think it’ll wur-rk?”
“Yis,” replied Mr. Dooley, thoughtfully, “I think ’t will undher certain conditions.”
“And what ar-re they?” Mr. Hennessy inquired.
“Enthrance conditions,” responded Mr. Dooley with a wink.
The Mystery of the Missing Man
Anonymous
Not every company that shanghaied Sherlock for their own uses were on the up-and-up. This ad from the front page of the May 26 edition of the Binghamton Press in New York promoted Atlas Compound, a drug created and sold by Jeremiah MacDonald (1859-1918) of Binghamton that promised “to positively cure all diseases arising from impure blood, such as dyspepsia, costiveness, jaundice, nausea, loss of appetite, biliousness, boils, piles, dysentery, all gone and tired feeling, sick and nervous headache . . .” MacDonald also published a farmer’s almanac that heavily promoted his spurious cure. When government chemists analyzed Atlas Compound, they found that the pills were made of sodium sulphate, baking soda, a plant laxative, and talc. MacDonald plead guilty in 1917 to making false and fraudulent claims and was fined $30.
The mysterious disappearance of a prominent man in this city a few days ago has been unravelled by the great detective Hemlock Jones.
Turning to his friend Woctor Dotson, who was with him on a visit to the young man’s rooms, he said; “Well, Dotson, what do you make of this?”
Dotson replied: “I could discover nothing about his room that would indicate why he left so suddenly.”
“But,” said Hemlock Jones, “on the contrary, I have learned much; part of an Almanac on his dresser were marked with notes on a certain page, Summer resorts, etc., and I have concluded that he has simply gone out of town for a few days on the advice of the doctor whose medicine is advertised in that Almanac. There is no name or address on the parts of the Almanac that I found, but no doubt any druggist can tell us who makes that particular medicine, and the mystery is solved. Here is the pages of the Almanac, Dotson, and the medicine advertised is Atlas Compound.”
“By Jove,” exclaimed Dotson, “you have a great head. The doctor who makes Atlas Compound lives right here in Binghamton. I know him well, Doctor MacDonald, 53 Washington street, he is a personal friend of mine, and we will run down and see him at once.” Atlas Compound is the greatest tonic on earth. It is sold by all good druggists. Sample box free.
The Return of Padlock Bones
“Not by Conan A. Doyle, Sir.”
This odd entry, with its hints of gambling with dice and juvenile homicide, was found in the June issue of Every Where, a magazine of wholesome fiction and uplifting articles, edited by Will Carleton (1845-1912) who wrote popular poems celebrating rural life.
I had noticed, with considerable misgiving, that Padlock was drinking rather too much—even for a sleuth-psychologist. I had gradually weaned him from his besetting sin, with little hypodermic doses of gold-cure whenever I could catch him asleep; and he now, I am happy to say, drank only twelve quarts of raw whiskey per diem.
Still, it was easy to see that in the absence of a murder-case or so to unravel, he was likely to drink excessively. The fiend was not absolutely defunct: it was only in a doze—and might become at least somnambulistic at any moment.
Realizing that I had killed Padlock once already, that time he went over the precipice, and that the newspaper publishers would not stand for another taking-off of its brilliant and erratic rubberer just yet, or at least until there had been time for some more crime, I decided to go slow.
You may imagine that while gazing at Padlock’s ascetic face and inscrutable eyes, I considered it as a godsend whenever a peculiarly mysterious murder was committed in our vicinity.
So it was with unalloyed and genuine delight that I heard that a mysterious, cruel, and most revolting homicide had recently taken place.
He had just been saying, “I think the devil is forgetting us, Wattsey,” when a gilded youth of ten came into the room.
“You see, sir, it’s like this,” said the young man, with all the modesty of the typical nineteenth-century youth. “I can’t find Dinkey, and if we don’t, we shall be beaten as sure as the world in our next game of craps.”
My friend listened with surprise to the short but lucid speech, and took down his note-book of “C.”
“There is no mention of Dinkey here, in the article on craps,” said he, absently.
“Maybe it’s under Dinkey,” suggested the juvenile swell, with increased humility.
“Ah!” exclaimed Padlock, at last; “I have found Arthur H. Dinkey, the rising young bean-shooter and robber of peach-orchards. Or it may be H. Vernon Dinkey whom I helped to sentence to a private spanking; but I find no Dinkey that is addicted to craps.”
“Don’t know the crap business?” murmured the boy, in suppressed accents of excitement.
“My connections are not so healthily innocent as are yours,” replied Padlock, mournfully. “Would to heaven they were! But I think I can find out all about your boy-friend, though I don’t believe you had better expect to see him alive again. It will be necessary for Wattsey, here, to have him murdered, in order for me to take interest enough in him to find him. You will learn of my success, soon, in the Sunday papers.”
The Questionable Parentage of Basil Grant
“R. Bostoun Cromer”
(D.K. Broster and M. Croom Brown)
Some parodies spring from more than one source. In 1905, G.K. Chesterton published The Club of Queer Trades, a collection of six tales that gently send up the Sherlock stories. In each tale, detective Rupert Grant investigated a mysterious event only to reach the wrong conclusion. It was up to his brother, the former judge Basil, to prove that no crime was committed. At the heart of each story was the club, where membership is won by creating a profession, such as one who founded an Adventure and Romance Agency to enliven customers’ lives with weird events and mysterious doings.
This spoof from the July issue of The Monthly Review is unusual in that it was written by two well-educated women. Dorothy Kathleen Broster (1878-1950) was among the first women to receive an Oxford education and was best-known for her trilogy about the 1745 Scottish rebellion. Mary Croom Brown is known only for her biography Mary Tudor, Queen of France (1911).
In this excerpt from a longer story, detectives Merton and Logan are asked by Rupert Grant to research his family tree. All he knew was that his father was Florizel Grant, who died in Bohemia in 1888. Trawling through pension records, they uncover a Mrs. Florizel Grant. Further inquiries lead to the possibility that the Grants and the Holmes are related, but how? The doorbell rings, and an unexpected visitor supplies the answer.
The lady advanced into the gaping silence. Merton was th
e first to recover his presence of mind, coming bang out of his amazement into a kind of calm courtesy, but Logan remained in a half-way state, a purgatory of choking laughter, which he sought to escape from the more quickly by depositing Gowmys [the office cat] upon the sofa with exaggerated care.
The lady for whom Merton was now placing a chair on the clients’ spot on the carpet, directly in the light, was somewhat remarkable to look at. Fifty years ago her dress and expression would have suggested genteel poverty of the low-living, high-thinking order (the upper and the nether millstones of the intellectual poor), but to-day they might have belonged to the head of a women’s college or a C.O.S. worker. She had a general air of strenuous high principle—which her straight, white hair and pale face accentuated, but which was at variance with her Medicean nose at once intellectual and businesslike. For the rest, her figure was stayless but upright, and her dress suggested a practical concession to climatic possibilities rendered incoherent through the influence of Ashmolean lectures on Minoan art. An archaic smile turned the corners of her mouth and gave an air of benevolent detachment.