Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches II

by Bill Peschel

  After breakfast we went to the State House, and under the magnifying glass Holmes minutely examined the suit case in which the mutilated torso had been found. Then he examined the single leather strap which had been around the suit case, and finally asked a few questions.

  “What is the address of the shoemaker in Marlboro who said he did this work?” Holmes inquired.

  A courteous police official told him.

  “I believe Joseph Berkman, a pawnbroker, said he sold it on Tuesday before the finding of the body on Thursday?”

  “Yes,” said the official.

  “The Marlboro man says he repaired the case on August 14 for a man who came in his place in an automobile with two ladies?” Holmes went on, reciting those things he had read.

  “Yes,” said the official again.

  “And Berkman says at that time the suit case was in his store for sale?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Therefore,” said Holmes, “if either of these is right, the other must be wrong?”

  “That is apparent,” said the official.

  “Good day,” said Holmes. “Thank you.”

  Then Sherlock Holmes did several things I didn’t understand. For instance, he dropped into the Highway Commission’s office in the Pemberton building and asked several questions about automobiles. Then he went to several advertising novelty houses, then finally had a look at the body, which was at the Harvard Medical School. I, too, examined it, being a physician and interested.

  At the time he examined the body Holmes made no comment, but later, on the way out, he said:

  Woman Of High Type.

  “There’s no question about it now. That woman is of the highest type. Now, Watson,” and he rubbed his hands again, “we’ll go solve this.”

  “How?” I asked, wonderingly.

  “The key’s in Marlboro,” he said. “It is not a matter for conjecture, but what now seems to be an absolutely settled thing, that a man who puts as weird-looking a patch on a suit case as that one would know it again, and could account for every stitch in it. The man who owned the suit case would never have noticed carefully the work on the patch; neither would have the pawnbroker who bought it beyond seeing it was solid. But the man who put it there put his individuality into it; he would know his work again. Therefore, we must assure ourselves that he does know it.”

  Two hours later we were in Marlboro and in the little shop of the cobbler who had identified the suit case as one he had repaired. He reiterated his statement to us.

  “Would you swear that was your work?” Holmes asked.

  “I would,” replied the cobbler.

  “Have you the piece of leather from which you cut the patch?”

  “Here it is,” and the shoemaker produced a piece. “And here is the piece from which I made the handle loops,” he added, as he produced another piece.

  Then with the aid of a photograph he went over the patch stitch by stitch. Holmes was finally satisfied, and there was a look of triumph in his eyes when he turned on me. It was a look which said:

  “We have solved the mystery.”

  Then Holmes made inquiries as to the appearance of the man and two women in the automobile. The cobbler remembered nothing of the women; the man was five feet two, weighed 170 pounds, perhaps, had a sandy moustache and small black eyes.

  “Would you swear that this piece of leather is that from which you cut the patch?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes,” said the shoemaker, emphatically. “It was the only piece I had which would do for that, and I remember having cut it. I have bought no leather since at all.”

  In Dark Green Auto.

  “And the automobile? What did it look like?”

  “I only noticed that it was a small touring car shape, had no top and the body seemed to be of dark green. I couldn’t see any more of it from my shop where I sat.”

  “This man said he was a Winthrop physician, had been in Worcester over Sunday, and was returning home?” asked Holmes. These were the reported statements of the cobbler in the press.

  “Yes,” said the cobbler. “That’s what he did say, and nothing else.”

  We passed on. Five other persons in Marlboro confirmed the story of the automobile stopping at the cobbler shop, two saw the cobbler repairing the suit case, but did not notice it closely. One remembered that the automobile had yellow running gear, three that it had a dark green body.

  “Now for the road,” said Holmes.

  We drove from Marlboro to Worcester, sixteen miles, in an open buggy, stopping at every house. Finally we found a girl who remembered the automobile; she had given a glass of water to one of the ladies.

  “What did she look like?” asked Holmes.

  “They wore masks,” said the girl. “I couldn’t see her face.”

  “And the man?”

  She gave precisely the same description of him as the cobbler had given.

  “And did you see a suit case?” Holmes asked, almost eagerly.

  “Yes,” said the girl. “It had the handle off. The man said he would stop somewhere and have it repaired.”

  “What was the color of the automobile?” Holmes went on, and now a strange note of triumph was in his voice.

  “Dark green body, I think, and yellow wheels,” said the girl.

  From that point we drove rapidly to Worcester.

  “I’ve got it, Watson. I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” Holmes repeated several times to me. “It’s a gasolene machine, ten horse-power, and if I only had the number we would have our man—at least the suit case owner.”

  In Worcester we made a tour of the garages of which there were five. Four times the books failed to show the automobile. In the fifth we got what we wanted.

  “Sure I remember that car,” said an employee. “A man and two women. The car stayed here over night, and I put five gallons of gasolene aboard.”

  Examined Suit Cases.

  “Was there a suit case?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes,” said the automobile man. “The handle was off it.”

  Sherlock Holmes gripped my shoulder fiercely and the thin fingers sank deep into my flesh. I knew that grip; it meant victory.

  “Do you happen to remember the number of that automobile?” he asked, and his voice was like dripping honey.

  “Sure,” said the automobile man. He consulted his ledger. “It was number ten thousand and blankety blank.”

  Holmes looked at him a long time, then turned to me with an indrawn breath.

  “Let’s go to Boston, Watson,” he said.

  On the train he explained to me: “If there is one thing I don’t know much about it is leather. I’ll get a leather expert to examine this piece and compare it with the patch. If it is the same . . . well, we’ll have the owner of the suit case just as soon as we can find the number at the Highway Commission.”

  Exultantly we sought out a leather expert, and he accompanied us to the State House. There again the suit case was brought out. The leather man looked from the leather Holmes had to the patch, then dampened the patch and examined it more closely. Finally he straightened up.

  “Not the same at all,” he said. “It’s a difference like black and white.”

  Sherlock Holmes leaned forward suddenly and gripped the expert’s shoulder.

  “Not the same?” he gasped.

  “No,” said the expert. “One is grain leather; the other a sole leather split.”

  Holmes looked at him amazed for a moment, then burst out laughing suddenly, as the fable he had constructed tumbled down. He laughed heartily for a moment.

  “That was the time I was mistaken,” he said to me. “Every man can be mistaken sometimes, even the cobbler out in Marlboro.”

  CHAPTER III

  Next morning Sherlock Holmes was still amused at the wholly unexpected and somewhat startling elimination of the Marlboro cobbler’s clue to the great suit case mystery. Over our breakfast he chuckled in dry appreciation of his own mistake.
/>   “Whatever else comes up, the Marlboro end of the mystery is disposed of for all time,” he said, as he lighted a cigarette. “Can you imagine the astonishment of the man who owned the suit case which was repaired in Marlboro if he should happen to learn how we ran down his automobile and how closely we followed his movements?”

  “It would have been embarrassing for him,” I said.

  “Not necessarily,” said Holmes. “His clearest alibi now is possession of the suit case which the cobbler repaired. If he had that, it couldn’t have been found in the water. If he has disposed of it, it might be embarrassing, but can mean nothing. And right here is a little lesson in circumstantial evidence. For instance, a man has one of only five suit cases which are exactly alike; he has repairs made to it in the identical manner in which the suit case containing the torso was repaired; he is a doctor. Everything pointed to him, but that bit of leather, which eliminated him entirely. But suppose that leather had been the same?”

  Sherlock Holmes finished his cigarette, then suddenly arose.

  “Now we’ll go to work in earnest,” he said.

  Together we went out, and he directed our steps again toward an advertising novelty company which has offices in Franklin street, one of the places he had visited the day previously. I followed wonderingly.

  “I am thinking of having some stickers made, about the size of a dollar, similar to the ones you showed me yesterday,” Holmes said to a clerk. “Have you some samples?”

  The clerk produced a score or more printed with chewing gum advertisements, in blank forms, with corn cures, with special brands of tobacco.

  “I think this is the size I want,” said Holmes, and he picked up one. Then he took from his pocket the outline of a sticker, round with raw edges, and compared this rough outline with the sample. “Yes, that’s it,” he said. “I should like to have a sample of all the stickers of this exact size that you have, those that are printed, I mean. I want to get a general idea of coloring and lettering.”

  He Smiled Enigmatically.

  The clerk gave him thirty or more, and we went out with a last word from Holmes that he would decide in a couple of days. I was puzzled. I had seen Holmes do strange things before, but by the wildest stretch of imagination I could not connect the stickers he had with the case in hand.

  “What are they for?” I asked finally.

  Holmes smiled enigmatically, hailed a cab, and we were driven to Rowe’s wharf. There we took a ferry to East Boston, thence went by the Narrow Gauge railroad to Winthrop. As we left the train there Holmes approached the station agent.

  “Could you direct us to the Winthrop Yacht Club, please?” he asked.

  “Shirley street, to your right,” said the agent.

  Holmes started away, then turned back as if by reason of an afterthought.

  “Oh, by the way,” he asked, “do you happen ever to have noticed a sticker like that on any baggage you have handled?”

  The station agent looked thoughtfully at the circular bit of paper which Holmes produced.

  “I believe I have,” he said finally. “The other man here handles most of the baggage, however. He might remember.”

  “The express or baggage men don’t use them, do they?” asked Holmes.

  “Oh, no,” said the agent.

  “I was trying to find out if this method of labeling baggage is in general use,” Holmes went on, easily. “It’s really an excellent scheme. I’ll see the other man after a while.”

  We passed on toward the Winthrop Yacht Club, Holmes intently studying the topography of the place as we went. By courtesy of an attendant of the club we were permitted to go out on the pier and from there Holmes scanned the waters, on past the narrow gauge road, past Washington street where the water was pouring through the sluiceway, and then out to sea.

  “That’s where the suit case was picked up,” said the attendant, with a certain note of pride in his voice.

  Holmes merely glanced at the spot indicated, remarked: “Beautiful view,” and we went on again. From there we walked on down toward Shirley Point, pausing by the water’s edge, once fifty feet below the club house, while Holmes threw an empty cigar box into the water, and we walked on. Half an hour later we returned. The cigar box had drifted along the edge of the water a hundred feet toward Shirley Point. Holmes noted it.

  “Good,” he exclaimed. “Now let’s take a little trip on Lewis Lake.”

  We’re Making Progress.

  A boatman rowed us aimlessly about the edges of the lake, which is only a lake at high tide, then we started back toward the station.

  “Land us at the sluiceway there,” Holmes directed.

  “Can’t,” said the boatman, tersely. “Tide’s been going out for an hour and the suction would drag the boat so I couldn’t land.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes, enigmatically. “Oh, by the way,” he asked casually, “do you happen to know if there’s a grating in the sluiceway?”

  “I believe there was once,” said the boatman, “but isn’t there now, or if it is it has large holes in it. See here!”

  He flung a small block of wood into the turmoil of the water at the sluiceway entrance. We crossed Washington street, and a moment later the block of wood was bobbling outside as it sped rapidly toward the trestle of the Narrow Gauge railroad.

  “Beautiful!” exclaimed Holmes, as he rubbed his thin hands delightedly. “We’re making progress, Watson. We’re making progress.”

  Then Holmes left me for a little while to cool my heels on the station platform while he talked to a baggageman who had appeared at the station: “that other man” referred to by the station agent, I presumed. Just what was said at that interview I didn’t know then, but Holmes came out rubbing his thin hands briskly.

  “Now, for Boston, Watson,” he said cheerily.

  We boarded a train at Rowe’s Wharf then took an Elevated train to the Pleasant street station. There for an hour Holmes talked with various pawnbrokers. He confirmed Joseph Berkman’s story of the sale of the suit case, and asked one question:

  “Did you see a sticker like this,” and he showed the sticker which he had showed to the station master, “on the suit case? Or was there one like it when you sold it?”

  “No,” said Berkman. “There was nothing on it. I never use stickers of any kind.”

  “Good day,” said Holmes, and we returned to our rooms.

  “Well, what have you made of it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” he replied. “Let me think.”

  He reached for his violin and I went to a matinee.

  CHAPTER IV

  When I returned to our rooms after the matinee, Sherlock Holmes was pacing back and forth savagely. He glared at me as I entered, and flung himself in a chair.

  “How did you like ‘The College Widow?’” he asked.

  “It’s excellent,” I replied. Then wonderingly: “But how did you know I’d been there?”

  “Oh, never mind,” he said shortly. “Say, can you conceive of any man who is fool enough to write his name and address on a suit case, then put the body of a woman in it and throw it in the water?”

  “I certainly cannot,” I replied. I was astounded. “What—”

  “I don’t know what, that’s the matter,” he responded sharply. “It is perfectly inconceivable—”

  He stopped talking, sat thoughtful for a moment and went out.

  I dined alone. At 8:30 Holmes had not returned, and went out to a vaudeville. At 11:30 he still had not appeared, and I went to bed. It was half-past 2 when I was aroused by the weird music of Holmes’ violin. I turned over and the bed creaked.

  “I know why now,” Holmes called, and there was a note of exultation in his voice.

  “Why what?” I asked, as I arose, pulled on a dressing gown and went into his room.

  “Why a man wrote a name and address on a suit case, then put a woman’s body in it and threw it into the water,” he replied.

  “Why?” I aske
d.

  “It wasn’t his own name and address,” said Holmes. “Sit down a little while.”

  I sat down and looked at Holmes curiously. His thin face was white, almost haggard, and his keen eyes, in the dim light, appeared merely as two dark spots. His slim white hands caressed the violin, which he had ceased playing, and he spoke shortly. He was tired, exhausted by a mental effort.

  “You’ve heard me say a hundred times, Watson,” he said after a while, “that when you remove the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Well, here,” he said, “you know I have said there were two men mixed up in this suit case mystery, one a physician whose practices are wholly illegal, and the other a surgeon of high reputation and social standing.”

  I remembered.

  “Well, the physician, not the surgeon, is more of a fool than I thought he was. With all the care that the surgeon, who is guiltless absolutely of any crime in the matter, has shown in covering up his tracks so as to effectually protect his own name from a disgusting crime, the physician, the fool of low mentality, has laid it all bare. Now it only takes patience—but lots of it,” he added, wearily.

  I looked at him for a moment, amazed.

  “I don’t quite follow you,” I said.

  Holmes smiled, one of those smiles which by its very superiority had in the past aroused a feeling of resentment in me.

  “Not quite following me seems to be a weakness of yours,” said Holmes. “Let me make it clear: A physician made a mistake in the original operation and sent for this surgeon of high reputation to try to save the girl, possibly at the girl’s request. The girl dies. The body is cut to pieces by the surgeon to dispose of the matter for all time, thus saving his name and that of the girl.”