Homes’s eyes narrowed. “Did you happen to note, Watney, during our recent excursion, that within the area of this warehouse there are a total of sixty-three banking houses? I am positive that the Professor selected Mr. Willson’s warehouse for its proximity to these banks, and the loud music is merely to hide the sound of their digging! Each day, Watney, they are enlarging some tunneling arrangement to reach the underground vaults of these banks!”
I stared at Homes in astonished admiration. Only a mind as sharp as his could have seen the subterfuge behind the Professor’s devilish scheme and properly arrived at the true solution! “But, Homes,” I said, recalling the beginning of our discourse, “what did you mean when you said the problem of necessity had to be ventilation?”
“Just that, Watney! It is obvious that a tunnel of the size required to connect all of these banking establishments with their working base at the warehouse would require ventilation. Ventilation shafts, of necessity, must come at least to street level, where they are visible. In our stroll about the neighborhood this morning, I carefully noted all possible air-vent outlets, and I am positive I have properly identified the ones they have installed!
“After midnight, the law requires the abatement of loud noises, including music, and they must perforce stop working on the tunnel at that hour. If my theory is correct, we can gain entrance to this tunnel by means of these air shafts, and once within their warren, I promise I shall put a stop to their vicious plot!”
“But, Homes,” I admonished, “should we not inform the police?”
“It would be without purpose; the police cannot act before the fact. Their only recourse would be to place a watch over each bank vault in order to catch the miscreants in the act. We, being under no such compulsion, can abolish the entire scheme before it becomes operative, and save the police much work!
“Well, Watney, there seems to be little more to be done until the early hours of the morning. I suggest that we finish our repast and then return to Bagel Street where I can pursue my researches until that time. It will also be necessary for me to obtain certain materials to take with us, for I shall foil this foul scheme of the Professor’s at all costs!”
It was after midnight when we left our quarters. Homes carried a small black bag with great care, and nestled it cautiously between his long legs as our hansom rattled through deserted streets across the great city. We descended a few hundred feet from the warehouse, and Homes waited until the cab had disappeared into the darkness before turning into Cheapside Boulevard and walking purposefully to a manhole cover neatly set into the pavement.
“Quickly, Watney!” he said, straining at the heavy iron lid. “It should be one of these!”
Without a word I knelt by his side and aided him in wrestling the awkward metal ring from its cumbersome base. A steel ladder disappeared into the murky darkness below, and with a quick glance in all directions to insure our privacy, Homes descended rapidly. I followed with caution, feeling my way into the blackness rung by rung, until I felt my companion’s hand on my ankle, guiding my feet to the solid earth at the bottom. I could hear Homes’s quick breathing, and his fumbling at the catch of the black bag. A moment later he had produced a bull’s-eye lantern and was sweeping the shaft with a steady beam of light. Despite my faith in my friend’s remarkable analytical reasoning power, I was forced to catch my breath in admiration, for as he had so accurately predicted, we were in a long tunnel that curved out of sight in both directions!
“Homes!” I whispered. “You were completely correct! This tunnel is of a size that could easily attain all of the banking establishments within a great area!”
“And we have come none too soon, Watney,” he replied in a low, firm voice. “Note the finished state of their work—it is typical of the Professor to be fastidious in the details of his vile schemes. It is obvious that he must be almost ready for his coup. Note the completeness of their installation; they have even provided wagons to speed the work of looting the vaults. The only thing they failed to take into account was the existence of Schlock Homes, and this oversight shall cost them dearly! Watney, quickly, my black bag!”
I held the bull’s-eye lantern while Homes neatly extracted two long sticks of explosive and attached them firmly to one of the wagons. As I watched in fascination he affixed a fuse to their caps and leading it some distance away, knelt and lighted the end.
“Away, Watney!” he whispered excitedly. “This fuse should take no more than two hours at the most to reach the charge, and I suggest we be well away when that occurs!”
We quickly made our way back as we had come, and once at the foot of the ladder, Homes covered the lantern, plunging us into darkness. I rapidly mounted the metal rungs of the ladder, hearing the heavy breathing of my friend behind me. Within minutes we had reseated the manhole cover firmly on its base, and hurried up the deserted street to a cab stand around the corner. Less than ten minutes after Homes had lighted the fuse that was to end the Professor’s nefarious plan to rob most of London’s banks, we were settled back in a hansom and rapidly covering the city on our way back to Bagel Street.
Because of our late hours and strenuous activities, it was well after the hour of noon when we arose. Homes entered the breakfast room just as I was sitting down to a belated lunch, but knowing his interest in current affairs, I opened the afternoon journal even before taking my first kipper and had noted the headlines by the time he was seated.
“Good afternoon, Watney,” said he, seating himself and reaching for the kipper rack. “What news do you find in the journal which might prove to be of interest to us?”
“Well, Homes,” I replied, studying the paper closely, “the first article which I see says that it appears that the consumption of drugs is rapidly increasing in London of late.”
“Is that so?” he said, exhibiting but slight interest. “You might mention this fact to our Mr. Willson when you give him your account of our activities. If this is the case, it may well give him a market for his stock and partially compensate him for the undoubted loss of a well-paying tenant. But I am not interested in the commercial news, Watney; is there no crime which might claim our attention?”
“Well, there is this, Homes,” I replied, studying another article closely. “It says here that service on the Cheapside Line of the London Underground Subway System was disrupted early this morning, and that the police feel that sabotage was undoubtedly involved.”
“Sabotage!” cried Homes, leaning forward eagerly with flashing eyes. “To my mind, Watney, sabotage—next to the pilfering of coal—is the dirtiest of all crimes! I must offer my services to the authorities immediately! A telegram to Scotland Yard if you please, Watney!”
The Adventure of the STOCKBROKER’S CLARK
The year ’54 was one of exceptional activity for my friend Mr. Schlock Homes. During the early months of the year he had been busy across the Channel, for it was only through his efforts that the tulip crop of Holland was saved from being smuggled out of that country. This particular case, which earned for Homes the Hague Five-Star Man Of Distinction award, was given wide publicity at the time, and I find the details recorded in my casebook as “The Adventure of the Dutch Bulb-Snatchers.” His return in the spring immediately found him involved in the odd problem of the footballer who was being kept against his will on a second-rated team, a case I find listed in my notes as “The Adventure of the B-Leaguered Goalkeeper.” It was also about this time that he was able to be of assistance to Sir Merivale Lodge’s sister, Wisteria, and shortly thereafter he solved the puzzling problem of confused identities at Bedlam Hospital which later became known as “The Adventure of the Five Napoleons.”
When September arrived, therefore, both Homes and myself felt the need for rest, and arranged to leave our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street for a well-deserved holiday at Watts, in Middlesex, planning to spend our hours in complete inactivity. But even in this quiet rustic retreat, repose was not to be permitted the great detective, for it
was here that Homes was confronted with a challenge that gave him an opportunity to once again demonstrate his exceptional powers of reasoning, in solving the problem which I find in my notes under the title of “The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clark.”
We had no sooner settled in our rooms at the Watts New Hotel, when a series of loud, jarring explosions drew us in haste to the window, where we were in time to observe one of the new horseless carriages grind to a halt at the hotel doorway. The driver emerged, and after studying the swinging sign above the entrance, disappeared from our view into the building. The expression of distaste on Homes’s face clearly indicated his opinion of the mechanical monster in the road below, and with a sad shake of his head he prepared to reseat himself, when a sharp rap came at the door, and our host the innkeeper ushered in a large, florid gentleman who threw off his goggles and duster and, uninvited, flung himself into a chair before us.
“You like my new Clark-4?” he asked, laughing a bit too loudly. “Best foreign motorcar on the market; it cost a pretty packet, but what of it, I say! Money’s to take and to spend, and I take it easily, so I spend it easily!” He paused as my friend eyed him in icy silence, and then continued, although his geniality appeared a bit more forced than formerly.
“Well, Mr. Homes, I finally wormed your present address here out of your housekeeper, Mrs. Essex, although I must admit I had to make up quite a story since she stupidly refused a bribe. However, I promise you won’t suffer for it financially! I’m a generous man, though people deny it, but I insist on receiving fair values for my brass!
“Now, Mr. Homes, I have a pretty problem for you to solve, but before I propound it, I understand that you pride yourself on your ability to deduce a person’s occupation from their appearance, and I would like to wager that you can’t guess mine!” Leaning back negligently, he lit a huge cigar, and allowed the match box to dangle loosely from one hand.
Knowing Homes’s dislike for ostentation and braggadocio, I fully expected my friend to eject our unpleasant visitor forthwith, but to my great surprise he studied the man before him dispassionately for several minutes before answering.
“From the soft condition of your hands, and your apparent prosperity,” remarked Homes at last, his cold eye roving over the seated figure as he spoke, “I should judge you to be engaged in commerce of some sort, most probably in the retail end. I note the match box you hold advertises the Chez One-Hoss, a well-known night club in Hertford, not far from here, and one which is largely frequented by the more successful agrarians of that area, so I would deduce that the items you handle are primarily intended for the use of farmers.
“Your right trouser leg exhibits two marks, one being greasy and deriving, I should imagine, from contact with a thin metal hoop which was some ten inches from the floor; the other showing marks of wood powder which I can readily recognize as birch, and which appears approximately four inches higher on your trouser leg.
“The items you sell, therefore, are manufactured of both wood and metal, and come in two distinct sizes: one being ten inches in height and the other fourteen inches in height. Since a metal watering bucket is exactly ten inches high, rimmed with a hoop, while the standard butter tub or bucket used by the dairy farmers of this neighborhood is exactly fourteen inches high and made of birch, I should say it is fairly easy to deduce your occupation. You, sir, are undoubtedly the operator of a bucket shop!”
“Well, now, Mr. Homes,” said our visitor, chuckling heartily, “I guess that with your reputation you can afford a miss now and then, and you were certainly bowled clean on me! These marks on my trouser leg are the result of my fixing my Clark—4 myself, for I don’t allow any fool of a mechanic to tamper with my machine, no, sir! An operator of a bucket shop! Ha! Ha! You couldn’t be further off! As a matter of fact I happen to be a stockbroker, and it is in connexion with this that I wish to employ your services.
“My name, Mr. Homes, is Jonathan Fast, and I operate the largest brokerage firm devoted exclusively to the sale of stocks and bonds to small investors in the entire Empire. I had an associate who called himself Peter Luce—although I always knew his name had been Anglicized from Pietro Lucciani—but he proved to be too soft in his dealings with clients. I was therefore forced to squeeze—that is to say, to buy him out, although I still retain his name in the firm, out of respect for his memory, as well as the many friends he had among the poor.
“Since my firm specializes in dealing with the uninitiate in the investment business, we are often approached by people who are either illiterate, or uneducated, or both; but we never refuse an order no matter how small, and always push our firm’s motto, which is: ‘Don’t Hide Your Money In A Shoe: That’s Obtuse—We Will Handle It For You: Fast & Luce.’
“As a result of this policy, which I might mention has been singularly successful throughout the years, we are accustomed to receive messages and orders from all parts of the world, and many are so poorly written that at times it becomes quite difficult to decipher them. However, since one never knows today who can or cannot afford to dabble in stocks, we go to extraordinary lengths to properly interpret all messages, even employing translators where necessary.
“Today, however, I received a communication which is in plain English, but which frankly I am unable to understand. Our experts at the office have done their best to interpret it but without success. Knowing your reputation for solving puzzles of this nature, I therefore went to some trouble to locate you, and I should like you to decipher this for me as quickly as possible.”
He withdrew from his pocket a wrinkled sheet of paper and laid it on the table before us. It was printed in crude block letters on a torn and dirty sheet of wrapping paper, and I reproduce it below for the reader:
At the appearance of this strange letter, Homes’s boredom disappeared at once. Handling the wrinkled missive with the greatest of care, he bore it to the window and studied it carefully in the fading afternoon light. Then, to my amazement, he bent his head over the paper and carefully smelled it! Then, nodding his head as if at the verification of some private conclusion, he turned to our visitor.
“The envelope!” he demanded, his voice tight with hidden excitement. “Do you still have the envelope?”
“There was no envelope. The message was slipped under the door of my office precisely as you see it.”
Homes took this information with barely concealed disappointment, but when he again turned to face our visitor he was once again his old, calm self. “Well, Mr. Fast,” he said shortly, “if I may retain this paper for a few days, I have no doubt but that I shall be able to decipher it. It promises to be a most interesting problem, and since I am supposedly on holiday, I see no reason not to give it my full attention. I imagine that your firm is in the London Directory, and as soon as I have news, I shall be in touch with you.”
“Very well, Mr. Homes,” replied our visitor, collecting his driving equipment and consulting a heavy pocket watch, “but don’t waste any more time on it than is absolutely necessary. Sometimes we have found that the crudest messages have resulted in the greatest profit—that is, the greatest opportunity for us to be of service to our clients!”
When a new series of loud explosions indicated to us that the Clark—4 and its owner had left the hotel doorstep, Homes carefully covered the torn paper with a clean piece of glass to protect it against any possible damage, and then, relaxing in an arm chair, lighted his pipe. A slight frown crossed his brow as he turned to me.
“A most disagreeable character, Watney,” he remarked, puffing slowly. “Common politeness forced me to listen to his story, and I fully intended to show him the door as soon as, in all decency, I could; but once he produced that badly scrawled message on that quite odorous paper, I’m afraid I was lost! I can only hope that the secret it contains does not work to the advantage of our Mr. Fast, for I cannot recall a previous client who struck me so poorly!
“However, Watney, it never does to tackle a new case in the ev
ening. Morning wakens the brain as well as the body, you know, and I therefore suggest that we relax tonight and come fresh to this problem on the morrow. The Watts Town Hall has a program of Polish folk dances this evening; I understand they begin with ‘Five Minuets’ of Latis Knuze, and finish with the famous ‘Oy Gavotte.’ Should we wish to attend the performance, Watney, I suggest we leave at once, for the country does not keep our city hours, you know!”
The following morning, well rested by ten hours sleep in the fresh Middlesex air and fortified by a huge country breakfast, Homes lighted a cigarette and withdrew the mysterious paper from beneath the glass.
“Well, Watney,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “I should like to have your opinion of this strange billet-doux. What are you able to deduce from a study of it?”
I took the crumpled sheet from his hand and scanned it closely, attempting to adopt the studious mien of my friend when he was involved in the analysis of some abstruse problem, although in truth I could see little there to give us any important lead.
“Well, Homes,” I answered slowly, “it is clear that this was written by a person of great personal slovenliness, for you will note that in handling it he was careless enough to leave his handprint, and a dirty one at that. The poverty of the writer is also apparent from the fact that he delivered it in person rather than spend thruppence on a postal stamp. However, the significance of the intended message, I must confess, completely eludes me!”
Homes laughed and retrieved the note from my outstretched fingers. “Not bad, Watney,” he chuckled, “but I was requesting information regarding the message itself, for this also eludes me at the moment. As to the writer, that worthy is fairly easily described, I should have said; for it should be obvious to the most dense that this note was written by a midget suffering from amnesia, who lives in Soho and most probably in Greek Street, and who is involved, or at least has some connexion with the publishing trade.”
The Incredible Schlock Homes Page 6