Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch

by Edward D. Hoch

  “Because she runs away from me. Margo Collier is my wife.”

  I cannot pretend that the news did not astound me. I had noticed the faint indentation on her ring finger, but I assumed it was only the sign of a broken engagement in one so young. Likewise, the manner in which she approached me had seemed quite sincere.

  “I find that difficult to believe,” I told Glacet.

  “Ask her! We have been married for more than a year, though we are living apart at the moment.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “That is a personal matter, sir.”

  “How were you able to obtain a booking on the voyage at the last minute in order to follow her?”

  “The ship is not fully booked at these prices.”

  “Forgive me, sir, if I have done you an injustice.”

  I retreated back to the writing room where Margo Collier was waiting.

  “Did you confront him, Mr. Holmes?” she asked immediately.

  “I did. The man claims to be your legal husband. Is that true?”

  “We are separated. He has no business following me about!”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Glacet. I am, or was, a consulting detective. I have never been a marriage counselor.”

  “Mr. Holmes…”

  “Pardon me, madam. I can no longer help you.”

  I turned and walked away.

  For the rest of the day and the next, I managed to avoid both Margo Collier and Pierre Glacet. The Titanic covered 519 miles on its second day, though it received several warnings of heavy pack ice from other ships. Captain Smith assured us via his posted notices that ice warnings were not uncommon for April crossings.

  On Saturday evening, I dined with the Futrelles and the spiritualist, Franklin Baynes, in the first-class dining saloon. He was an interesting gentleman, well steeped in occult lore. Futrelle seemed especially taken with him and I could only assume that the author was researching a possible idea for one of his detective stories. It developed that the spiritualist was traveling to America for a series of lectures and demonstrations.

  “You are a showman, then,” I proposed, as much to bait him as anything else.

  “No, no!” he insisted. “Spiritualism is as much a science as Madame Curie’s radiology.”

  May Futrelle spoke. “Mr. Baynes has invited us to his cabin after dinner for a demonstration of some of his devices. Perhaps you could join us, Mr. Smith.”

  “By all means, do so!” Baynes urged.

  I agreed with some reluctance and, following dessert, we took the elevator up three floors to his stateroom on the Promenade Deck. It was even larger than my cabin, and I wondered if this, too, might be a reward from the White Star president.

  The spiritualist went directly to his steamer trunk and opened it. He removed a crystal ball some six inches in diameter, mounted on a wooden base with an electrical cord attached. Quickly unplugging the cabin’s electric space heater by the bed, he plugged his device in its place. The crystal ball sprang to life with a bright, intense light.

  “Look in here, Mr. Smith, but not too long, or you will be blinded.”

  “What am I supposed to see?” I inquired.

  “Perhaps those who have gone before you into the great beyond.”

  I glanced at the brightly glowing filament for an instant and then looked away, its image burnt into my retina.

  “I see nothing of the past,” I told him, “though something of the future might be had in lights like this.”

  Franklin Baynes unplugged the crystal ball and brought out an oversized deck of cards. I began to suspect he was more magician than spiritualist.

  “You are not a believer in the hereafter, Mr. Smith? In that other world where our ancestors await us, where it is always spring and the fairies and elves flit across the meadow?”

  I smiled slightly. “I have my own vision of the hereafter, Mr. Baynes. It is not the same as yours.”

  May Futrelle seemed to sense that the visit to his cabin had been a mistake.

  “We really should be going, Jacques,” she told her husband.

  The spiritualist shook their hands. “Thank you for dinner. It was most delightful. And you, Mr. Smith, I trust we can discuss our differing views before the ship docks in New York.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed.

  I left the cabin in the company of the Futrelles and walked a few steps to the elevator.

  “Obviously the man is something of a charlatan,” May said, “but Jacques thinks he might get a story idea out of this.”

  “It is always possible,” I agreed.

  The elevator arrived and I opened the folding gate for them.

  Futrelle peered at me and asked, “If it’s not too personal a question, Mr. Smith, are you a detective?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Our steward told us you were the famous Sherlock Holmes.”

  I laughed as I stepped into the elevator with them and closed the gate. “My secret seems to be a secret no longer. You’re the second person who’s confronted me about my identity.”

  “We won’t tell anyone,” May promised, “though Mr. Baynes has heard it, too. Certainly it’s an honor to meet you. Jacques was inspired to write his stories after reading Dr. Watson’s accounts of your cases.”

  “Watson glamorizes me, I fear.”

  “How is the old fellow?” Futrelle asked.

  “Fine. He comes to see me on occasion, though it’s been some time now since I’ve had the pleasure of his company.”

  I got off one flight down on the Bridge Deck.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told them.

  Futrelle grinned. “Good night, Mr. Smith.”

  Sunday, April 14th—the longest day of my life—began with divine services held in the first-class dining saloon. I had overslept and, when I went for breakfast at 10:30 a.m., I found the services in progress. That was how I happened upon Margo Collier again. She spotted me at once, standing in the back of the room, and pushed through the late arrivals to join me.

  “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Glacet.”

  “Please don’t call me that. If you would grant me time, I could explain the entire matter to you.”

  Something in her desperate tone made me regret the harshness of my earlier dismissal.

  “Very well,” I said. “Join me at dinner tonight in the first-class saloon. I will be in the outer reception room at eight o’clock.”

  “I will be there,” she promised, brightening at once.

  During the day, I continued to hear reports of ice sightings from the other passengers. In the twenty-four hours since noon Saturday, we had covered another 546 miles, and the map showed us approaching the Grand Banks off Newfoundland. The temperature remained in the forties much of the afternoon but, after 5:30, as darkness descended, it plunged quite quickly to 33 degrees. Captain Smith altered the ship’s course slightly to the south and west, possibly as a precaution to avoid icebergs. Lookouts in the ship’s crow’s nest would remain on duty all night watching for ice. Looking up at them from the top deck, I decided it must be the loneliest of shipboard tasks, even though there were two men up there.

  Exactly at eight o’clock, Margo Collier met me in the reception room on the Saloon Deck.

  “My cabin is in second class,” she confided. “I feared they might put another woman in with me to occupy the other bunk but, happily, I’m alone.”

  “That is more pleasant,” I agreed as we were shown to our table.

  “Did you know that the passengers’ maids and valets eat in a separate dining room on Shelter Deck C? I saw it yesterday as I was touring the ship. They just have long communal tables, of course.”

  “Nothing about this ship would surprise me,” I admitted. “It must be the grandest thing afloat.”

  At the far end of the dining saloon an orchestra had begun to play. The menu was a delight, as it had been each night of the voyage thus far. Margo Collier ordered the roast duckling
with apple sauce. After some debate between the lamb and the filet mignons, I chose the latter with boiled new potatoes and creamed carrots, preceded by oysters and cream of barley soup.

  “Now, let us get down to business,” I told the young woman. “Tell me about your marriage to Pierre Glacet.”

  She sighed and began her story. “As you can see, there is a great difference in our ages. I met him on a weekend holiday in Cherbourg last year, and he persuaded me to work for him.”

  “Work? What sort of work?”

  “He is a consulting detective like yourself, Mr. Holmes.”

  At last I understood the meaning of the man’s words, “I am like yourself.” He, too, knew my identity, as most everyone on the ship seemed to.

  “Being in his employ hardly necessitated marriage, did it?” I asked.

  “He specializes in cases involving family matters. Often his investigations involve checking into hotels to keep certain parties under surveillance. He needed me to pose as his wife and, since he was a moral man, he felt we should be truly married if we were to share a hotel room.”

  “You agreed to this?” I asked, with some astonishment.

  “Not at first. The idea of being married to a man more than twice my age, who had a graying beard and walked with a cane, was more than I could imagine. I agreed to it only when he assured me it would be a marriage in name only, for business purposes. The pay he offered was quite good, and I agreed to try it for one year.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We went through a brief civil ceremony which he assured me could be easily annulled. I quickly found out, Mr. Holmes, that I had made a foolish mistake. The first time we shared a hotel room while shadowing someone, he was a perfect gentleman, sleeping on the sofa while I took the only bed. After that, things began to change. He mentioned the troubles with his leg and how uncomfortable hotel room sofas were. I allowed him to share the bed, but nothing more. Gradually he began taking liberties and, when I objected, he reminded me that we were legally man and wife. After a few months of that, I left him.”

  “And he has been following you ever since?”

  “No. Even though I remained in Cherbourg through the winter months, he made no effort to bother me. It was when I decided to go to America and purchased my ticket on the Titanic that I saw him again. He wanted me to stay in Cherbourg.”

  Over a dessert of Waldorf pudding, I tried to learn more about the French detective’s cases.

  “Were they all divorces?”

  “No, no. Some involved confidence men trying to swindle wealthy widows. I remember a pair of them, Cozel and Sanbey, who operated as a team. We followed them to Paris once and I kept Mr. Cozel occupied in a café while Pierre searched his room.” She smiled at the memory. “We had some good times together.”

  “Then why did you seek my protection?”

  “He wanted more than I was willing to give,” she said with a sigh. “When I saw him on the ship, I feared I would end up having to fight him off.”

  “I will speak with him again before we dock in New York,” I promised. “Perhaps I can persuade him to leave you alone.”

  We parted around eleven as the orchestra was playing “The Tales of Hoffmann,” and I decided to go up to the Boat Deck for a stroll. The temperature was just below freezing, with a mist that cut visibility sharply. I thought of the poor seamen in the crow’s nest and shivered for them. Then I retreated inside to the first-class smoking room on A Deck. I could hear the orchestra still playing. May had already retired for the evening, but Futrelle was sitting alone enjoying a nightcap. I joined him and ordered one myself. We were having a lively conversation about detective stories when there was a faint grinding jar to the ship.

  “Iceberg!” someone shouted. Several of us ran outside to look. We were in time to see a giant berg, almost as high as the Boat Deck, vanishing into the mist astern.

  “That was a close call,” Futrelle said. “I think we actually scarped it going past!”

  We went back inside to finish our drinks. After about ten minutes, I observed that the level of liquid in my glass was beginning to tilt a bit toward the bow of the ship. Before that fact could register in my mind, Margo Collier came running in.

  “What is it?” I asked, seeing her ashen face.

  “I’ve been seeking you everywhere, Mr. Holmes. My husband has fallen down the elevator shaft! He’s dead.”

  It was true. One of the first-class stewards had noticed the open gate on the top deck. Looking into the shaft, he was able to make out a body on top of the elevator car four floors below. Futrelle and I reached the scene just as the broken body of Pierre Glacet was being removed.

  I stared hard at the body as it lay in the corridor, then said, “Let me through here, please.”

  A ship’s officer blocked the way. “Sorry, sir. You’re too near the shaft.”

  “I want to examine it.”

  “Nothing to see in there, sir. Just the elevator cables.”

  He was correct, of course. The top of the car had nothing on it

  “Can you raise it up so I can see to the bottom of the shaft?” I asked.

  Futrelle smiled at my request. “Are you searching for a murder weapon, Mr. Holmes?”

  I did not answer, but merely stared at the bottom of the shaft as it came into view beneath the rising elevator car. It was empty, as I suspected it would be. Some first-class passengers came in to use the elevator, but the officer directed them to the main staircase or the aft elevator.

  “Why is the ship listing?” one of the gentlemen asked.

  “We’re looking into it,” the officer said. For the first time, I was aware that we were tilting forward, and I remembered the liquid in my glass. From far off came the sudden sound of a lively ragtime tune being played by the orchestra.

  Franklin Baynes, the spiritualist, was coming down the stairs from the boat deck. “What’s going on?” he asked. “The crew is uncovering the lifeboats.”

  Captain Smith himself appeared on the stairs in time to hear the question.

  “It’s just a precaution,” he told them. “The ship is taking on water.”

  “From that iceberg?” Futrelle asked.

  “Yes. Please gather your families and follow directions to your lifeboat stations.”

  Margo Collier seemed dazed. “This ship is unsinkable! There are waterproof compartments. I read all the literature.”

  “Please follow instructions,” the Captain said, a bit more sharply. “Leave that body where it is.”

  “I must get to May,” Futrelle said. I hurried after him. There would be time for the rest later.

  Within minutes, we were on the deck with May. She was clinging to her husband, unwilling to let go.

  “Aren’t there enough lifeboats for everyone?” she asked.

  The answer was already plain. The Titanic was sinking and there was room enough for only half the passengers in the lifeboats. It was 12:25 a.m. when the order came for women and children to abandon ship. We had scraped against the iceberg only forty-five minutes earlier.

  “Jacques!” May Futrelle screamed, and he pushed her to safety in the nearest lifeboat.

  “Now what?” he asked me, as the half-full lifeboat was being lowered to the dark, churning waters. Do we go back for our murderer?”

  “So you spotted it, too?” I asked, already leading the way.

  “The missing cane. I only saw Glacet once, but he walked with the aid of a stout walking stick.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And I’m told he used it regularly. It wasn’t on top of the elevator car and it hadn’t slipped down to the bottom of the shaft. That meant he didn’t step into that empty shaft accidentally. He had help.”

  We were on the Grand Staircase now and I spotted our quarry.

  “Didn’t he, Mr. Baynes?”

  He turned at the sound of his name and drew a revolver from under his coat. “Damn you, Holmes! You’ll go down with the ship.”

  “We al
l will, Baynes. The women and children are leaving. The rest of us will stay. Glacet recognized you as a confidence man he’d once pursued, a man named Sanbey—a simple anagram for Baynes. Somehow, you got him into your cabin tonight to stare at your electric crystal ball. When the bright light had temporarily blinded him, you helped him to the elevator, then sent the car down and pushed him after it. Only you forgot his walking stick. That probably went over the side when you discovered it.”

  The great ship listed suddenly, throwing us against the staircase railing.

  “I’m getting out of here, Holmes! I’ll find room in a lifeboat if I have to don women’s clothes!”

  He raised the revolver and fired.

  And, in that instant, before I could move, Futrelle jumped between us. He took the bullet meant for me and collided with Baynes, sending them both over the railing of the Great Staircase.

  Somehow I made my way into the night air. It was just after one o’clock and the orchestra had moved to the boat deck to continue playing. The remaining passengers were beginning to panic. Suddenly someone grabbed me and shoved me toward a lifeboat.

  “Only twelve aboard starboard number one, sir. Plenty of room for you.”

  “I’ll stay,” I said, but it was not to be. I was pushed bodily into the boat as it was being lowered.

  It was from there, an hour later, that I saw the last of the great Titanic vanish beneath the waves, carrying a victim, a murderer and a mystery writer with it. Two hours after that, a ship called the Carpathia plucked us from the water, amidst floating ice and debris. Margo Collier was among the survivors, but I never saw her again.

  A final note by Dr. John H. Watson: It was not until 1918, at the close of the Great War, that my old friend Holmes entrusted this account to my care. By that time, my literary agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, had embraced spiritualism. He refused to handle a story in which a spiritualist was revealed to be a sham and a murderer. This most dramatic of adventures has remained unpublished until now.

  EDWARD D. HOCH: An Appreciation

  WHEN WE BEGAN TO talk over the idea of doing a volume collecting all of Ed’s Sherlock Holmes short story pastiches, I never imagined this would turn into a memorial edition. However, it may be fitting that his last book, is a collection of his beloved Sherlock Holmes stories.