by Bill Peschel
After I had entered, he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and even placed a chair before the chimney. As I watched these significant precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a revolver and presenting it to my temple said in low, icy tones:
“Hand over that cigar case!”
Even in my bewilderment, my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and involuntary. “I haven’t got it,” I said.
He smiled bitterly and threw down his revolver. “I expected that reply! Then let me now confront you with something more awful, more deadly, more relentless and convincing than that mere lethal weapon—the damning inductive and deductive proofs of your guilt!” He drew from his pocket a roll of paper and a note-book.
“But surely,” I gasped, “you are joking! You could not for a moment believe—”
“Silence! Sit down!” I obeyed.
“You have condemned yourself,” he went on pitilessly. “Condemned yourself on my processes—processes familiar to you, applauded by you, accepted by you for years! We will go back to the time when you first saw the cigar case. Your expressions,” he said in cold, deliberate tones, consulting his paper, “were: ‘How beautiful! I wish it were mine.’ This was your first step in crime—and my first indication. From ‘I wish it were mine’ to ‘I will have it mine,’ and the mere detail, ‘How can I make it mine,’ the advance was obvious. Silence! But as in my methods, it was necessary that there should be an overwhelming inducement to the crime, that unholy admiration of yours for the mere trinket itself was not enough. You are a smoker of cigars.”
“But,” I burst out passionately, “I told you I had given up smoking cigars.”
“Fool!” he said coldly, “that is the second time you have committed yourself. Of course, you told me! What more natural than for you to blazon forth that prepared and unsolicited statement to prevent accusation. Yet, as I said before, even that wretched attempt to cover up your tracks was not enough. I still had to find that overwhelming, impelling motive necessary to affect a man like you. That motive I found in the strongest of all impulses—Love, I suppose you would call it,” he added bitterly, “that night you called! You had brought the most conclusive proofs of it on your sleeve.”
“But—” I almost screamed.
“Silence!” he thundered, “I know what you would say. You would say that even if you had embraced some Young Person in a sealskin sacque, what had that to do with the robbery? Let me tell you then, that that sealskin sacque represented the quality and character of your fatal entanglement! You bartered your honor for it—that stolen cigar case was the purchaser of the sealskin sacque!
“Without money, with a decreasing practice, it was the only way you could insure your passion being returned by that young person, whom, for your sake, I have not even pursued. Silence! Having thoroughly established your motive, I now proceed to the commission of the crime itself. Ordinary people would have begun with that—with an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the missing object. These are not my methods.”
So overpowering was his penetration, that although I knew myself innocent, I licked my lips with avidity to hear the further details of this lucid exposition of my crime.
“You committed that theft the night I showed you the cigar case and after I had carelessly thrown it in that drawer. You were sitting in that chair, and I had arisen to take something from that shelf. In that instant you secured your booty without rising. Silence! Do you remember when I helped you on with your overcoat the other night? I was particular about fitting your arm in. While doing so I measured your arm with a spring tape measure from the shoulder to the cuff. A later visit to your tailor confirmed that measurement. It proved to be the exact distance between your chair and that drawer!”
I sat stunned.
“The rest are mere corroborative details! You were again tampering with the drawer when I discovered you doing so! Do not start! The stranger that blundered into the room with a muffler on—was myself! More, I had placed a little soap on the drawer handles when I purposely left you alone. The soap was on your hand when I shook it at parting. I softly felt your pockets when you were asleep for further developments. I embraced you when you left—that I might feel if you had the cigar case, or any other articles, hidden on your body. This confirmed me in the belief that you had already disposed of it in the manner and for the purpose I have shown you. As I still believed you capable of remorse and confession, I twice allowed you to see I was on your track, once in the garb of an itinerant negro minstrel, and the second time as a workman looking in the window of the pawnshop where you pledged your booty.”
“But,” I burst out, “if you had asked the pawnbroker you would have seen how unjust—”
“Fool!” he hissed, “that was one of your suggestions to search the pawnshops! Do you suppose I followed any of your suggestions—the suggestions of the thief? On the contrary, they told me what to avoid.”
“And I suppose,” I said bitterly, “you have not even searched your drawer?”
“No,” he said calmly.
I was for the first time really vexed. I went to the nearest drawer and pulled it out sharply. It stuck as it had before, leaving a part of the drawer unopened. By working it, however, I discovered that it was impeded by some obstacle that had slipped to the upper part of the drawer, and held it firmly fast. Inserting my hand, I pulled out the impeding object. It was the missing cigar case! I turned to him with a cry of joy.
But I was appalled at his expression. A look of contempt was now added to his acute, penetrating gaze. “I have been mistaken,” he said slowly. “I had not allowed for your weakness and cowardice! I thought too highly of you even in your guilt! But I see now why you tampered with that drawer the other night. By some inexplicable means—possibly another theft—you took the cigar case out of pawn, and like a whipped hound restored it to me in this feeble, clumsy fashion. You thought to deceive me, Hemlock Jones! More, you thought to destroy my infallibility. Go! I give you your liberty. I shall not summon the three policemen who wait in the adjoining room—but out of my sight for ever!”
As I stood once more dazed and petrified, he took me firmly by the ear and led me into the hall, closing the door behind him. This re-opened presently, wide enough to permit him to thrust out my hat, overcoat, umbrella and overshoes, and then closed against me forever!
I never saw him again. I am bound to say, however, that thereafter my business increased—I recovered much of my old practice—and a few of my patients recovered also. I became rich. I had a brougham and a house in the West End. But I often wondered, pondering on that wonderful man’s penetration and insight, if, in some lapse of consciousness, I had not really stolen his cigar case!
A439, Being the Autobiography of a Piano
H. Chilver Wilson and A.H. Mann
This odd story is actually two chapters from a novel published by Britain’s Incorporated Society of Musicians to raise money for its orphanage. It was written round-robin style, with a new author taking up the story in each chapter. The author of Chapter 20, H. Chilver Wilson (1866-1924), was a baritone singer, composer, and member of the Royal Philharmonic Society. Chapter 21 was written by A. H. Mann (1850-1929), organist and choir trainer at King’s College, Cambridge.
Told from the piano’s point of view, A439 is a juicy melodrama involving murder, stolen gems, a witch’s curse, and a pair of lovers parted and reunited, seasoned with jokes and observations from inside the music world. Before this excerpt opens, prima donna Madame la Duchesse de Cherrystones had hired impoverished Gertrude Lindsey to be her companion. She is brought to Blue Rock Castle, where Madame lives with her Indian servant Mahammed, her cat Scarlatti, and several guests, including the mysterious Mr. Strong. As Gertrude worries about a curse she received from witch Biddy Bramber, she falls in love with pianist Herr Heinrich Flügelbrecher. When the Duchesse’s jewels are stolen, the evidence points to Gertrude. Fortified by Herr Flügelbrecher’s love, she tells the constables that she is ready to
go. Then Mr. Strong speaks up.
XX
Biddy’s Spell Is Broken
At these words, spoken in a voice full of calm and happy resignation, the senior constable, who had a moment before left the room, re-entered. “Now, miss, we must be making a move,” he said, not unkindly.
The women burst into tears; even the Duchesse forgot for the moment the loss of her jewels, as she saw the girl, whom they all loved, about to be led from the room. Just then the door opened, and the figure of Mr. Strong appeared.
“Stay, this lady is innocent,” he said, in a tone which carried conviction to the minds of all. “Madame,” he added, bowing to the Duchesse, “when we met at Monte Carlo last season, I was travelling ‘incognito,’ as is frequently my custom. Allow me.”
The Duchesse took the card which he handed her, and exclaimed, in a voice trembling with excitement, “Mr. Shamrock Homes!” The effect was electric; the police officers, upon hearing the name of the famous detective, assumed submissive attitudes and awaited his further orders.
“But the thief—my jewels!—explain,” said the Duchesse.
“Pardon me, Duchesse,” interposed Herr Flügelbrecher. “Before we hear your explanation, Mr. Homes, had we not first better release Miss Lindsay from her degrading position?”
Shamrock Homes himself hastened to free Gertrude’s slender wrists, while she, now quite overcome, would have fallen, had not her lover supported her, and murmured words of encouragement and endearment, while the rest of those present turned away, feeling that such moments are for lovers only. All this while I had been a mute though eager listener, and a thrill of pleasure now ran through my strings. Mrs. Mackay, who was standing close by, turned round and took from my lid a copy of the Southburn Argus, which was lying there, and casually glancing down its columns, suddenly cried, “How extraordinary! Gertrude, Gertrude, listen!”
“Yesterday a strange occurrence took place on the outskirts of our town. In days gone by, what we are about to relate would have been put down to witchcraft; but in these more enlightened times, we can afford to disregard popular superstitions, and the mystery will doubtless be solved in a few days. Yesterday a number of boys chased a black cat for a considerable distance, and cruelly pelted the harmless creature with stones. One missile seemed fatal, for the cat, hit on the head, fell as if dead. Recovering itself, it limped off with difficulty, and sought refuge behind a pile of stones. With a whoop the boys soon reached the spot, but the cat had disappeared. In its place they were astonished to find an old woman, well known in the neighbourhood as Biddy Bramber, in a dying condition, and with a fearful wound in her forehead, which was bleeding profusely. The poor old woman was quite unable to speak, and before the boys could fetch a doctor, she was dead. An inquest will be held next Wednesday, before which time it is hoped that the mystery of her death will be cleared up, and the cat, which disappeared in such an extraordinary fashion, discovered.”
Gertrude, strangely agitated, said, “That will never be, for Biddy Bramber herself was the cat; a witch has the power to thus transform herself, but must resume her human form before death. Heinrich, dear Heinrich,” she said, turning to her lover, her eyes suffused with glad tears, “now that this evil influence is removed, which has hung over my life like a darkening cloud, there is at last happiness in store for us both.”
The Duchesse, who had watched this little scene with interest, but who, nevertheless, had not forgotten her jewels, murmured, “I trust so, indeed, dear. And now, perhaps Mr. Shamrock Homes will tell us how he has been so clever as to discover everything.”
“My investigations,” said Mr. Homes, “led me to Mahammed’s quarters; I found in his room a loose board, and half the jewels hidden beneath the floor. They were packed up in a parcel marked ‘Glass, with Care’ (here one of the constables coughed, and the Duchesse looked daggers) and addressed, ready for dispatch. I at once concluded that the other half of the jewels had already been sent on to the same address, and that, if the thieves were to be caught, it was best to allow this packet to be sent off as well and watch its arrival. I therefore carefully retied the parcel and left it exactly as I found it. Since Mahammed had gone off to fetch the police, he had not returned to the Castle; the room was therefore watched. About midnight, as I had anticipated, Mahammed returned. He entered from a sliding panel in the wall of his room. Satisfied, apparently, that no one had been there during his absence, he quickly removed the loose board, extracted the parcel, replaced the board, and disappeared through the wall. I did not at the time attempt to follow him, my object being to capture the whole gang. Subsequent investigation, however, showed me that the panel, through which Mahammed disappeared, leads to a secret staircase and a passage which has an exit some distance off in the Castle grounds.”
“What a pity you did not take the man red-handed,” interrupted Flügelbrecher.
“An ordinary detective, sir,” said Mr. Homes, with dignity, “would have done that: I know what I am about.”
“I know you have allowed this villain to escape, and Miss Lindsay to be kept a prisoner meanwhile,” answered Flügelbrecher, wrathfully.
“On discovering that package,” continued the detective, disregarding the interruption, “I telegraphed to Scotland Yard. By this time, it is to be hoped that both Mahammed and Sir Southdown Evel are under arrest!”
“Sir Southdown Evel?” exclaimed the Duchesse, aghast. “Surely not my delightful friend. Sir Southdown, whom I met in the Tyrol?”
“Madame,” said Mr. Homes, “the jewels were addressed to a man who passes himself off as Sir Southdown Evel, whom we have long been endeavouring to trace for a criminal offence which happened in Scotland some time ago. His capture is more important to the authorities even than Mahammed’s.” Then, bowing to Gertrude, he added, “I am gratified to have been the means of clearing Miss Lindsay’s name and establishing her innocence.”
“Which I, for one, never for a moment doubted,” cried Flügelbrecher, drawing Gertrude towards him.
“The knowledge of your belief in me was my one hope, my one comfort,” replied Gertrude, affectionately.
John Lindsay hung his head. He was now heartily ashamed of having doubted, for a moment, his sister’s innocence; yet the somnambulistic theory was a very plausible one.
At this moment a telegram arrived for Mr. Homes.
“Quick!” cried Mrs. Mackay. “I know what that telegram contains. The thieves have been captured, and the treasure is safe. Oh, Mr. Homes, how clever you are!” and there was general applause as the Duchesse sang a few bars of a well-known melody, altering the words to “Homes, sweet Homes.”
The detective read the telegram with an inscrutable countenance. “It is as follows,” he said: “Mahammed, on way to London, disappeared from train, and escaped.”
Everyone gasped.
“The villain!” cried Flügelbrecher. “He deserves hanging. Will he not be caught?”
“Oh, Mr. Homes, you are not so clever as we thought,” remarked Monsieur von Hammertitszki.
The detective looked unperturbed. “Exactly what I foresaw,” he said, calmly. “Madame, your jewels will be here in twenty-four hours.”
“My dear Mr. Shamrock Homes,” said the Duchesse, extending her hand to him, “I feel as though they were here already. And now let us go to luncheon; I am ravenously hungry. Excitement or no excitement, I must have regular meals, or I shall collapse and lose my voice!”
“That would be a universal calamity,” said Hammertitszki, tenderly.
“My dear Monsieur, your arm,” said Madame in reply. “Mr. Flügelbrecher, you will escort Gertrude. Mrs. Mackay, your children will take you in. And John, you need not look so mournful, I have a surprise for you. A little French lady arrived in the Castle not long ago. She is dying to see you; but, you know, even if a woman be dying, she must first attend to her toilette; and French girls take longer than our English maidens do to arrange their hair!”
Madame then drew aside the curtain of th
e adjoining room and beckoned.
“What! Henriette?” cried John, beaming, as the little brunette came tripping merrily in. “How long have you been here?”
“Five, ten minutes, à peu pres, dearest John. But I had to take off my hat, you know, before I could let myself be seen by you.”
“Those big hats are awkward,” remarked Hammertitszki slily to Madame.
“In the theatre, sometimes,” said Madame. “But they look very pretty.”
“They are awkward in other places sometimes,” added Hammertitszki, as the party trooped off to luncheon.
I saw the look exchanged between them, and thought that I, although regarded by human beings as “only” a piano, could interpret it aright.
XXI
Mahammed’s Identity
They were a considerable time over luncheon. I could not catch the conversation in the dining-room because Scarlatti was on my keys and practising, but I could hear peals of laughter from time to time, showing that the guests had recovered from the solemnity which had reigned in the Duchesse’s boudoir. They had evidently settled a great many matters during that luncheon, for, when they came back, and Scarlatti sprang to the ground, they all seemed very excited. Gertrude and Henriette were both protesting that “three weeks was not nearly time enough to prepare everything.” To this the Duchesse answered, “But, my dears, you are both staying at the Castle, and everything can easily be prepared from here. I insist upon paying all expenses. There must be a huge breakfast, and merry-making must be kept up during the whole day by my neighbours, tenants, and servants. Nothing shall eclipse the excitement we shall have at Blue Rock Castle. It will be exactly as they used to do in byegone days when they attended those wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten ‘Conferences.’”
“You are very generous and kind, Duchesse, but—” Gertrude began, when it suddenly dawned upon the party that Mr. Shamrock Homes, the detective, stood in their midst with another telegram in his hand.