Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  It was Dr. Nikola’s Revenge.

  The Bound of the Asterbilts

  Charlton Andrews

  This is another Hound-inspired story, this time from the June issue of The Bookman. Charlton Andrews (1878-1939) was a Harvard-educated writer who taught at high schools and colleges, worked at newspapers in Indianapolis, New York, and Paris, and wrote plays and screenplays. He’ll return in the 1903 chapter with “The Resources of Mycroft Holmes.”

  I.

  The great detective gave utterance to a mystifying chuckle, as he scrutinised the crushed bone collar-button which he had just discovered beneath the dresser. The next instant he had placed it in my hand.

  “What do you make of it, Watson?” he asked, opening a fresh carton of cigarettes and lighting two packages at once.

  As I did not immediately reply, he stepped over to the table, rolled up his sleeve and injected a half-ounce of cocaine into his forearm.

  “Well,” said he presently, “are you not decided?”

  “Our visitor,” I replied, desperately discarding the ingenuousness he always insisted upon, “was a tall, slender female of about forty-five, unmarried, and carrying a pug pup under her left arm. From the peculiar traces of reddish-brown mud on the rug, I deduce that she came here directly from East Ontario, Ohio. She wore a light-green bombasine ulster over a yellow-and-red percale waist and a lavender brocade skirt, a black patch over her left eye and a mouse-coloured wig. She remained in this room exactly seven minutes and thirty-nine seconds, three minutes of which period were occupied in smoking a Trichinopoly cigar and gazing fixedly at yonder painting of ‘The Monster Hound.’”

  Sherlock Holmes uttered an ejaculation of amazement.

  “In Heaven’s name, Watson,” he cried, “how did you arrive at these conclusions?”

  “Holmes,” I replied, with the deepest feeling in my voice, “as I live, you are at liberty to search me.”

  II.

  Sherlock Holmes donned his dressing-gown and slippers and stood before the fireplace, a copy of Monsieur Lecoq in one hand and one arm resting affectionately about the portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. The picture thus formed was most effective.

  “I will hurriedly describe our visitor, Watson,” he said calmly; “and mind, you take it all with the most astounded admiration—that’s your job. Our man, who left this room not more than an hour ago, was short and thin, and wore checked drab trousers and a grey frock-coat, and was disguised in a light-green beard and a monocle, which he was compelled to hold in place with one hand. He is the possessor of great wealth and absorbing ambition, considerable integrity, and blue eyes. He is a man who is held in the utmost esteem by his ex-countrymen. To conclude—of course, I have saved the most startling fact for the last—he is of American birth, and though, as I have said, thin, yet his coat was ‘Size 48; Extra Stout.’”

  When I had sufficiently revived, I said weakly: “Go ahead; the sooner it’s over the better.”

  “The diamond coronet which the Lord Chamberlain entrusted to me has been abstracted from this room within the last two hours. During that time, you and I being absent, there arrived here the man I have just described. He entered without knocking shortly after ten; the first thing his eyes lighted upon was the sparkling coronet lying there on the centre-table where I had left it—purposely, as, indeed, Watson, I do all things in this life. Instantly, our visitor seized the bauble and proceeded to substitute it for a small pillow which he had been wearing beneath his cravat. The pillow he flung out of that open window; you will observe that it still lies in the mud below. In stuffing the coronet into his breast, however, this collar-button became loosened and fell to the floor. At this our visitor lost his temper, and, having crushed the button beneath his heel, he angrily kicked it under the dresser. Another collar-button now became a requisite, and, as your diamond stud was lying before him, he made instant use of it. Being an honest man, he then drew from his pocket a package of paper money—curiously enough, all in American greenbacks just received from his investments in New York—flung it on the dresser and was gone.”

  Sherlock Holmes held up a fat roll, evidently of money, wrapped in a $1,000,000 bill.

  III.

  “But the green beard?” I cried, readily accepting my cue to re-enter the dialogue.

  “If you will take the trouble to notice carefully, Watson, you will find a long, verdant hair coiled about the stem of the button. Now, no natural beard is ever raised in that shade; consequently, our visitor adopted this chin-covering as a disguise.”

  “And the blue eyes?”

  Sherlock Holmes took from his experiment rack a test-tube containing a dark-red fluid. “You will observe that the interior of this room is absolutely devoid of the slightest trace of the colour blue. Very good; in this test-tube is a quantity of bi-citrate of Guggelheim, a peculiar chemical known only to myself, which, originally orange in tint, when brought into the presence of the colour blue instantly becomes a dark red. This man wore checked trousers and a grey coat; he was of American birth; consequently his necktie was red. The change having occurred in this fluid, it is perfectly plain, therefore, that his eyes must have been blue.”

  “But his size, his clothing, the monocle, the ambition?” I began, protesting.

  In reply the detective merely presented me with a small magnifying glass and the crushed collar-button.

  “Examine the base of the button,” he said, without a flourish.

  I hastened to follow his suggestion. Engraved in the substance I beheld the microscopic monogram “W.W.A.”

  “But,” I insisted, “this proves nothing—”

  “It proves everything,” interrupted Holmes, “for I know this W.W.A. He is the one who in his desperation employed me to secure for him this coronet. So great was his impatience to possess it that he came here this morning to appropriate it, even if only an hour before I was to deliver it in person.”

  “Impossible!” I cried, thoroughly stupefied.

  “Unquestionable,” replied Holmes, unmoved; “it was I who planned the entire move. Look!”

  My glance followed his gesture admiringly. There in the doorway stood the American Millionaire, exactly as the detective had described him, boldly wearing the coronet in place of a hat!

  IV.

  As I gazed, from far out upon the moor there came the deep, unearthly baying of a gigantic hound. Weirdly it rose and fell in blood-curdling intensity until the inarticulate sound gradually shaped itself into this perfectly distinguishable wail: “I wonder how much of it Robinson wrote?”

  Shedlock Holmes and Louisiana Raffles

  Ed Carey

  Ed Carey (1870-1928) is considered one of the early masters of American comic-strip art. A talented drawer of grotesque faces and anatomy, he created a dozen strips, including Brainy Bowers and The Troubles of Dictionary Jacques. His Shedlock Holmes strip for the Pittsburgh Gazette, however, lasted only two episodes. This example, found on microfilm in the Pennsylvania State Museum, had to undergo extensive cleaning just to reach this imperfect state.

  Louisiana Raffles: “Shedlock Holmes will follow my shoe-prints while I escape.”

  Shedlock: “How the deuce did Raffles walk under that bridge? Clever criminal!”

  “He’s been chargin’ chickens, an’ killed a pussy cat, too, the desperate ruffian.”

  “Ah, ha, an’ eatin’ o’ bar’ls! Must be hungry and weak!”

  “He’s in the shed. Come out, Louisiana Raffles, at the peril of your life!”

  “Foiled again! It’s the ’ound of Barkerville.”

  A better example of Ed Carey’s art: Detail panel from Professor Hypnotiser, Sept. 10, 1904.

  Sherlock Jones’s Waterloo

  Anonymous

  Any object could entice Sherlock Holmes into an investigation: a broken bust of Napoleon, a handful of orange pips, even something as mundane as a dropped stuffed goose. This made him the ideal candidate for stories dealing with specialized subjects, such as this one fro
m the August edition of The American Hatter. It was reprinted from hatmaker Crofut & Knapp’s house organ The Hatman, which was circulated inside the company and sent to retailers. A major hat manufacturer, C&K boasted that it introduced the British derby style to America.

  Sherlock Jones sat in his pleasantly furnished front parlor with his feet comfortably ensconced on the piano, smoking his pipe, when his meditations were interrupted by a ring at the doorbell followed by the dull thud of heavy feet on the stairs.

  “Ah!” murmured the great detective, “a client from Chicago. He probably wears tan shoes and a silk hat. Come in,” this last in response to a sharp double knock at his door.

  A man entered whose disordered attire, red face, and heavy breathing betrayed his agitation. As he was about to speak, Sherlock Jones interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

  “Don’t speak,” said he, “until I have deduced a few deductions. I perceive that you are a gentleman of large means, and that you have met with an accident. I know you are wealthy because you wear a Panama hat, and that you have met with an accident I can see by the fact that it is dirty and knocked out of shape.”

  While Sherlock Jones was speaking the face of his visitor showed his surprise. When he had recovered from his astonishment at the perspicacity of the great man, he cried, “Wonderful! Amazing I—but you’re wrong. I am not wealthy—on the contrary I pawned my watch to buy this hat. The dirt and general debility which you see are not the result of an accident, but ordinary wear and tear. I came to you to find out how I saved any money by buying a Panama when it will cost me as much to have it put into shape as it would to buy a new straw hat.”

  Sherlock Jones had met his Waterloo!

  Sherlock Jones’s Advice

  Anonymous

  The American Hatter returned in its December issue with another reprint from hatmaker Crofut & Knapp’s house organ The Hatman.

  Sherlock Jones sat in a brown study. The yellow journal which had been read had slipped unnoticed to the floor and from the black look on his face it was easy to see that he was blue.

  “I am afraid people are beginning to think I am green,” he murmured. “Business is very bad.”

  His meditations were interrupted by a sleepy snort from a shaggy dog at his feet. “That pup’ll get stepped on if he’s not careful,” remarked Sherlock, as he again lapsed into thought. It was the day following the episode of the Panama hat, and the great detective had scarcely recovered from his chagrin over the failure of his deduction.

  A tap at his door brought him back to earth, and in response to his invitation a well-dressed, prosperous-looking young man entered. Without giving Jones an opportunity to speak, the man took from a paper bag which he carried a stiff hat which bore evidence of very severe handling. The crown was broken in several places, and the brim was jammed out of shape.

  “I am a dealer in hats,” he said, “and here is a derby which was brought back to my store by a customer who said that he found it in this condition when he reached home and removed the wrappings. I know, of course, that it was in perfect condition when I sold it to him, and I have come to ask you what you deduce from these circumstances.”

  Sherlock Jones regarded the man for a moment with a sinister smile. “You are in the wrong place,” said he at length. “Send it back to the manufacturer. He will give you a deduction.”

  The Great Security Bank Mystery

  Isaac Anderson

  This story appeared in the December issue of The Smart Set. Isaac Anderson (1868-1961) was a longtime mystery reviewer for The New York Times.

  When the watchman of the Security National Bank wakened from his nap, which he was quite sure had not lasted more than three or four hours, he was astonished to find the door of the great vault lying on the floor. Never before, in the whole six months during which he had faithfully guarded the interests of the bank, had such an unheard-of thing happened, and something told him that he ought to notify somebody. So he went to the telephone and rang up the president of the bank. The latter, though plainly annoyed by being disturbed at such an hour, praised the watchman for his zeal, and said he would give the matter his personal attention, as soon as he had made the necessary changes in his attire. Meanwhile, he asked the watchman to notify the police and also to request the cashier to appear at the bank as soon as possible.

  The president and the cashier arrived on the scene simultaneously. Entering the bank, they found a sergeant of police and two patrolmen, together with a gentleman in citizen’s clothes, whom the sergeant introduced as Mr. Hoyle, adding, in an impressive stage-whisper. “Sure, ye’ve heard ‘uv Showman Hoyle. He’s over here on a visit, an’ th’ old man put him on this case so he wudn’t fale lonesome wid nawthin’ to do.”

  The great detective swept the room with a glance of his keen, gray eyes. One felt, instinctively, that nothing could escape this wonderful man. And nothing did. When he had seen enough to satisfy him, he spoke, quietly, but with an air of conviction. “There has been a robbery,” was all he said.

  The solution was simple; yet no one had thought of it before. With breathless interest, they waited to hear what he would say next. “The robber,” continued Hoyle, “was evidently unfamiliar with the combination of the vault.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on the faces of those present, he continued, “Otherwise, it would not have been necessary to use explosives.”

  After a glance into the open vault, the detective’s face lighted up with the joy of one who has made an important discovery. It was the first sign of emotion he had shown. “The burglar,” he announced, confidently, “was a man of less than medium height.”

  “But how—?” began the president.

  “Very simple, indeed,” interrupted the detective. “Do you not see that package of thousand-dollar bills on the top shelf? If the burglar had been tall enough, he would have reached them. Furthermore, he was not a professional cracksman, or he would have carried a step-ladder for use in just such emergencies.”

  Paying no attention to the murmur of approval which greeted his wonderful exhibition of deductive analysis, Hoyle picked up his hat and made as if to go. At the door, he paused and turned toward the three policemen who were looking at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “Well, sergeant,” he said, sharply, “what are you waiting for? You have heard my description. Why don’t you go out and find the man?”

  Sherlock Holmes

  Finley Peter Dunne

  Finley Peter Dunne (1867-1936) was a newspaper reporter who wrote a popular column starring Martin Dooley, the loquacious Irish saloon-keeper with a humorous opinion about everything. Despite being the object of many a Dooley barb, President Theodore Roosevelt respected him as an indicator of public opinion. Dunne’s columns were collected in eight volumes from 1898 to 1919, including this one from Observations by Mr. Dooley (1902).

  “Dorsey an’ Dugan are havin’ throuble,” said Mr. Hennessy.

  “What about?” asked Mr. Dooley.

  “Dorsey,” said Mr. Hennessy, “says Dugan stole his dog. They had a party at Dorsey’s an’ Dorsey heerd a noise in th’ back yard an’ wint out an’ see Dugan makin’ off with his bull tarryer.”

  “Ye say he see him do it?”

  “Yis, he see him do it.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “’twud baffle th’ injinooty iv a Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Who’s Sherlock Holmes?”

  “He’s th’ gr-reatest detictive that iver was in a story book. I’ve been r-readin’ about him an’ if I was a criminal, which I wud be if I had to wurruk f’r a livin’, an’ Sherlock Holmes got afther me, I’d go sthraight to th’ station an’ give mesilf up. I’d lay th’ goods on th’ desk an’ say: ‘Sargeant, put me down in th’ hard cage. Sherlock Holmes has jus’ see a man go by in a cab with a Newfoundland dog an’ he knows I took th’ spoons.’ Ye see, he ain’t th’ ordh’nry fly cop like Mulcahy that always runs in th’ Schmidt boy f’r ivry crime rayported fr’m stealin’ a ham to forgin’ a check in th’
full knowledge that some day he’ll get him f’r th’ right thing. No, sir; he’s an injanyous man that can put two an’ two together an’ make eight iv thim. He applies his brain to crime, d’ye mind, an’ divvle th’ crime, no matther how cunnin’ it is, will escape him. We’ll suppose, Hinnissy, that I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’m settin’ here in me little parlor wearin’ a dhressin’ gown an’ now an’ thin pokin’ mesilf full iv morpheen. Here we are. Ye come in. ‘Good-mornin’, Watson.’”

  “I ain’t Watson,” said Mr. Hennessy. “I’m Hinnissy.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Dooley; “I thought I’d wring it fr’m ye. Perhaps ye’d like to know how I guessed ye had come in. ’Tis very simple. On’y a matther iv observation. I heerd ye’er step; I seen ye’er refliction in th’ lookin’ glass; ye spoke to me. I put these things together with me thrained faculty f’r observation an’ deduction, d’ye mind. Says I to mesilf: ‘This must be Hinnissy.’ But mind ye, th’ chain iv circumstances is not complete. It might be some wan disguised as ye. So says I to mesilf: ‘I will throw this newcome, whoiver he is, off his guard, be callin’ him be a sthrange name!’ Ye wudden’t feel complimented, Hinnissy, if ye knew who Watson is. Watson knows even less than ye do. He don’t know annything, an’ annything he knows is wrong. He has to look up his name in th’ parish raygisther befure he can speak to himsilf. He’s a gr-reat frind iv Sherlock Holmes an’ if Sherlock Holmes iver loses him, he’ll find him in th’ nearest asylum f’r th’ feeble-minded. But I surprised ye’er secret out iv ye. Thrown off ye’er guard be me innocent question, ye popped out ‘I’m Hinnissy,’ an’ in a flash I guessed who ye were. Be th’ same process iv raisonin’ be deduction, I can tell ye that ye were home las’ night in bed, that ye’re on ye’er way to wurruk, an’ that ye’er salary is two dollars a day. I know ye were at home las’ night because ye ar-re always at home between iliven an’ sivin, bar Pathrick’s night, an’ ye’er wife hasn’t been in lookin’ f’r ye. I know ye’re on ye’er way to wurruk because I heerd ye’er dinner pail jingle as ye stepped softly in. I know ye get two dollars a day because ye tol’ me ye get three an’ I deducted thirty-three an’ wan third per cint f’r poetic license. ’Tis very simple. Ar-re those shoes ye have on ye’er feet? Be hivins, I thought so.”