Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  He Stood by the Window, Drumming on the Rain-Splashed Pane.

  If he was, he made no sign. He stood by the window, drumming on the rain-splashed pane with his long, lean fingers and gazing at the be-draggled pavement. His pale, thin face was paler and thinner than common, and his thoughtful expression unusually thoughtful.

  “Holmes,” I said, breaking a two hours’ silence. “What are you brooding on?”

  “Watson, you are an egregious ass,” he replied. “Have the unequaled advantages you have enjoyed for studying my marvellous deductosity taught you nothing? One does not brood in a standing posture. Observe the hen.”

  “Holmes, you grow more wonderful every day,” I exclaimed and would have said more, but he stopped me with an imperious gesture.

  “We have a visitor,” he said and, stepping to the door, he flung it open.

  A woman, veiled, bonneted, and gowned in black, entered.

  “Mr. Holmes,” she began timidly.

  “Enough,” he interrupted. “I know all. Your aged aunt has been murdered in her bed, and the only clue to the assassin is a blood-stained feather-duster from which one plume is missing.”

  “Dear me!” exclaimed our visitor, plainly interested. “I was not aware of this distressing accident. I will give it my earliest attention. But I came to see you on quite another matter.”

  “Ha! I knew it!” said Holmes, with a smile of triumph.

  “My favorite mastiff, Fi-Fi, has lost her diamond collar,” said the lady.

  “Good God, Holmes!” I burst out, but he checked me with an angry glance.

  “My name is Munn,” continued our visitor, “Mrs. G. Watt Munn—you may have heard of us. My husband owns the south side of Wall Street.”

  “Pray continue,” said Holmes, bowing coldly.

  “On 21 June,” she went on, “I left New York for Newport, taking with me my jewel case. About the middle of July, my Fi-Fi was invited to a dog luncheon, and I went to my jewel case for the diamond collar. It was missing.”

  “Have you breathed a word of this before tonight?” demanded Holmes, with dilating nostrils.

  “Not a word—except to put two hundred Pinkerton men on the case.”

  “Dolts! Asses!” roared Holmes.

  “That was simply a blind,” the lady hastened to explain. “Of course, I do not expect them to discover anything. I rely upon you for that.”

  “Is that all?” asked Holmes, slightly mollified.

  “All,” she replied.

  “Good evening, madame,” said the Eighth Wonder of the World and conducted her to the door.

  During the next three days following, Holmes gave his incomparable mind wholly to the mystery of the diamond dog collar. A map of Manchuria was spread before him, and at his elbow was a time-table of the Marietta, Hocking, & Northern Railway. These he studied alternately. His meals I brought to him. At the end of the third day he tore up the time-table and threw the map out of the window and began pacing the room with long strides.

  “Watson,” he exclaimed, shaking his lean fist in my face, “I need not tell you, who are familiar with my methods, that the crime was not committed by a Senegambian slave with a wen on his left ear. Employing this as the starting point of a process of elimination, I have arrived at the conclusion that the guilty wretch is the son of the Mikado, who is in this country in disguise, probably that of a second trombone. I leave for Newport at once.”

  Before I could answer, he was gone, and I saw nothing of him for two days. At the expiration of that period, he returned, and I observed at a glance that matters had not gone smoothly. He resumed his study of the map of Manchuria, which I had rescued, and his brow resembled a wash-board.

  “Holmes,” I said, when the silence had passed the two-hour limit, “have you asked the dog?”

  He sprang to his feet. “Watson!” he cried. “There are times when you betray almost human intelligence. No; I have not asked the dog. But I will!”

  He vanished again but was back in an hour.

  “Foiled!” he hissed, his strong face working with the rage of a Mount Vernon commuter. “Foiled! President Mellen, to cut down expenses, has taken off every train on the New York, New Haven, & Hartford Railway! A blank time-table will be issued tomorrow!”

  I reached for the prussic acid, but Holmes laid a hand on my arm. “Not yet!” he whispered hoarsely.

  It was the darkest hour before the dawn. President Mellen, bowing to the will of the common commuting people, put on a mixed train, the “Sixteenth Century Limited,” and among its passengers were Holmes and myself. Arriving at Newport, we found the air and scenery perfect and took service in Mrs. Munn’s superb kennels, counting dog biscuits.

  Meanwhile, the mystery of the diamond dog collar had become the talk of all the civilized world. Interest in the Russo-Jappo war fell off. Politics languished. The stock market ticked feebly. The police of two continents were busy on the case, and all agreed that the robbery was not the work of a professional but inside work. Sherlock Holmes smiled grimly with a sharp in-drawing of the breath.

  At the end of another week, when the monotony of counting dog biscuits was beginning to get on my nerves, Holmes, who was working beside me, suddenly clutched my arm and pointed to a wiry-looking, undersized man in livery who was crossing the lawn towards us with a rope of black pearls in his hand.

  “Have you noticed Fi-Fi’s valet?” he asked. I had not. “He does not use pocket handkerchiefs!”

  “Great heavens!” I murmured. “The son of the Mikado!”

  “Silence!” commanded Holmes. “If he plays trombone, the case against him is clear. We shall see. The lemon test’s the thing!” Whereupon Holmes took a lemon from his pocket and, approaching the suspected Jap, began to suck violently at it.

  “The lemon test’s the thing!”

  “G’wan wid yez!” said the dog valet. “Phwat the divvle ails ye?”

  Before he could utter another syllable, Holmes was upon him like a tiger and like a tiger bore him off, limp and lifeless, to the drawing-room of the Munn mansion. Here, he touched a bell and dispatched a servant with a note to Inspector McCluskey, who was at that hour in Newport.

  “Inspector,” said my remarkable friend when the police official appeared, “take your prisoner and keep my name out of the case.”

  The Inspector murmured his gratitude, and as Holmes and I left the house, followed by McCluskey and the unfortunate valet, a carriage drew up and Mrs. Munn in a traveling gown alighted.

  “Dear me!” she exclaimed, glancing at the quartet, “what has Patrick been doing?”

  The Inspector explained and Mrs. Munn’s face brightened.

  “It’s a mistake—a very unfortunate mistake,” she said, hurriedly. “I have just come from New York, where I found Fi-Fi’s diamond collar just where I left it, in my safe. Wasn’t it strange?”

  “Come, Watson,” said Holmes with an enigmatic smile. “Our task is finished.”

  The Adventure of the Campaign Issue

  Bert Leston Taylor

  This topical piece in the Oct. 19 issue of Puck referred to next month’s election. President Theodore Roosevelt, who assumed the job after President William McKinley was assassinated in 1901, would run successfully for another term.

  Being the three hundred and ninth incident in the ever to be remembered return of Sherlock Holmes

  On the second day of October 1904, Sherlock Holmes and myself were in New York City, drawn thither by circumstances which I need not go into, as they have nothing to do with this extraordinary story.

  We were comfortably lodged at the Hotel de Luxe, but I observed that Holmes pined for our old haunt in Baker Street—for the laboratory, the wardrobe of disguises and handcuffs, and the student lamp, the light of which enabled him to cast weird shadows on my study wall. Upon our arrival at the De Luxe, I had particularly requested a suite with laboratory attached, but—my word!—there wasn’t such a thing in the entire inn. Holmes made no attempt to conceal his irrit
ation. Shortly after dinner, a visitor was announced—a tall, spare man of an excitable and nervous temperament.

  “You will pardon the intrusion, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “when I tell you that I am hardly responsible for my actions, nervous have I grown from loss of sleep. I trust you will grant me a few hours of your priceless time.”

  “I am prodigiously busy at present,” Holmes replied, “and I should take it as a favor if you consulted the police.”

  Our visitor made a gesture of despair. “They can do nothing,” he cried. “Only your miraculous powers can solve the mystery.”

  “What is it you wish to know?” Holmes asked with a frown.

  “The issue in the present political campaign,” replied the visitor. “I am,” the nervous gentleman continued, “a Doubtful Voter, and I beg of you, Mr. Holmes, to solve this mystery which is wrecking me, body and soul.” The Doubtful Voter paused a moment to wipe the perspiration from his face and forehead. “I have read all the newspapers,” he went on, “but I have learned nothing. The Sun says the issue is Odellism; the Evening Post declares it to be rape of the Isthmus; the Tribune, the segregation of the nation’s wealth by individual Democrats; the Herald, the direction of the wind in Paris; and so on. From public speakers I learn no more. You, Mr. Holmes, are my last resort. Ascertain, I beg of you, the issue in this campaign. I cannot stand the strain another forty-eight hours. I shall go mad, mad, mad!” Exhausted, the Doubtful Voter sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

  “Have you consulted anyone before me?” Holmes inquired, after a brief silence. “I mean professionally.”

  “One—the Honorable Buff Bunkum.”

  Holmes frowned. He asked, “What did Bunkum say?”

  “His words were meaningless.”

  “To you, perhaps,” said Holmes impatiently. “To me, nothing is meaningless. Repeat Buff Bunkum’s exact words.”

  “He asserts that the issue of the campaign is ‘the highest cash commission for vocal output.’”

  “That is perfectly plain. How much did he charge you?”

  “Seventy dollars—ten dollars per word. He assured me that both parties paid him that.”

  “One question more. At the time you consulted Mr. Bunkum, which party was he advertising?”

  “The Democratic, I think. It was at Democratic head-quarters that our conversation occurred.”

  “Um!” said Holmes. “That is very important. And now, my dear sir, goodnight.”

  “Good heavens, Mr. Holmes, you surely are not going to desert me!” cried the Doubtful Voter, clutching my friend’s arm. “Think of my condition! I cannot sleep. I am—”

  “Watson, give the man a sleeping powder,” commanded Holmes brusquely. I administered an opiate. “I will see you again tomorrow night,” said Holmes. “Till then, control yourself as best you can. Good evening.”

  When the nervous gentleman had departed, my friend donned a soft hat and a long blue coat with brass buttons and clapped a false beard upon his chin. “Watson,” he remarked, pausing in the doorway, “I know you are burning with curiosity to know my destination. You shall burn no longer. I am going to Oyster Bay.” With which he vanished.

  On the following afternoon, I visited the Doubtful Voter and found him in much improved condition. He was still nervous and insisted on accompanying me to the De Luxe, there to await the return of Sherlock Holmes. We dined and repaired to my rooms, and as the hours slipped by and no Holmes appeared, the condition of our client-patient became alarming. His agitation was pitiable.

  At last, a knock at the door! I sprang to it only to taste disappointment. Without stood a skirted person soliciting subscriptions for the Homely Woman’s Companion. I was about to close the door in her face when arrested by a familiar chuckle and sharp in-drawing of the breath.

  “Holmes, you wonderful, wonderful man!” I cried. “Will you ever cease to amaze me! Thank Jove that you have come!” I dragged him joyfully into the room. The Doubtful Voter rushed to him with outstretched hands.

  “What hope?” he gasped.

  “I have solved the mystery.”

  “Heaven be praised!”

  Our client collapsed in his chair, and I rang for a sloe-gin cocktail. When the man was sufficiently restored, Holmes, who had been smoking calmly, addressed him.

  “My dear sir,” he began, “as you have not the inestimable privilege of my friend Watson of knowing my methods, I may inform you that chief among them is the process of elimination. There is no mystery which cannot be solved by this method, but only a genius like myself can go to the final fact.”

  “What is the issue in the present political campaign? First, what is not the issue? I begin to eliminate. The issue is not the influence of Racine on French literature; dismiss that at once. It is not the conflict between old-fashioned educational methods and the new science of pedagogics. It is not the cuneiform inscriptions, nor the problem of the deceased wife’s sister. It is not the rape of the Isthmus, as the Evening Post supposes, nor the segregation of wealth by plutocratic Democrats, as the Tribune is convinced, nor the direction of the wind in Paris, as the Herald seems to believe. Pursuing this process of elimination, I pitch out the tariff, the trusts, the Philippines, Odellism, postal graft, and a score more of seeming issues and finally arrive at the one, the real, the dominant issue.”

  The Doubtful Voter leaned forward breathlessly. “Yes, yes,” he cried. “And that issue is—”

  “Theodore Roosevelt!” said Holmes. “I have his confession in my pocket.”

  “Heaven be praised!” cried the Doubtful Voter, standing erect. “At last I know how to vote!”

  When he was gone, I turned to my remarkable friend. “And how will he vote, Holmes?” I asked. His reply was an enigmatic smile.

  Sherlock Holmes and the Sleepless Watchman

  Anonymous

  This advertisement promoting a safe appeared in the Oct. 29 issue of Collier’s. In a clever example of marketing synergy, it was printed on the same page as “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez.”

  “My Dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes suddenly. This was in our lodgings in Baker street shortly before I was married. I had been nursing my old wound and plunging at intervals into a new treatise on Phloroglucin-Vanillin tests with preserved milk while Holmes pored over what appeared to be a bronze door plate with a small clock set in the face of it. “What do you make of this?” at the same time handing the plate to me. I knew the great man’s methods and looked the plate over carefully, applying them, when Holmes interrupted me.

  “A simple thing,” said he, “and yet at the same time one, which when it is universally used, will, I’ll wager, put Lestrade, stupid as he is, on a par with the best of us.” He paused for a moment, as was sometime his habit and then continued, “Watson,” he said, “the man who does not prevent a crime when he can encourages it, and I tell you frankly that this piece of mechanism will do more to prevent crime than you and I and all Scotland Yard combined. Do you follow me now while I point out what it does, you will yourself note the value of it, no doubt.

  “In the first place, every time a key is inserted in the lock, it prints a record. It tells if the bolt was locked or unlocked, and what is more, my dear Watson, it records the exact time of each operation and tells who is the operator.”

  “You can readily imagine how quickly the burglary of Eckstein’s diamond shop in the Strand would have been discovered if this had been used. It instantly detects a duplicate as well as a skeleton key.

  “It also gives a record of the time and watchman who tries your door, and that, Watson, without his key in any way operating the bolt.

  “It tells you if your shop or warehouse was properly locked at night and by whom.

  “It tells you who opened your door in the morning and at what time.

  “It tells if the place was entered between closing and opening time and by whom. You will remember the League of Red-Headed Men. No doubt, it would have saved our hard-headed f
riend a lot had he had it at the time.

  “These, Watson, are but a few of the things that this most remarkable lock does and, as I said before, this information is worth a good deal to anyone, be he merchant, shopkeeper, or banker, and it is information that you can absolutely secure in no other way.”

  “It’s a watchman that is always alert, that is unerringly correct, and that you cannot bribe or tamper with in any way. Rather remarkable, don’t you think, Watson, this sleepless one?”

  Don’t you think that this lock which will tell you if your door has been locked or unlocked and who was the operator; that will tell you if the watchman tries your door and the time that he does it, that tells you what time your store or office was opened and closed, would be of value to you? It will cost you a cent a day for such a record. Can you afford to be without it? “The Sleepless Watchman” is the title of our book which tells all about it and which we will be pleased to send you upon request. Columbus Recording Lock Company, Box 743, Columbus, Ohio.

  How Holmes Tried Politics

  “His Friend Watson”

  Conan Doyle’s campaign for Parliament for the Border Burghs—comprising the towns of Hawick, Galashiels, and Selkirk—inspired the “Brig Bazaar” story seen at the end of the 1903 chapter. The Border Advertiser in Galashiels ran their take on the candidate in its Nov. 1 issue.