The “old man” was revealed as a tall, gangling man with huge feet and cross-eyes!
As he rose Hawkshaw advanced toward him with a pair of handcuffs.
“You are under arrest,” he said.
The man stepped back and drew a glittering butter knife from his pocket.
“I am a desperate man! Beware!” he said fiercely.
At that moment the Colonel recovered from his amazement enough to push the muzzle of a howitzer against the villain and he was soon handcuffed.
“Call the police, Colonel,” directed Hawkshaw, taking the necklace out of the fellow’s pocket.
“Curses!” hissed the villain, “tricked, foiled, baffled! Curses!”
“But, Hawkshaw,” asked the Colonel a few hours later, after they had collected the enormous reward that had been offered for the recovery of the necklace. “But Hawkshaw, how did you know that was the man?”
“My dear Colonel,” answered Hawkshaw as with a smile he lighted a stogy, “I smelt the fish on his hands.”
THE SHEIK
Published in The Tattler (Brownwood High School paper), March 15, 1923
INTRODUCTION
THE OTHER DAY I ambles kinda aimless into a book-store. She’s a new range for me so when the clerk comes up and says “What can I do for you, me good man?” I says, “Lady, you can trot out the latest edition of ‘Relentless Rupert, the Red-handed Avenger of the Spanish Main.’ ”
She gives me the once-over kinda scornful. “We don’t keep no such low brow stuff,” says she. “Whyn’t you read somethin’ inspiring and romantic? Now here’s a very popular novel called ‘The Sheik.’ ”
“Indeed?” says I.
“One fifty,” says she.
I slips her the fish and a half and does a lam. The book has got a picture on the cover of a Oriental gent on a cayuse doin’ a lam across the prairie. I read a book once called “Huloo Himalaya, the Horrible Hindoo,” which was about a Oriental gent and I thought mebbe this was like it. But nothin’ doin’. This Sheik was a heavyweight champeen of Africa which is braver than most birds, because he kidnaps a Jane which all others run from instead of after. He’s a regular bear-cat, caveman stuff, sabe? And this dame falls in love with him for it. Of course they marry and live happy forever after.
“Well,” says I thoughtfully, crammin’ the book into the stove, “I’m out one and a half cartwheels and she’s a touchin’, inspirin’ romance but she ain’t authentic; she ain’t true to life. Not none. Now, me, I’ll write a book which is true to life. Th’ misguided public needs it. It’s me duty.” So here goes.
CHAPTER 1
Scene: The Desert.
A THUNDER of horse-hoofs! A medley of yells. Oriental yells! Venus Herring was in full flight across the desert. She looked back. A tall handsome Arab on a magnificent mule was pursuing her! Frantically she kicked her burro in the ribs. She was spurred to greater efforts by the Arab’s barbaric war-whoop, “He-ya! Uneeda Takhoma Nabisco!”
She turned in her saddle and fired her elephant-gun. A miss! She fired the other barrel. Another miss! Horrors! She could hit a barn at three steps, flying. Why could she not hit that Arab?
As the Oriental drew up alongside, she swiped at him with the stock of her rifle but he was wearing a high silk “Stove-pipe” hat and the blow bounced harmlessly off.
The next moment he had walloped her across the head with the handle of his spear and dragged her off her burro. He slung her across his saddle and galloped away. She struggled and screeched.
“Sit still, you little idiot!” he shouted, banging her nose against the saddle horn.
CHAPTER 2
Scene: The Sheik’s Tent.
“I AM the Sheik Ahmed!” announced the Arab, throwing Venus into a corner.
“Amid what?” she asked faintly.
“Don’t get fresh with me kiddo,” he warned [. . .] the Sheik Ahmed ben Ahmed ben Whoopitup.
“I love you!” he continued, dragging her around the tent by the hair. “You shall be mine!” slamming her down on the floor and masterfully kicking her in the face.
“Kiss me, my dear,” he ordered passionately massaging her features with a pair of brass knucks.
“Never, you vile scoundrel!” she exclaimed, throwing a table at him.
“Aha, you would, would you?” he cursed. “Evidently you don’t know who I am!” catching her by the neck and reaching for a horse-whip.
CHAPTER 3
Scene: Inside And Outside The Sheik’s Tent.
VENUS HERRING yawned and reached for another bon-bon. How long had she been in the Sheik’s village? Three weeks! Ye gods and little fishes! And not a movie the whole time.
Outside, she could hear the Sheik’s wild desert-raiders engaged in some game. She could hear the click of the galloping dominoes and the voices of the men, “Come seven!” “Phoebe, Ah imploah’s yo’ to save de family jewels!” “Yo’s faded.” “Roll ‘em, boy roll ‘em.”
She rose and stepped to the tent door. The Sheik was playing marbles with the Frenchman, Gaston. (pronounced Gas-town.)
He scowled when he saw her.
“Beat it back into that tent,” he ordered. “The sun will ruin your complexion and I’m not going to ride fifty miles to get you another either soon.”
“Villain!” she exclaimed, retreating in time to dodge the saddle he hurled at her.
CHAPTER 4
Scene: Outside And Inside The Sheik’s Tent.
VENUS looked out the tent door. The Sheik was striding up and down before the tent, speaking aloud:
“The bread Burns,” he soliloquised, “the potatoes are Browning, the sausage is a Longfellow; on the stove there is Bacon. What are these Wordsworth?”
He entered the tent. He was in high spirit. He had been playing keeps with Gaston and won seventeen taws. Then he had played tiddledywinks with the Sultan of Turkey and had beaten him forty-seven times, hand-running.
However, he scowled when he looked at Venus.
“I’s tired of you,” he announced. “I’m going to send you back to England.”
“Ahmed!” she cried “Why, you couldn’t do that?”
“Why not?” he queried coolly.
“Please don’t,” she begged.
“You annoy me,” he answered, hitting her with a chair.
She stepped to the door. “Gaston, come here!”
“Certainly, ma’mselle, but why?” was the reply.
“To act as referee,” she answered and turning she swung for the Sheik’s jaw. He warded and knocked her through the tent with a left-handed punch. She returned and drove the Sheik across the tent, hitting him with a right upper-cut, a left-hook and an over-hand swing.
Just then Gaston tapped the gong.
Round Two
Venus leads with her right. The Sheik countered and let drive a swing which Venus ducked, and slammed him with a right-and-left. They clinched and Venus hammered the Sheik on the back of the neck until he fainted. He rose at the count of eight and fought on the defensive the rest of the round. The gong.
Round Three
Venus swung with her left. The Sheik side-stepped, feinted and knocked Venus down with a left-uppercut. She got up at the count of seven and clinched. They broke away and exchanged blows until the gong.
Round Four
The Sheik leads with his left. Venus side-stepped and hit the Sheik with a straight right, giving him a black eye. The Sheik lifted Venus off the floor with a hay-maker. As she came down she hit him with an over-hand swing, staggering him. Before he could recover she swung for his jaw and knocked him out for the count.
“Ah, ma’mselle,” exclaimed Gaston, “I take great pleasure in presenting you the championship belt of the Sahara Desert.”
“The pleasure is mostly mine,” she responded. “Now, beat it.”
The Sheik opened his eyes, saw Venus and climbed the tent-pole.
“Use discretion and be a nice girl,” he begged.
“Come down from there,�
�� she commanded, knocking him from his perch with a table.
“And you won’t send me away?” she asked, wreathing her fingers in his hair and poising a rolling-pin.
“No, my dear,” he responded.
“My hero!” she exclaimed. “My Desert Lover!”
UNHAND ME, VILLAIN!
Published in The Tattler (Brownwood High School paper), February 15, 1923
“BE MINE, MY LOVE!” pleaded young Reginald Adjernon Lancelot Montmorency to the beautiful Gwinivere de Readycash, the lovely and accomplished heiress, daughter of old Readycash, the multi- millionaire.
“Alas,” she sighed; “It cannot be. My father does not like you. Only today he mentioned you and made some remarks about you in a language I took to be Greek for I could not understand it. And there is the duke de Blooey from Montenegro. He is courting me and father likes him because he can play checkers.”
“I will call the scoundrel out,” whooped Reginald passionately; “he shall fight a duel with me!”
“No, no!” begged Gwinivere, clinging to her lover’s necktie; “you must not! I beg you!”
“Very well, my love!” replied Reggie, with great relief; “I knew you would say so or I would not have — I mean it is a good thing for the duke that I love you too much to disobey your command. I will not force himm into a duel.”
He was silent for a few minutes, then “But what are we to do?”
She chewed a cud of gum meditatively for several seconds. “Why not ask father for me?” she suggested.
“I will,” he exclaimed. “This very hour! I will be masterful with him! I shall say, ‘Sir, I am your new son-in-law. No arguments now!’ ”
“But don’t harm him, Reggie!” she begged; “remember he is my father.”
“I will not touch him,” he promised magnanimously; “I will quell him with the power of my eye.”
He rushed from the room. As he strode toward old Readycash’s study, he rehearsed the speech he would make. “I will say, ‘Sir, I am going to marry your daughter. Be silent, sir! I have decided to do this and I will not be balked by a gouty old father-in-law. I want you to understand that from now on I am the master of this house. You may write out a check for ten thousand dollars for our honeymoon.’ If he refuses and talks impudently I may forget he is my future father-in-law and handle him roughly.”
He was now at the door of the study. He paused before it. Glancing around, he found several cushions on chairs and sofas. These he placed on the floor in front of the door. Then after several attempts, he put on a bold front and knocked timidly on the door. A deep, gruff voice from within said, “Come in!”
Reginald pushed open the door and entered cautiously. Old man Readycash glared furiously at him.
“Oh, it’s you, eh? What the —— do you want?”
“Why,” replied Reginald, “ I, er, you, er, that is, your girl, I mean my girl, what I meant to say is that I, er she, you, er, that is to say you.”
“No doubt,” old Readycash answered dryly, “have you anything else to tell me?”
“Sir,” said Reginald with dignity, “you have a daughter — a girl.”
“Remarkable,” exclaimed the old man.
“As I said, sir,” continued Reginald, ignoring the interruption, “ you have a daughter.”
“I have several,” was the reply; “also seven old maid sisters. I will introduce them to you, if you like.”
Reginald shuddered. “I ccccame ttto aaask yyou ffor your daughter’s, your daughter’s, your daughter’s.”
“My daughter’s what?” roared old man Readycash.
“Hand!” gasped Reginald.
Old Readycash rose. “Would you just as soon take my foot?” he asked.
Reggie fled. As he neared the door he was struck from behind by a force that lifted him from his feet and propelled him irresistibly through the door which was opened just then by a well-dressed gentleman with a monocle and mustache. Reggie lit on this gentleman and they rolled across the hall, until stopped by the wall.
“Sapristi!” exclaimed the duke de Blooey (for it was he), leaping to his feet. “Caramba! Le diable! Tamale! Asparagus tips! I will have your life for this!”
Just at that moment old Readycash charged out of his room. “You young villain!” he yelled at Reggie, “what do you mean by knocking down my guests?”
Reggie fled toward the stairs. At the top step he felt the same force that had sent him from the presence of Readycash. The young man soared gracefully into the air and floated down the stairs.
“What!” yelled old Readycash; “you still here? Get out of my house! And as for you,” turning to the girl, “you shall marry the duke this very day.”
“But father,” began Gwinivere.
“Shut up!” yelled old Readycash, brutally; “do you want me to whip you?”
The duke seized her by the wrist. “Aha, me proud beauty,” he exclaimed, diabolically; “I have you in my power at last!”
“Unhand me, villain!” she cried.
At that moment the door flew open and two men rushed in. One was a tall, thin man and the other a short stocky man.
They rushed upon the duke, knocked him down and handcuffed him.
“Aha,” exclaimed the tall man, “a duke now, are you, eh?”
“What does this mean, sir?” asked old Readycash.
“This man is a crook in disguise,” the tall man answered. “I have followed him half across the world. You see before you,” he continued, kicking off the duke’s mustache and monocle, “Booze Bill, the Bowery Bum! One of the slickest crooks on record.”
“Curses,” hissed the duke. “One thousand curses. Ay, one thousand five hundred curses!”
“As for you, sir,” the stranger continued, to old Readycash, “your daughter wants to marry this young man,” indicating Reggie, “and you give him your consent and your check for £10,000. Also a check for the same amount to me as a token of your gratitude in preventing you from marrying your daughter to a villain. If you do not I will send you to jail for 2,000 years. I used to drink my beer at Dinty Moore’s saloon when you were bartender there and you often shortchanged me.” Then to the short man, “Take the prisoner outside and call a cab, Colonel; I will follow presently.”
“But, who are you?” asked old Readycash, as he reached for his checkbook and Reggie and Gwinivere fell into each other’s arms, “who are you?”
“I?” answered the stranger with a smile; “I am Hawkshaw, the Detective.”
HALT! WHO GOES THERE?
First published in The Yellow Jacket (the newspaper of Howard Payne College), September 24, 1924
PROLOGUE
A BLAZING SUN blazed out of a blazing sky and blazed down blazingly on a blazing expanse of blazing, barren sand, in a blazing desert.
Naught was to be except sand dunes. And yet, aha! A long caravan of camels emerged from behind a sand dune and meandered along the ancient desert trail which was ancient before the memory of man. Aye, it was even said that the trail had been made before William Jennings Bryan began to run for president.
The Tuareg chieftain looked about him with a sneer on his handsome face. With contempt he gazed at the sand dunes. Somehow he felt superior to them. Presently the caravan stopped by an ancient city, half-hidden beneath the sands of the desert. It was almost ruins. A very ancient city; it had been deserted long before Congress began to discuss the immigration problem, even.
The Taureg dismounted from his camel and entered his tent. A slave girl offered him a chaw of Beech-nut from her own private plug. He kicked her with a harsh tone of voice.
Seating himself on an expensive divan from Bokhara, he reflected meditatively.
CHAPTER I
“ONE MILLION DOLLARS,” mused the Colonel.
“Exactly, my dear Colonel,” returned Hawkshaw, the great detective, wittily.
“But what details of the crime?”
“As follows,” Hawkshaw replied. “The night watchman of the Stacksuhkale bank
, London, was knocked unconscious and a million dollars in American thrift-stamps as well as one million pounds of sterling and a box of fine cigars were taken.”
“The villain!” exclaimed the Colonel indignantly. “And cigars as expensive as they are.
“How are you going to go about finding the guilty person?” asked the Colonel.
“In the following manner,” answered Hawkshaw. “Let us first begin by deduction. Let us say, for example, that three persons have robbed the bank. You, I, or the Khedive of Egypt. Now it is impossible that you could commit the robbery because at the time the robbery was committed you were playing a foursome of tiddledy-winks with the duke of Buckingham.”
“That’s true but how did you know?” exclaimed the Colonel.
“My dear Colonel,” answered Hawkshaw, “I saw the crumbs on your opera hat. Now, as for myself, I could not have done the robbery because I was in a theatre in Drury Lane. I almost distinctly remember the play even. It was called ‘The Store-keeper of Venice’ and was written by a fellow named Shooksbeer or something, who is a native of Algeria.
“Then, consider the Khedive of Egypt, he could not have committed the robbery because he was on his sugar-moon, I mean his molasses-moon, with his 999999999999999999th wife, hunting social lions, lounge-lizards, zebras and other big game, in the wilds of Schenectady, New York. And, having eliminated myself, you and the Khedive, do you see what this points to?”
“No,” the Colonel answered.
“It indicates that the robbery was done by someone else!” said Hawkshaw, dramatically.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Colonel in admiration. “Awhaw! Wonderful!”
“I shall now,” Hawkshaw continued, “go into the street and arrest everyone I meet. To each I shall put the auestion: ‘Did you rob the Stacksuhkale bank or did you not?’ and I shall be governed by their answers.”
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 405