The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (81 page)

“I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the rear light of the automobile part way up the hill, and, when that disappeared, I turned to the right instead of to the left, as there was no one out on such a night from whom I could make inquiry.”

“My deductions, then, are beside the mark,” said Doyle hoarsely, in an accent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invited guest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfied later arrival.

“Of course they were,” said Holmes, with exasperating self-assurance.

“Am I also wrong in deducing that you have had nothing to eat since you left London?”

“No, you are quite right there.”

“Well, oblige me by pressing that electric button.”

Holmes did so with much eagerness, but, although the trio waited some minutes in silence, there was no response.

“I deduce from that,” said Doyle, “that the servants have gone to bed. After I have satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger for food and gold, I shall take you back in my motor car, unless you prefer to stay here the night.”

“You are very kind,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Not at all,” replied Doyle. “Just take that chair, draw it up to the table and we will divide the second swag.”

The chair indicated differed from all others in the room. It was straight-backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates, apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms to drag it forward, he gave one half articulate gasp, and plunged headlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Newnes sprang up standing with a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, a seraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips.

“Has he fainted?” cried Sir George.

“No, merely electrocuted. A simple device the Sheriff of New York taught me when I was over there last.”

“Merciful heavens! Cannot he be resuscitated?”

“My dear Newnes,” said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shoulders a great weight is lifted, “a man may fall into the chasm at the foot of the Reichenbach Fall and escape to record his adventures later, but when two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person who owns that frame is dead.”

“You don't mean to say you've murdered him?” asked Sir George, in an awed whisper.

“Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they can indict us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the servants go to bed, they switch on the current to this chair. That's why I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside the chair, and put on it a bottle of wine, whisky and soda, and cigars. Then, if any burglar comes in, he invariably sits down in the chair to enjoy himself, and so you see, that piece of furniture is an effective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I have turned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking off of Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictly speaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn't get more than fourteen years apiece, and probably that would be cut down to seven on the ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit.”

“Apiece!” cried Sir George. “But what have I had to do with it?”

“Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked, I saw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, I think you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessory before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.”

Sir George sank back in his chair well nigh breathless with horror. Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however, are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they issue a book. Doyle laughed easily.

“I'm used to this sort of thing,” he said. “Remember how I killed off the people in ‘The White Company.' Now, if you will help me to get rid of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is to-day. He often disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight danger of detection. Will you lend a hand?”

“I suppose I must,” cried the conscience-stricken man.

Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock Holmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which was characteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor car to the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by his trembling guest, he
went outside and flung the body into the tonneau behind. He then threw a spade and a pick into the car, and covered everything up with a waterproof spread. Lighting the lamps, he bade his silent guest get up beside him, and so they started on their fateful journey, taking the road past the spot where the sailor had been murdered, and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed toward London.

“Why do you take this direction?” asked Sir George. “Wouldn't it be more advisable to go further into the country?”

Doyle laughed harshly.

“Haven't you a place on Wimbledon Common? Why not bury him in your garden?”

“Merciful motors!” cried the horrified man. “How can you propose such a thing? Talking of gardens, why not have him buried in your own, which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace.”

“Have no fear,” said Doyle reassuringly, “we shall find him a suitable sepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I'll be in the centre of London within two hours.”

Sir George stared in affright at the demon driver. The man had evidently gone mad. To London, of all places in the world. Surely that was the one spot on earth to avoid.

“Stop the motor and let me off,” he cried. “I'm going to wake up the nearest magistrate and confess.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” said Doyle. “Don't you see that no person on earth would suspect two criminals of making for London when they have the whole country before them? Haven't you read my stories? The moment a man commits a crime he tries to get as far away from London as possible. Every policeman knows that, therefore, two men coming into London are innocent strangers, according to Scotland Yard.”

“But then we may be taken up for fast driving, and think of the terrible burden we carry.”

“We're safe on the country roads, and I'll slow down when we reach the suburbs.”

It was approaching three o'clock in the morning when a huge motor car turned out of Trafalgar Square, and went eastward along the Strand. The northern side of the Strand was up, as it usually is, and the motor, skilfully driven, glided past the piles of wood-paving blocks, great sombre kettles holding tar, and the general debris of a repaving convulsion. Opposite Southampton Street, at the very spot so graphically illustrated by George C. Haite on the cover of the
Strand Magazine
, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his motor. The Strand was deserted. He threw pick and shovel into the excavation, and curtly ordered his companion to take his choice of weapons. Sir George selected the pick, and Doyle vigorously plied the spade. In almost less time than it takes to tell, a very respectable hole had been dug, and in it was placed the body of the popular private detective. Just as the last spadeful was shovelled in place the stern voice of a policeman awoke the silence, and caused Sir George to drop his pick from nerveless hands.

“What are you two doing down there?”

“That's all right, officer,” said Doyle glibly, as one who had foreseen every emergency. “My friend here is controller of the Strand. When the Strand is up he is responsible, and it has the largest circulation in the—I mean it's up oftener than any other street in the world. We cannot inspect the work satisfactorily while traffic is on, and so we have been examining it in the nighttime. I am his secretary; I do the writing, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” replied the constable. “Well, gentlemen, good morning to you, and merry Christmas.”

“The same to you, constable. Just lend a hand, will you?”

The officer of the law helped each of the men up to the level of the road.

As Doyle drove away from the ill-omened spot he said:—

“Thus have we disposed of poor Holmes in the busiest spot on earth, where no one will ever think of looking for him, and we've put him away without even a Christmas box around him. We have buried him forever in the Strand.”

AS A PROMINENT
lawyer specializing in literary and publishing matters, Stanley Jack Rubinstein (1890–1975) was the chairman of Burke Publishing and was instrumental in the formation of Andre Deutsch, a prominent British publishing house.

He was also a well-known historian, with his best-known work,
Historians of London
(1968), subtitled
An Account of the Many Surveys, Histories, Perambulations, Maps, and Engravings Made About the City and Its Environs, and of the Dedicated Londoners Who Made Them
, covering the era up to 1900. His other major contribution to the history of London is the colorful historical work
The Street Trader's Lot, London: 1851. Being an Account of the Lives, Miseries, Joys & Chequered Activities of the London Street Sellers as Recorded by Henry Mayhew
(1947), which is illustrated with twenty-five contemporary drawings representing various traders whose little stalls on crowded streets sold everything from oysters to Hindu tracts and birds' nests.

Evidence that the present parody was not Rubinstein's only foray into the mystery-writing world is his own crime novel
Merry Murder
(1949), which features Inspector Rogers and Thomas Willmott.

“Sheer Luck Again” was originally published in the April 1923 issue of
The Detective Magazine
.

OWING TO MY
wife's rooted objection to Sheerluck Combs, it was some little time since I had seen him, and I freely confess that it was with trepidation that I once more knocked upon the well-known door in Baker Street.

“Come in!” cried the voice of my revered master. And before I could turn the handle: “Welcome back, my prodigal Whatson!”

“How the dickens did you know it was me?” I gasped, forgetting my grammar in my admiration for my friend.

Combs watched a cloud of smoke up the chimney.

“Very simple,” he said. “Your hair-oil, my dear chap, preceded you. Since I saw you last I have written a little monograph on the peculiar odour and flavour of over a hundred and fifty different varieties of hair-oils. I could distinguish your favourite brand a mile off.”

I started to shower laudatory terms upon my illustrious friend, who, I was delighted to find, had lost none of his powers of perception, but Combs stopped me with an imperative gesture.

“Enough,” he said. “Father, son—that is, Whatson, I cannot tell a lie even to you. As a matter of fact, I was standing at the window as you came up the street.

The simplicity with which he told the truth, even at the risk of losing a point, was wonderful. I gazed at my friend with an admiration which almost amounted to adoration.

“I have come on business,” I said.

“I know,” replied Combs.

“How?” I cried in amazement.

“You have just told me so,” he replied. “It is important business,” he added.

“Wonderful!” I could not help ejaculating. “How could you know that?”

Combs's answer was brilliantly characteristic of his marvellous reasoning.

“When an ordinary tidy man comes out without a tie on it denotes haste; haste in a man of your pronounced sloth denotes excitement; excitement in one of your temperament denotes importance. Simple deduction, my dear Whatson. You should really take up the study of elementary mathematics again; it refreshes the brain. I am inclined to the belief that you have lost something,” he added.

I was too surprised to speak for a moment.

“And how in the name of good fortune have you guessed at the reason for my coming here?” I gasped.

Combs looked surprised for just the fraction of a second.

“When an educated gentleman sniffs instead of blowing his nose, it is a pretty good sign that he has lost his handkerchief.”

The man's perception and knowledge of life was really remarkable.

“I could tell you more about yourself,” he said.

“Do.” I prompted him, ever eager for evidence of my friend's methods.

“You have taken to shaving with a safety razor,” he replied.

It was true. My wife had presented me with
one as a wedding present, and some months back had persuaded me to use it.

“I am really at a loss to explain how you can detect that,” I said.

“My dear Whatson, in the old days of your bachelorship you used to cut yourself with unfailing regularity every time you shaved; but now neither your chin nor your cheeks show any sign of those scars which I always used to think of as wounds honourably incurred in your daily wrestle with the razor. Your clean-shaven appearance is a sufficient sign that you have not ceased to shave, and your hand is, if anything, less steady than it used to be. In fact, if I did not fear to hurt your feelings, I should say that you had taken to drink.”

I covered my burning face with my hands.

“I swear it was through no fault of mine,” I cried.

“Your excuses must wait,” said Combs coldly. “Let me hear what brought you here. State the facts as shortly as you can. I have not too much time. The case of the sugar king's lost pianola took me longer than I care to admit, and I am behindhand with two or three other important cases I am engaged on.”

A dreary film spread over his eyes, and but for the irregular twitching of his interlocked finger-tips one could have thought him dead.

I cleared my throat and began.

“After dinner last night I went up to my study and locked the door.”

“Ha!” cried Combs. “You were afraid of something. What was it? You blush, man. What's the matter?”

“Well, you see——” I stammered.

“I see nothing,” said Combs impatiently. “I am a sleuthhound—
the
sleuthhound,” he added, “not a mere spiritualist.”

“Well, I must confess that my wife has turned vegetarian, and——”

“And that the dinner she provided proving unfilling, you repaired to your study to supply the deficiency by consuming the sandwiches which you had thoughtfully bought during the day. Am I right?” he asked.

“You are right—as you always are,” I replied. “And for once I can almost follow your mental reasoning. Having consumed the sandwiches and—er—the contents of my flask, I unlocked my desk with the intention of doing that which I had many times contemplated, but had never up till now had the time to do.”

“Go on,” said Combs, “you interest me.”

“My intention was to look through my notes of the cases in which I have been associated with you, and loose another selection upon an expectant and ever ready public.”

Combs shrugged his eyebrows.

“Upon the same terms as before, I assume,” he asked carelessly—“thirty per cent of the royalties to you, and—er—the balance to me?”

“Willingly,” I said, trying to speak calmly, “but it can never be.”

“Why not?” queried Combs curtly.

“Because the papers have been stolen,” I said.

“Merciful powers!” cried Combs, springing from his seat, and with arms outstretched he flung himself towards me.

I verily believed that my last moments had come. But I had cruelly misjudged my friend, for he merely seized the 'cello which hung upon the wall over my head and began zigzagging, jazzing, and jigsawing all over the room. Up and down, in and out, the walls resounding to the wild music he extracted from the wonderful instrument, the gift of the Rajah of Shampoo, to whom Combs had once rendered some small service. At first it was a frenzied tune that he plucked from the strings, but as he became exhausted it gradually declined in violence, until, in the middle of a crooning lullaby, he flung the valuable instrument, the gift—er—yes, I mentioned that just now—into the wastepaper basket, and himself, a quivering mass, into his armchair.

He hardly had the strength to sob, but sob he did, such sobs as I have never heard but once before, an occasion when, disguised as Sultanas, we entered the harem of the Sultan of Badladd to rescue from his clutches a lady of high and royal lineage.

Presently he overcame his emotions.

“Whatson,” he said, “I may in time learn to forget, but forgive—never. I relied upon you—you, my Boswell. However, tears avail me naught. I have been weak. I will be strong. Let me have the details. It may yet be time to save the papers.” And Combs was once more the sleuthhound, prepared to listen with that passive attention which he gave to the most impersonal of cases.

“Having locked the door of my study,” I said, “I took out all my notes, perused them, and arranged them in two piles upon the table. Upon the left-hand pile I placed those in which our efforts were—er—not so successful as they might have been. You remember, for instance, the mysterious disappearance of the seven-chinned lady?”

“I found the lady, but never recovered the chins,” said Combs. “I remember! And the circus proprietor refused to take her back without them. Go on!” he added.

“And upon the right-hand pile,” I continued, “I placed all the data of some dozen cases which I thought might now be safely placed before the public.”

“And then?” queried Combs.

“I took two foolscap envelopes,” I said, “and addressed one to you and one to the publishers. I placed these face downwards on the table——”

“I follow you with attention,” said Combs.

“And shuffled them as if they had been dominoes. You see, I was undecided as to whether I should send the papers direct to the publishers or to you to peruse and, if necessary, revise. I knew, of course, that if you were not busy I should receive them back by return, but I feared lest in the rush of business you might overlook them.”

“You were quite right,” said Combs. “I probably should have.”

“So I selected this method of determining which course to adopt. I was just about to turn over one of the envelopes which would have determined the destination of the papers, when I happened to glance at the clock on the mantelshelf.”

“And the time?” said Combs. “This is important.”

“It was 10:23,” I replied. “I used to be, as you know, an abstemious man, but a prolonged vegetarian diet has lowered my stamina. In short, I seized my hat, coat, and umbrella, and ran round the corner to the Duke of Edinburgh to—er—refill my flask.”

“Ah!” said Combs, and a long sigh escaped him. “Did you close the door behind you?”

“The front door, yes; the study door, no,” I replied, “but I swear I was not away ten minutes, for, as you know, they turn you out—er—that is, close the doors at 10:30, and I came straight back. And as there are no roads to cross, there are no kerbs to trip over, either,” I added rather irrelevantly.

“Did you find the front door open on your return?” asked Combs.

“No; all was apparently as I left it. I let myself in with my latchkey and went upstairs to my study.
The papers and the envelopes had vanished!
”

“Great Caesar!” cried Combs, and great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. “You have placed a mighty powerful weapon into the hands of my enemies,” he added.

“Alas, I know!” I replied. “But do not rub it in.”

“Come,” said Combs, starting up, “there is no time to be lost. This is obviously the work of an opposition gang. I have had my eye upon them for a long time. They are an unscrupulous crowd, and will stick at nothing. Let us repair to the scene of the tragedy.”

With Combs to think was to act, and in less time than it takes me to write it we were in the street and had hailed a passing taxi.

“Where to?” queried the driver.

I told him the address.

“I 'aven't enough petrol,” he said, preparing to move on.

“You lie, George Blarnie, and you know it,” said Combs quietly.

“ 'Ere, 'oo are you a-callin' nimes, anyway? Lor lumme, if it ain't Mister Sheerluck Combs! Jump in, yer worship! I'm sorry I didn't reckergnise yer before.”

As the cab sped Hampstead Heath–ward, Combs lolled back in the corner, his brow knitted in deep thought.

“Have you formed any theories?” I asked.

“Not yet,” replied Combs. “It is a capital offence to form theories before knowing all the facts. Besides, it is a waste of time. Have you communicated with Scotland Yard?” he queried.

“How can you ask such a question?” I cried. “Such an action on my part would have betokened a lack of faith in your powers.”

“Oh, I wasn't thinking of the detective branch, but of the lost property office,” he rejoined nonchalantly. “But here we are. Have you any change on you, my dear Whatson? I have left my purse at home.”

I paid the cabman, who touched his hat, with a wink.

“You thort ter stop my little gimes,” he said, “but I'm still hat it, yer see. Only this form of daylight 'igh robbery is licensed, so yer can't touch me.
Good-d'y
ter you, Mister Combs!” And he was off.

“A terrible villain that,” said Combs. “He is one of the most expert bungalow-breakers in the kingdom. He was, you will recollect, the principal villain in the strange case of the commercial traveller's oil-stove.”

“I remember it well,” I replied.

My house is a basement one of the ordinary terrace type, three stories high, and with eleven steps leading down to the back door, which opens on to a narrow area, from which the coal-cellar, which is situated under the pavement, is also approached. There is no exit from the rear of the house, and the back windows overlook the Regents Canal, which is only separated from the wall of the house by a narrow towpath.

As I ascended the four stone steps up to the front door, and put my latchkey into the lock, fears assailed me for the first time; for Combs had not set foot in our house since my wife discovered the part he played in capturing those concerned in the bank robbery in Siam, as a result of which a second-cousin of hers by marriage had not yet returned to this country.

Evidently Combs had the same fears, for as I opened the door he whispered to me, “Remember, I'm the plumber.”

As we stepped into the house my wife crossed the hall.

“The plumber, my dear,” I said. “He has—er—come to see me about his windpipe.” And I led the way straight up to my study, which is on the second floor and in the front of the house.

I must confess that I had expected Combs to praise me for this brilliant impromptuism. But as soon as I had closed the door he burst out, “Fool, idiot, dolt! I've come to repair something, not to be repaired. I may have to make a thorough examination both inside and out. Are your patients in the habit of crawling around the house on all fours?” And he crossed to the door and locked it.

“Now,” he said, “let us start our investigations. I will commence by interviewing your staff.”

“Alas!” I replied. “We have no staff; it left to make munitions, and is now making eyes from the back row of the chorus.”

Combs frowned.

“I hate to have to suspect your wife so early in the proceedings, but your statement leaves me no alternative,” he said.

“I can answer for my wife,” I replied. “She was at the picture palace all the evening. She knows nothing of this, and, indeed, must never know. Remember, if she so much as suspected who you were she'd go home to her mother at once.”