The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (13 page)

"No, he would write it in his own style, thus: . . "

I

_T WAS a pretty rotten sort of day in March, I remember, that dear old Holmes and I were sitting in the ancestral halls in Baker Street, putting in a quiet bit of meditation. At least Holmes was exercising the good old gray matter over a letter that had just come, while I was relaxing gently in an armchair.

"What-ho, Watson, old fruit," he said at last, tossing the letter over to me. "What does that mass of alluvial deposit you call a brain make of this, what, what?"

HOLMES AND THE DASHER

The letter went something like this, as far as I can remember; at least, I may not have got all the words quite right, but this was the sort of gist of it, if you take me:

Jolly old Mr. Holmes, —I shall be rolling round at about three o'clock to discuss a pretty ripe little problem with you. It's like this. Freddie Devereux asked me to marry him last night, as I can prove with witnesses; but this morning he says he must have been a bit over the edge (a trifle sozzled, if you get me), and that a proposal doesn't count in the eyes of the rotten old Law if made under the influence of friend Demon Rum, as it were. Well, what I mean is — what about it? In other words, it's up to you to see that Freddie and I get tethered up together in front of an altar in the pretty near future. Get me?

Yours to a stick of lip salve,

CISSIE CROSSGARTERS

"Well, Watson?" Holmes asked, splashing a little soda into his glass of cocaine. "As the jolly old poet says—what, what, what?"

"It seems to me," I said, playing for safety, "that this is a letter from a girl called Cissie Crossgarters, who wants to put the stranglehold on a chappie called Devereux, while he's trying to counter with an uppercut from the jolly old Law. At least, that is, if you take my meaning."

"It's astounding how you get at the heart of things, Watson," said Holmes, in that dashed sneering way of his. "But it is already three o'clock, and there goes the bell. If I'm not barking up the wrong tree, this will be our client. Cissie Crossgarters!" he added rumina-tively. "Mark my words, Watson, old laddie, she'll be a bit of a dasher. That is, a topnotcher, as it were."

In spite of his faults I'm bound to say that Holmes certainly is the lad with the outsize brain; the fellow simply exudes intuition. The girl was a topnotcher. The way she sailed into our little sitting room reminded me of a ray of sunshine lighting up the good old Gorgon-zola cheese. I mean, poetry and bright effects and whatnot.

"Miss Crossgarters?" asked Holmes, doing the polite.

"Call me Cissie," she said, spraying him with smiles. Oh, she was a dasher all right.

"Allow me to present my friend, colleague and whatnot, Bertie

Watson," said Holmes, and she switched the smile onto me. I can tell you, I felt the old heart thumping like a motorbike as I squeezed the tiny little hand she held out to me. I mean, it was so dashed small. In fact, tiny, if you get me. I mean to say, it was such a dashed tiny little hand.

"Well?" said Holmes, when we were all seated, looking his most hatchet-faced and sleuthiest. "And what about everything, as it were? That is, what, what?"

"You got my letter?" cooed the girl, looking at Holmes as if he were the only man in the world. I mean, you know the sort of way they look at you when they want something out of you.

"You bet I did," said Holmes, leaning back and clashing his ringer tips together, as was his habit when on the jolly old trail.

"And what do you think of it?"

"Ah!" said Holmes, fairly bursting with mystery. "That's what we've got to consider. But I may say that the situation appears to me dashed thick and not a little rotten. In fact, dashed rotten and pretty thick as well, if you take me. I mean to say," he added carefully, "well, if you follow what I'm driving at, altogether pretty well dashed thick and rotten, what?"

"You do put things well," said the girl admiringly. "That's just what I felt about it myself. And what had I better do, do you think?"

"Ah!" said Holmes again, clashing away like mad. "It's just that particular little fruity point that we've got to think over, isn't it? I mean, before we get down to action, we've got to put in a bit of pretty useful meditation and whatnot. At least, that's how the thing strikes

me."

"How clever you are, Mr. Holmes!" sighed the girl.

Holmes heaved himself out of his chair. "And let me tell you that the best way of agitating the old bean into a proper performance of its duties is first of all to restore the good old tissues with a little delicate sustenance. In other words, what about something rather rare in tea somewhere first?"

"Oh, yes!" cried the girl. "How lovely!"

"Top-hole!" I said enthusiastically. I mean, the idea tickled me,

what? Holmes looked at me with a dashed cold eye. "You're not on the

stage for this bit of dialogue, dear old laddie," he remarked in the way that writer chappies call incisively.

They trickled out together.

It was past midnight before Holmes returned.

"What ho!" I said doubtfully, still feeling a bit sore, if you understand me.

"What ho!" said Holmes, unleashing his ulster.

"What ho! What ho!"

"What ho! What ho! What?"

"I mean, what about Freddie Devereux?" I asked, to change the conversation.

"That moon-faced lump of mediocrity? What about him?"

"Well, what about him? About him and Miss Crossgarters, as it were. I mean to say, what about them, what?"

"Oh, you mean what about them ? Well, I don't think he'll trouble her much more. You see, Cissie and I have got engaged to be married, what? I mean, what, what, what?"

(And Mr. Berkeley adds: "That is one example of literary style")

THE CASE OF THE MISSING

LADY

by AGATHA CHRISTIE

Miss Christie has set her ingenuity and uniting styll against every problem in detective-crime fiction. It was inevitable, therefore, that sooner or later she would tackle the subtle difficulties of burlesque. Of course, when she did, it was in typical Christie fashion — no halfway measures, as we hasten to explain.

"The Case of the Missing Lady" is a chapter lifted from Miss Christies boo\, PARTNERS IN CRIME (London, Collins, 7929; New Yor{, Dodd, Mead, 7929)— which contains not one burlesque but a baker's dozen of them! Other chapters parody Dr. Thorndy^e, Father Brown, The Old Man in the Corner, Hanaud, Inspector French, Roger Sheringham, Reggie Fortune—and because Miss Christie plays no favorites, Hercule

Poirot himself!

All the parodies concern the detectival affairs of that happy-go-luc\y husband-and-wife team, Tommy and Tuppence Beres-j or d _ a delightful English version of Nic{ and Nora Charles. The Tommy-Tuppence taJ(e-off on Sherloc/( Holmes is gentle and somewhat spoofing, but none the less effective.

W,

/HAT on earth are you doing?" demanded Tuppence, as she entered the inner sanctum of the International Detective Agency — (Slogan — Blunt's Brilliant Detectives) and discovered her lord and master prone on the floor in a sea o£ books.

Tommy struggled to his feet.

"I was trying to arrange these books on the top shelf of that cupboard," he complained. "And the damned chair gave way."

"What are they, anyway?" asked Tuppence, picking up a vol-

ume. "The Hound of the Bas^ervilles. I wouldn't mind reading that again sometime."

"You see the idea?" said Tommy, dusting himself with care. "Half hours with the Great Masters —that sort of thing. You see, Tuppence, I can't help feeling that we are more or less amateurs at this business — of course amateurs in one sense we cannot help being, but it would do no harm to acquire the technique, so to speak. These books are detective stories by the leading masters of the art. I intend to try different styles, and compare results."

"H'm," said Tuppence. "I often wonder how those detectives would have got on in real life." She picked up another volume. "You'll find difficulty in being a Thorndyke. You've no medical experience, and less legal, and I never heard that science was your strong point."

"Perhaps not," said Tommy. "But at any rate I've bought a very good camera, and I shall photograph footprints and enlarge the negatives and all that sort of thing. Now, mon amie, use your little gray cells — what does this convey to you?"

He pointed to the bottom shelf of the cupboard. On it lay a somewhat futuristic dressing gown, a Persian slipper, and a violin.

"Obvious, my dear Watson," said Tuppence.

"Exactly," said Tommy. "The Sherlock Holmes touch."

He took up the violin and drew the bow idly across the strings, causing Tuppence to give a wail of agony.

At that moment the buzzer rang on the desk, a sign that a client had arrived in the outer office and was being held in parley by Albert, the office boy.

Tommy hastily placed the violin on the table and kicked the books behind the desk.

"Not that there's any great hurry," he remarked. "Albert will be handing them out the stuff about my being engaged with Scotland Yard on the phone. Get into your office and start typing, Tuppence. It makes the office sound busy and active. No, on second thought, you shall be taking notes in shorthand from my dictation. Let's have a look before we get Albeit to send the victim in."

They approached the peephole which had been artistically contrived so as to command a view of the outer office.

"I'll wait," the visitor was saying. "I haven't got a card with me, but my name is Gabriel Stavansson."

The client was a magnificent specimen of manhood, standing over six feet high. His face was bronzed and weather-beaten, and the extraordinary blue of his eyes made an almost startling contrast to the brown skin.

Tommy swiftly changed his mind. He put on his hat, picked up some gloves, and opened the door. He paused on the threshold.

"This gentleman is waiting to see you, Mr. Blunt," said Albert.

A quick frown passed over Tommy's face. He took out his watch.

"I am due at the Duke's at a quarter to eleven," he said. Then he looked keenly at the visitor. "I can give you a few minutes if you will come this way."

The latter followed him obediently into the inner office, where Tuppence was sitting demurely with pad and pencil.

"My confidential secretary, Miss Robinson," said Tommy. "Now, sir, perhaps you will state your business? Beyond the fact that it is urgent, that you came here in a taxi, and that you have lately been in the Arctic — or possibly the Antarctic — I know nothing."

The visitor stared at him in amazement.

"But this is marvelous," he cried. "I thought detectives only did such things in books! Your office boy did not even give you my name!"

Tommy sighed deprecatingly.

"Tut tut, all that was very easy," he said. "The rays of the midnight sun within the Arctic circle have a peculiar action upon the skin — the actinic rays have certain properties. I am writing a little monograph on the subject shortly. But all this is wide of the point. What is it that has brought you to me in such distress of mind?"

"To begin with, Mr. Blunt, my name is Gabriel Stavansson — "

"Ah! Of course," said Tommy. "The well-known explorer. You have recently returned from the region of the North Pole, I believe?"

"I landed in England three days ago. A friend who was cruising in northern waters brought me back on his yacht. Otherwise I should not have got back for another fortnight. Now I must tell you, Mr. Blunt, that before I started on this last expedition two years ago, I had the great fortune to become engaged to Mrs. Maurice Leigh Gordon — " Tommy interrupted. "Mrs. Leigh Gordon was, before her marriage — "

"The Honorable Hermione Crane, second daughter of Lord Lan-chester," reeled off Tuppence glibly.

Tommy threw her a glance of admiration.

"Her first husband was killed in the War," added Tuppence.

Gabriel Stavansson nodded.

"That is quite correct. As I was saying, Hermione and I became engaged. I offered, of course, to give up this expedition, but she wouldn't hear of such a thing —bless her! She's the right kind of woman for an explorer's wife. Well, my first thought on landing was to see Hermione. I sent a telegram from Southampton, and rushed up to town by the first train. I knew that she was living for the time being with an aunt of hers, Lady Susan Clonray, in Pont Street, and I went straight there. To my great disappointment, I found that Hermy was away visiting some friends in Northumberland. Lady Susan was quite nice about it, after getting over her first surprise at seeing me. As I told you, I wasn't expected for another fortnight. She said Hermy would be returning in a few days' time. Then I asked for her address, but the old woman hummed and hawed — said Hermy was staying at one or two different places, and that she wasn't quite sure what order she was taking them in. I may as well tell you, Mr. Blunt, that Lady Susan and I have never got on very well. She's one of those fat women with double chins. I loathe fat women — always have — fat women and fat dogs are an abomination unto the Lord — and unfortunately they so often go together! It's an idiosyncrasy of mine, I know — but there it is — I never can get on with a fat woman."

"Fashion agrees with you, Mr. Stavansson," said Tommy dryly. "And everyone has his own pet aversion — that of the late Lord Roberts was cats."

"Mind you, I'm not saying that Lady Susan isn't a perfectly charming woman — she may be, but I've never taken to her. I've always felt, deep down, that she disapproved of our engagement, and I feel sure that she would influence Hermy against me if that were possible. I'm telling you this for what it's worth. Count it out as prejudice, if you like. Well, to go on with my story, I'm the kind of obstinate brute who likes his own way. I didn't leave Pont Street until I'd got out of her the names and addresses of the people Hermy was likely to be staying with. Then I took the mail train north."

"You are, I perceive, a man of action, Mr. Stavansson," said Tommy, smiling.

"The thing came upon me like a bombshell. Mr. Blunt, none of these people had seen a sign of Hermy! Of the three houses, only one had been expecting her — Lady Susan must have made a bloomer over the other two — and she had put off her visit there at the last moment by telegram. I returned post haste to London, of course, and went straight to Lady Susan. I will do her the justice to say that she seemed upset. She admitted that she had no idea where Hermy could be. All the same, she strongly negatived any idea of going to the police. She pointed out that Hermy was not a silly young girl, but an independent woman who had always been in the habit of making her own plans. She was probably carrying out some idea of her own.