The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (37 page)

an application of the stethoscope showed me at a glance his nerves were all to pieces. He languidly turned up his sleeve.

"No," I said firmly, laying my hand upon a small hypodermic syringe he had taken from a pocket of his dressing gown, "I cannot allow any more morphia; you only need rest and a complete change." "Heaven knows you're right, Watson, my dear fellow, but how the deuce am I to get it? Can you tell me that?" I felt that here was something more than appeared on the surface. "What is it that prevents you —not Moriarty again?" Holmes looked at me in something of his old manner. "Watson, Watson, when shall I teach you to eliminate the obviously impossible? We have already twice disposed of Moriarty — once in the Strand, and again at the Lyceum; you will remember the circumstances very well." He sighed. "No, it is not Moriarty."

His eyes wandered to his son, who was scraping the sole of a shoe and examining the matter so obtained by the aid of a powerful lens. "It was Martha meddled with my specimens, and she said it was the cat," the infant announced conclusively. His face darkened, and he crawled off after the offending Martha. Holmes turned to me. "What do you make of it, Watson?" I hesitated. "It is evident he has your talents; it must be very gratifying."

"Watson, it is killing me. All day long and every hour of the day he is at it. My wife has broken down —nervous system entirely shattered; no one will visit us; we can't keep a servant —they won't put up with it."

"Surely," I said, "it is not so bad as that; he is only a baby — " Holmes smiled bitterly. "He contrives to do a good deal in his way. He told the Dean's wife her husband had been married before, and that her diamonds were not real. He took the opportunity of announcing at an At Home that Sir Ronald's grandfather was a tailor in Stepney, that he made his money in patent pills, and that he was afraid of his valet. He took an impression in wax of the vicar's thumb and subsequently told him that his sermons were not his own, that he had some money on Daystar at the St. Leger, that his niece was a sempstress, and that his brother-in-law was doing time for forgery. He tracked the area policeman for over three weeks to find out where he went when he was off duty — and he told the

tax collector his back teeth were false. You have seen for yourself he is after Martha now. She'll give notice next."

"Why don't you keep him in the nursery?"

"They can't. He outwits them in every possible way. No, there is only one thing to be done: I must take on the job myself. Watson, Watson, if you are a truthful person you will faithfully recount this in the memoirs you are giving to the public. I who have baffled Moriarty, I who have had a hand in unravelling most of the mysteries that have perplexed Europe, with knowledge enough of the seamy side of courts and the back doors of politics to bring about a European war — I am now compelled to turn all my energies to circumventing my own son; and, Watson, it is killing me."

He plunged his hands deep in his dressing-gown pockets, and his chin fell on his breast.

I crept out softly and closed the door.

Detective: SOLAR PONS Narrator: PARKER

THE ADVENTURE OF THE: NORCROSS RIDDLE '

by AUGUST DERLETH

August Derleth, the youthful sage of Sau\ City, is a Guggenheim Fellow of 1938 and special lecturer in American Regional Literature at the University of Wisconsin. One of the most prolific writers in the United States, Mr. Derleth averages from 750,000 to 1,000,000 words per year, and his range is incredibly catholic — from serious novels, poetry, and biography to weird tales (his first efforts but still an active part of his wor^) and detective stories.

Mr. Derleth was born in 1909, began writing at the age of thirteen, published at fifteen, and now in the mellow maturity of middle-thirties is engaged in one of the most ambitious literary projects ever attempted — the saga of Sac Prairie. This gargantuan wor\ will comprise more than fifty booJ^s of which thirteen have already been published. Mr. Derleth compares the scope of his epic to Balzac's COMEDIE HUMAINE (HUMAN COMEDY) and Proust's A LA RECHERCHE DU TEMPS PERDU (REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST).

In his literary adolescence Mr. Derleth was incurably bitten by the Holmesian bug. He wrote a series of 18 tales — 14 short stories, i short novel, and 3 unfinished short stories — all reverently imitating the Sacred Writings. Of this series your Editors have selected "The Adventure of the Norcross Riddle" as typical of Mr. Derleth's sincere homage at the Shrine of Sherlock^. Internal evidence 1 places the writing of "The Norcross Riddle" in 7928 — when Mr. Derleth was only nineteen years old. How many budding authors, not even old enough to vote, could have captured the spirit and atmosphere with as much fidelity? It

proves how deeply Sir Arthur's magic enchanted youthful readers.

Mr. Derleth is to be credited with one innovation. Writers of pastiches are usually content to retain the grand old name in its perfect form. Mr. Derleth elected to create a variant — and his choice of the euphonic "Solar Pans" is an appealing addition to the fascinating lore of Sherlocfyan nomenclature.

T

JL.H

__ .HE SCIENCE of deduction rests primarily on the faculty of observation," said Solar Pons, looking thoughtfully at me with his keen dark eyes, the ghost of a smile at his thin, firm lips.

"Perhaps you're right," I answered, "but I find that much of my so-called observation arises out of intuition. What do you make of that?"

Pons chuckled. "I don't deny it. We are all intuitive in varying degrees. But for accuracy in conclusions, observation must stand first." He turned and rummaged through the papers scattered on the table beside his chair; from among them he drew an ordinary calling card, which he tossed over to me. "What does your intuition make of that?"

The card bore an embossed legend: MR. BENJAMIN HARRISON MAN-TON, and in one corner, in smaller print, NORCROSS TOWERS. I turned it over. The caller had written on its back Will call at three.

"My observation tells me that the gentleman used a broad-point pen; die character of the writing indicates that he is firm and steady. I see he uses the Roman e consistently; my intuition tells me he is an intelligent man."

Pons's smile widened, and he chuckled again.

"What do you make of it?" I asked, somewhat nettled.

"Oh, little more," replied Pons matter-of-factly, "except that the gentleman is an American by birth, but has resided in England for some length of time; he is a man of independent means, and is between thirty-five and thirty-nine years of age. Furthermore, his ancestry is very probably southern United States, but his parents were undoubtedly members of the American Republican political party."

"You have seen the man!"

"Nonsense!" Pons picked up the card. "Observe :--The name Manton is more common to the southern part of the United States than to any other region; undoubtedly it is English in ancestry. In that part of the States, political sentiment is very largely Democratic, but it is not amiss to suggest that Manton's parents were Republican in sentiment, since they named him after a Republican president."

"Well, that is simple," I admitted.

"Precisely, Parker. But there is no intuition about it. It is mere observation. Now test yourself; tell me how I know he is of independent means."

"He calls at three," I ventured. "Certainly if he were not of independent means he could not break into an afternoon like that."

"He might well get away from his work to visit us," objected Pons. "Examine the card more closely."

"Well, it is embossed; that is a more expensive process than simple

printing."

"Good, Parker. Come, you are getting there!"

"And the card itself is of very fine quality, though not pretentious." I held it up against the window. "Imported paper, I see. Italian."

"Excellent!"

"But how do you know he has lived in England for some time?"

"That is most elementary of all. The gentleman has purchased or rented a country place, possibly an abandoned English home, for 'Norcross Towers' is certainly the name of a country house."

"But his age!" I protested. "How can you know the man's age merely by glancing at his calling card?"

"That is really absurdly simple, Parker. In the States it is considered fashionable even today to name children after the president in office at the time of the child's birth; doubtless the American tendency to hero worship plays its part in that, too. Harrison was president from 1889 to 1893; hence it follows that our man was born in one of the four years of Harrison's term. The age is more likely to be thirty-nine years, because the tendency to name children in such fashion is strongest during the inaugural period."

I threw up my hands. "The contest is yours!"

Pons smiled. "Well, here it is three o'clock, and I should not be surprised if our client is at the door." As he spoke, there was a steady ring at the doorbell and, after the

usual preliminary of shuffling feet on the stairs, Mrs. Johnson finally ushered into our rooms a youngish, black-haired man, whose smooth-shaven face was partly concealed by large, horn-rimmed glasses with dark panes. He was clothed in the best fashion, and as he stood before us, leaning on his stick, he held in his hand a motoring cap, indicating that he had come some distance — possibly from his country place.

Our visitor looked from one to the other of us, but, before Mrs. Johnson had closed the door behind her, he had fixed his gaze on Pons, and it was to him he now addressed himself.

"You are Mr. Solar Pons?" he asked in a low, well-modulated

voice.

Pons nodded. "Please be seated, Mr. Manton."

"Thank you." With simple dignity our visitor seated himself and immediately threw a dubious glance in my direction.

"My assistant, Dr. Parker," said Pons. "Anything you say is eminently safe with him."

Manton nodded to me and gave his attention again to Pons. "The matter about which I have come to consult you is one of disturbing mystery. I don't know that anything criminal is at its root, and I cannot afford to have any word of it leak out."

"You have our confidence," Pons assured him.

Manton nodded abstractedly, and for a few moments he was silent, as if trying to decide where to begin. Finally, however, he looked up frankly, and began to speak. "The matter concerns my country estate, Norcross Towers, which fell into my hands a little over six months ago. I might say that it was purchased to please my wife, who had lived there before I married her, and is again mistress of her old home. I have been very fortunate in business, and I am able to keep both town and country houses; but since I am usually kept in the city, I don't often have time to join my wife at Norcross

Towers.

"However, a month ago I drove to the Towers for a short vacation. Though the estate had been in my possession for some months, I had not yet had time to go over it thoroughly, and this I now set about to do. One of the first places to attract my attenion was the fens, which had claimed the life of my wife's first husband."

Pons, who had been sitting with closed eyes, looked suddenly at our visitor. "Are the fens on your estate called 'Mac's Fens'?"

Manton nodded. "They were named after my wife's first husband — by the natives in that country."

"Then your wife was Lady McFallon."

"I married her six months after her husband's tragic death." "Scott McFallon was the man who with one servant and his hounds set off across the fens near his home and sank in a bog. His servant, I understand, pointed out the exact spot where he went down." Manton nodded again. "Yes, that is quite right." "Go on with your story, Mr. Manton."

"The fens," Manton resumed, "are quite large and, in common with most fens, almost entirely marshland, with a few scattered patches of firm ground. On this considerable tract of land stand the ruins of a very old building at one time used as an abbey. It is of stone, and one wing of the place has a kind of intactness. I had taken it into my head to examine this ruin, and I started out alone for it one afternoon in my car; I had had a road built to wind through the fens to the village of Acton, to reach which previously it had always been necessary to make a wide detour. The new road was open to the public, of course.

"As I drove toward the ruin, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to instruct my secretary about a business matter of some importance; so I decided to drive straight on to Acton and wire him, examining the ruin on my return. But dusk had already fallen when I returned, and I had no intention of prowling about the building with a flashlight. Just as I was approaching my home, a car came speeding past me, going in the direction of Acton. I thought nothing of it then, for' it was possible that someone was taking this convenient short cut to the village, though it is not often used." "You made a note of the car?"

"Not definitely. It was a large touring car — a Daimler, I thought; but I could not be sure. However, I did see three people in the car, for I noticed this especially because one of them seemed to be ill." "What gave you that impression?"

"He was sitting in the rear seat with a companion, and was almost completely covered with rugs and coats. As I flashed by, it seemed to me that his companion was trying to soothe him." Pons nodded, and indicated that Manton was to continue. "I speedily forgot this incident, and went into the house for dinner.

Throughout the meal, I observed that my wife ate very little, and I became alarmed at the thought that something troubled her. I had noticed something like this before — a certain uneasiness and nervousness — but had put it down to some passing physical disorder. I could now see, however, that she was deliberately trying to appear normal, and eat dinner as if she were perfectly herself. This is unusual for my wife; she is a remarkably straightforward woman, and illness in the past has always caused her to refrain from taking heavy meals. I asked her whether she felt ill, and whether I could do anything, but she denied that she was ill, and only redoubled her efforts to appear at her ease.