The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (4 page)

(1887); THE SIGN OF [THE] FOUR (1890); THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (1892); MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (1894); THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES (1902); THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (1905); THE VALLEY OF FEAR (1915); HIS LAST BOW (1917); THE CASE-BOOK OF SHERLOCK

HOLMES (1927). Hobbies: The violin, medieval music, boxing, fencing, bee-keeping, snapshooting and criminal law. Indulgences: cocaine, morphine and shag tobacco. Residences: Montague Street, near the British Museum, London till 1881; 22iB Ba^er St., London till 1903, Sussex and,

later, Devonshire.

Prepared by KENNETH MACGOWAN

PART ONE:

BY DETECTIVE-STORY WRITERS

"Though he might be more humble, there's no

police like Holmes."

— E. W. HORNUNG

Detective: SHERLAW KOMBS Narrator: WHATSON

THE GREAT PEGRAM MYSTERY

by ROBERT BARR

Here is one of the earliest — and still, in your Editors' opinion, one of the finest — parodies of Sherlock^ Holmes. It appeared less than a year after the publication of the first Sherloc^ Holmes short story.

"The Great Pegram Mystery" has an interesting bibliographic history. It broke into print in the May 1892 issue of "The Idler Magazine" (London and New Yorf(), edited — do you remember? — by Jerome K. Jerome and Robert Barr. Originally it was called "Detective Stories Gone Wrong: The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs," and was signed by the pen-name of Lu\e Sharp. Two years later, under its present title, it appeared in Robert Barr's boot^ of short stories, THE FACE AND THE MASK (London, Hutchinson, 189^; New Yor^, Stores, 7895) — and thus the true authorship was acknowledged.

Mr. Barr's parody reveals a shrewd grasp of the character of Sherloc/^ Holmes and an equally penetrating comprehension of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's style. You will recognize the inexorable sequence of idiosyncrasies and events — the violin, the contempt for Scotland Yard, the anticipated visitor, the extraordinary deductions, and the minute examination of the scene of the crime by magnifying glass. Alas! only the solution fails to follow the time-honored pattern!

It is especially fitting that Mr. Barr's burlesque be the chronological leader in our Pageant of Parodies. For Mr. Barr made his indelible mar\ in serious detective fiction too. His historically important booJ^, THE TRIUMPHS OF EUGENE VALMONT (London, Hurst & Blac\ett, 7906; New YorJ^, Appleton, 1906), gave us "The Absent-Minded Coterie" one of the truly great classics among detective short stories.

THE GREAT PEGRAM MYSTERY

I

_ DROPPED in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogizing the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.

He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness.

"I have come," I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind, "to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery."

"I haven't heard of it," he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some subjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great boon. "The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland

Yard."

"I can well believe it," said my friend, calmly. "Perpetual motion, or squaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is

Gregory."

This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. was no professional jealousy in him, such as characterizes so many

other men.

He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated arm-chair, placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his

head.

"Tell me about it," he said simply.

"Old Barrie Kipson," I began, "was a stock-broker in the City. He lived in Pegram, and it was his custom to — "

"CoME IN!" shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.

"Excuse me," said my friend, laughing, "my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about diis crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line."

"Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude," I said, rising.

"Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming."

I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.

"I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite die mirror, I can see die reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across die street. I recognized my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows diat he will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always — Come in!"

There was a rap at the door diis time.

A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.

"I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective," said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.

"This is Mr. Kombs," I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.

"Allow me to introduce myself," continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.

"There is no need. You are a journalist," said Kombs.

"Ah," said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, "you know me, then."

"Never saw or heard of you in my life before."

"Then how in the world —

"Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article condemning the book of a friend. He will feel bad

about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him."

"The devil!" cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.

"Yes," drawled Kombs, "it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what would you, as we say in France."

When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together somewhat. "Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen?"

"I rarely talk about these things," said Kombs with great composure. "But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal. This smeared class embraces two subclasses, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work, The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special Edition, which will not be on the street? for half an hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in hi; own paper not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the artick you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author oi the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing al books not written by some member of its own staff. That the authoi is a friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example oi ordinary observation."

"Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are."

A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe or the sideboard and drew his self-cocking. six-shooter.

"Do you mean to insult me, sir?"

"I do not — I — I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotlanc Yard to-morrow — I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir."

"Then heaven help you," cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.

I sprang between them.

"Don't shoot!" I cried. "You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!"

"Perhaps you are right," remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy —

"You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilber Scribbings?"

The journalist started.

"How do you know my name?" he gasped.

Kombs waved his hand impatiently.

"Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name."

I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.

"You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery —"

"Tush," cried the detective; "do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever was a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegram affair?"

"The Pegram — ah — case has baffled everyone. The Evening Blade wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission?"

"Possibly. Tell me about the case."

"I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew something like ^300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head,

and his money was gone, pointing plainly to murder and robbery."

"And where is the mystery, might I ask?"

"There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21 st are accounted for. Third, how could the murderer have escaped ? Fourth, the passengers in two compartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired."

"Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 2ist did not stop between London and Brewster?"

"Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just outside of Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was reported clear, and it went on again. This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram."

Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently.

"I presume you wish the solution in time for to-morrow's paper?"

"Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well."

"My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can make it convenient to call here to-morrow at 8 A.M. I will give you the full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking up much time over so simple an affair as the Pegram case. Good afternoon, sir."

Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left in a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand.

Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion, so I said nothing.

Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. "I do not wish to seem to be rushing things at all, Whatson, but I am going out to-night on the Scotch Express. Would you care to accompany me?"

"Bless me!" I cried, glancing at the clock. "You haven't time, it is after five now."

"Ample time, Whatson — ample," he murmured, without changing his position. "I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and dressing-gown for boots and coat, three seconds for hat, twenty-five seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a hansom, and then seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. I shall be glad of your company."