The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (85 page)

(Writing as A. Bonan Oil)

GEORGE ANTHONY ARMSTRONG WILLIS
(1897–1976) was a prolific Canadian-born British author of historical and crime novels, humorous short stories and plays, and radio and film scripts in several literary genres. In 1924, he began to write humorous pieces for
Punch
and started to use the pseudonym Anthony Armstrong. He wrote crime novels and humorous works and plays, some of which were adapted for radio from the 1930s through the 1960s. His published articles and short stories appeared in
The New Yorker, County Fair, The Strand Magazine, Gaiety
, the
Daily Mail
, and
The Evening News
.

Among his dozen mystery novels are
The Strange Case of Mr. Pelham
(1957), which served as the basis for the 1970 film
The Man Who Haunted Himself
, starring Roger Moore, and five novels about Jimmie Rezaire, a tough London thug who becomes a private eye with a somewhat underdeveloped sense of ethics.

Armstrong is perhaps best known for
Ten-Minute Alibi
, the hugely successful mystery play about a seemingly perfect murder, which he coauthored with Herbert Shaw; it made its debut on Broadway on October 17, 1933. Armstrong wrote a novelization that was published the following year, and an unloved low-budget film was released in 1935.

“The Reigate Road Murder” was first published in London in the December 1926 issue of
Gaiety
; its first book appearance was in
How to Do It
by Anthony Armstrong (London, Methuen, 1928).

I MAKE NO
excuse for putting the following before the public, for the simple reason that the incidents narrated form the only occasion when my famous friend, Holmlock Shears, ever found himself at fault over a case.

I remember we were sitting in our room in Baker Street, one wet afternoon, occupied in our usual fashion—I with a pencil trying to write some further memoirs, and Shears playing the violin behind an impenetrable cloud of blue smoke—when a lady was shown into the room.

She was tall and of medium height, with dark light hair, a mouth and two eyes. She wore a macintosh, face-powder, and a worried look, and advanced upon me from the doorway.

I dodged—not without difficulty, owing to my wound received at the battle of Maiwand—and speaking from cover, asked her what she wanted.

“Murder has been done,” she gasped. “Where is Mr. Holmlock Shears? I do not see him.”

I pointed silently to the smoke cloud from which issued the strains of Mendelssohn's
Lieder
. Each strain was, of course, disguised so as to prevent Mendelssohn recognising his own property.

“He is inside there,” I said proudly.

“Will he speak to me?”

I walked across and knocked on the edge of the smoke cloud.

“Lady to see you, Shears.”

Mendelssohn's
Lieder
—what was left of it—changed abruptly to
I Don't Love Nobody
, played with the back of the bow and one cuff-link; three strings snapped; the smoke barrage drifted away; and Holmlock Shears was revealed to our sight.

It is totally unnecessary for me to describe in any way my well-known friend; his tallness, his leanness, his long fingeredness, and his pointed eyes. I need not weary the reader by mentioning his hawk-like nose which gave him such an air of alertness, and will pass over any reference to his chin, and to his hands, mottled with chemicals, spattled with nicotine, and measled with pricks from his hypodermic syringe. There is no need for me to describe—but by this time I have done it.

“You are married,” suddenly flashed my companion, glancing at her left hand. “This afternoon you used face-powder.”

“However did you know?” gasped the woman, recoiling in amazement at this sudden remark, and though I had had ample previous proof of Shears's superhuman powers of observation and deduction, even I was overcome with wonder.

“Now what is it you want with me?” he went on. “You'll have to be quick, because I'm only allowed two pages.”

“There has been a murder at my house in South London. It's nothing serious—only my husband; but I should like, just as a matter of interest, you understand…”

“One minute. I suppose Scotland Yard are there and have no clue and are completely baffled?”

“Oh, yes, we got all the usual procedure over at the beginning and now they've gone away. But it is all most puzzling, for not only can we not
find the murderer, but we can't even find the corpse. I am sorry to trouble you about such a little thing.”

“To a great mind nothing is little. I will come at once.” His eyes flashed swiftly over her. “It is raining,” he said quietly, just as if it were the most commonplace remark in the world.

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated, while our visitor stood staring at him in amazement, which small incident I have only included to show the abnormal analytical power possessed by the great detective. In a flash he had deduced the above from her streaming macintosh and wet umbrella, whereas ordinary people would have looked out of the window.

Half an hour later we were in the very house where the dastardly crime had been committed. Shears was faced with the stupendous task of not only discovering the murderer, but also of discovering the corpse. But he was at once busy. He examined with a pocket lens the road outside, the path inside, the aspidistra in the front parlour, and everyone who happened to pass him—myself twice included—talking the whole time about Cremona fiddles and uttering little cries of self-encouragement.

Springing upon a small pile of grey dust in the hall, he scrutinised it closely.

“There are one hundred and fourteen different kinds of cigar and cigarette ash, my dear Watnot,” he began. “I have written a monograph on the subject. This ash is the ash of a Trichinopoly cigar…No, I'm hanged,” he broke off suddenly, “it isn't after all. I don't know what it is. Why can't they always smoke Trichinopoly cigars?” he went on petulantly. “They have always done so far, and between you and me it is the only one I really know.”

But despite this serious setback, such was his amazing cleverness that within ten minutes he had formulated his theory about the murder. Summoning our hostess to the parlour, he began, “This is a very simple crime. The murder was committed by three men; one with a squint to the right, one with a squint to the left, and one without a squint at all. One of the three was smoking a Trichin—no, was just smoking—and had a short while before purchased something for one shilling and elevenpence three farthings. They rode cycles and carried the corpse away in the direction of Reigate.”

“By heavens, Shears, this is wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“Not at all, my dear Watnot; very elementary. Pass the hypodermic syringe.”

“But you amaze me. What…”

“An intrinsically simple case of plain deduction with one or two instructive points. I reasoned thus. Our hostess here tells us that there has been a murder. Therefore a murder has been committed. There is no body. Therefore it has been taken away. So far, so good. But by whom, and how? By the murderers, who were three in number, and carried the corpse away on their bicycles; for there are three bicycle tracks on the Reigate road outside, and, moreover,” he emphasises his words with his forefinger, “moreover, all exactly parallel, such as could only have been made by men carrying a rigid body laid across the handle-bars between them. I have already sent off my band of ragged urchins from Baker Street to follow up the tracks and tell the men they are wanted on the telephone. That little subterfuge will fetch them back, so that in half an hour we may expect to have them under lock and key.”

“Marvellous!” I murmured feebly. “But the squint…”

“Elementary, Watnot, elementary. The two men on the outside carrying a body between them must each have had a squint inwards in order to be able to do it. Or if they hadn't they will have by now. As regards the article purchased for one and elevenpence three farthings, that follows simply on the finding of the cigar ash. That cigar the man was smoking could only have been given him instead of the farthing change…”

He broke off suddenly as a voice was heard outside, and our hostess rushed to the door.

Shears sprang to his feet.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Thank Heaven, the mystery is solved!” cried the lady triumphantly. “It is my husband alive and well. He was not murdered after all. He has just returned from a ride on his tricycle!”

Shears lit his pipe in baffled anger and disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke, drawing the violin, his last bow, and the hypodermic syringe after him.

WILLIAM B. KAHN
appears to have made only a single contribution to the literature of Sherlock Holmes. It was published in 1905 in
The Smart Set Magazine
, a literary journal founded in 1900 and edited during its most successful years by H. L. Mencken and George Jean Nathan, who commissioned work by many of the best young writers of the time, including F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dashiell Hammett, Dorothy Parker, and James Joyce.

Parody was not unwelcome in its pages, and as the Sherlock Holmes character and stories were at the peak of their popularity, they were an obvious subject. Since this story was the first and only parody produced by Kahn, it should come as no surprise that its full published title was “More Adventures of Oilock Combs: The Succored Beauty,” and that the parody is one of the first to recognize how many Holmes stories involved marital problems.

Nothing could be learned about the author, though there was a William Bonn Kahn (1882–1971) who wrote
The Avoidance of War, a Suggestion Offered by William B. Kahn, Written for the Society for Peace
in 1914. The possibility exists that it is the same person, though it seems unlikely that this would be of interest to anyone.

“The Succored Beauty” was first published in the October 1905 issue of
The Smart Set Magazine
; it was published separately in a chapbook limited to 222 copies titled
An Adventure of Oilock Combs
(San Francisco, Beaune Press, 1964).

ONE NIGHT, AS I
was returning from a case of acute indigestion—it was immediately after my divorce and I was obliged to return to the practice of my profession in order to support myself—it chanced that my way homeward lay through Fakir Street. As I reached the house where Combs and I had spent so many hours together, where I had composed so many of his adventures, an irresistible longing seized me to go once more upstairs and grasp my friend by the hand, for, if the truth must be told, Combs and I had had a tiff. I really did not like the way in which he had procured evidence for my wife when she sought the separation, and I took the liberty of telling Combs so, but he had said to me: “My dear fellow, it is my business, is it not?” and though I knew he was not acting properly I was forced to be placated. However, the incident left a little breach between us which I determined on this night to bridge.

As I entered the room I saw Combs nervously drinking a glass of soda water. Since I succeeded in breaking him of the morphine habit he had been slyly looking about for some other stimulant and at last he had found it. I sighed to see him thus employed.

“Good evening, Combs,” said I, extending my hand.

“Hello, Spotson,” cried he, ignoring my proffered digits. “You are well, I see. It is really too bad, though, that you have no servant again. You seem to have quite some trouble with your help.” And he chuckled as he sipped the soda water.

Familiar as I was with my friend's powers, this extraordinary exhibition of them really startled me.

“Why, Oilock,” said I, calling him in my excitement, by his praenomen, “how did you know it?”

“Perfectly obvious, Spotson, perfectly obvious. Merely observation,” answered Combs as he took out his harmonica and began to play a tune thereon.

“But how?” persisted I.

“Well, if you really wish to know,” he replied as he ceased playing, “I suppose I will be obliged to tell you. I see you have a small piece of court-plaster upon the index finger of your left hand. Naturally, a cut. But the plaster is so small that the cut must be very minute. ‘What could have done it?' I ask myself. The obvious response is a tack, a pin, or a needle. On a chance I eliminate the tack proposition. I take another chance and eliminate the pin. Therefore, it must have been the needle. ‘Why a needle?' query I of myself. And glancing at your coat I see the answer. There you have five buttons, four of which are hanging on rather loosely while the fifth is tightly sewn to the cloth. It had recently been sewn. The connection is now clear. You punctured your finger with the needle while sewing on the button. But,” he continued musingly and speaking, it seemed, more to himself than to me, “I never heard of the man who would sew unless he was compelled to. Spotson always keeps a servant; why did she not sew the button on for him? The reply is childishly easy: his servant left him.”

I followed his explanation with rapt attention. My friend's powers were, I was happy to see, as they were when I lived with him.

“Wonderful, Combs, wonderful,” I cried.

“Merely observation,” he replied. “Some day I think that I shall write a monograph on the subject of buttons. It is a very interesting subject and the book ought to sell well. But, hello, what is this?”

The sound of a cab halting before the door caused Combs's remark. Even as he spoke there was a pull at the bell, then the sound of hasty footsteps on the stairs. A sharp knock sounded upon the door. Combs dropped into his armchair, stuck out his legs in his familiar way and then said: “Come in.”

The door opened and there entered, in great perturbation, a young lady, twenty-three years of age, having on a blue tailor-made suit, patent-leather shoes and a hat with a black pompon ornamenting it. She wore some other things, but these were all that I noticed. Not so Combs. I could see by the penetrating glance he threw at her that her secret was already known to that astute mind.

“Thank heaven,” she cried, turning to me, “that I have found you in!”

“Are you ill, madam?” I began; but suddenly realizing that I was not in my office but in Combs's consultation-room, I drew myself up stiffly and said: “That is Mr. Combs.”

The young lady turned to him. Then, lifting her handkerchief to her beautiful eyes she burst into tears as she said: “Help me, help me, Mr. Combs.”

The great man did not reply. An answer to such a remark he would have regarded as too trivial. The lady took down her handkerchief and, after glancing dubiously at me, said to Mr. Combs, “Can I see you privately?”

Once, and once only did I ever before or, indeed, since, see such a look of rage on Combs's face. That was when Professor O'Flaherty and he had that altercation in Switzerland. (See “Memoirs of Oilock Combs.” Arper & Co. $1.50.)

“Madam,” said he in frigid tones, “whatever you desire to say to me you may say before Dr. Spotson. How under the sun, woman,” he cried, losing control of himself for a moment, “would the public know of my adventures if he were not here to write them?”

I threw Combs a grateful look while he reached for the soda water. The visitor was momentarily crushed. At last, however, she recovered her equanimity.

“Well, then,” she said, “I will tell you my story.”

“Pray, begin,” said Combs rather testily.

“My name is Ysabelle, Duchess of Swabia,” the visitor commenced.

“One moment, please,” interrupted Combs. “Spotson, kindly look up that name in my index.”

I took down the book referred to, in which Combs had made thousands of notes of people and events of interest, and found between “Yponomeutidae” and “yttrium” the following item, which I read aloud:

“Ysabelle, Duchess of Swabia; Countess of Steinheimbach; Countess of Riesendorf, etc., etc. Born at Schloss Ochsenfuss, February 29, 1876. Her mother was the Duchess Olga, of Zwiefelfeld, and her father was Hugo, Duke of Kaffeekuchen. At three years of age she could say ‘ha, ha!' in German, French, English, Italian, and Spanish. Between the ages of five and fifteen she was instructed by Professor Grosskopf, the eminent philosopher of the University of Kleinplatz. By sixteen her wisdom teeth had all appeared. A very remarkable woman!”

As I read this last sentence, the duchess again burst into tears.

“Pray, pray, compose yourself, duchess,” said Combs, taking a pipe from the table and filling it with some tobacco which he absent-mindedly took from my coat-pocket.

The duchess succeeded in calming herself. Then, rising majestically and gazing at Combs with those wonderful eyes which had played
havoc with so many royal hearts, she said, in solemn tones:

“
I AM LOST
!”

The manner in which she made this statement as well as the declaration itself seemed to make a deep impression upon Combs. Without uttering one word he sat there for fully four minutes. The way in which he puffed nervously at the pipe showed me that he was thinking. Suddenly, with an exclamation of delight, he dashed out of the room and down the stairs, leaving the amazed duchess and myself in his apartments. But not for long. In forty-three seconds he was again in the room and, dropping into his chair thoroughly exhausted, he triumphantly cried:

“I have it!”

Never had I seen my friend wear such a look of victory. The achievement which merited such an expression upon his countenance must have been remarkable. By and by he recovered from his fatigue. Then he spoke.

“Madam,” he said, “I have the answer.”

The duchess sobbed in ecstasy.

Combs continued:

“The moment that you said you were lost,” he began, “an idea came to me. You must have noticed, Spotson, how preoccupied I seemed before. Well, that is the sign of an idea coming to me. Before it had time to vanish I dashed down the steps, into the vestibule, looked at the number of this house and jotted it down. Madam,” he cried, drawing out a book and looking at one of the pages, “madam, you are saved! You are no longer lost! This is No. 62 Fakir Street. You are found!”

During this entire recital the duchess had not said a word. When Combs had finished she stood for a moment as if she did not understand and then, realizing the fact that she was rescued, she wept once more.

“My savior,” she cried as she prepared to leave the room, “how can I ever thank you?” And she pressed into Combs's outstretched hand a large gold-mesh, diamond-studded purse.

The door closed, the carriage rolled away and the Duchess of Swabia was gone.

“Spotson,” said Combs to me, “don't forget to write this one down. It has a duchess in it and will sell well to cooks and chambermaids. By the way, I wonder what she gave me.”

He opened the purse and there, neatly folded, lay two hundred pounds in bills.

“Bah!” cried Combs contemptuously. “How ungrateful these royal personages always are.”