The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (71 page)

“The perfect murder, Holmes?” I asked almost innocently, only to be rewarded by what I can only describe as an old-fashioned look.

“But what about the canary?” This from
Miss Lucas. Every eye turned to where the small yellow bird sat once again on Emily Sommersby's shoulder. She seemed to find its presence curiously comforting, for she was stroking it in an abstracted manner. Her eyes looked as though she, too, might be drugged. From the time we had first met her she had said not a word.

“Ah, yes, our little feathered friend. The unwitting accomplice who let him down badly. When the police drag the lake I noticed at the bottom of the garden—as I strongly suggest they do so without delay—they will undoubtedly find, in addition to the aforementioned and unpatented pumping device, a small bird cage. On the base, unless I am very much mistaken you will undoubtedly find the legend ‘
T. WILSON BERMONDSEY
.' ”

“Wilson the notorious canary trainer?”

“The very same, old fellow. Remind me one day to recount the full story of our earlier encounter. Yes, friend Halliford had clearly remembered the traditional coal miner's device of taking a caged canary down into the mine to ensure that the air below ground was pure enough to breathe. Why a canary rather than any other species, I have not the faintest idea but a canary it was.

“Having purchased a number of them, no doubt, from the disreputable Wilson, he adapted the practice for his own purposes. Once the fumes had been pumped out of the room, he would lower the bird in its gilded cage down the chimney, leave it there for several minutes and then retrieve it. The bird's continued good health would be an indication that the room was now clear. Unfortunately for him, on this occasion he had neglected to fasten the door of the cage securely. Seizing the opportunity, his bird literally flew the nest and there was nothing Halliford could do about it.

“Incidentally, there was one other factor he overlooked…”

“Which was…?”

“The best laid plans of mice and men should not include the canary. Anyone who has ever owned one will tell you that they insist on spilling their food with unconfined abandon. In lowering the cage Halliford was actually introducing alternative evidence.”

“Ridiculous! The whole thing is ridiculous! You're making up a fairy tale!” Emily Sommersby was sitting up rigidly on the sofa, her face as white as parchment. These were the first words she had spoken. The bird fluttered around her head for a moment before settling again. It had never left her side from the moment she arrived at the scene of the crime.

“Ah, Miss Sommersby, I was wondering when we should hear from you.” Holmes's voice had a flat and final tone that struck a chill even in that sunlit room.

As all eyes turned on her, he continued. “Fairy tales are designed to have happy endings. This one, I fear, will not. It seemed to me obvious that the soi-disant Robert Halliford must have an accomplice inside Halliford House, if he was to proceed with his plan without excessive risk of detection and you, I'm afraid, were the only candidate. I believe we shall find that you knew one another in India and perhaps had—shall we say?—some sort of ‘understanding,' which was upset by your parents' death and his perpetual ‘lack of funds.'

“Then circumstances—and Sir Giles's generosity—brought you back to England and landed you on your feet, as it seemed. Sir Giles was an old man and clearly ailing. Who else was there to inherit? But then you learned of his plan to remarry and instead of feeling happy that your benefactor had found a partner to brighten his last years, you felt cheated. Then, when you heard from your former lover of his own ‘misfortune' in life, a sordid little plan began to take shape to destroy one of the people who had shown you kindness and defraud the other.”

There was a gasp from Mary Lucas, who sat there ashen-faced.

“I suspect you were the one who actually poured the powder. Dust, my dear young lady, is a powerful medium and the shoe an equally fine expression of it. There were marks in the upstairs room of a man's footprint and also those of a woman of about your height. Since Miss Lucas has already told us that she is not in the habit
of visiting the room in her professional capacity, it should prove a simple matter to make the necessary identification. Perhaps you have read my trifling monograph on
The Tracing of Footprints
—a seminal work? Ah, I see not.”

Emily Sommersby was shrinking as far back in the sofa as she could and I felt fleetingly sorry for her, until I thought of the deed in which she had conspired. Holmes clearly shared the sentiment, for his voice was calmer when he resumed.

“I prefer to think that you had qualms when the theory turned to reality but your lover was determined. He could feel that the inheritance would come to him one way or another. For with Sir Giles dead, who would spend further time and money on a legal search? He became the driving force and you, perforce, went along with it. For, after all, Master Robert had promised to marry you, had he not? It would have been a union to rival the Borgias. Who would have been next—Miss Lucas? Or would you have been content to dismiss her without benefit of reference?

“You were the one who handled the canary. When you entered the room, the bird clearly recognised you and came to you, as it was trained to do. In a very real sense, it identified the murderer. Watson, I do believe Miss Sommersby has fainted again. Would you be so kind…?”

An hour or so later we were on the train back to London. The local police had taken Emily Sommersby into custody and informed us that Robert Halliford had been apprehended as he stepped off the train at Victoria. Mary Lucas—her grief fighting with her gratitude—had thanked us with such simple dignity and grace that Holmes had exhibited signs of rare embarrassment.

“Mr. Holmes, I see now that some greater power must have intended that Sir Giles and I were not to be allowed a life together. Perhaps the differences between us were too great after all. All I know is that I am grateful for the few happy months we were given and more grateful to you than I can say for ensuring that his death will not go unavenged. He was a good man and so are you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and the world is a better place for your being in it.”

As the train sped along, though, I could not forbear to ask my friend how she would manage.

“One thing the privileged classes understand, Watson, is the obligation of privilege. Having committed himself to the lady in question and being aware of his own fragile mortality, I think we shall find that Sir Giles had already taken care to make adequate provision for her, without ever saying a word to her. No, my dear fellow, money will not be Miss Lucas's chief concern.”

“And what will be?”

“Persuading the cat and the canary to live together in reasonable accord.”

And with that he slumped in his opposite corner of the carriage and proceeded to brood over what he considered his relative failure. I offered him a penny for his thoughts.

“About all they are worth, old fellow. I was thinking about that damned bird.”

“What about it?”

“I should have asked her for a more explicit description of its song. Had I been able to identify it sooner as a canary, the game would have been ours. Watson, remind me to prepare a small monograph on
Bird Song and Its Application to the Solving of Crime
. It might prove quite invaluable.”

Then a more pleasant thought struck him.

“We should be back in town just in time for lunch. What do you say to a decent steak at Simpson's-in-the-Strand?”

“It depends.”

“On what, pray?”

“It depends on whether the steak has
ANITNEGRA
written on it. And by the way, Holmes, you do realise, don't you, that…”

THE SUCCESSFUL CAREER
of Frederic Dorr Steele (1873–1944) as an artist and illustrator reached its apex when he was asked by
Collier's Weekly
in 1903 to illustrate a new series of Sherlock Holmes stories that were later collected as
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
(1905).

Tall, thin, and hawk-nosed, Holmes was definitively illustrated in England by the artist Sidney Paget, whose illustrations in
The Strand Magazine
from 1891 to 1927 made Holmes immediately recognizable to millions of readers of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories.

In America, however, Steele modeled his portraits of Holmes on the American stage actor William Gillette, who played Holmes in more than thirteen hundred performances from 1899 to 1932. Although it has become iconic, the calabash pipe that Gillette invented for his dramatic appearances and that was featured in so many of Steele's illustrations of the great detective was not at all canonical.

Born in Michigan, Steele moved to New York to study at the National Academy of Design and took a job with
The Illustrated American
in 1896 and 1897 before becoming a freelance illustrator for the rest of his life, providing work for the top magazines of his day, including
The Century Magazine, Scribner's Magazine, McClure's, Woman's Home Companion
, and
The American Magazine
, among many others. He illustrated books and newspapers as well. His depiction of Holmes had become so beloved that he provided further illustrations of him for various publishers throughout the rest of his life.

In addition to the present story, Steele wrote two Sherlock Holmes parody/pastiches: “The Adventure of the Missing Hatrack” in the October 15, 1926, issue of
The Players Bulletin
and “The Attempted Murder of Malcolm Duncan” in the June 1, 1932, issue of
The Players Bulletin
.

“The Adventure of the Murdered Art Editor” was first published in
Spoofs
, edited by Richard Butler Glaenzer (New York, McBride, 1933).

IT WAS ON
a dark, misting day in March 1933, that Sherlock Holmes stamped into our lodgings in Baker Street, threw off his dripping raincoat, and sank into an armchair by the fire, his head bowed forward in deepest dejection.

At length he spoke. “Of all the cases we have had to deal with, Watson, none touches us more nearly than this.” He tossed over a damp copy of the
Mail
, with an American despatch reading as follows:

New York, March 27. (AP) The partially dismembered body of Elijah J. Grootenheimer was found today in a canvas-covered box which had been left on the curb in 10th Street near the East River. The face had been horribly mutilated by beating with some blunt instrument. Identification was made by means of a letter in the pocket of the dead man's coat, addressed to him and signed
Frederic Dorr Steele
. The police decline to give out the contents of this letter, but intimate that it was threatening in tone. Steele is an artist well known for his pictures illustrating Sherlock Holmes and other mystery tales, and it is thought that brooding over these stories may have affected his mind. The motive of the crime clearly was not robbery, since $4.80 in cash and a valuable ticket for the Dutch Treat Show were found undisturbed in his pockets. Steele's last known address was a garret in East 10th Street. Search has been made for him in his usual haunts, but thus far without success.

“Ah, but this is incredible—impossible!” I exclaimed. “Poor Steele wouldn't hurt a fly.”

We sat in silence for a time, drawn together by our common anxiety. From time to time during some thirty years, beginning with “The Return of Sherlock Holmes,” this Steele had been making illustrations for my little narratives. Though an American, he seemed a decent unobjectionable fellow who did his work conscientiously, and we had grown rather fond of him. His naïve simplicity and quaint American speech amused Holmes, who relished oddities among human beings in all walks of life.

“I can't make it out,” I said. “What does it all mean?”

“It means, my dear Watson,” said Holmes briskly, dragging out his old kit bag, “that you and I must catch the
Berengaria
at Southampton tomorrow morning.”

We had fine weather as we sped westward. Holmes spent most of his waking hours pacing the deck, looking in now and again at the radio room for news—of which there was none. His nerves were as usual under iron control, but little indications of strain were plain to me who knew him so well; as for example when he abstractedly poured his glass of wine into the captain's soup plate, or when, on the boat deck, he suddenly picked up Lady Buxham's Pekinese and hurled it over the rail into the sea.

“Steady, Holmes,” I said stanchly. “You must give yourself more rest.”

“I cannot rest, Watson,” he said, “until we have probed this hideous mystery to the bottom.”

“Have you a theory?” I asked. “Surely you don't believe that that poor fellow has murdered an editor in cold blood!”

“Hot or cold, the thing is possible,” said Holmes crisply. “It is well known that editors, especially art editors, are usually scoundrels, and sometimes able scoundrels, which makes them more dangerous to society. It is conceivable that our poor artist, after a lifetime of dealing with them, may have come to the end of his patience. Even a worm—” He broke off moodily and resumed his pacing of the deck.

When we reached New York, and Holmes had suffered with ill-disguised impatience the formal civilities of the Mayor's Committee for Distinguished Guests, we established ourselves in a hotel where English travelers had told us we might be assured of finding food properly prepared. But without waiting for even a kipper and a pot of tea, Holmes disappeared, and I did not see him again for three days.

When he reappeared he looked haggard and worn. “I have seen the garret studio,” he said.

“Have you a clue to Steele's whereabouts?” I asked.

“A small one,” he returned. “In fact, just sixteen millimeters long.” He produced from his wallet a bit of cinema film. “I found it on the floor, Watson. What do you make of it?”

I held it to the light. “Well, I see a picture of a little girl and some queer-looking structures like giant mouse-traps behind her.”

“Those mouse-traps, Watson, are lobster pots, and of a type peculiar to the coast of Maine. We are on the track of our man.”

On a foggy day in May our motor boat crunched against the barnacle-covered timbers of the wharf at a small wooded island, on which stood perhaps twoscore bare gray buildings. Holmes wasted no time. To the leather-visaged lobsterman who had caught our bow line he said, “Sir, we are in quest of a certain artist, said to reside somewhere on your most picturesque coast. Do you know of any artist on this island?”

“Well, we used to know one, but he ain't any artist any longer. He itches all the time.”

“Itches!” I said. “Perhaps, Holmes, that may be our man. He has a nervous temperament. He may have developed hives or some such ailment.”

“Splendid, Watson. Your deduction is sound, but it is based on an incorrect pronunciation.”

“But I don't see—” I began.

“You never see, my good Watson,” said Holmes with a touch of asperity.

“He lives down in that shack by the Cove,” said the lobsterman. “But if you cal'late to go down there you want to be careful. He bites.”

“Bites!” I said in amazement.

“Yeah. Sid, here, was down there yesterday, with a mess o' tinkers, and got chased out. He said he was biting. I guess he's gone kind o' nutty-like, seems though.”

“Is his name by any chance Steele?” asked Holmes.

“Seems like it was. But he calls himself Seymour Haden now.”

“Seymour Haden!” I exclaimed. “That is the name of a great etcher.”

“Precisely,” said Holmes dryly. “He used to itch too.”

Dreading a possible shock to our friend's mind, we approached him cautiously. He sat at a table in his little house, bent over a metal plate immersed in some villainous blue acid.

“Do you know us, Steele?” I asked timidly.

After a moment he turned his head toward us and we saw a wild gleam in his bloodshot eyes. His disheveled hair and beard and his grimy clothes made him uncouth, even repulsive in appearance. “I can't get up now. I'm biting a plate,” he said.

“Another mystery solved,” observed Holmes quietly.

“Don't you know us?” I repeated. “We have come all the way from London to find you.”

“Sure I know you. You probably want me to illustrate another crime. I killed a man for less than that,” said the artist vehemently.

“I daresay. I daresay,” Holmes said soothingly. “But we're not hunting crimes now. We just want to help you.”

“But you can't help me!” he shouted. “I have been a doomed man for thirty years. Ever since I began making pictures for your damned stories, those editors have called me a crime artist. No matter what else I do, they still try to feed me raw blood. But I got square with 'em. They made a criminal of me, and now, by Heaven, I've committed a perfect crime on one of them. And there are more to come, Mr. Holmes, more to come!”

After this outburst he turned his back on us again.

“Come, come,” said Holmes gently, “we mustn't get excited. Think a minute. Is that why you have come off here and left all your friends—hidden from the world?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And that is why I have had this old well cleaned out: I am going to fill it with editors' blood. It will take quite a lot of editors to fill it, but I have hopes.”

We saw that it was useless to pursue the conversation further and rose to depart.

“Well, then, go take a walk,” he said, “take the path straight over Light House Hill to White Head. After that you'd better come back here. I can give you a crust and perhaps a bit of short lobster if you're not too legally minded.”

We crossed the island to the cliffs and stood for a time looking into the blue haze. “Strange, isn't it, Watson,” Holmes reflected, “that crime and madness can lurk in so peaceful a spot….I hate to do it, but I must question him further.”

“But I say, Holmes, would it be quite sporting,” I protested, “now that we are his guests?” But Holmes was resolute.

When we returned to the little house at sunset, we found its owner composed. We talked quietly together of his life on the island, where, he said, he meant to end his days. Only one subject seemed to bring on a return of abnormality,—the subject of editors.

“There is a big cavern up the shore,” he said, “that I've got filled solid full of dynamite. There's a big boulder over it, and if an editor ever comes to this island, I'm going to pry it loose….”

“But these editors,” said Holmes gently. “Aren't they human beings?”

“Not after they become editors,” was the reply. “They are machines. Machines that buy merchandise by the yard, put it in pigeon holes, label it…”

“Look here, my dear fellow,” said Holmes, “you are happy here, aren't you? You are not bloodthirsty about other people—fishermen for example?”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, then, I think Watson and I will go back to England and leave you in peace. You will be safe here. No one need ever know.”

Two weeks later we were back in the old rooms in Baker Street. There had been no further developments in the Grootenheimer case. The police had given up the search for the missing artist, and now thought that the editor might have been killed by some Modernist or other deranged person.

But Holmes's watchful eye had caught this curious P
ERSONAL
advertisement in the
New York Times
: “W
ANTED
, an Art Editor, as companion for a summer vacation in Maine. All expenses paid. Must be full-blooded American.”

“Poor soul,” I said musingly, “no doubt his sorrows have driven him mad. But somehow I am not convinced that his crime is real. It may be entirely imaginary.”

“Quite,” said Holmes.

“No one could blame him, of course.”

“Hardly.”