The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (31 page)

please.'

" 'But —' he began.

" 'We won't have any butting, your Grace,' said I. Til give you the watch, and you needn't mind the £200; and you must give me the tiara, or I'll accompany you forthwith to the police, and have a search made of your hat. It won't pay you to defy me. Give it up.'

"He gave up the hat at once, and, as I suspected, there lay the tiara, snugly stowed away behind the head-band.

" 'You are a great fellow,' said I, as I held the tiara up to the light and watched with pleasure the flashing brilliance of its gems.

" 'I beg you'll not expose me,' he moaned. 'I was driven to it by

necessity.'

" 'Not I,' I replied. 'As long as you play fair it will be all right. I'm not going to keep this thing. I'm not married, and so have no use for such a trifle; but what I do intend is simply to wait until your wife retains me to find it, and then I'll find it and get the reward. If you keep perfectly still, I'll have it found in such a fashion that you'll never be suspected. If, on the other hand, you say a word about tonight's events, I'll hand you over to the police.' " 'Humph!' he said. 'You couldn't prove a case against me.' " 'I can prove any case against anybody,' I retorted. 'If you don't believe it, read my book,' I added, and I handed him a copy of my

memoirs.

" Tve read it,' he answered, 'and I ought to have known better than to come here. I thought you were only a literary success.' And with a deep-drawn sigh he took the watch and went out. Ten days later I was retained by the Duchess, and after a pretended search of ten days more I found the tiara, restored it to the noble lady, and received the £5000 reward. The Duke kept perfectly quiet about our little encounter, and afterwards we became stanch friends; for he was a good fellow, and was driven to his desperate deed only by the demands

THE STRANGER UNRAVELS A MYSTERY

2O7

of his creditors, and the following Christmas he sent me the watch I had given him, with the best wishes of the season.

"So, you see, gentlemen, in a moment, by quick wit and a mental concentration of no mean order, combined with strict observance of the pettiest details, I ferreted out what bade fair to become a great diamond mystery."

"Hear! Hear!" cried Raleigh, growing tumultuous with enthusiasm.

"Your name? Your name?" came from all parts of the wharf.

The stranger, putting his hand into the folds of his coat, drew forth a bundle of business cards, which he tossed, as the prestidigitator tosses playing cards, out among the audience, and on each of them was found printed the words:

SHERLOCK HOLMES DETECTIVE

FERRETING DONE HERE

Plots for Sale

Detective: SHYLOCK HOMES

SHYLOCK HOMES: HIS POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS

Mr. Homes Solves a Question of Authorship by JOHN KENDR1CK BANGS

John Kendric\ Bangs wrote a series of parodies which were syndicated in American newspapers in 1903 under the title "Shyloc^ Homes: His Posthumous Memoirs" Your Editors have tracked down eight of this series — but certain curious evidence exists indicating there may have been more. At the time of this writing, however, all efforts to smof^e out the "missing memoirs" have jailed.

For some unknown reason this series was never published in boo\ form. As a result Shyloc{ Homes is "lost" today — almost completely forgotten except by a handful of oldtimers with long white memories. It is a special privilege, therefore, to memorialize one of Shyloc^ Homes's cases between covers for the first time.

In this adventure Homes acts in behalf of three famous and/or infamous ladies — Lucretia Borgia, Mme. du Barry, and Portia. He reveals to them his great powers as a cipher-ologist, and in solving one of the most baffling mysteries of all time, Homes proves himself not only a detective but a literary detective to boot!

T

J-H

. HERE had been some acrimonious discussion at the last session of the Cimmerian Branch of Sorosis over the authorship of the works of William Shakespeare. Cleopatra had read a paper of some cleverness which proved to its fair author, at least, that the plays that have come down to us from the Golden Age of Letters were from the pen

of a syndicate, of which Shakespeare was the managing director. Xanthippe, in a satirical philippic, demonstrated beyond peradventure that they were written by Guy Fawkes; Queen Elizabeth was strong in the debate in the affirmation of Bacon's responsibility for the works; Mrs. Noah proved an alibi for her husband, and Anne Hathaway, when called upon to speak, observed that she had never heard of them at all. The discussion waxed so fast and furious that in order to prevent the disruption of the society a committee of three, consisting of Lucretia Borgia, Mme. du Barry and Portia, was appointed to wait upon myself with the request that I solve the mystery on behalf of the club, promising to abide by whatever decision I might render in the matter. The ladies mentioned did me the honor to call at my office, where they laid the whole question before me.

"We shall be glad to lay before you any evidence at our disposal," said Portia. "I for one have worked out a cipher which seems to me conclusively to prove Bacon's authorship, but, of course, you can take it or reject it, just as you please."

Thereupon she handed me a slip of paper, upon which the following was written:

Two Gentlemen o

Hen

Merch

Much Ado About Ri K A

M

4 6

'3

3

2

I glanced the acrostic over with interest, and then I asked: "But what does this prove?"

"Bacon was born in '61," replied Portia, "which number is the sum total of the letters that spell out his name in the plays I have put

210 SHYLOCK HOMES I HIS POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS

down there. Certainly such a coincidence, Mr. Homes, is not without significance."

Lucretia Borgia sneered.

Foreseeing a quarrel of stupendous proportions, I quickly intervened. "Now," I said, "I'm something of % cipherologist myself, and I should like to see what I could prove to you in the same line. Suppose we try this arrangement," and I wrote out the following:

Ti

Me

Much A

KingJ

C

Ju

Rom Henr

"Well," sneered Portia, in that freezing tone of hers, "what of it?"

"Only that the numbered letters of the cipher foot up to thirty-two, which is Mr. Dooley's age, his books are all 32mos and for two years he has been getting thirty-two cents a word for all he writes," I explained. "My dear ladies," I added, rising, "these things are interesting, but they prove nothing. By them you can prove that almost anybody, except Sienkiewicz, wrote Shakespeare's plays — aye, even Hall Caine and Marie Corelli."

"Why not Sienkiewicz?" asked Portia, icily.

"Because, as you will observe from a glance at the backs of the immortal bard's works, there is no 'z' in any of Shakespeare's titles, madam," I replied.

"How about 'Julius Caesar'?" she demanded, hastily.

"A good play, madam," I replied promptly, "but spelled with

an V "

And then I entered upon the enterprise, which, I must confess, startled even myself in the manner of its ending. The first thing I did was to call upon Sir Francis Bacon. He received me in the library of his villa at Noxmere, and I found him a most interesting personage.

"What can I do for Mr. Shylock Homes?" he asked, after we had exchanged the civilities of the moment.

"Well, Sir Francis," I replied, "I have a somewhat delicate mission. I would like to make use of your keenly critical mind to solve a disputed authorship."

"Aha!" he cried, betraying no little nervousness. "You are not taking up literary detection, I hope?"

"Yes, I am, Sir Francis," I answered, "and my reputation is at stake. I wish to save it — "

"And cause me to lose mine by so doing!" he cried, impetuously, rising and pacing the room like a caged tiger.

"I don't understand you, Sir Francis," I said. "I certainly would not have you lose your reputation to save my own. Are you under suspicion in any literary controversy?" I added, innocently.

Bacon eyed me narrowly, and then sat down.

"Not that I am aware of," he said, with a sigh of relief, "although — well, never mind. What is the mystery you wish to solve?"

The action had begun sooner than I had expected. It was clear that His Lordship was much perturbed at the intrusion of myself into his affairs, and so, to throw him off the scent, instead of asking him frankly the question, "Did you or did you not write Shakespeare's plays?" as I had come to do, I answered, choosing my words by the merest chance, "That of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

If I had thrown a bomb into the middle of the library the effect could not have been more dramatic. Bacon jumped up as if he had been shot, but I paid no attention, going on with my question calmly.

"Was that story romance or realism?"

"You have the subtlety of the serpent, Mr. Shylock Homes," he answered, with difficulty regaining his composure. "Why do you ask me, of all men, that question?"

"Because," said I, a great light dawning upon my mind, "I thought you, of all men, could tell me."

"But why? Why? Why? Why?" he cried, the reiterated "whys" rising in inflection until they ended in a shriek.

Unconsciously I had struck a vein of rich ore, and my future course revealed itself to me on the instant.

"Because," I said, "because you, of all men, should know — having tried the same scheme yourself." The pallor that spread over his countenance was deadly, and he

212 SHYLOCK HOMES I HIS POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS

sank back limp in his chair, but, as with a sudden resolve, he straightened up again and became strong.

"Great heavens, Homes, where have you heard this?" he implored.

"Oh, just a little coterie to which I belonged in London used to take that theory," I lied, "and it found so general an acceptance among us and our friends and our friends' friends that I had supposed that by this time it was all over."

"You are retained by?" he queried.

"Sorosis," said I.

"And your fee — I will double it, Mr. Shylock Homes, if you will call off."

"I am incorruptible, Sir Francis," said I, rising with a mock show of anger, "and I bid you good evening."

"Don't leave me in anger, Mr. Homes," he pleaded, holding out his hand. "I have long admired you and your work, and was frankly delighted when I received your card. My unfortunate suggestion as to your fee I deeply regret. I, of course, know that you could not be corrupted, but I so deprecate the prolongation of the controversy as to my connection with — er — Shakespeare's works, that I forgot myself."

"Don't mention it, Sir Francis," I replied, accepting his proffered hand. "I understand. And to show you that I have no ill feelings, I wish you would take luncheon with me next Wednesday."

He fell into the trap at once. "I shall be delighted," he said.

"And to set forever at rest this absurd theory as to you and Shakespeare being another case of Jekyll and Hyde I'll ask him, too. If you are both there you cannot, of course, be the same man, you see."

Bacon tottered and almost fell as I spoke, but he soon recovered his equilibrium.

"I — I will see that he accepts," he said, huskily.

"Thank you," said I, and took my departure.

Upon my return to my office I despatched a note to Shakespeare bidding him to the feast of Wednesday, and was somewhat taken aback, in view of my theory, to receive an immediate acceptance. When I left Lord Bacon I was morally convinced that I had fallen upon the right solution of the mystery, but if this were so how could both Shakespeare and Bacon be present at my luncheon simultaneously ?

It perplexed me much, and, seeing no way out of the mystery, I dismissed the whole matter from my mind, and sat down to await developments. Wednesday came, and, at the appointed hour, both guests arrived, walking in arm in arm, and chatting away as amiably as if there had never been a fierce battle raging between their followers for the greatest literary honors the world has to bestow. I was more than ever puzzled, when I shook them by the hand and made diem welcome at my table, but it was none the less clear that there was some mystery to which they were both a party, for Bacon was excessively nervous all through the luncheon, and Shakespeare perspired as freely as though he were Damocles sitting beneath a suspended sword. Moreover, Bacon was loath to let Shakespeare open his mouth, save to take in food and drink. He talked incessantly, and, at times, so vagariously that I wondered if he were in his right mind. Nor was there about Shakespeare any of the bonhomie that I had heard was so characteristic of the man, and, when the luncheon was over, instead of feeling that I had known him all my life, I really felt as if 1 him less well than when we had first sat down at table. Still, there they were, both of them, and my theory must fall in the face of the fact, unless — Ah! That unless! It saved the day for Shylock Homes, for 'it bade me pursue the same line of inquiry even in the face of

certain defeat.

Turning the conversation upon certain political schemers and thei plans, I ventured die Shakespearean quotation:

"Excellent! I smell a device!"

Bacon was about to respond, when Shakespeare growled forth:

"You don't smell advice, do you, Mr. Homes? Your English is

so —

Bacon upset his coffee in Shakespeare's lap to divert the bard and set his tongue wagging on other lines, with which subterfuge in most readily, but it was too late. Evidently there was something wrong with this Shakespeare, who protested against his own periods and ventured the beginnings of an assault upon his own language. I did, indeed, smell a device, but for the moment pursued it no further.

"I must lull them into a sense of security," I thought, "and maybe then all will become clear."

How well I did so is evidenced by the fact that when we parted it was with the distinct promise that Shakespeare and I were to spend

214 SHYLOCK HOMES: HIS POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS