The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (43 page)

Striding to the book-case he cried, "Madam, you can come out, nobody will harm you!"

I think we were all prepared for some apparition of horror; it was with a feeling of stupefaction that we witnessed the emerging from the concealed room the shelf had so cunningly masked of a charming Indian lady!

"As simple a case as I have yet been concerned with," remarked Sherlock Holmes as we reclined in our rooms in Baker Street. "Let me reconstruct it for you. Here we have two brothers; one has travelled much in the East. He learns of his father's death and of the terms of his will — as nice an incentive to crime as was ever framed by lawyers! The snake put me on the trail; those diamond markings are peculiar to certain tracts of Ceylon; this reptile is not indigenous to our isles. This brother returns, then, and tries by every means to rid himself of his rival. Why? Why should he fear his brother if he himself has played the game? Is not this suggestive? It is a workable hypothesis to assume that he has contracted an alliance with a native lady. Where was she concealed? That, for me, was the root of the problem."

"But the disturbances, Holmes?"

"Bunkum. Rockets, lanterns, native war-cries. The storm-centre

was within. Why did they occur at nine every night? Obviously this punctuality pointed to the fact that it was essential at a fixed hour to distract the attention of our client to the grounds. What hours are so fixed as those of meals? The brothers dine at seven. The disturbances occur at nine. When you caught me throwing a basket up at the window I was endeavouring to ascertain if it were possible for confederates to cast sustenance into the house from without. The result showed me it was not. Therefore the food was delivered from inside. Any doubts I might have had were set at rest after I had secured the native servants in the larder. The disturbances instantly ceased, which pointed to human agency. The dust on the floor of the invalid's bedroom accumulated, and enabled me to perceive with the naked eye the prints of two bare feet going in the direction of the book-case. With regard to the nose-bleeding," he added with a smile, "I plead guilty. I was seeking the feminine touch. To do this, it was necessary to confiscate all available male handkerchiefs in the house, for I knew that you, with your lovable density, would give the game away by offering me your own. The handkerchief lent me by our 'one-legged' friend put the finishing touch. It was heavy with hibiscus perfume —very popular among the ladies of Colombo. These trifles — these trefles I might call them, should not be overlooked. "And now let us turn our attention to the affair of the missing

Booth Tarkington proofs."

Detective: SHERLOCK HOLMES

Narrator: WATSON

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MURDERED ART EDITOR

by FREDERIC DORR STEELE

Frederic Dorr Steele is the most distinguished American illustrator of Sherlock^ Holmes. On second thought, we can safely cross out the word "American." Worshipers at the shrine of Sherloc\ will always owe a huge vote of thanks to that inspired art director of "Collier's" who first commissioned Frederic Dorr Steele to draw those splendid magazine illustrations.

If there is one fly in the inkpot, if there is one smudge on the brush, it is the profound regret that Mr. Steele has illustrated only jo of the 60 Sherloc\ Holmes stories in print. We fervently hope that when the newly discovered short story, "The Man Who Was Wanted" is finally released for publication it will be the "hand of Steele" that depicts the great manhunter.

Shortly before THE MISADVENTURES went to press, your Editors purchased an original drawing of Sherloc\ Holmes from Mr. Steele. The illustration is one almost unknown even to the inner circle: a large blue-white-and-blact^ drawing of Holmes and Watson examining the dead body of Selden under the "cold, clear moon" of the Devonshire moor. This superb piece of worl^ was done in /pjp for Twentieth Century Fox, to ad-

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MURDERED ART EDITOR 307

vertise the motion-picture version of THE HOUND OF THE BASKER-VILLES, starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.

When the drawing arrived, your Editors dranJ^ it in. Then we noticed a queer thing about it: the deer stalker ed head of Sherloc^ was drawn on an irregular piece of board pasted into the larger board. Scenting a mystery ("The Adventure of the Second Head"), we as\ed Mr. Steele if he remembered any tidbit of history connected with that paste-in.

"No" he said, "nothing at all interesting"

"You simply didn't like the first head you drew" we said, "•and replaced it with a second one before sending the drawing to Twentieth Century Fox?"

"Oh, no" Mr. Steele replied. "I drew that new head only a wee\ ago — just before sending it to you."

It too{ a few moments for Mr. Steele's soft-spoken and almost casual reply to sin\ in. Then we grasped the full implications. Long after the drawing had been finished, years after it had served its commercial purpose, four years in fact after it had been bought and paid for by Twentieth Century Fox, Mr. Steele was still wording on it, still improving it — and for no other reason than the sheer love of his subject! And Mr. Steele thought there was nothing interesting about that!

Can you conceive of a more revealing anecdote about Mr. Steele? Do you realize now the enormous and enduring affection Mr. Steele must have for that extraordinary figment of the imagination \nown in every noo{ of the world as Sherloc^ Holmes?

"The Adventure of the Murdered Art Editor" appeared first in SPOOFS (New Yor\, McBride, 1933), edited by Richard Butler Glaenzer. Mr. Steele wrote two other parody-pastiches of his favorite fiction hero:

"The Adventure of the Missing Hatrac{" in "The Players Bulletin" issue of October 75, 7926; reprinted in THE PLAYERS' BOOK, a volume published in 1938, the $oth year of the Club.

"The Attempted Murder of Malcolm Duncan" in "The Players Bulletin" issue of June i, 1932.

308 THE ADVENTURE OF 'THE MURDERED ART EDITOR

I

T 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:

ARTIST SUSPECTED OF MURDER

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 loth 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 loth 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 naive 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?"

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"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 oft 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?"

310 THE ADVENTURE OF THE MURDERED ART EDITOR

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. W T e 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 callate 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.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MURDERED ART EDITOR 3!!

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!"