The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (46 page)

The sergeant did not, as I feared he might, question Shirley concerning the source of her information. Perhaps the magic name of Sherlock Holmes lent her a certain glamour. Instead he turned to Miss Chown.

"Come with me, please," he said, going to the door. "Since I don't suppose you care to visit the mortuary, Miss Holmes," he went on, "I suggest that you and Miss Watson wait here."

When they had gone I turned to Shirley.

"He still thinks it a case of suicide," I whispered.

"Yes," Shirley replied. "I wonder if Mr. Sefton wrote that verse in his notebook to prove to the girl that he really was a poet?"

"What do you want to know for?" I asked.

"Because," said Shirley grimly, "if he didn't, then it wasn't written by him at all! I wish I had a sample of his handwriting!" After that she remained buried in thought until Miss Chown, very much shaken, returned in the charge of the sergeant.

"It's young Sefton, all right," the latter said. "I'll send a man to look over his papers, his belongings. If the poor fellow had any relatives they should be notified at once."

Shirley gave me one of her swift, inscrutable glances.

"Joan!" she said. "Take Miss Chown out to the car. We're going to drive her home. I'd like a few words with the sergeant."

I nodded. Shirley, I knew, was up to something mysterious. It was fifteen minutes before she rejoined us and when she did there was an expression on her face that boded ill to whoever had killed young Sefton. Yet the fact that there had been a murder was still unknown; as we drove off, boys were crying late editions of the afternoon newspapers, with full details of "the horrible suicide in Canterbury Cathedral!"

Mrs. Chown, we learned on arriving at the cottage, had not been disturbed by further visitors; even the policeman the sergeant had planned to send out had not yet arrived. Shirley, to my surprise, announced that she was hungry, and accepted with what seemed to me almost indecent alacrity Mrs. Chown's invitation to supper. While it

was being prepared she went into the garden, remained there alone for half an hour, smoking endless cigarettes, apparently trying to solve some intricate problem.

But as soon as supper was over she became once more her eager, active self. Sending me out to the car, she stopped for a short talk with Miss Chown. When she rejoined me she was beaming.

"We'll give the affair a good write-up in our paper!" she called back, noisily starting the engine.

"Well, Shirley," I said, as we drove off through the darkness, "we don't seem any nearer to the murderer than we were before."

She gave me an impish grin, at that.

"You don't realize, Joan," she whispered, "just how near to the murderer we really are ... or have been." For a moment she glanced back down the shadowy street, then, to my surprise, she suddenly turned off the Dover Road and brought the car to a standstill in one of the side streets. "We're getting out here, darling," she said.

I climbed down, considerably mystified, having supposed we were on our way back to the old Falstaff Inn where we had taken rooms for the night. No thought of investigating murders had brought us to Canterbury; Shirley and I had set out from Eastmill the day before on a leisurely progress to join Mother and Dad at Folkestone for the week end.

As soon as we reached the sidewalk, Shirley started back in the general direction of the cottage, taking, however, a roundabout way which brought us, through dark lanes and byroads, to the rear of the Chowns' little garden. A thick hedge of evergreens bordered the farther edge of it; when we had noiselessly forced a way through their branches we found ourselves close behind the rose arbor, the heavy vines of which hid us completely from sight of those in the house. It was now, I knew, close to nine o'clock, and while there was no moon, the night sky was still sufficiently luminous to render objects in the garden quite plainly visible.

We crouched, hidden, behind the arbor for what seemed hours, although the ringing of church bells presently told me that it was only ten o'clock. Then Shirley, who had offered no explanations, nodded significantly in the direction of the house.

I followed her gaze. The kitchen door was being slowly pushed open. Against the light behind it I saw the slender figure of a woman

THE CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL MURDER 327

... too slender, I realized at once, to be that of Mrs. Chown. Her daughter, no doubt, coming into the garden for a breath of air.

But a breath of air proved not to be Miss Chown's purpose. As she crept into view I saw, dimly, that she held an object of some sort in her hand. Presently, bending over the new concrete step so kindly built by Mr. Sefton at the kitchen door, she began an operation of some sort upon it; I could clearly hear the clink of metal as against

stone.

"Shirley!" I whispered. "It's that girl! What does it mean?" "Be quiet!" Shirley replied, and I saw the glint of a revolver in her

hand.

I said no more, but it came to me, suddenly, that whatever the object Mr. Sefton had guarded so carefully in his knapsack, it might well have been hidden beneath this newly made concrete step . . . and Miss Chown, now that the coast was clear, was engaged in recovering it. How all this fitted into Shirley's theory of a murder in Canterbury Cathedral was a mystery to me but I knew that it would be useless to question her about it now. Nor was such questioning necessary.

As Miss Chown, manipulating what I presently made out to be a crowbar, succeeded in overturning the step, I saw a dark figure emerge from the shadows at the side of the house and leap toward her.

Instantly the girl gave a shrill and terrified cry and at the same moment Shirley rose, and revolver in hand went plunging across the garden.

At the foot of the kitchen steps a sharp struggle was going on; I heard the impact of a blow and Miss Chown's terrified cries ceased abruptly. A moment later, the figure of a man sprang toward the front of the house, tucking, as he went, a long slender object beneath his arm.

Shirley stood for an instant gazing after him. Then her hand shot up and I heard the sharp report of her pistol. Two other figures, racing through the darkness, bore down upon the fleeing man, now clutching in agony a shattered arm.

Shirley was upon him almost as soon as the two policemen . . . was picking up the slender roll he had dropped upon the grass.

"The Wellesley Van Dyck, Sergeant!" she said triumphantly, unrolling the brown-canvas cylinder. "You'll get the credit for this, at

Scotland Yard, but I think Miss Chown should have the reward! For running the risk she did in acting as decoy! That brute might have killed her ... as he did his confederate, Sefton. Or Edwards, rather. Sefton was merely an assumed name." She turned to Miss Chown, nursing a badly bruised cheek. "Thank you, my dear! I hope it doesn't hurt too much. It was the only way we could catch him red-handed!" Again she glanced at the furious prisoner, moaning dismally over his wounded arm. "I wouldn't have shot him, Sergeant," she said, "if you'd been a little quicker on the uptake!"

"We got caught in the hedge," replied the officer, flushing. "I don't see how we are going to thank you, Miss Holmes. And if you don't mind my asking how you did it . . ."

"Nothing simpler!" Shirley laughed. Like her distinguished father, she has a keen love for the dramatic. "I knew that Sefton had hidden something . . . something he'd most likely stolen. So this afternoon I glanced through the London newspapers for the past two weeks, checked up the important crimes. One of them was the theft of Lord Wellesley's Van Dyck, on the very day before this young fellow arrived in Canterbury. By two mechanics, doing plumbing repairs at his house. Having learned that this young man was a mechanic, I concluded he'd had the picture in his knapsack. And since a rolled-up canvas isn't an easy thing to hide, I could imagine no more likely place than a recess in that concrete step he so obligingly built for Mrs. Chown. This evening, while waiting for supper, I made some investigations, satisfied myself that the step was hollow . . . persuaded Miss Chown to upset it with a crowbar soon after it was dark, and disclose the hiding place. I felt sure that this man, having killed Sefton, probably for double-crossing him, would watch the house, knowing quite well the picture must be hidden somewhere about the premises. And of course, Sergeant, that was why I didn't tell you, until I came to the station with Miss Chown late this afternoon, that Sefton had been murdered . . .it was necessary that his death should be regarded publicly as a suicide, in order not to scare the murderer away. . . ."

"Amazing!" the sergeant whispered. "Even your father, Miss Holmes, couldn't have handled the thing better. . . ."

"You think not?" smiled Shirley. "You're wrong. Dad would have

known by now why this fellow in hiding went to the Cathedral at all, today. That still is a mystery to me. You figure it out, Sergeant."

The sergeant stood staring after us, scratching his head in bewilderment.

Detective: SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE CASE OF THE MISSING PATRIARCHS

by LOGAN CLENDEN1NG, M.D.

The eminent physician-author of THE HUMAN BODY gives us his version of one of the shortest and cleverest pastiches of Sher-locf^ Holmes ever conceived. "The scene is Heaven and the creative spirit behind this delicious anecdote is undeniably Jovian. The climactic deduction attributed to Sherlocf( is a priceless jewel in the diadem of Holmesian lore.

This is the first bool^-appearance of Dr. Clendening's short-short story. It was issued in 1934 as a "Sherlockjana" leaflet, privately printed by Edwin B. Hill, and limited to exactly thirty copies. (Try to find one!} Vincent Starrett, who edited the "Sherlockjana" series, and still does, appended this note to the 1934 issue:

"The editor of 'Sherloctyana 1 by no means presumes that its readers will regard this curious item as fresh or original. Indeed, he is perfectly aware of a reference in 'The Bookman' of 7902, couched in terms that would be acceptable to the taste of that time, to a story going the rounds of New Yor^: it concerned the feats of Sherlock^ Holmes in Heaven; but the modesty of the period kept the anecdote from a full elucidation. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle also referred to it, in his autobiography, but similarly denied his readers the privilege of reading it "

Intrigued? Your curiosity aroused?

Then obey that impulse — read on!

S

HERLOCK HOLMES is dead. At the age of eighty he passed away quietly in his sleep. And at once ascended to Heaven.

The arrival of few recent immigrants to the celestial streets has caused so much excitement. Only Napoleon's appearance in Hell is said to have equaled the great detective's reception. In spite of the heavy fog which rolled in from the Jordan, Holmes was immediately bowled in a hansom to audience with the Divine Presence. After the customary exchange of amenities, Jehovah said:

"Mr. Holmes, we too have our problems. Adam and Eve are missing. Have been, 's a matter of fact, for nearly two aeons. They used to be quite an attraction to visitors and we would like to commission you to discover them."

Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment.

"We fear that their appearance when last seen would furnish no clue," continued Jehovah. "A man is bound to change in two aeons."

Holmes held up his long, thin hand. "Could you make a general announcement that a contest between an immovable body and an irresistible force will be staged in that large field at the end of the street — Lord's, I presume it is?"

The announcement was made and soon the streets were filled with a slowly moving crowd. Holmes stood idly in the divine portico watching them.

Suddenly he darted into the crowd and seized a patriarch and his whimpering old mate; he brought them to the Divine Presence.

"It is," asserted Deity. "Adam, you have been giving us a great deal of anxiety. But, Mr. Holmes, tell me how you found them."

"Elementary, my dear God," said Sherlock Holmes, "they have no navels."

Detective: THE GREAT DETECTIVE

THE CASE OF THE DIABOLICAL

PLOT

by RICHARD MALLETT

The recipe for that gourmand's dish, Parodie a la Punch, has remained constant through the decades. The modern salad is just a second helping of the old-style salmagundi.

For example: Richard Mallett's "The Case of the Diabolical Plot," published in "Punch" on June 12, 1935, is concocted of essentially the same ingredients — equal parts of farce and exaggeration, with a light sprinkling of plot —that R. C. Leh-mann stirred into his Pic{locf( Holes series forty-two year* before.

Garnished with thicJ{ satire sauce, The Great Detective again foils his ancient enemy, The Master Criminal. This time the Master Criminal is head of a secret society (the Hippy Hops) whose plot strikes at the very roots of the British Empire. How otherwise explain the singular and ubiquitous thefts of piano feys, circus elephants, and billiard balls?

"It was all perfectly obvious from the first, my dear Watson"

Four other burlesques of The Great Detective, all signed by the author's initials, R. M., may be found —if the reader is still hungry —in the following issues of "Punch":

"The Case of the Pearls"— November 21, 1934 "The Case of the Traveller" — December 26, 1934 "The Case of the Pursuit" - January 23, 1935 "The Case of the Impersonation" — May 8, 1935

I

N AN unguarded moment the Great Detective's sceptical friend, J. Smith, remarked otf-handedly, "If there is one thing more than

another for which I am thankful (and I assure you there is no great competition), it is that you never seem to have come into contact with one of those enormously wealthy and ruthless but cultured master criminals whose aim is to overthrow the British Empire by means of a plot."

"Oh," said the Great Detective, "but I have. The fact that you have noticed my reticence — "

"Your what?"

"My reticence," repeated the Great Detective, "on this matter -

"I found it by elimination," J. Smith said. "It was the sole West End appearance this season of your reticence."