Game Is Afoot, page 61
Well, everyone shows great enthusiasm for this plan, so we get to Mindy’s in no time at all. And, amazingly enough, there, in one corner, at a table all by herself, sits Miss Hilda Von Arpel.
“Aha!” goes Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and there is a great deal of wonderment all around, although, if one can determine what race track one has visited just by looking at one’s shoes, finding a doll in a restaurant should be no trouble at all. In fact, only one of the citizens in our particular crowd seems less than enthusiastic about our meeting, and this citizen is none other than Hard-Luck Harvey Hossengriff.
“I cannot see as how such a doll as this can do the terrible thing you have spoken of,” Hard-Luck therefore announces to the crowd. “I will go over and speak to this doll directly.”
And, so-saying, Hard-Luck makes a beeline across Mindy’s straight to Miss Hilda Von Arpel’s table.
Now, a couple of the other citizens make to restrain Hard-Luck from this rash course of action, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes says that no, this fits right in with our plans. And he further nods at the door behind us, for who should walk in but three fellows who are obviously not from around here, and even more so than Mr. Sherlock Holmes. For these three gentlemen all sport full, dark beards, and further they all wear heavy coats more suited to December than June. And all around see that they eyeball Miss Hilda Von Arpel, and the doll is eyeballing them in return.
“Why, look,” Mr. Sherlock Holmes says to all around, as if he has lived around the corner from Mindy’s for all of his life, “but here enter some strangers to our fair city.”
Now Cauliflower picks up on this right away, for, while his nose and ears have taken on interesting new shapes, there is very little wrong with his brain. “Hey!” he says. “Let’s welcome these gentlemen! I think these strangers would be gready benefited if we were to show them some sights!”
And with that, Cauliflower and a dozen of his closest friends escort the three newcomers out of Mindy’s for some very active sightseeing.
This leaves only Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Easy Frank and myself left of the original group of citizens. But Mr. Holmes nods to both of us as if this was what he was planning all along, and marches straight over to the table now occupied not just by Miss Hilda Von Arpel, but by Hard-Luck Harvey as well.
“Oh!” Miss Von Arpel exclaims as the three of us approach the table. “Harvey, you have defended me before. You may have to do so again!”
“I will do anything you wish, dearest,” Harvey says with the sort of smitten smile a guy can only get for a doll, “for the sake of our future happiness.”
“Then again,” Miss Hilda Von Arpel replies with a smile, “perhaps we should simply ignore these ruffians. Harvey, please finish your cheesecake.”
Hard-Luck obligingly takes a large bite, then continues to smile at the Judy of his dreams.
“Give yourself up, Miss Von Arpel,” Sherlock Holmes demands. “We have apprehended your friends. Now there is nowhere for the miniature dot to go.**
“What miniature dot?” Harvey demands between mouthfuls of his dessert. “Do you see a beauty mark anywhere on this beautiful doll?”
And, indeed, the beauty mark that used to be prominently displayed on Miss Hilda Von Arpel’s round and pink cheek is no longer in evidence!
“Are you enjoying your cheesecake?” is Mr. Holmes’ only reply.
“It is excellent,” Hard-Luck replies as he chews. “Mindy’s cheesecake is decidedly the best made in the whole of this half of the city.”
Sherlock Holmes nods at this, as if he had expected that answer all along. “I have done a study of cheesecakes since I have come to this country, including eighteen major and twenty-four minor types of said delicacy, and you are no doubt correct.”
Hard-Luck nods in agreement as he continues his repast.
“It is a shame,” Mr. Holmes continues most casually, “about the bum mark upon the crust.”
It is then I sees exactly in which direction this geezer is driving. “Bum mark?” I yell. “Mindy’s cheesecakes are prepared just so! They are never burned!”
At this, the doll begins to look most uncomfortable.
“Exactly!” Mr. Sherlock Holmes adds as he gives me the most encouraging smile. He nods to Hard-Luck, who is staring most fixedly at the round black spot upon the graham crackers at cheesecake’s end. “Miss Hilda Von Arpel was planning for you to swallow the microscopic dot!”
“Swallow?” Hard-Luck replies, as if such a thing was the last thought on his mind.
“You must excuse me, dear Harvey,” Miss Hilda Von Arpel interjects, “but I feel I must powder my nose.”
However, Easy Frank and myself are both in a position to see that Miss Von Arpel can do no powdering whatsoever, so she is forced to stay put.
“Then, of course,” Sherlock Holmes continues to Hard-Luck, “she would retrieve it, by any means necessary.”
“Retrieve? By any means necessary?” Hard-Luck puts down his fork in a way that suggests he may never eat cheesecake again. He then looks at Miss Hilda Von Arpel in a way that suggests the courtship may be over.
“If you continue to make such accusations,” Miss Von Arpel demands, “I will be forced to go to the authorities!”
“Ah, Miss Von Arpel,” Sherlock Holmes replies with the kind of smile you see on cats right after they have lunched on parakeet, “I do believe the authorities have already arrived.”
And with that he looks straight at Hard-Luck. “You are working for Mr. Hoover, are you not, Mr. Hossengriff?”
It is Hard-Luck’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Um,” he says. And “You see—’’ Until he finally gives up and asks “How did you know? We are a brand new organization. We get very little publicity. Well, there is that business in Chicago—*’ Here, Hard-Luck Harvey Hossengriff pauses, still gready confused.
“I have certain connections both here and abroad,” Mr. Holmes replies most casually. “Let us just say that I have my methods. If you would kindly place handcuffs upon the suspect?”
And with this Hard-Luck pulls a pair of cuffs from his pocket and snaps them quickly around Miss Von Arpel’s delicate and pale wrists. Then does this fellow, who apparendy was a copper all along, but a right guy for all of that, in that he never ran in a single one of the local citizens, rise from his seat and leads Miss Hilda Von Aipel from the restaurant. And Sherlock Holmes takes the remains of the cheesecake and inserts it into ajar he had somewhere about his person.
“Disaster has been averted,” he announces to Easy Frank and myself, “and the information on this miniature dot will be returned to its rightful owner. But I could not have done it without your assistance.”
“Any good citizen would have done the same,” Easy Frank agrees most heartily.
“You are one clever fellow, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” is my response. “I have half a mind to write this whole adventure up for posterity.”
But at this the geezer only nods again, as if this was one more thing he was expecting all along.
Compared to sending Sherlock Holmes to Oz, it may not seem so radical to involve him in the topsy-turvy world of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. According to the Library of Congress, Crichton Sellars was the pen name of Irma Peixotto Sellars. Author of Contrary Winds (Doubleday, New York, 1948), Ms. Sellars frequently contributed pieces to The Baker Street Journal. (See Appendix I for an afterword about the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta alluded to in this story).
The Dilemma of the Distressed Savoyard
Crighton Sellars
It was November twenty-seventh in the year 1885, a raw, cold morning with fog wreathing so thickly through Baker Street that we could not see the houses across from us—not even Camden House, directly opposite, which was standing vacant and which had somehow got the reputation of being haunted. It was that morning that Sherlock Holmes chose to surprise me by serving up, in the butter dish, a criminal relic which I have mentioned once before. Before I lifted the lid from the dish, he informed me, with much relish, that it was indeed a criminal relic I was about to survey, which I thought very bad taste indeed, but was much mollified when I disclosed the contents and perceived that nothing but a sprig of parsley reposed on top of the butter.
“A relic?*’ I asked, puzzled, holding up the parsley.
“Yes,” he agreed, “or practically a replica of it. It is what was supposed to be the clue to the multiple murders occurring in the Abernetty family circle.”
“And why does it appear this morning, pray?”
“Because, as it happens, I have never given you any details concerning it, and this is such an ideal day to stay indoors and talk. I was almost too cold to sleep last night and tried to warm myself by going over in my mind the various incidents of the Abernetty case, which took place in such excessively warm weather that I was hopeful I might feel a bit more comfortable. But that sort of mental suggestion is not efficacious, Watson, and all it did was amuse me afresh.”
Just then there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson brought in a card on the small gold salver studded with emeralds, which had been presented to Holmes by the reigning house of Saxe-Hesseburg as a slight reward for his services in a very delicate business indeed.
“Mr. Alexander Wellington Johns, 5 Hans Place,” read Holmes.
“He said, sir,” explained Mrs. Hudson, “that he hoped he was not disturbing you by coming too early, realizing that the artistic temperament likes to sleep late.”
“Well, Mrs. Hudson, tell him that I am at breakfast and hope that he will be good enough to join me and Doctor Watson at our meal. There’s more ham, eggs and toast in the kitchen, I presume?”
“Indeed yes, sir, they shall be up immediately, with another pot of coffee; almost as soon as the gentleman himself.”
“I am interested to see Mr. Johns,” Holmes confessed, when our good landlady had withdrawn. “I fancy he must have some association with literary or theatrical worlds, and he most evidently has money.”
I knew that he wished me to ask him why he said this, but I also could deduce these facts from his message, his address and the style of his card. Before I had decided whether or not to indulge Holmes in the questions for which he was angling, our visitor had entered the room. He was rather a small man with dreamy blue eyes, white side-whiskers, a little, round, bald head and pointed, faunlike ears. He was well and expensively dressed, though his clothes were of slighdy old-fashioned cut. In one hand he held a white beaver hat and in the other a gold-handled umbrella. He had tiny feet, in thin leather pumps (he must have come in a cab, for they were dry and immaculate) and as he came into the room, lightly, almost dancing, he gave the effect of a twinkling, almost Puckish motion, that was irresistibly graceful and merry. We smiled at him involuntarily, for he was a cheerful thing to see on a grey day.
“Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson? I am delighted to be allowed to breakfast with you,” said he, putting down his hat and umbrella, divesting himself of his great-coat in a flash, and dancing forward to the table to shake hands with us. “I cannot tell you what a load is off my mind since I have decided to ask your help in resolving my dilemma. I lay awake all night pondering, but the moment the solution of my trouble occurred to me, I rose and came here instantly.”
“Sit down, Mr. Johns,” said Holmes, waving him to a chair. “Ah! Here is our excellent Mrs. Hudson with more breakfast, Watson, will you help our guest? I perceive, sir, that you are hungry.”
“And so would you be, Mr. Holmes, had you been cudgelling your brains all night, trying to find a suitable plot for a very special client.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. But if, as you say, you have already arrived at a solution, why come to me at all?”
‘‘Because that was my solution. To give it up and come to you for an amusingly criminal, yet fantastically gory sort of thing that I need. You see, it seemed to me, Mr. Holmes, that you were the very man to help me. If you will allow me to devote myself to this excellent ham and egg, I shall soon be strong enough to explain everything. Dear me! Such a surprise! Coffee for breakfast! How American.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “I seldom drink tea. The coffee habit is one that I got from the days I spent in America, and Watson has learned to enjoy it with me.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. Johns. “It shows a mind entirely emancipated from the English groove, and that is just what I am looking for.” When we had all finished our hearty breakfast Mr. Johns joined us with his pipe in front of the glowing fire, and for a moment we sat in satiated silence before Holmes said, “I perceive, sir, that you are a writer, a musician, a bon vivant and an admirer of Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“Yes, I am all of those things, sir; which I imagine you deduce from the ink on my spatulate fingers and the wine-list and Savoy programme protruding from my great-coat pockets; and so taking all those things together, perhaps you know the reason why I have come here.” He puffed away at his little pipe with such an utterly impish expression on his face, that I thought instantly of Pan and another sort of pipe.
As I might have expected, Sherlock Holmes was not disconcerted for an instant. “Naturally I know,” he said. “You are a man who has thought himself very clever, up to now; but you are now tangled up in a sort of Gilbertian plot which involves, or is supposed to involve, some crime, so you come to me to resolve your difficulties.”
“Perfect!” said the little man, applauding delicately. “You are a sorcerer, Mr. Holmes, even though you live at 221B Baker Street instead of 70 St. Mary Axe. Do you recall Mr. Gilbert’s John Wellington Wells? He was partly named after me, though altered slighdy to make a more euphonious metre for singing. However, that will come into my story in due course.” “Pray continue,” said Holmes, and waving toward the Persian slipper added, “And re-fill your pipe.”
“Thank you, but I prefer my Strephon Mixture, if you don’t mind. And now you shall hear everything in detail. You must know, gentlemen, that in me you see the sole plot-source and inspiration-monger for every English writer of the present day, with the single exception of yourself, Doctor Watson; for you, by confining yourself to reporting the remarkable cases solved by your friend Mr. Holmes, need no other inspiration.”
We bowed and Mr. Johns smiled, put his tongue in his cheek and somehow managed to continue. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that it keeps me continually busy to supply my authors with different variants of the same plots, or judicious mixtures of several at once. You may not believe it, but there are only a very few plots—not more than a dozen at most. Let me see—” He told them off on his fingers. “The frustrated lovers, with feuding families; the child lost in infancy, or the heir disguised, who can turn out to be whomsoever the plot most needs; the underdog, of either sex, who comes out on top and wins whatever the prize happens to be—this of course includes the younger son and daughter of the fairytales, viz, Cinderella; the marriage of ill-assorted persons; the lucky charm, happening or machinations of a god from the machine that enable anyone to do anything; the deserving poor who become rich; the undeserving rich who become poor; the two’s-company-three’s-a-crowd plot; the villain apprehended; the villain foiled; the happy ending; the unhappy ending; the mistaken identity, including babes mixed about at birth—”
“That’s more than twelve,’’ I said, as he seemed to be sailing on without hesitation. “You said there were only twelve and no more.”
“So I did,” he acknowledged, “but I made the mistake of letting some variants slip in, possibly because I slept little last night. All these basic plots, you know, can be treated in any manner one wishes; as comedy, tragedy, sober reality, or fantasy, and their combined variety works out to infinity. You may be interested to know that among other illustrious clients (including of course all English playwrights) I have the honour to be retained by Mr. William Schwenck Gilbert of the famous duo of Gilbert and Sullivan, whose current opera is the present popular passion of London. Mr. Gilbert comes to me for all his plots, and around these ideas that I supply, he writes his matchless fantasy, satire and smoothly graceful verse for the lines, lyrics and choruses. Needless to say, I am one of his greatest admirers and seldom miss a performance of his operas, and though I have the highest respect for Mr. Sullivan and his beautiful and melodious music, which I am always playing on my piano, yet I have always had a small bone to pick with him, for until this very last opera, The Mikado, Mr. Sullivan has been most outspoken about the fact that he did not like Mr. Gilbert’s plots—which of course, are really mine—and had been very emphatic in his objections. That was the real reason of their late quarrel—and of course it was my fault. I felt so badly about it that I surpassed myself on the Mikado plot, using the disguised heir motif and combining it with a supposed-crime plot, that was so like the adventure of the Honourable FitzHerbert at Upper Tooting—only he really had a body that might belong to anyone till its head was found—that when the present crisis confronted me, I decided to come here for help. Mr. Holmes, my predicament is this: The Mikado has run a long time, and Mr. Gilbert wishes to get ready the scheme for his next opera. I have submitted several ideas that I thought were suitable—the children mixed in infancy, the love-spell or charm, the marriage of Titania and Bottom the Weaver, or its equivalent—all of them have been repudiated by Mr. Sullivan, who says that they are nothing but a re-hash of Pinafore, The Sorcerer and Iolanthe, and the public will accuse him and Mr. Gilbert of repetition! Mr. Gilbert is much upset, for he wants a plot very soon, or their reputations will be gone.”
“Why is there such a hurry?”
“There isn’t really; for The Mikado can run many months yet, but Mr. Gilbert always wants to have everything finished away ahead of time—so different from Mr. Sullivan, who is always in a great rush at the last minute.” The little man got up and began to skip about, light as a dandelion puff. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I always dance a little after meals. It helps digestion.”
He skipped over to the window and peered out into the fog. “What is that?” he gasped, pointing.
