Chapter IX. Sherlock Holmes Again

The Enchanted Typewriter

by John Kendrick Bangs

I had intended asking Boswell what had become of my copy of the
Baedeker's Hades when he next returned, but the output of the machine
that evening so interested me that the hand-book was entirely
forgotten. If there ever was a hero in this world who could compare
with D'Artagnan in my estimation for sheer ability in a given line
that hero was Sherlock Holmes. With D'Artagnan and Holmes for my
companions I think I could pass the balance of my days in absolute
contentment, no matter what woful things might befall me. So it was
that, when I next heard the tapping keys and dulcet bell of my
Enchanted Type-writer, and, after listening intently for a moment,
realized that my friend Boswell was making a copy of a Sherlock
Holmes Memoir thereon for his next Sunday's paper, all thought of the
interesting little red book of the last meeting flew out of my head.
I rose quickly from my couch at the first sounding of the gong.

"Got a Holmes story, eh?" I said, walking to his side, and
gazing eagerly over the spot where his shoulder should have been.

"I have that, and it's a winner," he replied, enthusiastically.
"If you don't believe it, read it. I'll have it copied in about two
minutes."

"I'll do both," I said. "I believe all the Sherlock Holmes
stories I read. It is so much pleasanter to believe them true. If
they weren't true they wouldn't be so wonderful."

With this I picked up the first page of the manuscript and
shortly after Boswell presented me with the balance, whereon I read
the following extraordinary tale:

A MYSTERY SOLVED

A WONDERFUL ACHIEVEMENT IN
FERRETING

From Advance Sheets of

MEMOIRS I REMEMBER

BY

SHERLOCK HOLMES, ESQ.

Ferreter Extraordinary by Special Appointment
to his Majesty
Apollyon

---------------

WHO THE LADY WAS!

It was not many days after my solution of the Missing Diamond of
the Nizam of Jigamaree Mystery that I was called upon to take up a
case which has baffled at least one person for some ten or eleven
centuries. The reader will remember the mystery of the missing
diamond--the largest known in all history, which the Nizam of
Jigamaree brought from India to present to the Queen of England, on
the occasion of her diamond jubilee. I had been dead three years at
the time, but, by a special dispensation of his Imperial Highness
Apollyon, was permitted to return incog to London for the jubilee
season, where it so happened that I put up at the same lodging-house
as that occupied by the Nizam and his suite. We sat opposite each
other at table d'hote, and for at least three weeks previous to the
losing of his treasure the Indian prince was very morose, and it was
very difficult to get him to speak. I was not supposed to know, nor,
indeed, was any one else, for that matter, at the lodging-house, that
the Nizam was so exalted a personage. He like myself was travelling
incog and was known to the world as Mr. Wilkins, of Calcutta--a very
wise precaution, inasmuch as he had in his possession a gem valued at
a million and a half of dollars. I recognized him at once, however,
by his unlikeness to a wood-cut that had been appearing in the
American Sunday newspapers, labelled with his name, as well as by the
extraordinary lantern which he had on his bicycle, a lantern which to
the uneducated eye was no more than an ordinary lamp, but which to an
eye like mine, familiar with gems, had for its crystal lens nothing
more nor less than the famous stone which he had brought for her
Majesty the Queen, his imperial sovereign. There are few people who
can tell diamonds from plate-glass under any circumstances, and Mr.
Wilkins, otherwise the Nizam, realizing this fact, had taken this
bold method of secreting his treasure. Of course, the moment I
perceived the quality of the man's lamp I knew at once who Mr.
Wilkins was, and I determined to have a little innocent diversion at
his expense.

"It has been a fine day, Mr. Wilkins," said I one evening over
the pate.

"Yes," he replied, wearily. "Very--but somehow or other I'm
depressed to-night."

"Too bad," I said, lightly, "but there are others. There's that
poor Nizam of Jigamaree, for instance--poor devil, he must be the
bluest brown man that ever lived."

Wilkins started nervously as I mentioned the prince by name.

"Wh-why do you think that?" he asked, nervously fingering his
butter-knife.

"It's tough luck to have to give away a diamond that's worth
three or four times as much as the Koh-i-noor," I said. "Suppose you
owned a stone like that. Would you care to give it away?"

"Not by a damn sight!" cried Wilkins, forcibly, and I noticed
great tears gathering in his eyes.

"Still, he can't help himself, I suppose," I said, gazing
abruptly at his scarf-pin. "That is, he doesn't know that he can. The
Queen expects it. It's been announced, and now the poor devil can't
get out of it--though I'll tell you, Mr. Wilkins, if I were the Nizam
of Jigamaree, I'd get out of it in ten seconds."

I winked at him significantly. He looked at me blankly.

"Yes, sir," I added, merely to arouse him, "in just ten seconds!
Ten short, beautiful seconds."

"Mr. Postlethwaite," said the Nizam--Postlethwaite was the name
I was travelling under--"Mr. Postlethwaite," said the
Nizam--otherwise Wilkins--"your remarks interest me greatly." His
face wreathed with a smile that I had never before seen there. "I
have thought as you do in regard to this poor Indian prince, but I
must confess I don't see how he can get out of giving the Queen that
diamond. Have a cigar, Mr. Postlethwaite, and, waiter, bring us a
triple magnum of champagne. Do you really think, Mr. Postlethwaite,
that there is a way out of it? If you would like a ticket to
Westminster for the ceremony, there are a half-dozen."

He tossed six tickets for seats among the crowned heads across
the table to me. His eagerness was almost too painful to witness.

"Thank you," said I, calmly pocketing the tickets, for they were
of rare value at that time. "The way out of it is very simple."

"Indeed, Mr. Postlethwaite," said he, trying to keep cool.
"Ah--are you interested in rubies, sir? There are a few which I
should be pleased to have you accept"--and with that over came a
handful of precious stones each worth a fortune. These also I
pocketed as I replied:

"Why, certainly; if I were the Nizam," said I, "I'd lose that
diamond."

A shade of disappointment came over Mr. Wilkins's face.

"Lose it? How? Where?" he asked, with a frown.

"Yes. Lose it. Any way I could. As for the place where it should
be lost, any old place will do as long as it is where he can find it
again when he gets back home. He might leave it in his other clothes,
or--"

"Make that two triple magnums, waiter," cried Mr. Wilkins,
excitedly, interrupting me. "Postlethwaite, you're a genius, and if
you ever want a house and lot in Calcutta, just let me know and
they're yours."

You never saw such a change come over a man in all your life.
Where he had been all gloom before, he was now all smiles and
jollity, and from that time on to his return to India Mr. Wilkins was
as happy as a school-boy at the beginning of vacation. The next day
the diamond was lost, and whoever may have it at this moment, the
British Crown is not in possession of the Jigamaree gem.

But, as my friend Terence Mulvaney says, that is another story.
It is of the mystery immediately following this concerning which I
have set out to write.

I was sitting one day in my office on Apollyon Square opposite
the Alexandrian library, smoking an absinthe cigarette, which I had
rolled myself from my special mixture consisting of two parts
tobacco, one part hasheesh, one part of opium dampened with a liqueur
glass of absinthe, when an excited knock sounded upon my door.

"Come in," I cried, adopting the usual formula.

The door opened and a beautiful woman stood before me clad in
most regal garments, robust of figure, yet extremely pale. It seemed
to me that I had seen her somewhere before, yet for a time I could
not place her.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" said she, in deliciously musical tones,
which, singular to relate, she emitted in a fashion suggestive of a
recitative passage in an opera.

"The same," said I, bowing with my accustomed courtesy.

"The ferret?" she sang, in staccato tones which were ravishing
to my musical soul.

I laughed. "That term has been applied to me, madame," said I,
chanting my answer as best I could. "For myself, however, I prefer to
assume the more modest title of detective. I can work with or without
clues, and have never yet been baffled. I know who wrote the Junius
letters, and upon occasions have been known to see through a stone
wall with my naked eye. What can I do for you?"

"Tell me who I am!" she cried, tragically, taking the centre of
the room and gesticulating wildly.

"Well--really, madame," I replied. "You didn't send up any
card--"

"Ah!" she sneered. "This is what your vaunted prowess amounts
to, eh? Ha! Do you suppose if I had a card with my name on it I'd
have come to you to inquire who I am? I can read a card as well as
you can, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Then, as I understand it, madame," I put in, "you have suddenly
forgotten your identity and wish me to--"

"Nothing of the sort. I have forgotten nothing. I never knew for
certain who I am. I have an impression, but it is based only on
hearsay evidence," she interrupted.

For a moment I was fairly puzzled. Still I did not wish to let
her know this, and so going behind my screen and taking a capsule
full of cocaine to steady my nerves, I gained a moment to think.
Returning, I said:

"This really is child's play for me, madame. It won't take more
than a week to find out who you are, and possibly, if you have any
clews at all to your identity, I may be able to solve this mystery in
a day."

"I have only three," she answered, and taking a piece of
swan's-down, a lock of golden hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel
tights from her portmanteau she handed them over to me.

My first impulse was to ask the lady if she remembered the name
of the asylum from which she had escaped, but I fortunately refrained
from doing so, and she shortly left me, promising to return at the
end of the week.

For three days I puzzled over the clews. Swan's-down, yellow
hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel tights, while very interesting no
doubt at times, do not form a very solid basis for a theory
establishing the identity of so regal a person as my visitor. My
first impression was that she was a vaudeville artist, and that the
exhibits she had left me were a part of her make-up. This I was
forced to abandon shortly, because no woman with the voice of my
visitor would sing in vaudeville. The more ambitious stage was her
legitimate field, if not grand opera itself.

At this point she returned to my office, and I of course
reported progress. That is one of the most valuable things I learned
while on earth--when you have done nothing, report progress.

"I haven't quite succeeded as yet," said I, "but I am getting at
it slowly. I do not, however, think it wise to acquaint you with my
present notions until they are verified beyond peradventure. It might
help me somewhat if you were to tell me who it is you think you are.
I could work either forward or backward on that hypothesis, as seemed
best, and so arrive at a hypothetical truth anyhow."

"That's just what I don't want to do," said she. "That
information might bias your final judgment. If, however, acting on
the clews which you have, you confirm my impression that I am such
and such a person, as well as the views which other people have, then
will my status be well defined and I can institute my suit against my
husband for a judicial separation, with back alimony, with some
assurance of a successful issue."

I was more puzzled than ever.

"Well," said I, slowly, "I of course can see how a bit of
swan's-down and a lock of yellow hair backed up by a pair of
silver-tinsel tights might constitute reasonable evidence in a suit
for separation, but wouldn't it--ah--be more to your purpose if I
should use these data as establishing the identity of--er--somebody
else?"

"How very dense you are," she replied, impatiently. "That's
precisely what I want you to do."

"But you told me it was your identity you wished proven," I put
in, irritably.

"Precisely," said she.

"Then these bits of evidence are--yours?" I asked, hesitatingly.
One does not like to accuse a lady of an undue liking for tinsel.

"They are all I have left of my husband," she answered with a
sob.

"Hum!" said I, my perplexity increasing. "Was the--ah--the
gentleman blown up by dynamite?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes," she retorted, rising and running the
scales. "I think, after all, I have come to the wrong shop. Have you
Hawkshaw's address handy? You are too obtuse for a detective."

My reputation was at stake, so I said, significantly:

"Good! Good! I was merely trying one of my disguises on you,
madame, and you were completely taken in. Of course no one would ever
know me for Sherlock Holmes if I manifested such dullness."

"Ah!" she said, her face lighting up. "You were merely deceiving
me by appearing to be obtuse?"

"Of course," said I. "I see the whole thing in a nutshell. You
married an adventurer; he told you who he was, but you've never been
able to prove it; and suddenly you are deserted by him, and on going
over his wardrobe you find he has left nothing but these articles:
and now you wish to sue him for a separation on the ground of
desertion, and secure alimony if possible."

It was a magnificent guess.

"That is it precisely," said the lady. "Except as to the extent
of his 'leavings.' In addition to the things you have he gave my
small brother a brass bugle and a tin sword."

"We may need to see them later," said I. "At present I will do
all I can for you on the evidence in hand. I have got my eye on a
gentleman who wears silver-tinsel tights now, but I am afraid he is
not the man we are after, because his hair is black, and, as far as I
have been able to learn from his valet, he is utterly unacquainted
with swan's-down."

We separated again and I went to the club to think. Never in my
life before had I had so baffling a case. As I sat in the cafe
sipping a cocaine cobbler, who should walk in but Hamlet, strangely
enough picking particles of swan's-down from his black doublet, which
was literally covered with it.

"Hello, Sherlock!" he said, drawing up a chair and sitting down
beside me. "What you up to?"

"Trying to make out where you have been," I replied. "I judge
from the swan's-down on your doublet that you have been escorting
Ophelia to the opera in the regulation cloak."

"You're mistaken for once," he laughed. "I've been driving with
Lohengrin. He's got a pair of swans that can do a mile in 2.10-- but
it makes them moult like the devil."

"Pair of what?" I cried.

"Swans," said Hamlet. "He's an eccentric sort of a duffer, that
Lohengrin. Afraid of horses, I fancy."

"And so drives swans instead?" said I, incredulously.

"The same," replied Hamlet. "Do I look as if he drove squab?"

"He must be queer," said I. "I'd like to meet him. He'd make
quite an addition to my collection of freaks."

"Very well," observed Hamlet. "He'll be here to-morrow to take
luncheon with me, and if you'll come, too, you'll be most welcome.
He's collecting freaks, too, and I haven't a doubt would be pleased
to know you."

We parted and I sauntered homeward, cogitating over my strange
client, and now and then laughing over the idiosyncrasies of Hamlet's
friend the swan-driver. It never occurred to me at the moment however
to connect the two, in spite of the link of swan's-down. I regarded
it merely as a coincidence. The next day, however, on going to the
club and meeting Hamlet's strange guest, I was struck by the further
coincidence that his hair was of precisely the same shade of yellow
as that in my possession. It was of a hue that I had never seen
before except at performances of grand opera, or on the heads of fool
detectives in musical burlesques. Here, however, was the real thing
growing luxuriantly from the man's head.

"Ho-ho!" thought I to myself. "Here is a fortunate encounter;
there may be something in it," and then I tried to lead him on.

"I understand, Mr. Lohengrin," I said, "that you have a fine
span of swans."

"Yes," he said, and I was astonished to note that he, like my
client, spoke in musical numbers. "Very. They're much finer than
horses, in my opinion. More peaceful, quite as rapid, and amphibious.
If I go out for a drive and come to a lake they trot quite as well
across its surface as on the highways."

"How interesting!" said I. "And so gentle, the swan. Your wife,
I presume--"

Hamlet kicked my shins under the table.

"I think it will rain to-morrow," he said, giving me a glance
which if it said anything said shut up.

"I think so, too," said Lohengrin, a lowering look on his face.
"If it doesn't, it will either snow, or hail, or be clear." And he
gazed abstractedly out of the window.

The kick and the man's confusion were sufficient proof. I was
on the right track at last. Yet the evidence was unsatisfactory
because merely circumstantial. My piece of down might have come from
an opera cloak and not from a well-broken swan, the hair might
equally clearly have come from some other head than Lohengrin's, and
other men have had trouble with their wives. The circumstantial
evidence lying in the coincidences was strong but not conclusive, so
I resolved to pursue the matter and invite the strange individual to
a luncheon with me, at which I proposed to wear the tinsel tights.
Seeing them, he might be forced into betraying himself.

This I did, and while my impressions were confirmed by his
demeanor, no positive evidence grew out of it.

"I'm hungry as a bear!" he said, as I entered the club, clad in
a long, heavy ulster, reaching from my shoulders to the ground, so
that the tights were not visible.

"Good," said I. "I like a hearty eater," and I ordered a
luncheon of ten courses before removing my overcoat; but not one
morsel could the man eat, for on the removal of my coat his eye fell
upon my silver garments, and with a gasp he wellnigh fainted. It was
clear. He recognized them and was afraid, and in consequence lost his
appetite. But he was game, and tried to laugh it off.

"Silver man, I see," he said, nervously, smiling.

"No," said I, taking the lock of golden hair from my pocket and
dangling it before him. "Bimetallist."

His jaw dropped in dismay, but recovering himself instantly he
put up a fairly good fight.

"It is strange, Mr. Lohengrin," said I, "that in the three years
I have been here I've never seen you before."

"I've been very quiet," he said. "Fact is, I have had my
reasons, Mr. Holmes, for preferring the life of a hermit. A youthful
indiscretion, sir, has made me fear to face the world. There was
nothing wrong about it, save that it was a folly, and I have been
anxious in these days of newspapers to avoid any possible revival of
what might in some eyes seem scandalous."

I felt sorry for him, but my duty was clear. Here was my man--
but how to gain direct proof was still beyond me. No further
admissions could be got out of him, and we soon parted.

Two days later the lady called and again I reported progress.

"It needs but one thing, madame, to convince me that I have
found your husband," said I. "I have found a man who might be
connected with swan's-down, from whose luxuriant curls might have
come this tow-colored lock, and who might have worn the silver-tinsel
tights--yet it is all might and no certainty."

"I will bring my small brother's bugle and the tin sword," said
she. "The sword has certain properties which may induce him to
confess. My brother tells me that if he simply shakes it at a cat the
cat falls dead."

"Do so," said I, "and I will try it on him. If he recognizes the
sword and remembers its properties when I attempt to brandish it at
him, he'll be forced to confess, though it would be awkward if he is
the wrong man and the sword should work on him as it does on the
cat."

The next day I was in possession of the famous toy. It was not
very long, and rather more suggestive of a pancake-turner than a
sword, but it was a terror. I tested its qualities on a swarm of
gnats in my room, and the moment I shook it at them they fluttered to
the ground as dead as door-nails.

"I'll have to be careful of this weapon," I thought. "It would
be terrible if I should brandish it at a motor-man trying to get one
of the Gehenna Traction Company's cable-cars to stop and he should
drop dead at his post."

All was now ready for the demonstration. Fortunately the
following Saturday night was club night at the House-Boat, and we
were all expected to come in costume. For dramatic effect I wore a
yellow wig, a helmet, the silver-tinsel tights, and a doublet to
match, with the brass bugle and the tin sword properly slung about my
person. I looked stunning, even if I do say it, and much to my
surprise several people mistook me for the man I was after. Another
link in the chain! Even the public unconsciously recognized the value
of my deductions. They called me Lohengrin!

And of course it all happened as I expected. It always does.
Lohengrin came into the assembly-room five minutes after I did and
was visibly annoyed at my make-up.

"This is a great liberty," said he, grasping the hilt of his
sword; but I answered by blowing the bugle at him, at which he turned
livid and fell back. He had recognized its soft cadence. I then
hauled the sword from my belt, shook it at a fly on the wall, which
immediately died, and made as if to do the same at Lohengrin,
whereupon he cried for mercy and fell upon his knees.

"Turn that infernal thing the other way!" he shrieked.

"Ah!" said I, lowering my arm. "Then you know its
properties?"

"I do--I do!" he cried. "It used to be mine--I confess it!"

"Then," said I, calmly putting the horrid bit of zinc back into
my belt, "that's all I wanted to know. If you'll come up to my office
some morning next week I'll introduce you to your wife," and I turned
from him.

My mission accomplished, I left the festivities and returned to
my quarters where my fair client was awaiting me.

"Well?" she said.

"It's all right, Mrs. Lohengrin," I said, and the lady cried
aloud with joy at the name, for it was the very one she had hoped it
would be. "My man turns out to be your man, and I turn him over
therefore to you, only deal gently with him. He's a pretty decent
chap and sings like a bird."

Whereon I presented her with my bill for 5000 oboli, which she
paid without a murmur, as was entirely proper that she should, for
upon the evidence which I had secured the fair plaintiff, in the suit
for separation of Elsa vs. Lohengrin on the ground of desertion and
non-support, obtained her decree, with back alimony of twenty-five
per cent. of Lohengrin's income for a trifle over fifteen hundred
years.

How much that amounted to I really do not know, but that it was
a large sum I am sure, for Lohengrin must have been very wealthy. He
couldn't have afforded to dress in solid silver-tinsel tights if he
had been otherwise. I had the tights assayed before returning them to
their owner, and even in a country where free coinage of tights is
looked upon askance they could not be duplicated for less than $850
at a ratio of 32 to 1.