The Adventure of the Perforated Ulster
A hiatus in cases of any serious consequence during the early months of the year ’66 allowed my friend Mr. Schlock Homes an opportunity for some well-needed rest, as well as a chance to indulge in a few of his many hobbies. I recall in particular how diligently he practiced his prestidigitation in preparation for the annual Magicians’ Meet; but I saddened to relate that when it finally was held, poor Homes was found wanding.
The same period, however, permitted me to bring some order to my voluminous notes, and it is well that I did so, for two cases which I had planned on ultimately relating turned out to be nothing of the sort. Homes had been writing a treatise on the matingdance of the ondatra bibethecus, and I had somehow mistakenly incorporated his notes in my case-book as The Adventure of the Muskrat Ritual. An even greater embarrassment was narrowly avoided when I discovered a long series of correspondence covering an unpaid bill of Homes’s to a doctor at a local hospital, which I had erroneously filed as The Adventure of the Patient Resident.
Time, however, permitted the correction of these errors, and it was with a feeling of growing ennui that I came into the breakfast room of our quarters of 221B Bagel Street one bright morning in April to find Homes already ensconced at the table, his creamed kipper already finished, and lighting his first after-meal Bulgarian. He smiled brightly as I entered, and I noticed a telegraph form fluttering from his thin fingers.
“Ah, Watney!” said he, his eyes sparkling. “It appears our inactivity is about to end. My brother Criscroft has telegraphed that he intends to drop by this morning, and as you are well aware, such visits in the past have invariably led to the most interesting of problems. I trust this occasion will prove no exception.”
“But he offers no clew?” I inquired, sitting down and drawing my napkin under my chin.
“He says—but never mind. Here, unless I am greatly mistaken, is Criscroft himself.”
He turned towards the door, and a moment later our page had ushered in Homes’s illustrious brother. With a brusque refusal of a kipper, Criscroft flung himself into a chair and stared at us broodingly.
“Schlock,” he said at last, his voice heavy with worry, “I know that in the past I have often brought you problems affecting the well-being of our country; but believe me when I say that never before has one of our basic institutions been faced with so dire a threat!”
Homes leaned forward, his voice deeply sympathetic. “As you well know,” he said sincerely, “I am always at your service. Pray, how may I be of assistance?”
Criscroft shook his head in misery. “I greatly fear,” he said in a tone heavy with dread, “that we have a case of pilfering at our club.”
Homes’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “But, certainly,” he said with a frown, “a simple case of pilfering should not upset you to this degree. Any club might have an unfortunate member who temporarily finds his needs greater than his means.”
Criscroft’s face had fallen—if possible—even lower during this discourse. “You do not understand,” he said, his voice almost breaking. “It is far more serious than that. Our club has not been pilfered. The pilfering, I fear, was done for the benefit of our club!”
Homes’s frown deepened. He tented his fingers and stared across the ridge-pole of his knuckles into his brother’s tortured eyes.
“You mean—?”
“Exactly! Were it to be bruited about that our financial status was so precarious that such assistance was necessary to maintain us, the mere rumor might easily shatter the confidence of the public in this staunchest of all our national institutions!”
“And you think—?”
“Indubitably! Were people to begin doubting the solidity of our British clubs, there is no predicting to what dark ends these suspicions might lead!”
“And you suspect—?”
“Definitely! It is obvious that the perpetrator of this foul deed is not doing it out of idle whim, nor would he take so drastic a step out of mere personal spite.”
“And you conclude—?”
“Precisely! He is therefore acting under the orders of some group dedicated to the destruction of our system. Undoubtedly a foreign group, since no Englishman, however treasonous, would be so subversive as to attack the institution of the British club!” A look of peace replaced the agonized expression on his face. “You cannot know how good it is, Schlock, to benefit from your analysis. And I am convinced you are right!”
“Thank you,” Homes replied modestly, and leaned forward again. “Pray favor us with the details.”
“Of course,” Criscroft agreed. “Well, as you may or may not know, I have recently assumed the chairmanship of our club’s House Committee, and in this capacity I have the responsibility for the operation of the bar and kitchen. I have therefore taken, of late, to inspecting the culinary premises at odd hours, in order to see how the steward is handling his duties.”
He paused a moment to collect his thoughts, and then continued: “Well, about a week ago, on one of my periodic tours of the kitchen, I chanced to note a new coffee percolator. I said nothing at the time, but I later made it my business to go back over the Committee minutes, and I found no recommendation for the purchase of this percolator, nor, in fact, any appropriation by the Finance Committee for its acquisition.”
“And you considered this odd?”
“Extremely odd, particularly since few of our members are addicted to the bean, considering it quite rightly a colonial affectation. However, I continued to maintain my own counsel, awaiting further developments. And then, just the other evening, in checking the bar equipment for our annual Walpurgis Night Dinner—Lord Walpurgis is our oldest member and therefore annually feted—I was amazed to discover a new cocktail shaker.”
“A cocktail shaker?” Homes’s eyebrows shot up.
Criscroft smiled grimly. “You also note the foreign touch, eh? As we all know, a cocktail shaker tends to bruise whisky, and no true Englishman would think of employing one.”
“Certainly not!” Homes exclaimed indignantly. His voice became probing. “And I assume that again there had been neither recommendation nor appropriation for its purchase?”
“Neither. I knew then, of course, that the matter was far more serious than a simple error in judgement, and I felt it vital to seek your aid.”
“And well that you did so! What is the name of this steward?”
“Sean O’Callahan.”
A thoughtful frown crossed the lean face of my friend. “Not an English name,” he said slowly.
“Now that you mention it, it does sound foreign,” Criscroft replied, and then looked troubled. “It is my hope that Sean is only an innocent dupe in the scheme. He is the fifteenth generation of O’Callahans to serve in that position at our club, and I should hate to think of him as a traitor.”
“Still,” Homes continued, his eyes glittering, “I assume you investigated him?”
“To the limited extent of our ability. I have had four men from the Foreign Office on his trail for the past twenty-four hours, have had his telephone tapped, and have even had secret microphones concealed in his attic bedroom at the club. Unfortunately, the A.I.C. men who installed them apparently did the job backwards, so I fear they have been less than effective. He can hear us, but we cannot hear him. However, since the building is an old one, and fairly well inhabited by mice, I doubt if he ascribes too much importance to the additional sounds of our conversation.”
Homes came to his feet, striding up and down the room, his hands clasped tightly behind him. “So to date you have been unable to earth anything? I mean, able to unearth nothing?”
“Only this,” said Criscroft, reaching into a pocket and producing a small, thin pamphlet. “In the manner of the Purloined Letter it was cleverly concealed by simply leaving it on the top of his dresser, which I must admit is quite suspicious in itself. However, I doubt if you will find it of much use. Our code experts claim it is beyond their ability to solve.”
He handed the small brochure to Homes, who instantly dropped back into his chair to peruse it. I came to stand behind my friend while he examined the publication, and I reproduce its cover below for the benefit of such readers who are still with us.
Homes studied the cover for several moments and then slowly riffled the pages; the small booklet opened almost by itself to a page which illustrated a variety of cocktail shakers. He then turned several more pages, noting the detailed and colourful drawings and photographs of the items therein, and then shut the pamphlet with a dark frown upon his face.
“Schlock!” Criscroft cried, noting his brother’s expression. “What is it?”
Homes turned a worried face in his direction.
“You can see the extreme care that has gone into the preparation of this booklet,” Homes said heavily. “Certainly they would not have gone to this trouble just to embarrass your one club. I suggest the plot is far more sinister, and that in all probability they have infiltrated many more, if not, actually, all the clubs of London!”
Criscroft paled. “No!”
“I fear so. However, the game is early on, and there still may be time to scotch their nefarious plot.” He shook his head and stared at the pamphlet once again. “There can be little doubt that this plan is costing them a pretty penny. It would undoubtedly, therefore, help to know the source of their finances.”
“Raffle tickets?” I suggested helpfully.
He shook his head a trifle impatiently. “No, no, Watney! A plan this costly would not depend upon anything as uncertain as the proceeds of a raffle. Besides, what would they use as a prize? They are already using all standard items as part of their scheme.”
Homes came to his feet. “No, the answer must lie, at least in part, with this steward Sean O’Callahan. If you will permit me to change to more suitable raiment, I should like to study this situation at first hand.”
For a moment Criscroft looked a trifle upset. “You are not a member, of course,” he began, and then shrugged. “If worse comes to worst, I shall just have to tell them you are my brother.”
The Anathema Club, of which Criscroft had the honor to be a member, was an ancient and sturdy edifice located on the edge of Interdit Park, and as I entered the hallowed precincts I felt, as always, a touch of pride in just being British, as well as a wave of fury at the miscreants who dared to jeopardize all that the club stood for with their foul scheme.
Criscroft led the way to the pantry and then excused himself, leaving Homes and me to our own devices. With the briefest of glances about the tiled kitchen, Homes made his way to the small attic room which served the steward as a bed-chamber. O’Callahan, it appeared, was out shopping, but two A.I.C. men were there, pretending to dust the furniture, and Homes nodded to them distantly before beginning his search.
From my position near the doorway I watched as he bent to peer beneath the bed, examined the closet and its contents carefully, studied the dresser drawers in great detail, and then walked over to pick up an open envelope which lay on the top of a small desk in the corner. One of the A.I.C. men interrupted his task, moving closer.
“It’s only the morning post,” said he with a faint sneer. “We’ve already gone through it. There is nothing of importance there, Mr. Homes.”
Homes acknowledged the statement with a cool nod, but still proceeded to raise the flap of the envelope and withdraw the note contained therein. A small rectangle of greenish-colored paper fluttered to the desk as he unfolded the brief note and perused it. His eyes widened as he scanned the lines, and then went instantly to the small bit that had fallen free. It was obvious that only the greatest of effort prevented him from exclaiming aloud.
“Homes!” I cried. “What is it?”
With a warning glance in the direction of the two A.I.C. men, he shook his head meaningfully at me, and then quite casually slipped both the note and the small bit of greenish paper into his pocket.
“I don’t believe there is anything more for us here, Watney,” he said, winking at me. “I suggest we return to Bagel Street and take up our investigation in more comfortable surroundings.” And he winked at me again.
“Homes!” I exclaimed. “You have something in your eye! Permit me—”
“Later,” he said savagely, and strode through the doorway.
It was only as our hansom was rattling across the cobblestones of Upper Regent Street that he allowed himself to relax. “‘There is nothing of importance there, Mr. Homes’!” he said with biting mimicry. “The fools! An obvious clew under their noses, and all they can think to say is: ‘There is nothing of importance there, Mr. Homes’!”
“But, Homes,” I said, staring at him anxiously, “what was there of importance?”
“Only this!” he replied, and thrust the note in my direction. I took it and perused it rapidly; its message was quite succinct. Sir (it read): When last you visited my establishment, you forgot the enclosed. And it was signed, The Butcher. I looked up queryingly.
“But, Homes,” I said, “I see nothing of importance here.”
“Then you are ready to join the Metropolitan Police and the A.I.C.,” he replied acidly. His hand came out to retrieve the note. “The Butcher! That can only be Professor Marty, the most dangerous criminal in all England, and a man who earned the appellation of The Butcher for all too obvious reasons! And you may be sure, Watney, that where Professor Marty is involved, we are dealing with a foe worthy of our mettle!”
“And that little bit of greenish paper that was enclosed?”
“That?” Homes smiled grimly. “Only the answer, I am sure, to the major problem of this entire case—that of their finances!”
“But I do not understand any of this, Homes!” I exclaimed.
“Later,” he said, and leaned forward. “Here we are in Bagel Street, and we have much to do if this problem is to be resolved in time.”
He thrust a coin at our cabbie and hustled me to the pavement even before our hansom had stopped. I followed him up the stairway to our rooms, to find him already dragging two reference volumes from their shelf; he carried them to the table and turned up the lamp. His next move was to carefully remove the small bit of colored paper from his pocket and place it gently upon the desk top, after which he bent down and began to pore over the opened books, each one page by page. I came to stand beside him, staring down at the small rectangle, and then reached out to pick it up.
“Why, Homes,” I exclaimed in disappointment, “it is only a postage stamp. Perforated, I see, and from Ulster Premiums—”
“Only a postage stamp, Watney?” He looked at me askance, and then closed the two reference books with a slap. “Do you realize how rare this stamp is? Not only do Stanley Gibbons and Scott fail to list it, but they fail to list any issue marked Premium for any country at all! And pray note the superb mint condition, with the original gum intact, which adds immeasurably to its value! Why, this stamp must be worth a fortune! Five or six of them, released at judicious times on the philatelic market, could easily furnish the funds these miscreants require for their infernal plot.”
“But, Homes,” I protested, “who could possibly be behind this scheme? Certainly the Professor would not do it out of sheer malice; he must be employed by some group. Who could they possibly be?”
“Ah,” said Homes, clasping his hands behind his back and beginning to stride the room. “That is the question! That and, of course, the best way to foil them.” He paused a moment, frowning. “As to the people behind this dastardly plot, I am sure the answer lies in that pamphlet, if only I am clever enough to solve it.” A grim smile crossed his lips. “As to the best means of stopping these culprits, I believe I already see a rift in that loot.” His eyes came up. “Would you do me a favor, Watney?”
“Gladly, Homes,” I replied warmly.
“Then I should like you to visit my brother at his club and arrange for me to secure a list of all club stewards in the city of London. And haste, I might mention, is of the essence.”
“You may count on me, Homes,” I began, but he had already fallen back into his chair and was reaching for the small brochure. It was obvious that he had already forgotten my presence. Pausing only long enough to have lunch, I set about my errand.
It was upon my return, as I was mounting the stairs, that I heard a sharp sound that sent me dashing up the remaining steps to burst through the door. It was only Homes smiting himself on the forehead.
“Of course,” he muttered bitterly. “I am a fool! The answer was staring me in the face all along!”
“Homes!” I exclaimed, hurrying forward. “What is it?”
“Look,” said he, and pointed a quivering finger at the sheet of paper he had been covering with his calculations. “Note this: if you take the letters in the name ‘Professor Marty’ and if you eliminate all duplication of letters, you will find you have, respectively, the following: P, R, O, F, E, S, M, A, T, and Y. Placing them in alphabetical order, they then come out: A, E, F, M, O, P, R, S, T, and Y.”
He stared at me calculatingly, his eyes bright with excitement. “Now, Watney, if we assign a numerical value to these letters, with A as 1 and Z as 26, then note how they come out!” His fingers hastily marked the numbers down; he looked up triumphantly. “Watney, they come out 1, 5, 6, 13, 15, 18, 19, 20, and 25!”
“Indubitably, Homes,” I agreed doubtfully, and stared at him.
He smiled at my puzzled expression. “Let us now apply these numbers to the pages of this pamphlet,” he said gently, “and see what items they refer to.” His thin fingers began to turn the pages. “Ah, here we are! Page 1 deals with Upright Pianos; page 5 with Tapestries. Page 6 lists various Hassocks; page 13, Eggbeaters; and page 15, Rotisseries. Page 16 illustrates Ermines; page 18, Bicycles; page 19, Emeralds; page 20 with a variety of Lamps, while page 25 fittingly closes our solution by showing Shovels!”
“Really, Homes,” I said worriedly. “You should eat at more regular intervals—”
He waved this aside. “The initials of these items, Watney! They spell UP THE REBELS!” He tossed his quill aside and came to his feet. “I knew that name Sean O’Callahan had a foreign ring! I shall be greatly surprised if, upon investigation, we do not find it to be of Irish origin! I should have realized from the word Ulster that such a possibility existed!”
He nodded his head in conviction. “Think, Watney! To-morrow is the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Sunday uprising, and what better revenge could they ask than to attack Britain at its most vital spot?—the sanctity of the British club!”
I clasped his hand. “Homes, you have done it again! Only you could have solved the mystery of the brochure in the manner in which you did!” My face fell. “But even knowing this, how are we to stop this vile and despicable scheme?”
“Ah, Watney,” he replied, “that is already attended to. You have a list of the stewards?”
“I do,” I said with complete honesty, and handed it over.
“Then to work!” said he, and drew from his desk drawer huge sheets of identical stamps. “I shall stuff these into envelopes, and then you shall address them to the list of stewards.”
He noted my baffled expression and laughed, albeit ruefully. “A pity, Watney, but there was no other way! While you were visiting Criscroft I was not idle. A friend of mine who is a printer hastily arranged for the printing of these perfect facsimiles.”
“But, Homes!” I objected. “If one stamp is so valuable, will not this great number allow them even vaster funds for their foul designs?”
“Ah, Watney,” he replied, shaking his head sadly. “It is easily seen that you know nothing of philately. Where one stamp is a great rarity, and worth a fortune, tens of thousands of that same stamp render the entire issue worthless. No, Watney, you may be assured that when these thousands of stamps enter into circulation, the entire scheme will fail!” He patted me on the head and then turned to his desk. “And now to work!”
It was several mornings later that I entered the breakfast room of our quarters, picked up the newspaper, and was just beginning to go through the columns in search of some crime report which might serve as a spring-board to Homes’s analytical ability, when my friend came into the room and seated himself opposite me.
“Ah, Watney,” said he, spearing a curry, “do you find anything of interest for two idle investigators in your perusal of the news?”
“Very little, Homes,” I replied, scanning the leaders. “I do note a case of bankruptcy at some Coupon Trading Company—whatever they are—but such crimes are probably best left to the solicitors.”
“I agree,” he said, reaching for the cream.
“Although,” I added, reading further, “I do note that the president of the company blames his misfortunes on something he calls forgery.”
“Forgery?” Homes sat erect. “A dire crime, Watney! And one which no true Englishman will warrant! A note to the authorities offering my services, if you please!”
Postscript:
Criscroft Homes was kind enough to help me prepare this particular adventure for publication, and in the course of proof-reading the cover of the infamous brochure for Ulster Premiums he suddenly paused with a frown.
“I note, Watney,” said he, looking up at me, “that further along in this tale you make the statement that only Schlock could have solved this case in the manner in which he did.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. “Why?”
He pointed to the booklet cover. “Because,” he said, smiling at me proudly, “you were quite correct!”
I am always pleased to be the recipient of a compliment, especially one coming from Criscroft, although in this case I have no idea of why he so flattered me.
Dr. W
Editors’ Note: We had no more of an eagle-eye than good old Schlock. The acrostic on the brochure cover—the message spelled out by the initials of all the words—slipped past our imperceptive eyes as blithely as they slipped past Schlock’s … Ah, Watney, we salute your obtuseness; pray move over and hand us the dunce cap.…