The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarters

My notes for the early part of the year ’65 contain several instances of more than passing interest for those who follow the adventures of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes. There was, for example, his brilliant solution to the mysterious gunning down of a retired boilermaker, a case which I find listed as The Adventure of the Shot and the Bier; and there is also reference to the intriguing business of the hitchhiking young actress, noted in my journal as The Adventure of the Ingénue’s Thumb.

It was not, however, until the month of June that a problem of major import came his way, allowing him full scope for his feats of analytical legerdemain, as well as once again permitting him to be of service to his country. In my case-book I find the curious affair noted as The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarters.

It was early afternoon and I had returned to our quarters at 221B Bagel Street; I had been in the midst of a most interesting tracheotomy when I discovered I had somehow forgotten my sutures at home. I went to my room and obtained them, and was passing the sitting-room when I chanced to peer in to find Homes bending absorbedly over his laboratory bench. At the sight of me his face lit up with an excited smile.

“Ah, Watney!” said he with pleasure. “You are just in time! The olives, if you please.”

I hastened to comply, and a moment later found myself with a dry martini in my hand and a napkin on my lap. Homes decanted a beaker of the solution into another glass and seated himself across from me. There was a strange look in his eye, a sure sign that this had not been his first laboratory experiment of the day.

“Watney,” he said, studying the concoction in his hand, “are you busy this afternoon?”

“Nothing that cannot wait,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

He frowned at his drink for several moments. When at last he spoke, however, it was not to answer my query, but rather to pose a second question of his own.

“Tell me, Watney,” he asked slowly, “what do the words ‘leg of mutton sleeves,’ and ‘ruffled hemline,’ and ‘belt in the back’ mean to you?”

I paused, considering his question, and then set my drink aside, tenting my fingers in that pose I had often seen my friend adopt when applying his masterful brain in similar situations.

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “leg of mutton sleeves would undoubtedly be warm, although I should also expect them to be quite greasy. Hemline, of course, is the small village in Germany where the Pied Piper appeared, and after the loss of the children it is scarcely surprising to hear that the village is ruffled. As for belt in the back—” I hesitated a moment and then gave up. “I’m afraid I do not know, Homes,” I admitted, “but I must say it sounds a bit cowardly.”

To my surprise he did not smile at my failure to define the last phrase. Instead his frown increased and he shook his head.

“To tell you the truth,” he said slowly, “I also do not know. However, to satisfy your curiosity regarding these strange words, they were contained in a rather garbled message I received from my brother Criscroft this morning. He further stated that he would drop by after lunch, so possibly we shall soon have clarification.” He sat up, his frown disappearing. “Ah! Even sooner than I expected, for here, if I am not mistaken, is Criscroft now.”

There was the tramp of footsteps on the stairway; a moment later the door swung back and Criscroft was framed in the opening. He refused my offer of a drink almost curtly, a sure sign of his perturbation, and then flung himself in a chair, regarding the two of us in brooding silence for several moments before he spoke.

“Schlock,” he said at last, his voice fraught with worry, “a major crisis has arisen, and I fear I must once again ask your help.”

“Of course,” Homes said, leaning forward, his eyes warm with sympathy. “How can I be of aid?”

Criscroft continued to frown darkly. “Plans are missing,” he said heavily. “Vital plans. If they are not recovered before evening, I fear England shall suffer greatly!”

Homes studied his brother’s rigid features and then nodded. “Tell me all.”

“Yes.” Criscroft came to his feet and began striding the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. After several turns up and down he came back to stand before us, staring at the rug fiercely, putting his thoughts in order.

“Yes,” he repeated, and brought his eyes up. “Well, the situation is this. As you may or may not know, Britain is suffering gravely from a serious lack of exports, and every means for alleviating the situation has been considered. The Queen’s Council on Economic Affairs has determined that priority in the recovery plan shall be given to placing England in first position in the world of fashion.” His hand came up abruptly, forestalling interruption. “Do not take the matter lightly! France owes much of its economic strength to women’s styles, and we are determined that this rich lode of foreign exchange shall not remain untapped.

“To this end, therefore, the Council has arranged a contest in which designers from every country have been asked to submit their designs. To ensure that fairness prevails, and to reduce the possibility of information leaking out, no sketches or pictures of any kind have been permitted. The designs are being submitted in the form of simple patterns, and the same group of dressmakers—under international supervision—will fabricate all the gowns.”

“So far,” Homes said with a slight frown, “I see little to disturb you to this degree.” His voice became chiding. “Surely you have faith in this country’s designers being easily able to dominate a contest of this—or any other—sort?”

“You do not know the whole unhappy story. Pray allow me to continue. Well, we selected as our entrant a most promising young talent. His name is Donald Orr—head of D. Orr & Company—and in order to free him completely from other preoccupations during the contest, we arranged for him to do his work at Medicinal Manor, the town home of the Earl of Wintergreen. He—” Criscroft paused and eyed Homes sharply. “You spoke?”

“No, no. It is only that I am familiar with Medicinal Manor; the Earl is an old friend of mine. I have been fortunate enough to enjoy the cuisine there several times; Jenny, his cook, is undoubtedly the finest in all London. But I digress—pray forgive me, and continue.”

“Ah! Well, possibly your knowledge of the premises will be of some usefulness. We shall see. To go on, then: Orr completed his work early this morning and then hid his patterns before he left the Manor for a brief walk. Unfortunately, he has spent some time recently in the American colonies, and he apparently forgot his ‘Look Right, Look Left,’ because when he stepped from a kerb on his way back, he was struck by a dray, and even now is in St. Barts in bad state.”

I sat up in alarm. “If I can be of any assistance—”

“No, no! He is in competent hands; a nurse’s aide is caring for him. The thing is, he is unconscious, and the only words he spoke before he lapsed into his unconscious condition was to say he had hidden the plans in the kitchen. Those phrases I sent you this morning were found on a slip of paper in his pocket. Needless to say, we have searched the culinary area thoroughly, but without success. The Earl was not informed of the purpose of Orr’s visit, and therefore can be of no aid. Frankly, unless you can help, we are lost!”

Criscroft’s voice sank even lower.

“The contest ends to-night, and the dressmakers will work until dawn in order to present the gowns early to-morrow morning. If we are unable to locate the patterns by six o’clock this evening, England will have initiated a contest in which it will not even have an entrant! You can easily imagine the shame of it!”

Homes peaked his fingers and closed his eyes as he considered the complex problem. At last he opened them, looking up and speaking thoughtfully.

“To attempt to solve the code contained in those garbled phrases,” said he, “would undoubtedly take more time than we have at our disposal. No; our only hope is to once again search the kitchen at the Manor, but this time to do it with more intelligence.” He came to his feet swiftly. “If you will allow me time to dress suitably, I shall join you at once.”

Criscroft shook his head sadly. “Much as I should like to accompany you, and vital as this case is, I fear it cannot be. To-day is our weekly whist at the club.” His eyes came up, stern and demanding. “But remember this, Schlock—England’s future is in your hands!”

“I shall not forget!” Homes promised in a ringing voice, and then swung about, perplexed. “Now, what was I looking for a minute ago? Ah, yes. My deerstalker!”

It was less than an hour later that our hansom cab deposited us at the door of Medicinal Manor in Payne Square. Homes paid the cabby and we mounted the steps; the pull-cord was finally answered by Rhett, the old butler. His wizened face broke into a smile of delight as he recognized my companion.

“Mr. Homes, sir! It’s good to see you again! Come in, come in.”

“Hello, Rhett,” Homes said genially, and followed the bent figure into the cavernous hallway, with me close at his heels. “Is your master at home?”

The old retainer’s smile disappeared as he closed the door and turned to face us. He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Homes. He has taken the children off for the day, to take their minds from the troubles, poor tykes. I fear you have come at a bad time, sir.”

“Troubles? Bad time?” Homes inquired sharply. “How is that?”

Old Rhett spread his veined hands apologetically. “Well, sir, first there was that tragic affair of that young gentleman, Mr. Orr, going out and stepping beneath a horse, and shortly thereafter Jenny went sneaking from the kitchen with something under her apron—undoubtedly food—and locked herself in her room, refusing to open the door.”

Homes frowned. “Jenny? Locked herself in her room?”

“Yes, sir. Undoubtedly a fit of temper caused by too many guests. However, I have been given instructions by the gentlemen from the Home Office to give you the run of the house, so—” His gnarled hand waved gently towards the interior of the house. “If you require me for anything, sir, you have only to ring.”

“Thank you, Rhett,” Homes said in a kindly voice, and led me in the direction of the kitchen. On our way he paused a moment outside of the cook’s room, but the only sound to be heard from within was a faint whirring, as of some kind of machine. With a shrug at the inexplicable sounds made by women in a temper, Homes continued down the passage.

The vast kitchen was strangely empty without the presence of Jenny, and Homes stared about silently for several moments, his sharp eyes taking in the two huge wood ranges, the ice-chest, as well as the coffee-grinder in one corner.

“Well, Watney,” he said thoughtfully at last, “we have little time. We had best get right to it.”

He began his search with the ovens, and then considered the other modern appliances; all proved empty of anything useful to his purpose. He then attacked the cupboards, going through them carefully, after which he moved to the drawers. Each was withdrawn, peered into intently, and then replaced. The closets followed, and when these had also been inspected without yielding any clew, Homes stepped back, frowning blackly.

“If Mr. Orr said he hid them in the kitchen,” he muttered, almost to himself, “then he hid them in the kitchen! He would have no reason to lie. We must be overlooking something.”

“But what, Homes?” I asked in bewilderment.

“I do not know!” he replied savagely, and then bent, as a last resort, to look beneath the sink. The rubbish bin there was filled to capacity; there was a sudden startled gasp from my companion, and then he swiftly reached out to pick something from the top of the bin. He arose with a strange light in his eye. I moved closer; he was holding a plain card-board tube about twelve inches in length and approximately one inch in diameter.

“But, Homes!” I cried. “What is it? Why are you studying it so intently?”

“Later, Watney,” he exclaimed, and in two strides had returned to the cupboard counter, staring down at it with a gleam in his eye. I followed his glance, but all I could note were some crumbs and a knife lying back against a bread-board. Homes was nodding to himself in satisfaction; his whole attitude clearly demonstrated that he had discovered some valuable clew overlooked by the previous searchers.

“Of course!” he muttered to himself. “I am a fool! I should have seen it at once!”

“Seen what, Homes?” I asked, puzzled by the entire affair.

“There is no time now,” he said, turning to me swiftly. “Ring for the butler at once.”

Completely mystified, I hastened to follow his orders, and a moment later old Rhett had shuffled into the room. Homes moved forward, his eyes gleaming. “You say his Lordship has taken the children off for the afternoon. Did he perchance take them for a picnic tea in Hempstead Heath?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Homes,” said the butler in utter amazement, “although how you knew it, I cannot imagine!”

“No matter,” Homes said in triumph, and leaned closer. “What part of the heath would he be most likely to visit? Come, man, think! Time is of the essence!”

“His Lordship usually favors the Poet’s Corner—” Rhett began in his quavering voice, but Homes had already disengaged himself and was moving quickly and purposefully towards the front of the house.

He trotted rapidly down the steps with me at his heels and flagged down the first hansom that appeared, jumping into it and pulling me after. “Hempstead Heath, driver!” he cried urgently. “The Poet’s Corner! And hurry!”

We came clattering up through Swiss Cottage in the direction of Golder’s Green while I hung on desperately to the sides of the swaying vehicle and tried to make sense out of what was happening. Homes was leaning forward eagerly, his hair whipping about his face, as if in this way to somehow hasten our passage. The mysterious card-board tube was clutched fiercely in one hand.

“Homes!” I cried. “Pray explain! This whole thing is completely confusing.”

“Is it?” he asked over his shoulder, and then leaned back, coming into the greater protection of the cab. He turned to me with a wide smile on his face. “We have ample time before we arrive at the heath, so allow me to give you a brief lesson in logic.”

He raised the card-board tube, using it to tick off his points against the fingers of his other hand.

“One: we know the patterns were hidden in the kitchen. Two: they are not there now. The only possible conclusion to be reached is that they have been removed. But, excepting for the children, only two people have left the house—Mr. Donald Orr and his Lordship. Certainly there is no reason to suspect Mr. Orr, which only leaves us his Lordship. Therefore it was he who removed them.”

I sat up in alarm. “The Earl of Wintergreen a traitor?”

“No, no, Watney! Remember that his Lordship was not familiar with the purpose of Mr. Orr’s presence in his home, nor of the contest. True, he removed the patterns, but he did it inadvertently.”

“Inadvertently?” I exclaimed.

“Precisely! You may recall the crumbs on the cupboard counter. Certainly Jenny, before locking herself in her room for some unknown reason, would not have left her kitchen in such a state of disarray. She is far too well-trained for that. Therefore, somebody used it after her. Since it could only have been his Lordship, and since he was taking the children out, it was fairly easy to deduce a picnic tea. Hempstead Heath being the closest park, it was logical to assume he had taken them there.”

I shook my head in admiration. “It is so clear when you explain it, Homes.” I said, and then frowned. “But you have still said nothing of the missing patterns.”

He raised the thin card-board tube he had been holding so tightly. “This, Watney, is an empty container for a roll of waxed paper. When his Lordship discovered he was out of waxed paper in which to wrap his sandwiches, he quite naturally searched for a substitute, and found the patterns. Being unaware of their true importance—”

I stared at him, aghast. “Homes! You mean?—”

“Exactly! Let us pray we are not too late!” He bent forward again as our cab swerved wildly into the heath and raced along the winding dirt road that led to the Poet’s Corner. Suddenly Homes raised himself, peering forward excitedly. “That carriage!” he cried. “It is Wintergreen’s—he is leaving!”

Our driver leaned down from his box, shouting tensely. The spirit of the chase had undoubtedly entered him as well. “Shall I go after him, sir?”

“No, no!” Homes cried. “Stop here! And wait for us!” He flung a coin in the direction of our jehu and dragged me from the cab even before it had fully stopped. “Watney! Quickly, before the wind snatches them away! The sandwich-wrappers!”

We rushed about, picking up the pieces of paper and smoothing them out, attempting to get them all, and then at last paused, panting, when the last visible one had been rescued. Homes’s sharp eyes scanned the landscape, but as far as we could see, none of the wrappers had escaped us. With the precious pieces of paper held tightly, my friend ran back to the hansom and entered. I climbed wearily in behind him and fell against the seat, fighting for my breath. The driver instantly whipped up his horses, heading for the City.

“And now, Homes?” I asked, when at last I was able to speak.

“Now?” he responded, leaning back with a triumphant smile on his face. “Now we shall deliver these patterns to Criscroft at his club, after which our obligation will have been fulfilled. It has been a pretty problem, and I believe this evening I shall relax from it with a few bars of Hershey on my violin. If you wish you may turn the pages.”

“I should like that, Homes,” I exclaimed warmly, “but I really do think I should return to the hospital. The chap I left there this morning has been remarkably patient, but still—”

It was well past the hour of noon when, exhausted by our efforts of the previous day, I entered the breakfast room to find Homes already there before me, the afternoon newspaper at his elbow, attacking his first kipper with Vigor, a new sauce he found to his liking. At the sight of me he glanced up from his journal, and then nodded as he answered the unspoken question in my eyes.

“Yes, Watney,” he said gently, with a smile on his lips. “Our efforts of yesterday were crowned with success. Look for yourself.”

He reached across the table, placing the folded journal on my plate; I seated myself and drew it to me. There was a picture on the front page; the headline above it read: ENGLAND WINS FASHION CONTEST, while below it, in smaller letters, was the caption: Miniskirt Is Born!

I frowned in puzzlement at the strange words, glanced at the picture, and then raised dazed eyes to my companion.

“Homes! Do you suppose—?”

He returned my horrified look equably. “It did occur to me last evening that possibly the Earl and the children had not eaten all their sandwiches, but had taken some home. However”—he shrugged—“one should never quarrel with success.” His smile dismissed the discussion. “And now, Watney, since you have the journal in hand, what other news do you find that might be of interest to us?”

I glanced at the prize-winning costume once again, and then hastily turned the page, running my eye down the columns, searching. Suddenly my eyebrows shot up.

“Homes!” I exclaimed. “Indeed there is! His Lordship, the Earl of Wintergreen, has asked assistance in locating his missing cook!”

Homes sat up in alarm. “Jenny has disappeared?”

“Yes,” I said, and read further into the article. “It says here that when last seen, she was wearing a dress with puffed sleeves, a pleated skirt, and with a sash behind.”

“With that description there should be no trouble in locating her,” Homes said thoughtfully, and laid aside his napkin. “A telegram to his Lordship offering my services, if you will, Watney!”