The Adventure of the Disappearance of Whistler’s Mother

It was seldom, indeed, that the successful conclusion of a case left my friend Mr. Schlock Homes dissatisfied and unhappy; but one such affair did occur in the latter part of ’66, and I relate the case to demonstrate how the best intentions of the finest of men can at times lead to unwanted results.

The months preceding this particular affair had been busy ones, and reference to my case-book for that period reveals numerous examples in which his analytical genius was given full opportunity for expression. There was, for example, his brilliant solution to the strange affair of the American baseball manager who went berserk, which I find noted as The Adventure of the Twisted Lip; and shortly thereafter his attention was drawn to the mysterious curse placed upon the south forty of a local grange owned by a prominent manufacturer of stomach drugs. I am sure my readers will recognize the case, which I later delineated as The Adventure of the Bane in the Lower Tract.

One might reasonably have imagined, this being so, that when at long last a dropping off of activity afforded my friend a well-needed chance for rest he would have been pleased; but such was not the case. Boredom was always distasteful to Homes, and I was not surprised, therefore, to return to our quarters at 221B Bagel Street one late, blustery afternoon in October to find my friend, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dressing-gown, sprawled out in a chair before the fireplace, glowering fiercely into the flames.

Nor did he greet me in his customary manner, but came to his feet at my entrance and moved to the window restlessly, scowling down at the pavement.

I set aside my bag, removed my greatcoat and bowler, and was just turning to the sideboard when a sharp ejaculation caused me to swing about and contemplate Homes. He was leaning forward, staring down at the street in sudden excitement, his entire attitude expressing inordinate interest.

“Homes!” I exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Come here, Watney,” said he, and drew the curtains further apart as I obediently hurried to his side. His thin finger pointed downward, quivering with excitement. “What do you make of that poor fellow there? Harrowed, is he not?”

My glance followed the direction of his finger. The figure to which Homes was referring was dashing madly from one side of the street to the other, studying the numerals of the houses in obvious agitation. Despite the dank chill of the day he wore neither cape nor beaver; his hair was tousled, his weskit awry, and his manner extremely disturbed.

“Harrowed?” I repeated wonderingly, watching the eccentric path woven by the man below. “In my opinion, medically speaking, he appears not so much harrowed as ploughed.”

“No matter,” Homes replied with barely concealed triumph. “The important fact is that he is coming to visit us, for you will note he has paused before our doorstep, and even now is entering. And here, if I am not mistaken, is our visitor now.”

Homes was, as usual, correct, for there was the sound of footsteps pounding loudly on the stairs, and a moment later the door burst open. The disheveled man stood panting upon the threshold, casting his eyes about wildly until they lit on Homes.

“Schlock ’Omes!” he cried in a thick French accent. “Thank le bon Dieu I ’ave found you in!”

At closer sight of our visitor, Homes’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. He hurried forward, taking our perturbed guest by the arm and leading him to an easy chair beside the fireplace.

“Duping!” he cried. “My Lord, man, what is the trouble? What brings you to London? And in this sorry state?” He turned to me, his eyes glowing. “Watney, this is none other than my old friend from Paris, Monsieur C. Septembre Duping! You may recall that back in ’41 I was able to be of some slight assistance to him in that sinister business of the simian with the inclination for strangling women and stuffing them up chimneys.”

“Of course,” I replied warmly, my eyes fixed upon our famous visitor with admiration. “As I recall, I even recorded the case in my notes as The Adventure of the Monk’s Habit.”

“Precisely,” Homes agreed, and swung back to our guest, dropping into a chair across from him and leaning forward sympathetically. “Septembre, pray tell us what is bothering you.”

The man seated facing him took a deep breath and then nodded. The warmth of the room after the raw weather outdoors had obviously done much to relax him, as well as the fact that I had hastened to furnish him with a whisky, taking one myself to keep him company.

“Yais,” he said heavily, and raised troubled eyes to my friend’s face.” ’Omes, a terrible thing ’as ’appened. I know you are too occupé to come to Paris, but I still wished for ze benefit of your analytical brain.”

“Of course,” Homes replied warmly. “What is the problem?”

Our guest laid aside his empty glass and hesitated a moment, as if to emphasize the extreme gravity of the matter. When at last he spoke, the very quietness of his tone impressed us with his seriousness. “’Omes, he said slowly, “Whistler’s Mother ’as been stolen!”

If he had expected any great reaction from Homes, he was surely disappointed, for other than a slight narrowing of his eyes, caused by a puff of smoke from the fireplace, my friend’s face remained impassive. “Ah? Most interesting. Pray continue.”

“Yais.” Duping sighed deeply and then plunged ahead. “Well, ze facts are zese. Hier, at ze Louvre, zey ’ave a réception for a new painter ’oo is visiting Paris, and to make ze affair properly impressive, zey arrange it in ze form of a musical soirée, calling ze program ‘’Ello, Dali.’ I mention zis fact only to explain why zere was so unusual-large a crowd zere; how you say, normalment at zis hour ze Louvre is quite empty. Well, to make a long story court, at nine o’clock, when ze musicale is start, Whistler’s Mother is zere, where she ’as been for years. At ten o’clock, when everybody leave—” He spread his hands. “Gone! Wizout a clew!”

Homes, nodded, his eyes fixed on the other’s unhappy expression. “I see.”

“Yais. Well, I imagine you will want ze description.” Our visitor thought a moment, assembling the data in his mind, and then continued. “A black background, and gray. ’Er size, in your English measurements, approximativement five-foot-four by four-foot-nine. As you can well understand, a ’eavy frame, of course. What else? Ah, yais—ze age. About ninety-five years, I believe.” He shook his head sadly. “Let us ’ope she is in good condition when returned, and not damaged or smashed.”

Homes nodded and sprang to his feet, beginning to pace the room, his thin hands clasped tightly behind his back. After several turns he came to stand before our guest, staring down with a frown on his face. “And has a reward been offered?”

Duping shrugged. “Money is no object, ‘Omes. We will pay anyzing for ze return.” He also rose, moving in the direction of the doorway. “We ’ave ze suspicion zat Whistler’s Mother may already ’ave been smuggled out of France, possibly ’ere to England.”

“A natural conclusion,” Homes agreed. “And where are you staying in London?”

“I do not stay. I return at once to Paris. I came only to ask your ’elp.”

“And you shall have it! You may expect to hear from me quite soon, giving you my solution to this puzzle. I shall get right to it this very evening, my dear Septembre.”

“But, ’Omes—I mean, Homes,” I interrupted in disappointment. “You have forgotten. We have tickets for Albert Hall to-night. The Rome Flood-Control Chorus is doing ‘Hold That Tiber.’”

He waved aside my objection almost impatiently. “Duty before pleasure, Watney,” he replied a bit coldly. “Besides, I am not particularly interested in a program consisting solely of popular tunes.”

“But there is also classical music,” I insisted, a bit stung by his tone. “Cyd Caesar is completing the program by playing the ‘Etude Brutus.’”

Homes thought a moment and then shook his head. “In that case it is a pity, but I have already given my word.” He returned his attention to our guest. “One last question, Septembre,” he said softly, staring at the other intently. “And once the return is effected—?”

“We shall ’ang ’er, of course,” Duping replied simply, and closed the door behind him.

No sooner had our guest left than Homes flung himself back into his chair, tenting his fingers, and staring across them towards me with a dark frown on his hawk-like features.

“A tragedy, is it not, Watney?”

“Indeed it is,” I readily agreed. “An old woman kidnapped!”

“No, no!” He shook his head at me impatiently. “You missed the entire point! The tragedy is that a poor wine-stewardess in a night-club should face such a penalty for the mere pilfering of several bottles of wine. Particularly since the poor soul was under the influence at the time and scarcely liable for her actions.”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked bewildered. “I heard nothing to-day of night-clubs or wine-stewardesses. In fact, with the small amount of information Monsieur Duping furnished, I do not see how you can possibly hope to come up with any answer to the puzzle.”

“Small amount of information? Really, Watney, at times I despair of you! Duping gave us more information than we really needed. For example, there was his description of the woman. Obviously, if she is five-foot-four by four-foot-nine, there was no need to inform us that she has a heavy frame. Similarly, if they plan to hang her when and if they get her back, it was scarcely necessary to tell us that her background was black. And being ninety-five years of age, one could automatically assume she would be gray. No, no, Watney! Duping gave us all we require. The real problem is how to handle it.”

He swung about and stared fiercely into the flames of the fireplace, speaking almost as if to himself.

“There is a possibility, of course, that we can not only satisfy Duping but still save the poor old lady’s life. If only—” He nodded to himself several times, and then turned around to face the room, glancing at his time-piece. “A bit early to make our move, though.”

“Really, Homes,” I said, deeply annoyed. “I honestly believe you are pulling my leg. That business before of wine-stewardesses and night-clubs! And now this mysterious muttering you are indulging in! What move, pray, is it too early to make?”

“Why,” Homes replied, surprised, “to break into Professor Marty’s digs, of course.” He noted the expression on my face and suddenly smiled in a kindly fashion. “No, Watney, I am not teasing you. We have at least an hour to spare, so let me explain this sad case to you.”

He leaned in my direction, ticking his points off methodically on his fingers.

“Let us start with Duping’s description of the place where the old lady was last seen and from which she disappeared, this place called the Louvre—or, in English, The Louver. That the place is a night-club is instantly discernible: the fact that normally it was deserted between the hours of nine and ten, long before the most frivolous of French patrons would think of beginning their evening’s entertainment, the presence of music in the form of this ‘Hello, Dali’ revue; and most important, the name, so typical, and so similar to The Venetian Blind or The Window or The Cellar or others which we know to be so popular in Soho to-day. I should not hesitate to predict that its decor consists of louvers painted in green against a puce background. But no matter—let us continue.”

A second finger was bent over to join the first, while I listened in open-mouthed wonder to his brilliant deductions.

“Now, precisely what was this elderly lady doing in this night-club? Obviously, she was not merely an habituée. Duping’s exact words were, ‘Where she ’as been for years.’ Had she been a client, even the most constant, he almost certainly would have worded it differently. He would have said, ‘Where she ’as been in ze ’abit of dropping in for years,’ or something of that nature. Therefore, not being a client, we are forced to the conclusion that she is—or was, rather—an employee of the establishment, and one of long standing, at that.

“But in what position?” He shrugged before continuing. “Well, considering her age and her measurements, I believe we can safely eliminate the positions of waitress and hat-check girl, both of which demand a certain degree of beauty. Matron in the Mesdames? Again, I believe we can disregard this possibility; her exact presence or absence at any particular hour would scarcely have been noted with the exactitude that Duping indicated. And the same holds true, of course, for any of the kitchen staff. Cashier? With her black background it is doubtful if the owners would permit her near the till. There is, therefore, only one position left: Mrs. Whistler could only have been the wine-stewardess!”

A third finger was depressed as I listened, amazed, to this startling demonstration of incontrovertible logic. Homes’s eyes remained half-closed as he continued to clothe the thin facts given by his friend with the warm flesh of his impeccable analysis.

“Now, Watney, consider: How could an old lady like this manage to subject herself to a penalty as severe as hanging in the short period allowed her between the hours of nine and ten? Certainly her crime was not murder, for which the French still maintain the guillotine. It must therefore have been something equally severe in the eyes of her accusers, but short of murder. It must also, of necessity, be something within her power to perform. Recalling that her position was that of a wine-stewardess, and that she had no access to any of the funds of the club, we can only reach one conclusion: that her crime consisted of taking some of the wine stocks. Undoubtedly rare and precious, and therefore probably cognac.”

“But, Homes!” I objected. “Hanging? Just for stealing a few bottles of wine?”

He smiled at me pityingly. “It is apparent you know little of human nature, Watney. In the American colonies, as I am sure you are aware, the penalty for stealing a horse is hanging. And not so long ago punishment even more severe was reserved for anyone taking the King’s deer. Why should France, where their national pride in their liqueurs is paramount, feel any less strongly? No, no! It is the only conclusion consistent with all the facts, and therefore must be the correct one. You know my dictum: when all theories but one have been eliminated, that remaining theory, however improbable—indeed, however impossible—must be the truth—or words to that effect.”

I nodded dumbly. “Now,” Homes went on, “when Duping told us that she had been stolen, you assumed his poor English prevented him from using the word ‘kidnapped.’ Actually, his poor English prevented him from stating what he truly meant—not that she had been stolen, but that she herself had stolen something.”

I could not help but accept the faultless conclusion. “But, Homes,” I said hopefully, “you suggest there were mitigating circumstances?”

“Yes. As I have already said, the poor woman was obviously under the influence of alcohol. You may recall Duping stating that he hoped she would not be ‘smashed’ when apprehended. It is an American slang term apparently becoming popular even in France. In any event, his very fear of this indicates that she stole the bottles in order to drink them—proof positive that her excessive thirst caused her crime in the first place. That she chose a moment when everyone was concentrating on the revue is easily understood. Under normal conditions she would have been too busy serving customers to have succumbed to the temptation to imbibe.”

“But you say you hope to be able not only to satisfy Duping but also save the old lady?”

“There is that possibility.”

“And this somehow involves Professor Marty?”

“Exactly.” He considered me sombrely. “It will mean a bit of a risk to-night, but there is nothing else for it. If you do not care to join me in this venture, I shall not hold it against you. The Professor is undoubtedly the most dangerous man in all England.”

“Nothing on earth could stop me from accompanying you, Homes!” I declared stoutly, and then frowned. “But where does Professor Marty come into this at all?”

He shook his head impatiently at my lack of perception. “Please, Watney! You may recall that when Duping suggested the old lady might even now be in England, I readily agreed. Why? Because the name Whistler is certainly not French, but rather British, and in times of trouble to whom would she turn, if not to her son in England? We can scarcely believe that with her black background her son is free of a taint of malfeasance, and no criminal in England is beyond the scope of knowledge of Professor Marty. No, no! If Whistler’s mother is in England at the moment, you may be sure the Professor is well aware of it. By entering his rooms after he has left on his nightly foray against society, I hope to find proof of the fact. And possibly turn it to the advantage of the poor soul!”

“Bravo, Homes!” I cried, and could not help applauding both his motives and his infallible logic. Unfortunately, at the moment I was holding both a glass and a bottle, and while I shame-facedly hastened to clear up the debris, Homes disappeared into his room to change into more suitable raiment.

It was past the hour of ten when our hansom dropped us around the corner of Professor Marty’s darkened rooms in Limehouse. The night had turned cold, which afforded us a good excuse to keep our collars high and our faces hidden from the denizens of the district, who slunk past us to fade into the growing miasma rising from the river beyond. With a glance in both directions, Homes chose a moment when a swirl of fog momentarily hid us from any passers-by to swiftly mount the steps and apply his skill to the lock. A moment later he was beckoning me to follow; scant seconds more and he had closed the door, and his bull’s-eye lantern was casting its restricted beam about the empty room.

“Quickly, Watney!” he whispered urgently. “We have little time! You take the den and the bedroom, while I examine the kitchen and bath.” He took one look at my opening lips and added coldly, “We are looking for anything that might indicate the presence of the old lady here.”

I nodded and began to close my mouth when I remembered something else. “But I have no lantern, Homes.”

“Use vestas, then, if need be, but hurry!”

He disappeared even as I was fumbling beneath my cape, and an eerie chill swept over me until I had the first one lit and spied a taper on the mantel-piece. A moment later I was shielding the flickering flame and studying the room in which I stood. To me it appeared as any other room, and my heart sank as I realized how ill-equipped I was for a search of this nature, and that I might very well fail my friend. To bolster my spirits I went to the liquor cabinet, and at that moment the beam of Homes’s lantern joined my weaker candle as he returned to the den.

“There is nothing,” he said in a dispirited voice, and then his tone sharpened. “Watney! What are you doing?”

“Nothing—” I began guiltily, but before I could offer my excuses he had dropped down beside me and was reaching past my arm for the contents of the cabinet. A moment later and he was pounding my back in congratulation.

“Watney, you have done it! Good man!”

I stared in bewilderment as he began withdrawing bottles and examining them, muttering half to himself as he did so. “Cordon Bleu, Remy Martin, Napoleon, Courvoisier—excellent! With any luck this should do it!”

“But, Homes!” I interjected. “I do not understand. Do what?”

He swung to me with a fierce light of triumph in his eyes. “My dear Watney! When Duping expressed fear that the old lady would be apprehended in an inebriated state, he was not worrying about her, since he gave no indication of reducing the penalty for her crime. No, he was fearful that the cognacs would be consumed, for they are his main interest. By returning these to him, it is well possible that he will allow the matter to drop, and stop his pursuit of the poor woman.”

His eyes swung about the room. “Quickly! Find me something in which to package these bottles while I pen a brief note to Duping to enclose. The packet to Le Havre leaves on the midnight tide, and by hurrying we can just make it.”

While he bent over the escritoire, I hastily searched the room for wrapping materials, but despite my efforts the best I could find was an old roll of canvas that had been shoved behind a bookcase. I brought it forward hesitatingly and showed it to Homes.

“Ah, well,” he said, shrugging, “it is certainly not the cleanest, for somebody has smeared it with tar or something. However, we have no time for further delays—it will have to do. Help me roll these bottles in it and we will be on our way to the dock. With any luck these will be in Duping’s hands to-morrow, and our problem will have been solved.”

Our exertions of the previous evening kept us both late abed, and it was close to the hour of noon before I came into our breakfast room to find Homes already at the table. He nodded to me pleasantly and was about to speak when our page entered and handed Homes a telegraph form.

I seated myself, unfolded the afternoon journal, and was just reaching for the curried kidney when a sharp exclamation of dismay caused me to glance up. Homes, his face ashen, was staring in horror at the slip of paper in his hand.

“Homes!” I cried. “What is it?”

“I am an idiot!” he muttered bitterly. “An abysmal idiot! I should have anticipated this!”

“Anticipated what, Homes?” I inquired, and for an answer received the telegraph form flung across the table. I read it hastily; its message was succinct. HOMES, YOU HAVE DONE IT AGAIN. WHISTLER’S MOTHER IS ONCE AGAIN IN OUR HANDS AND HUNG, THANKS TO YOU.

“But, Homes!” I exclaimed. “I do not understand!”

“No?” he replied scathingly. “It is easily enough understood. I failed to take into account that the old lady might follow her booty back across the channel and thus fall into their hands! I am a fool! Rather than save her, I actually led her to her death.”

“You must not blame yourself, Homes,” I said with warm sympathy. “You did your best, and no man can do more.”

“I did far too well,” he replied balefully. “Without my help Duping might have searched for the old woman and her cognac for years.” He tried to shake off his black mood, shrugging. “Ah, well! It is too late now to cry over spilt milk. Tell me, Watney, is there anything of a criminal nature in to-day’s journal to help take my mind from this terrible fiasco?”

I hastily abandoned my kidney, perusing the newspaper instead, running my eyes rapidly down one column after another, but without too much success. There was, however, one weak possibility, and in lieu of a more interesting case I offered it.

“There is this, Homes,” I said, studying the article further. “It seems that a very valuable painting was stolen from the French National Gallery. But the dateline is several days old; it may very well be that by this time the trail is much too cold.”

The renewed sparkle in Homes’s eyes told me that he was already well on the road to recovery.

“The time element makes no difference, Watney! A crime is a crime, and the more difficult the case, the better I like it! Besides, we have one bit of information the Sûreté lacks: we know that Professor Marty could not have been involved, for we would have come upon some evidence of it during our search. And eliminating this adversary takes us quite a step forward! A telegram to the authorities offering my services, Watney, if you will!”