The Adventure of the Hansom Ransom

In considering the many adventures I have been fortunate enough to share with my good friend Mr. Schlock Homes, I am forced to the amazing conclusion that his activities following his return from retirement on the Upson Downs put any of his previous efforts to shame. The man seemed determined to make up for the years lost in bee-farming; his energies were prodigious. Nor had he lost any of his remarkable abilities; if anything, the results of his analyses and deductions were more startling than ever.

For example, in going over my notes for the balance of the year ’72, I find reference to cases which not only furthered the incredible legend of Homes, but which also did much to strengthen the ties between our beloved Britain and many of our former colonies. In Tel Aviv, to mention one instance, Homes was able to capture the culprit who fed doped oats to the favorite in the tough Kosher Stakes, a horse noted for its ability on heavy and wet tracks. Readers of these memoirs may recall the affair as The Adventure of the Jewish Mudder and Fodder.

But not all of Homes’s work took him abroad; in August of that year he was of singular service to the noted author, Mr. Stanley Yelling, who was plagiarized in his famous biography, The Tome of the Unknown Soldier. Still more interesting to me, however, was a case which Homes resolved while his mind was on other problems, an affair I find delineated in my journal as The Adventure of the Hansom Ransom.

I had finished my rounds that warm September afternoon and had returned to our quarters at No. 221B Bagel Street to find Homes hunched over his study table, the room full of smoke from the pipe upon which he was puffing furiously, and the floor littered with crumpled scraps of paper from his many calculations. As I entered the room, he turned to me a face pale with bafflement.

“Homes!” I cried, frightened at his wan complexion. I instantly put my bag aside and hurried to the sideboard, pouring a generous tot of brandy. “What is the matter?”

He flourished a sheet of note-paper in my face as I hastily swallowed my drink.

“As ingenious a code as ever I have faced!” said he, grimacing. “It was delivered several hours ago, but as yet I have been unable to decipher it.”

I came to stand beside him and read the telegram over his shoulder. As Homes had so accurately stated, it was obviously in code and presented itself as unintelligible jargon. It read as follows:

“Gotter see yer raht away. Hi’ll stop rahnd yer flat fourish, abaht. ’Arry ’Iggins.”

“Note the beastly cleverness of the writer,” Homes said half-angrily, “intermixing real words with this other nonsense! The word ‘see’ and the word ‘away,’ the word ‘stop’ and the word ‘flat.’ I’ve tried ‘see away stop flat,’ ‘see stop flat away,’ ‘away see flat stop,’ ‘flat stop see away.’” He paused as our doorbell suddenly rang. “But I’m afraid this puzzle must wait, for unless I am mistaken, we are about to have a visitor.”

He hastily straightened his study table as our page boy ushered in a person who was pitiful in appearance. He cringed as he came to a shuffling stop before us, his head bent, his eyes cast down to his cracked shoes, his fingers nervously twisting a worn cap. He stood first on one foot and then on the other as if afraid to raise his head, until Homes took pity on the poor fellow.

“Here,” he said in a kindly tone, “take that basket chair, and tell us your story. Other than the fact that by profession you are a hostler, I know nothing of your problem.”

The man’s face gaped in astonishment as he sank into the chair. Even I, familiar as I am with Homes’s unusual powers, could not see the slightest basis for his deduction. Homes smiled at our confusion.

“It is really quite simple, Watney,” said he, tenting his fingers. “The straight flat crease across the front of the trousers clearly indicates many hours of constant leaning over the edge of something approximately thirty inches from the floor. Since this is the height of a standard feeding bin, we can assume our visitor has something to do with stables. The chalk dust in the crease between the left thumb and forefinger looks suspiciously like Gentian Green, used as a germicide for cleansing saddles. Now, add to this the fact that even as our guest sits there, he unconsciously crooks the fingers of his left hand into the best position for holding reins, and there can be no doubt that for years he served as a hostler.”

Our visitor gaped, his admiration for Homes’s analysis visible on his face. Had he known Schlock Homes as long and as well as I have, he would not have been so surprised. “’Ow yer does it I can’t imagine, Guv’nor,” he said, shaking his head, “but yer dead raht. Me name is ’Arry ’Iggins and I’ve been an ’ustler all me life, mostly down at the Spider and Fly Billiards Parlour. I been so upset by the loss of me boss’s ’ansom I guess I forgot to wash me ’ands.”

He hastily wiped the offending chalk from his fingers and sat more erect.

“What ’appened,” said he, now visibly more at ease, “is some bloke I never seen afore in me life comes over to where I’m waitin’ in front of me boss’s ’ouse, see, an’ me sittin’ up atop the ’ansom like always, and tells me there’s a sucker over at the Spider and Fly wiv more brass than skill, lookin’ for a game. Well, I couldn’t pass that up, could I? Course not, ’specially when the boss don’t usually come down till eleven, so I asks the chap would ’e be so kind as to look arter me ’orse and buggy till I gets back, and off I goes to the Spider and Fly, but when I gets there, there ain’t no more mark than straight cues! So I ’urries back to me ’ansom an’ me rig is gorn!”

He shook his head lugubriously.

“Can’t trust a blinkin’ soul these days,” he said sadly. “Went rahnd t’ the coppers and they wasn’t no more ’elp than a bustid leg! And I’m scared t’ tell me boss. ’E wasn’t too ’appy wiv me before, and this ain’t goin’ t’ make ’im love me no ’arder!”

Homes nodded sympathetically.

“Well,” he said, smiling to make our guest comfortable, “consider me at your service. Tell me, was there anything special about this particular hansom that made it more worthy of stealing than any other? Plastic harness-breeching-straps, perhaps? Imported check-reins? Gold-embossed hub-caps?”

“Naw!” said our guest disdainfully. “Can’t imagine anyone floggin’ that ’ansom wiv so many new ones practically askin’ to be stole. This was mostly used for shoppin’, this ’ansom was, only the big four-in-’and is in the shop wiv a sprung yoke, so me boss asks me to drive ’im abaht in this one. Matter of fact, I figures at first the chap just got tired of waitin’ and went orf and me ’orse followed ’im, me ’orse bein’ a friendly-type beast.”

“A possibility,” Homes conceded. “And may I ask who your employer might be?”

“Well,” said the little man, “’e might be the Queen o’ the May, but ’e ain’t. I ’eard that one on the telly,” he added in hasty apology. “Actually, ’e’s some big-wheel foreigner from be’ind the Iron Curtain. ’Eads up their Embassy ’ere in Lunnon. But we ain’t supposed to mention no names.”

“I see.” Homes nodded. “And the man you left in charge of your hansom?”

“Never seen the bloke before,” said our guest, “but ’e was a big one, ’e was! Seven foot tall at least, twenty stone of weight if an ounce, wiv a bad limp in one leg an’ a big brush of orange ’air.”

Homes shot erect in his chair, his nostrils flaring.

“’Omes!” I cried. “I mean, Homes! What is it?”

“Later!” he said fiercely, and turned his attention back to our visitor. “Is there any other information you can furnish which might be of help?”

“That’s abaht the lot, Guv’nor,” the little man said, sad to be of such little use in his own behalf. He sounded wistful. “I don’t suppose yer would consider takin’ on a little no-account case like this, would yer, sir?”

“I would not miss it for the world!” Homes replied fervently, and came to his feet. “Well, since I imagine you can be reached at this Spider and Fly Billiards Parlour at any time, it is needless for you to leave an address. Be assured I shall get right to it and advise you of the outcome of my investigation as soon as possible.”

He waved aside the small man’s profuse attempts to thank him, and was already pacing the floor, his brow furrowed in thought and his hands locked behind his back, even before our page had shown our guest to the street.

“Really, Homes,” I said in mild surprise. “I have seldom seen you so wrought. And merely over a hansom whose horse has undoubtedly wandered away!”

“Are you deaf?” he inquired, swinging upon me suddenly. “Sometimes I fear for you, Watney! Did you not hear the description of the man with whom our small friend left his hansom? Think, Watney, think! Does it not strike a familiar chord?”

I considered the little man’s description carefully: seven feet tall, twenty stone of weight, a bad limp in one leg, and a shock of orange hair. I was about to deny any recognition when I saw a faint chance. “You are thinking of Professor Marty, Homes?” I asked. “The one they call—with reason—The Butcher?”

“We cannot overlook the possibility, Watney!”

“True, Homes,” I conceded, thinking about it. “Certainly Professor Marty never does anything on a small scale. Should he now be involved in a scheme to steal all means of transport, within a very short time he could bring all London to its feet!”

“I doubt that is his motive,” said Homes, shaking his head. “With the shortage of parking space, such an effort would be doomed to failure. Where in all London would he find room for more than two or three?” He paced the floor in thought, seeking an answer. Suddenly his head came up. “Unless—”

“Yes, Homes?” I asked eagerly.

“Our client said the hansom was an old one, did he not?”

“He did.”

“I believe I have it!” Homes exclaimed and fell into a chair, beginning to scribble on pieces of paper with pen and ink.

“Homes,” I said reproachfully, “with a problem involving the Professor upon us, you have gone back to the puzzle of the note delivered this morning!”

“No, no,” said he, continuing to scribble. “I should like to, for it bothers me to leave it unsolved, but what I am writing is for the Professor. If you would be so kind as to have our page round up the Bagel Street Regulars, I am sure we will be in a position to scotch this nefarious scheme of the Professor’s in a very short time!”

To this end I hastened to summon our page and give him proper instructions, while Homes—reminded by me, I am afraid—returned to the puzzle of the morning message, but before he could get much beyond “stop flat see away” and “stop see away flat,” the Bagel Street Regulars came swarming up the stairs, under the leadership of a ragged small street arab known, in the current fashion of name and initial, as Hasser I. Homes put aside the cryptic message, a bit reluctantly, I thought, and gave them their orders.

“A tall man, at least seven feet in height,” said he sternly, while they hung on every word. “He weighs about twenty stone. He limps badly and has bright orange hair. I have identical notes for each of you; the one who locates him will give it to him. I suggest you split up, each taking a different billiard parlor, since these seem to be his usual base of operations. And tuppence-ha’penny extra for the brave lad who first locates him!”

I turned to him as the lads fled eagerly down the steps, each clutching his note tightly. “Your note to the Professor?” I asked, mystified.

“Merely an invitation to him for a chat,” he said enigmatically, and returned at once to the crumpled sheet of paper upon his study table. And so passed the following hour, silent except for his occasional mutter, sotto voce, “‘Flat see away stop’? ‘Flat stop away see’? It is impossible! ‘Away flat stop see’? ‘See spot—I mean stop—’ But here is one of our Regulars back already, I do believe.”

It was Hasser I, and he catapulted into the room, panting.

“I have located him, Mr. Homes!” he said proudly, fighting for breath. “He is involved in a snooker game at a billiard parlor in Limehouse called The Quicksand Club.”

“You gave him my note?” Homes demanded fiercely.

“I did, indeed, sir. He was in the middle of a long run and said he would be along as soon as he finished.”

“Good,” Homes said, and reached for his purse. “Here is a shilling for each lad involved in the hunt, as well as the extra bonus I promised you. Well done, Hasser I!” Homes fell back into his chair as the lad went clattering down the steps. “Well, Watney,” he continued, as the front door slammed, “I hope this affair with the Professor can soon be settled, for the matter of this infernal coded message is beginning to prey upon my mind.”

“How do you plan on handling the Professor, Homes?” I asked curiously. “Quite simply,” he said, but before he could continue there was a loud sound in the passage and the door to our quarters burst open. Professor Marty brusquely brushed aside our page and came to stand above Homes, glaring down.

“Homes,” he said gratingly, “what is the nonsense contained in this note?” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, dug about in his weskit for his spectacles, and read aloud in a sneering tone. “‘Professor Marty, you will kindly forget about holding the foreign hansom for ransom and return it at once! Signed, Schlock Homes.’”

Homes nodded to him politely, but his face was expressionless and his voice cold.

“If you will take the large chair, Professor, I shall be pleased to explain.” He waited until the Professor had sunk into the chair before continuing. “In the first place, there could never have been the slightest doubt as to why you stole that trap yesterday—”

“I needed something to run around in—”

Homes disregarded him. “Considering the age and lack of special features, the carriage undoubtedly falls into the category of an antique, and therefore must be quite valuable. As a valuable antique, it must therefore be worthy of a substantial ransom.”

“I never thought of that,” Professor Marty mumbled, shaking his head.

“However,” Homes continued sternly, paying no attention to the man’s mumbling, “it makes no difference as to its value. Since I am onto your scheme, there is nothing for you to do now but admit failure and return the carriage to its rightful owner.”

Professor Marty started up, his face red. His voice was a growl.

“And what makes you think I’ll do a fool thing like that?”

“Because, if you do not, I shall make London too hot to hold you,” Homes returned, his eyes narrowed. He continued to hold the Professor in his steady gaze. “In addition to returning the hansom, you will write a note of apology to the owner. You will say you are sorry you took the hansom, and in compensation for the time you used it, you will send him some small present.”

“You’re mad!”

“You will send him some small present,” Homes repeated firmly. “Let me see … To-morrow being Thursday, the traditional day for English servants to enjoy their liberty, a thoughtful gesture would be some affair to save the mistress of the house the task of cooking their evening dinner. The Bow Street Banquet, for example, or comps to McDonalds—”

“Now you just wait a minute!” Professor Marty began in a roar, and then suddenly calmed down. He leaned forward in his chair, his tiny piggish eyes intent upon Homes’s stern visage. “You say return the trap. You then suggest that to-morrow night—the servants’ night out—I send these people tickets which will also take them from their home—to a banquet, that is, of course. Is that your suggestion?”

“It is not a suggestion,” Homes said coldly. “It is a demand.”

Professor Marty came to his feet with an effort.

“Homes,” he said with deep feeling, “you are a find! I mean a fiend!” He shrugged hopelessly. “I have no choice. It shall be as you say.” He sighed and limped from the room, a broken man.

“You have done it again, Homes!” I exclaimed in admiration, but my friend merely shrugged off the compliment and returned to his study table, glowering down at the sheet of note-paper which seemed intent upon perplexing him as no other problem had since I had known him.

I came to breakfast the following morning to find Homes dozing fitfully in his chair, the lamp still burning and the floor covered with the refuse of his calculations. Fearing for his well-being should he continue to concentrate on this one problem, I hastened to open the morning journal in search of some more interesting divertissement, just as he stirred and sat up, stretching. I considered him anxiously.

“No luck, Homes?”

“None,” he said glumly. “It is fiendish! And yet I am sure the answer is in those simple four words: ‘see,’ ‘away,’ ‘stop,’ and ‘flat.’ I have even tried the first letters in all combinations; they form ‘sasf,’ ‘fass,’ ‘fsas,’ ‘assf,’ ’ssaf’—”

“Come, Homes,” I said soothingly, “let me have Mrs. Essex fix you a nice plate of creamed chutneys. You know how they always calm you.”

He considered me balefully. “Do not commiserate with me, Watney! Nor treat me as an invalid!”

“Never, Homes,” I said as I hurriedly turned the pages of the newspaper. Suddenly I sat erect, certain I had the solution to my friend’s problem.

“Homes,” I exclaimed, “here is a case which I am sure will interest you. Last evening the dwelling of Stannous Fluoride, the Polish Ambassador, was burgled! It seems all the servants were out, and the Ambassador and his wife had accepted an invitation to dine at some banquet or other—”

“No, no, Watney,” said he wearily. “I should enjoy resolving the problem, since I feel strongly about treatment afforded guests of our Government, but I cannot give up so easily on this puzzle.”

He returned to the crumpled paper before him, and then suddenly all trace of sleepiness fled from his countenance.

“Watney!” he cried, excitement flushing his face. “I am a fool! The answer is simplicity itself!” He swung about, one finger still pointing to the sheet of paper on his study table. “My error was in discounting the writer’s ability to misspell!”

“Homes,” I exclaimed, “what do you mean?”

“I mean it was not the word ‘see’—it is the letter ‘C’! The message now becomes crystal-clear!” His thin finger pointed. “C stop away flat. It can only refer to the C-stop of the giant organ at Albert Hall, since it is the only organ I am familiar with! Fortunately, I am still in possession of the tuning fork I won at a bean-eating contest in my second year at public school. A note to the organist at the Hall, if you please, Watney, offering my services.”