The Adventure of Black, Peter

It is some years since the events I am about to speak of occurred, mainly owing to our housekeeper Mrs. Essex’s use of one of my journals as a doorstop; but it is still with admiration, after all this time, that I am able to report of the uncanny ability of my good friend Mr. Schlock Homes in solving a problem that had baffled the best brains of Scotland Yard. Nor did the case come at a bad time, for Homes was at a loose end, having just resolved the singular affair of the circus performer who swallowed electric-light bulbs for a living, a case my readers may recall as The Adventure of the Illustrious Client, and was more than ready for a new challenge.

It was a stormy Wednesday morning in early March, with sheets of icy rain beating our window panes, and the coal-fire in our quarters at 221B Bagel Street a welcome buffer against the chill of the elements. Homes was curled up in his easy chair, violin in hand, toying with the slow movement of Copeland’s Cymbal Concerto, while I was deep in research, studying a treatise on digital serum injections, Vaccinations on a Thumb, by Hayden, when there came a loud pounding on our street door, and a moment later our page was announcing a visitor. Homes and I exchanged curious glances, since neither of us was expecting company, but I dutifully dog-eared my page while Homes laid aside his violin and came to his feet.

To our great surprise, the man who appeared dripping in the doorway was none other than Inspector “Giant” Lestride, one of the original Bow Street runners, and certainly not one of Homes’s closest admirers. Homes frowned but, in his hospitable manner, waved the man to enter.

“Come in, Inspector. Have a chair. Let me have your things.”

The large man removed his bowler and macintosh and accepted a chair by the fire, while Homes, after disposing of the garments, returned to his own chair. There were several moments of silence before Lestride cleared his throat and spoke.

“I may as well be blunt from the beginning, Mr. Homes,” he said. “This visit was none of my doing. But the Assistant Commissioner insisted that we consult you on a rather interesting case that has come our way.” He shrugged. “I seriously doubt you can be of any aid when the best brains of the Yard have been unsuccessful, but the A.C.’s word is law.”

“And precisely what is this case you refer to?” Homes inquired evenly.

Lestride withdrew his notecase, opened it to extract a folded slip of paper, and handed it across to Homes. My friend accepted it and leaned back to study it, his face expressionless. I stepped behind him to read it over his shoulder. It had been typed on a standard telegraph form and read quite simply:

BARCLAYS WEDNESDAY MIDNIGHT SOUP YOUR RESPONSIBILITY QUICKLOCK-TYPE VAULT

Homes fingered the note a moment and then looked up with a frown. “Where did you obtain this, Inspector?”

“We found it on the person of a man named Peter Black, but known to his intimates—for reasons we cannot fathom—as Peteman Black. He was picked up this morning on a routine charge of mopery with intent to gawk, and in the course of our regular search we discovered this telegram. Since our code experts could not make anything of it, we felt it highly suspicious. And, of course, unless a solution is discovered before eight o’clock this evening we shall be forced to release this man Black, since the maximum we can hold a person on his charge without additional evidence is twelve hours.”

Homes nodded thoughtfully. “And this man Black, what does he do for a living?”

“Well,” said Lestride, “he claims to work for Reuters, the news agency people, in some capacity that leaves him free evenings.” He smiled a bit cruelly. “I can see you’re stumped, Mr. Homes. Admit it.”

“Since your people have had the message most of the morning, and I have just this moment been handed it, I think it only fair that you withhold your opinion until I have had time to study the matter,” Homes said with a cool smile. “Still, even at first glance certain things stand out.”

Lestride frowned at him.

“Barclays,” Homes continued evenly, “—if that is the one referred to—is, of course, one of London’s leading restaurants, but I believe they normally close at ten, so bringing soup there at midnight seems a bit strange. As for the quicklock-type vault—”

He reached behind him for a reference book, opened it and studied a page for several moments, and then closed it, his finger marking the spot, while he looked at Lestride.

“Tell me,” he said, “am I correct in assuming that this man Black is not a young man, but approximately my own age?”

“Why, yes, he is, Mr. Homes,” Lestride answered, obviously taken aback.

“And did he serve, as did we all, in the army during the Great War?”

Lestride’s jaw dropped. “As a matter of fact, he did,” he said, “although how you ever guessed it is beyond me!”

“It was not a guess, but a deduction,” Homes replied coolly and came to his feet, closing the reference book and returning it to its proper place. He turned back to Lestride, who also had risen. “Well, Inspector, I suggest you return at six this evening. I should have some word for you on the matter at that time.”

Lestride studied Homes with suspicion for several moments and then shrugged. “Well, you have been lucky on a few occasions,” he said. “If you can solve that code by this evening, I shall only be too glad to let bygones be bygones.” And picking up his mac and bowler, he quickly made his way down the stairs.

“‘I shall only be too glad to let bygones be bygones’!” Homes quoted with a wry smile. “One would think I had not set him straight a dozen times in the past. Ah, well, I suppose I shall have to do it once more, for the Commissioner’s sake, and still be forced to face Lestride’s officiousness in the future.”

“But, Homes,” I cried, “how were you able to deduce the man’s age and army background from those few words?”

“Later, Watney,” he said in kindly fashion. “At the moment there is much to do.”

“And do you honestly feel you can solve a code that has stumped the experts at the Yard? I do not doubt your ability, Homes,” I added, “but time is so limited.”

“All the more reason not to waste it, then,” he said, and started to undo the cord of his dressing-gown. “And now I must go out, much as I dislike to do so in this weather.”

His final words were muffled as the door closed behind him. In mystified silence I awaited his reappearance, and when at last the door to his room opened, I fear my mouth fell open in astonishment, for Homes was dressed in the garb of a soldier. And since fully thirty years had passed since he last had occasion to wear it, it was necessarily short in the shank.

The campaign hat with the acorns fitted well enough, however, and the rolled puttees—other than being a bit faded—were not too bad. With the years his swagger stick had warped a bit but was still clearly usable. He walked to the doorway with an officer’s strut that was characteristic of his great acting ability, swished his swagger stick against his leg, winced, and smiled painfully at me.

“I shall return,” he said with a brave grimace that left me as puzzled as admiring, and limped down the steps.

Dusk had fallen and the cold rain continued to sweep the streets when Homes at last came back. He climbed the stairway in labored fashion, flung the door shut behind him, and fell into a chair, immediately bending to loosen the tight puttees. I noted his scowling visage with concern.

“Homes,” I asked anxiously, “are you all right?”

He did not answer but instead unwrapped the puttees and shook them violently. A torrent of water descended upon our rug, followed by several cigarette stubs and various other pieces of debris. “From the bottom up, not from the top down!” he muttered to himself in exasperation, and fell back into his chair. Suddenly he seemed to recall my question.

“Why, yes, Watney,” he replied with a smile. “Other than being chilled and quite hungry, I am fine. What has Mrs. Essex prepared for our evening repast?”

“Pickled curries with buttered chutneys, your favorites,” I replied. “But, Homes, what of the problem? What of those unintelligible words? Were you able to make any headway?”

“Of course,” he said languidly, and reached behind him for a Venusian. He lit it and drew smoke into his lungs deeply, with a twinkle in his eye. I could see he was merely drawing out the suspense in that insufferable manner of his when he has finally brought some difficult problem to a successful conclusion.

“Really, Homes!” I said with a touch of asperity. “At times you are quite impossible!”

“No, no, Watney!” he said, holding up his hand. “Impossible is what you eliminate when you wish to remain with the improbable.” He sighed. “All right, then, Watney, if you cannot await Lestride’s arrival, I suppose I must satisfy your curiosity. The message was clarity itself, given the proper approach, and was quite natural to be on the person of Mr. Black, since he works for a news agency. It merely states that a romantic colonial with a rather odd appellation—apparently he drinks—has been fortunate enough to win a terpsichorean contest in one of our commonwealth nations. Canada, to be precise. It was just that simple.”

“Really, Homes,” I said reproachfully. “You gain nothing by pulling my leg!”

“Oh, I am quite serious, believe me!” he replied. “But here, if I am not mistaken, is Lestride himself, and you shall hear the details as I give them to him.”

The door opened to reveal the large police-officer, his bowler held tightly in his hand. He made no motion to relieve himself of his dripping macintosh but stood there like a rock, his normal superciliousness asserting itself as always.

“Well, Mr. Homes,” he said with a sneer, and it was evident he was prepared to enjoy my friend’s discomfiture, “I assume we shall be forced to allow Mr. Black his freedom simply because you were unable to break the code.”

“Come in, Inspector,” Homes said warmly. “Take off your coat and have a seat. You are quite correct in stating that you will have to free Mr. Black, not because I was unable to solve the riddle of those words, but precisely because they were so easily explained.”

He smiled at the startled expression on the Inspector’s face, waited until the still-suspicious police official had divested himself of his outer garments and was seated, and then withdrew the slip of paper from his pocket. He placed it on a table where we could all peruse it, and laid a thin finger upon it.

“Let us consider these words,” he said calmly. ‘BARCLAYS WEDNESDAY MIDNIGHT SOUP YOUR RESPONSIBILITY QUICKLOCK-TYPE VAULT.’ Now, Watney, you asked me this afternoon how I was able to deduce the man’s age and army background from these few words. Well, you were in India at the time, I believe, and the Inspector, here, was too young to be involved; but in the extensive training we were put through to prepare us for the trenches of France, we were taught the quicklock-type vault as a means of leaping over enemy barbed wire. In fact, this type vault remained in Regs until it was pointed out that too many of our troops were suffering from hernias as a result of keeping the knees so tightly compressed during take-offs, after which the quicklock was replaced by the more sensible open-stance-type vault that I believe is in use to this day.”

I stared in unashamed admiration at my friend, while even Inspector Lestride was forced to modify the frowning suspicion with which he had been attending Homes’s words. Homes leaned back, tenting his fingers, and continued calmly.

“Now,” said he, “knowing that this Peter—or Peteman—Black was familiar with the quicklock-type vault indicated to me he had been in the war; hence my deduction regarding his age and past army experience.” He untented his fingers long enough to raise one of them professorially. “However, it also indicated to me something far more important.”

“And what is that, Homes?” I asked breathlessly.

He smiled at me. “Consider,” he said. “Here we have a man who works for a wire service, an employment where information is often transmitted in code either for reasons of economy, or to prevent competitive services from stealing information. True, to us the information may not appear to be very significant, but undoubtedly it was to a born newsman.”

“But what information?” Lestride asked, his attention now fully riveted upon my friend, and his sneering manner no longer in evidence. “And what possible code?”

“As to the information,” Homes replied, “as I explained to Watney before your arrival, Inspector, it merely dealt with the winning of a dancing contest. And as for the code, it was the natural one for an ex-army man to use. It was the standard military vocabulary—known, I believe, as the phonetic alphabet.”

Lestride stared at him. “The what?”

“The phonetic alphabet,” Homes repeated, and turned to me. “Did they not use it in India, Watney?”

“Of course,” I said instantly and quoted from memory, “Able, Baker, Charley, Dog, Echo, Fox, and so on for A, B, C, D—”

Homes held up his hand. “Ah! I also thought so, but when I applied those letters to this message, I got no results. It then occurred to me that over the years the phonetic alphabet might well have been changed. In the proper raiment, I had no difficulty in gaining access to the local Army and Navy Store, and there I fell into conversation with a clerk who had served as signalman with General Rohr at Belleau Wood, and he gladly furnished me with the present version. Instead of Able, Baker, Charlie, Dog, and so forth, the phonetic alphabet in use in the army to-day is now Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, and so forth.”

Lestride shook his head. “I still fail to understand what that might possibly have to do with the message there on the table!”

“Let us consider that message, in view of what I have just revealed to you, Inspector,” Homes said evenly. “‘BARCLAYS WEDNESDAY MIDNIGHT SOUP YOUR RESPONSIBILITY QUICKLOCK-TYPE VAULT.’ The words in themselves have no meaning, but were used merely to transmit the message by the use of the initial letter of each word. Let us take them, and we see we have B, W, M, S, Y, R, Q, T, and V.”

“So?” Lestride demanded, his old belligerence beginning to return.

“So let us see where these letters lead us when we apply them to the modern phonetic alphabet in use to-day, a copy of which I have here.” Homes laid a second sheet beside the first one and pointed out the code words for each of the letters. With wonder we saw the message, which Homes wrote for us in his fine copperplate:

BRAVO! “WHISKY” MIKE SIERRA, YANKEE ROMEO, QUEBEC TANGO VICTOR!

“Homes!” I cried proudly. “You have done it again!”

“You mean—” Lestride faltered.

“Precisely,” Homes said a bit severely. “Mr. Black was simply carrying this message, received, I have small doubt, from their Canadian correspondent. I do not claim the news is of world-shaking importance, but one thing is certain: delayed as it has been through the heavy-handed tactics of the police, it is undoubtedly no longer newsworthy, and Mr. Black has probably lost money because of it. You might consider this fact when you release him.”

“I shall apologize to him most thoroughly as soon as I return to the Yard,” Lestride said brokenly, and left our presence a more sober and, I hope, a more judicious man.

It was early morning and a strong wind during the night had cleared the heavy clouds, bringing us welcome relief from the poor weather that had plagued us. I was at the breakfast table shelling my first caper and attempting to peruse the morning journal at the same time, when Homes joined me. He looked pleased with himself, as well he might, having just saved a poor innocent from further incarceration. He seated himself across from me and drew his napkin into his lap.

“And have you found anything in the news of interest to a rather bored investigator, Watney?” he asked, reaching for the kippers and the marmalade.

“Well, Homes, there is this,” I said, reading a frontpage story. “It seems that last night one of the largest banks in London was burgled. The thieves managed to explode the safe and escape with several million pounds. Police have found some substance on the property which their chemists claim to be a combination of nitrate and glycerol.”

“Nitrate, of course,” Homes said thoughtfully, “is the reduced charge for telegrams after a certain hour, but glycerol?”

He eschewed his kipper for a few moments to go into his study and return with a reference volume from his vast library. He leafed through the pages, muttering to himself, and then suddenly stopped as he located the material he sought.

“Ah, here it is! Glycerol: ‘… used as a softener in pharmacy, as a preservative of food, as a moistener of tobacco and other materials, as an adulterant for wine, beer, etcetera’—”

His eyes came up to meet mine, horrified.

“As an adulterant for wine or beer? These miscreants must be brought to the bar of justice posthaste, Watney! A telegram to the authorities offering my services, if you will!”