The Adventure of the SPECTACLED BAND

Between the years ’55 and ’57 the genius of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes came, in my estimation, to its highest fruition. The early struggle for recognition was long past, and his fine reputation now extended to many countries beyond England. His excellent work in America during the war years led to the capture of the largest receiver of stolen black-market war supplies, a case I find listed in my notes under the title of “The Adventure of the Barbed-Wire Fence.” In France he had been of signal service to the Parisian police in helping them apprehend the gang known as the “Kidnapping Cabbies,” a case which was widely publicized on both sides of the channel as “The Adventure of the Taxi-Drivers’ Métier.”

But his work was not all abroad, for in England his efforts had often saved the face of Scotland Yard, and earned him the gratitude of the government. In going over my notes for these years I find it difficult to select any single case as being representative of his mental alertness during this period, but possibly the one which best illustrates his extreme ability to see past the obvious to the hidden subtlety beyond, is the one which I find annotated under the title of “The Adventure of the Spectacled Band.”

It was in the early winter of ’56 that I returned one afternoon to our rooms at 221-B Bagel Street. I had had a hard day, and I found myself quite exhausted as I let myself into our quarters. Homes was napping on the couch in front of the fireplace and I did not disturb him, knowing that he had been working quite hard of late on a new monograph covering a study of alcohol fractionation. It was a gray day, with dark clouds heavy with their burden of snow, and I felt restless in the shadowy room. I had puttered about for some minutes when suddenly I heard the voice of my friend behind me.

“You are quite right, Watney,” he chuckled. “Conscience is indeed a hard taskmaster!”

“It most certainly is!” I retorted with a touch of asperity; and then I stopped in amazement. “Homes! You have done it again! You have read my mind!”

“It was really not too difficult,” said he with a broad smile, swinging his long legs to the floor and turning up the lamp. “I have been watching you since you entered the room. After removing your overcoat, you went immediately to the sideboard, from whence you removed a bottle of vodka and poured a generous portion into a glass. At that moment you glanced at your pocket watch and a look of remembrance cast itself over your features. It was only last evening, as I recall, that you were lecturing me on the dangers involved in partaking of alcohol before the hour of five, and promising that you would abstain from an earlier tot if I agreed to join you in this forebearance.

“Following this, you glanced surreptitiously in my direction, and then obviously made up your mind, for I saw you adjust the stem of your watch. You then moved to the clock on the mantelpiece and advanced the hands fifteen minutes. When this was accomplished, you returned to your liquor glass, but just as you were about to taste it, you shook your head sadly and poured it back into the bottle. It was at that point that I observed that conscience was a hard taskmaster!”

“An admirable reconstruction, Homes!” I replied with awe. “Actually, I had set my pocket watch with the mantel clock this morning, and only in the course of passing Big Ben today did I note that I was fifteen minutes slow, and I corrected my watch accordingly. I returned home at precisely five and began to mix myself a vodka martini when I remembered that our timepiece was incorrect. I verified my watch, winding it as I did so, and then proceeded to correct the mantel clock. When I returned to the business of making my martini, I thought that under the present political situation my choice of liquor might have an erroneous interpretation placed upon it, and my conscience did indeed bother me when I recalled our brave boys at Balaclava and myself about to partake of vodka! I therefore poured it back into the bottle and was about to open the Scotch when you spoke.”

“The important thing,” replied Homes with a twinkle, “is not so much the process as the result. Now that we have determined both the correct hour and drink, I suggest we waste no more time. A long drink for me, if you please, Watney, while I show you a curious message which reached me this afternoon!”

He flung a telegraph form across to me, and I paused to read it carefully, “MR. HOMES,” it read, “I SHOULD LIKE TO VISIT YOU AT FIVE O’CLOCK TODAY TO BEG YOUR OPINION REGARDING THE STRANGE ACTIVITIES OF THE MYOPIC MOUNTAINEERS,” and was simply signed Jabers Willson.

“The Myopic Mountaineers?” I asked in bewilderment. “Pray, who might they be?”

“I have no idea,” replied Homes, chuckling genially, “but the name, you must admit, is intriguing. However, I imagine we are soon to be informed, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is our mysterious visitor now!”

The door was opened and our page ushered in a short, stocky man who accepted my offer of a whiskey, and after seating himself opposite us, began at once to speak.

“Mr. Homes,” he said, twisting his whiskey glass nervously in his large hands, “I do not know if, in fact, I have any real basis for this visit, but now that I am here and you have been kind enough to give me your attention, I might as well tell you my story.

“I am a wholesale druggist by trade, and I specialize in the import and sale of narcotics to hospitals and medical men in private practice. At one time my business gave me a very fair profit, but since the recent development of the modern synthetic anesthetics, the demand for my products has steadily dropped, until today it appears that my large stocks of heroin, cocaine, and opium may actually result in a huge loss to me. With business so poor, I felt I had no real use for my main warehouse in Cheapside, and I therefore decided to lease it as a means of augmenting my greatly reduced income.

“You can well imagine my delight, therefore, when I was recently approached by a Mr. Murphey, who offered me a rental figure for my premises which was far beyond my wildest expectations.”

Homes, who had been listening to this tale in complete engrossment, raised a hand in interruption. “What did you plan to do with your stocks of medical supplies?” he asked, his keen eyes watching Mr. Willson closely. “Did Mr. Murphey insist that you remove these, to allow him the full facility of the space?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Homes,” the stocky man replied earnestly, “Mr. Murphey was most cooperative, and said that he would have no objection whatsoever to my storing them on the premises. I offered to remove them to another location, but Mr. Murphey would not hear of my being put to this inconvenience. I have a reinforced concrete vault in the basement which I have used from time to time for the storage of old papers and receipts, and I therefore placed my stocks of narcotics in this deposit. Mr. Murphey offered to take charge of the keys, but after all there are limits to the favours one can ask of a tenant, even the best natured, and as you can imagine I did not wish to lose this opportunity to rent the space at his high figure. Despite Mr. Murphey’s kindhearted insistence I refused to burden him with the responsibility, and he finally accepted my refusal in the spirit in which it was offered. With this part of the business resolved, we quickly signed the necessary papers, and I left him in possession of the warehouse.”

“It appears to me that you have made an excellent contract,” remarked Homes, leaning back in his chair. “Pray tell me why you now feel you have cause to doubt it?”

“Well, Mr. Homes,” replied our visitor unhappily, “as I said before, I am not sure that I do have cause to doubt it. However, allow me to continue with my story, for subsequent events have been strange indeed!

“Yesterday I had occasion to visit Cheapside, and being near the warehouse I thought I would drop in on Mr. Murphey and see if there was anything I might do as his landlord. Imagine my surprise when, as I neared the building, I heard the raucous sound of music coming from the interior—music referred to, I believe, as ‘hillbilly.’ Upon entering I found Mr. Murphey and three or four others seated near the basement steps, playing various loud instruments, and all wearing heavy dark glasses and dirty overalls. Mr. Murphey left his group to speak with me, and it seemed to me he was quite upset by my visit.

“I asked him in some amazement if he had paid me the high rental just to have a place for his musicians to rehearse, and he seemed to think for a while before answering. He finally responded by saying that he and his friends were all quite wealthy and they had decided to mount a club for underprivileged adults as a philanthropic gesture. Since they were also all amateur musicians, they planned to provide the music for the membership themselves. Seeing me stare at the heavy glasses and dirty overalls, he laughed gaily and said they were not as young as once they had been, and since they all wore glasses they had, in a moment of humour, decided to call themselves ‘Murphey’s Myopic Mountaineers,’ and to dress accordingly.”

Homes smiled grimly as the name in the telegram came into the conversation. “Tell me,” he inquired with interest, “when you first met Mr. Murphey, was he wearing glasses? Or did he appear to require them?”

“No, Mr. Homes,” said our visitor. “On the contrary. I know that people with poor eyesight usually have large pupils, but Mr. Murphey’s pupils were extremely tiny, almost pinpoints, which leads me to believe his eyesight is better than normal.

“To continue, however; after returning home I thought over my strange encounter at the warehouse, and felt it exceedingly odd. I therefore determined to ask the advice of someone more familiar with these matters than myself, and for this reason requested an interview with you.”

Homes arose and began pacing the floor in quick strides, rubbing his thin, strong hands together briskly, for we had allowed the fire to burn low and the room had become quite chilly.

“You did the right thing, Mr. Willson,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “I find the facts you have given me quite unusual, and it seems very possible that Mr. Murphey and his musicians are planning some action which could well prove to be nefarious. It is too late today for further investigation, but be assured that tomorrow I shall devote my full time to its solution! Tell me, is there any point from which the interior of this warehouse can be observed in secrecy?”

“There is a skylight which can be reached from the building next door,” Mr. Willson said, also arising.

“Fine! If you would care to leave your address with Dr. Watney, as well as directions for locating this warehouse in Cheapside, I hope to be in touch with you quite shortly with the answer to this most interesting problem!”

For some time after Mr. Willson had been ushered out, Homes sat before the fire, his eyes closed and his fingers tented in that pose I knew indicated furious thinking. Finally he opened his eyes and sprang to his feet.

“Well, Watney,” he said briskly, “there is nothing that can be done on this case until tomorrow, so I believe I shall spend the evening in further work on the fractionation of the alcohols. Would you please hand me that flask at your side?”

“But which flask, Homes?” I asked in puzzlement, viewing the many bottles in confusion.

He leaned over and extracted one from beneath my eyes, frowning a bit. “By this time, Watney,” he remarked in a slightly irritated voice, “you should know my methyls!”

The following morning, shortly after ten o’clock, found us standing precariously on the roof of the building in Cheapside, watching a very strange performance through the dirty skylight window. Below we could see an unfurnished room, empty except for four men dressed as Mr. Willson had described, who were busily playing loud music at the far end of the room. From time to time one would drop his instrument and disappear down the cellar steps, to be replaced by another who emerged from the same place. Suddenly Homes gripped my arm fiercely.

“Watney!” he ejaculated, his voice trembling with excitement. “Note the man who has just entered and taken his place in the front of the band! The one who is limping and has the orange-red hair! That is no Mr. Murphey; that is none other than Professor Marty, the most dangerous criminal in all London!”

“But Homes,” I cried in dismay, “are you positive?”

“There can be no doubt! He is the only man in all England who plays the Burmese nose-flute left-handed! Come, Watney, there is work to be done! I fear that if the Professor is involved in this scheme, we have indeed tackled opponents worthy of our mettle!”

Tugging my arm, he led me from the roof to the stairway leading downward. Once in the street, he paused and considered the neighborhood carefully. The warehouse was located in the middle of the block, and was quite long and narrow. The shuttered façade fronted on a narrow street, while the back wall loomed over Cheap-side Boulevard, a heavily traveled artery. Walking rapidly, Homes circled the block several times, and then slowly began to widen the circle of his investigation until we had covered four or five city blocks in all directions.

The area was largely commercial, with many office buildings and banks alternating with one another to crowd the area. After seriously contemplating the buildings that faced the various streets along our route, Homes once again patiently retraced his steps, but his attention was now focused upon the pavements of the streets over which we strode. Completely mystified, I followed upon his heels, but in all truth I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the roadway he was studying so carefully. Finally he straightened his back and turned to me in great satisfaction.

“It is precisely as I had imagined!” he remarked triumphantly. “The greatest problem of necessity had to be ventilation, but in solving this problem, they were forced to disclose their whereabouts!” At the stupefaction of my expression, he burst into laughter.

“No, Watney,” he chuckled, “I was not attempting to be mysterious, but only thinking aloud. I suggest that we repair to some restaurant in the vicinity for lunch, while I explain to you my theory of this odd case!”

Once we had been seated in a corner booth and the waiter had retired with our order, Homes leaned over the table and began to speak with that forceful manner which I knew meant he had seen light in our most puzzling problem.

“Let us take things in their order,” said he. “It would be obvious to the most dense that where Professor Marty is concerned, some vicious plot against the public welfare is being hatched. I had already viewed with great suspicion this so-called Mr. Murphey as soon as Mr. Willson told us he had elected to call his musical group the Myopic Mountaineers, for you must admit that the name alone is highly suspicious!”

“Suspicious in what way, Homes?” I inquired.

“Why do they not call themselves the Four-Eyed Four?” replied my friend, his eyes gleaming. “Or the Fibromyosis Five? Or the Sarcoma Six? Or the Staphlycoma Seven? Or the Epicanthic Eight? No, no, Watney! The common practice of musical organizations is to include their number in their name! Certainly you have heard of ‘City’ Pound and his Twenty Shillings? Or Cesar Franc and his Ten Centimes? What possible conclusion can we come to, therefore, when the Professor purposely omits the number involved in his group? Only that he wishes to keep this number a secret!”

“But for what possible reason, Homes?” I cried.

“There can be but one; so that when visitors come into the warehouse, they are unable to discern that the group is not intact. In this fashion the Professor is able to maintain a group engaged in other activities, without anyone being the wiser!

“Think, Watney! In addition to avoiding the number involved, their name also cleverly excuses the use of both dirty overalls and dark glasses. Yet we have Mr. Willson’s word that ‘Mr. Murphey’ has excellent eyesight, and from the poor illumination in the warehouse, we can assume that his companions are equally well-endowed. Why, then, the disguise? It is true that these glasses hide the face and make identification more difficult, yet the Professor made no attempt to avoid recognition when he first approached Mr. Willson. The answer is simplicity itself, Watney. It is not a disguise at all; the spectacles are simply safety glasses used to protect the eyes against welding flashes and dirt chips; and the overalls are simply overalls, and nothing more!”

“But, Homes,” I objected. “What possible reason could the Professor have for this imposture?”

Homes’s eyes narrowed. “Did you happen to note, Watney, during our recent excursion, that within the area of this warehouse there are a total of sixty-three banking houses? I am positive that the Professor selected Mr. Willson’s warehouse for its proximity to these banks, and the loud music is merely to hide the sound of their digging! Each day, Watney, they are enlarging some tunneling arrangement to reach the underground vaults of these banks!”

I stared at Homes in astonished admiration. Only a mind as sharp as his could have seen the subterfuge behind the Professor’s devilish scheme and properly arrived at the true solution! “But, Homes,” I said, recalling the beginning of our discourse, “what did you mean when you said the problem of necessity had to be ventilation?”

“Just that, Watney! It is obvious that a tunnel of the size required to connect all of these banking establishments with their working base at the warehouse would require ventilation. Ventilation shafts, of necessity, must come at least to street level, where they are visible. In our stroll about the neighborhood this morning, I carefully noted all possible air-vent outlets, and I am positive I have properly identified the ones they have installed!

“After midnight, the law requires the abatement of loud noises, including music, and they must perforce stop working on the tunnel at that hour. If my theory is correct, we can gain entrance to this tunnel by means of these air shafts, and once within their warren, I promise I shall put a stop to their vicious plot!”

“But, Homes,” I admonished, “should we not inform the police?”

“It would be without purpose; the police cannot act before the fact. Their only recourse would be to place a watch over each bank vault in order to catch the miscreants in the act. We, being under no such compulsion, can abolish the entire scheme before it becomes operative, and save the police much work!

“Well, Watney, there seems to be little more to be done until the early hours of the morning. I suggest that we finish our repast and then return to Bagel Street where I can pursue my researches until that time. It will also be necessary for me to obtain certain materials to take with us, for I shall foil this foul scheme of the Professor’s at all costs!”

It was after midnight when we left our quarters. Homes carried a small black bag with great care, and nestled it cautiously between his long legs as our hansom rattled through deserted streets across the great city. We descended a few hundred feet from the warehouse, and Homes waited until the cab had disappeared into the darkness before turning into Cheapside Boulevard and walking purposefully to a manhole cover neatly set into the pavement.

“Quickly, Watney!” he said, straining at the heavy iron lid. “It should be one of these!”

Without a word I knelt by his side and aided him in wrestling the awkward metal ring from its cumbersome base. A steel ladder disappeared into the murky darkness below, and with a quick glance in all directions to insure our privacy, Homes descended rapidly. I followed with caution, feeling my way into the blackness rung by rung, until I felt my companion’s hand on my ankle, guiding my feet to the solid earth at the bottom. I could hear Homes’s quick breathing, and his fumbling at the catch of the black bag. A moment later he had produced a bull’s-eye lantern and was sweeping the shaft with a steady beam of light. Despite my faith in my friend’s remarkable analytical reasoning power, I was forced to catch my breath in admiration, for as he had so accurately predicted, we were in a long tunnel that curved out of sight in both directions!

“Homes!” I whispered. “You were completely correct! This tunnel is of a size that could easily attain all of the banking establishments within a great area!”

“And we have come none too soon, Watney,” he replied in a low, firm voice. “Note the finished state of their work—it is typical of the Professor to be fastidious in the details of his vile schemes. It is obvious that he must be almost ready for his coup. Note the completeness of their installation; they have even provided wagons to speed the work of looting the vaults. The only thing they failed to take into account was the existence of Schlock Homes, and this oversight shall cost them dearly! Watney, quickly, my black bag!”

I held the bull’s-eye lantern while Homes neatly extracted two long sticks of explosive and attached them firmly to one of the wagons. As I watched in fascination he affixed a fuse to their caps and leading it some distance away, knelt and lighted the end.

“Away, Watney!” he whispered excitedly. “This fuse should take no more than two hours at the most to reach the charge, and I suggest we be well away when that occurs!”

We quickly made our way back as we had come, and once at the foot of the ladder, Homes covered the lantern, plunging us into darkness. I rapidly mounted the metal rungs of the ladder, hearing the heavy breathing of my friend behind me. Within minutes we had reseated the manhole cover firmly on its base, and hurried up the deserted street to a cab stand around the corner. Less than ten minutes after Homes had lighted the fuse that was to end the Professor’s nefarious plan to rob most of London’s banks, we were settled back in a hansom and rapidly covering the city on our way back to Bagel Street.

Because of our late hours and strenuous activities, it was well after the hour of noon when we arose. Homes entered the breakfast room just as I was sitting down to a belated lunch, but knowing his interest in current affairs, I opened the afternoon journal even before taking my first kipper and had noted the headlines by the time he was seated.

“Good afternoon, Watney,” said he, seating himself and reaching for the kipper rack. “What news do you find in the journal which might prove to be of interest to us?”

“Well, Homes,” I replied, studying the paper closely, “the first article which I see says that it appears that the consumption of drugs is rapidly increasing in London of late.”

“Is that so?” he said, exhibiting but slight interest. “You might mention this fact to our Mr. Willson when you give him your account of our activities. If this is the case, it may well give him a market for his stock and partially compensate him for the undoubted loss of a well-paying tenant. But I am not interested in the commercial news, Watney; is there no crime which might claim our attention?”

“Well, there is this, Homes,” I replied, studying another article closely. “It says here that service on the Cheapside Line of the London Underground Subway System was disrupted early this morning, and that the police feel that sabotage was undoubtedly involved.”

“Sabotage!” cried Homes, leaning forward eagerly with flashing eyes. “To my mind, Watney, sabotage—next to the pilfering of coal—is the dirtiest of all crimes! I must offer my services to the authorities immediately! A telegram to Scotland Yard if you please, Watney!”