The Adventure of the MISSING CHEYNE-STROKE

The activities of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the year ’56 furnished me with many cases of sufficient interest to record in my journal. Among my notes I find reference to the odd problem of the elderly egg candler whose partner, Homes was able to conclusively prove, had deliberately attempted to induce blindness in the old man for the purpose of being free to juggle the company books. His method was fiendishly ingenious: He kept introducing crates of hardboiled eggs for the old man’s inspection, and only the sharp perspicacity of my friend foiled the nefarious plot. My casebook also records the name of the American barque John D. Carr, whose disappearance was a fortnight’s sensation, until Homes was able to accurately predict its exact location—in drydock—from a simple mathematical calculation and the word of the steersman that he had lashed the wheel before going over the side—a case I have already chronicled in “The Adventure of the Locked Rhumb.” However, of all the cases noted for that year, none in my estimation demonstrates the accuracy of my friend’s prognostication, nor the expansiveness of his imagination, as much as the case which became famous as “The Adventure of the Missing Cheyne-Stroke.”

It was a beautiful afternoon in June, and I was lounging at the open window of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street, enjoying the rare sunshine and resting my leg which still ached at times from an old Jezbel wound suffered in the battle of Piccidilli. Schlock Homes, an ardent chemist, had busied himself with his new Gilbert set, and an air of contentment combined with the odors of his experiment to waft through the room.

Our pleasant idyll was suddenly broken, however, by the urgent sound of footsteps in the hall, and a moment later a knock at the door announced a visitor. He was a huge young man, carelessly dressed in sport clothing, and he filled the doorway, breathing heavily from his climb up the steep staircase.

“Mr. Schlock Homes?” he inquired, glancing anxiously at my friend. “A mutual friend was kind enough to give me your address, and I hurried here as quickly as possible!”

Homes waved him to a chair and the young man flung himself into it. “Mr. Homes, there is no one else in England who can help us in this crucial hour! Charlie Charles is missing, and there is no stroke like him on the river! Miss Tompkins keeps crabbing; Cox couldn’t keep time with a metronome; and Miss Judd, to put it plainly, is a feathering idiot! Unless you are able to find Charles before tomorrow morning, I fear we are lost!”

Homes listened to this passionate outburst in amused silence, and when the young man had finished, he remarked with a smile, “I am afraid that I am the one who is lost, sir. Who is Charles Charles?”

The young man contemplated us in amazement. “Certainly you must have heard of Charles!” he exclaimed. “He took both his Black and Blue in sculling, and is the amateur oars champion of all England!”

“Possibly it would be well if you began at the beginning and told us all,” said Homes, leaning back comfortably. “I would deduce that you are referring to some species of sport, and I fear that neither Dr. Watney nor myself is an expert in that field. These names and terms which you are using are quite unfamiliar to me.”

“Well, Mr. Homes,” said the young man, leaning forward earnestly, “it seems hard to believe that you have not heard of the great Charlie Charles, but I shall attempt to clarify my remarks. My name is Legion, John Legion, and I am the rowing coach at Cheyne College in Lincs, at the little village of Clapham. Tomorrow morning the International Mixed-Foursome College Rowing Championship is being held here in London, and sculling squads from all over the world have gathered for this competition. Each team is comprised of two men and two women and we, as well as the other visiting teams, have been assigned dormitory space as the guests of Putney University. Each athlete has his or her private room to insure the necessary privacy and rest before tomorrow’s important event.

“Charlie Charles is our forward-left-stroke, and until this morning I would have wagered a week’s wages on Cheyne to win tomorrow. This noon, however, I went to his room to speak with him and found it deserted; a further search indicated that he was not on campus and had not been seen. I have questioned all of his teammates, and have searched in all possible places, but I have been unable to uncover any trace of his presence! If you are unable to locate Charles before the race tomorrow, I fear we shall lose!”

Homes’s eyes glittered with interest. “You have but the one sculling team?”

“Yes, just the one.”

“And only one forward-left-stroke?”

“Again yes, just the one.”

“And this is the one who is missing?”

“Yes, this one.”

“Singular,” said Homes thoughtfully. “Quite singular! However, I fear that we can solve little here. Let us repair to the campus of Putney University and see what can be learned from a study of the actual scene. If, as you say, the race is to be held tomorrow, we shall have need for prompt action, indeed!”

A few moments sufficed for Homes to change from his dressing gown to more suitable habiliments, and minutes later we were rattling along the banks of the Thames in Mr. Legion’s trap while the young coach gave us more details on the sport of shell racing and the eminent reputation of the missing stroke, Charles Charles. Homes sat silent, his eyes closed, but I knew he was absorbing every word of the conversation and storing it in his colossal memory for future reference.

We turned from the Embankment, coming in on Kew, and shortly thereafter came upon the Putney campus. The dormitories assigned to the various rowing teams were huge blocks of buildings, facing upon a large quadrangle of well-kept greenery. The entrance to each building had been hung with slogans and banners, each announcing support of a different team. Across the ornately carved doorway at which our trap halted, a huge pennant waved, reading: “Clapham! Here comes Charlie!” Mr. Legion eyed this sadly, but without comment led us through the shadowed entrance to the room which had been assigned to the famous left-stroke.

A scene of utter chaos confronted us. Bedclothes were strewn about the floor; a battered portable typewriter leaned drunkenly against a chair leg; books and papers were scattered over the desk; socks lay under the bed; and neckties hung from the chandelier. At sight of this disorder, Homes’s eye brightened, and I knew from his manner that his interest in this strange case had been actively aroused.

“Charles seems to have put up a brave struggle,” he said, surveying the destruction piercingly. “With your permission I shall properly examine the room, for it is more than possible that the answer to this strange disappearance lies here!”

For the next thirty minutes the great detective searched the room with that attention to detail which had often rewarded him with success in the past. With fierce concentration he studied the closet, removed some of the socks in order to peer beneath the bed, and even explored back of the doors. One drawer of the dresser exhibited an unusually large collection of timepieces, including many wrist watches and pocket watches; a second drawer was filled with dirty laundry; while a third seemed to be the repository for old letters and clippings. Suddenly Homes stiffened to attention, and drew from beneath these papers a heart-shaped piece of coloured tinsel which I immediately recognized as an old Valentine. Scanning it carefully, he finally folded it neatly and placed it in his waistcoat pocket, after which he returned to his search with even greater energy. A sigh of satisfaction indicated to me that he had discovered something further of interest, and he arose from his perusal of the cluttered wastebasket clutching a crumpled sheet of typing paper. Placing it in his pocket with the Valentine, he gave the room a final searching glance, and then led the way to the open quadrangle.

“One final question and I believe I shall have all I can hope to garner here,” he said, fixing Mr. Legion with a thoughtful glance. “Can you tell me what course of study Mr. Charles was following at Cheyne College?”

“He was a Typing major, Mr. Holmes,” replied the young coach, obviously puzzled by this seemingly irrelevant question. “But I fail to see what possible connexion this could have with his disappearance.”

“It may be of the greatest importance,” Homes replied seriously, “or, of course, it may not. There being little more to be learned here, with your permission we shall return to our quarters and study our findings in greater detail. Yes, yes, Mr. Legion! I am fully aware of the urgency of the matter, and I suggest you drop by at eight this evening, when I hope to have some news for you!”

On the drive back Homes sat forward, chuckling and rubbing his hands, a sure sign that he had seen some light in this most confusing case. “A brilliant boy, this Charles Charles!” said he, “for despite the obvious confusion of his last minutes in that room, he still managed to leave sufficient clues to point a clear trail to his captors. It is our duty to properly interpret the signs he has left, and we must not fail him in this!”

We descended at Bagel Street and Homes fixed himself a long drink immediately upon our entrance, and then sank into his favorite chair, spreading the crumpled paper and the folded Valentine before him.

“An hour of solitude, if you please, Watney,” he remarked, his warm smile robbing the words of any rejection. “I am sure that the complete answer to this puzzle is before me, if only I can grasp it!”

I retired to the window seat once again, although I was bursting with questions regarding the two papers on the table. But knowing Homes and his love of mystery, I bided my silence and watched the long shadows of evening settle over the huge city. I must have dozed a bit, for suddenly the firm grip of my friend’s hand on my shoulder brought me from my reverie with a start.

“Watney!” he cried in great excitement, “I have it! You must send a telegram to Legion at once! When he comes tonight I wish him to bring the room assignment plan for all of the teams with him, as well as the names of the occupants. This is most important”

“But, Homes!” I said in vexation, “I fail to understand how you were able to deduce anything at all from the little you found in that room!”

“Later, Watney,” said he, smiling at my puzzlement. “All shall be clear before the night is finished. We have a busy evening in store for us, I fear, so if you do not mind I shall relax a bit before our visitor arrives, with a few moments of Venuti. My violin, if you please, Watney!”

At eight o’clock sharp Mr. Legion appeared, and while he was as consumed with curiosity as myself, he said nothing but placed the assignment list on the table and drew up a chair alongside Homes and myself. Homes immediately fell to studying the list with great care, whistling a minor Shostakovich harmonium concerto to himself as he did so. He seemed to be searching for a particular item, and after at least a minute of full concentration the whistle abruptly ceased and a bright smile lit his countenance. I knew at once that he had found the information he had been seeking.

“The case is solved!” he announced complacently, leaning back and enjoying the effect this pronouncement made upon us. “With any luck Charles Charles will be back in his own room before midnight! Allow me to begin at the beginning and show you the steps in the solution.

“It was evident as soon as we saw Charles’s room that he had been removed against his will. My only hope was that he had been able to leave behind a clue as to his assailants before being kidnapped. He is an extremely clever boy, that Charles, and should go far in life; for despite the pressure of those last few moments he managed to leave not one, but two, distinct signs pointing to his captors, probably feeling that if we missed one, we would scarcely miss two. The first clue was in this paper which he crumpled and flung into the wastebasket, where it avoided all eyes but mine.” And Homes handed us the sheet which he had retrieved from the basket and had guarded so carefully.

It was a standard sheet of typing paper and had repeated upon it one sentence, typed at least thirty times. It read: Now Is The Time For All Good Men To Come To The Aid Of The Party. When we had a chance to study it sufficiently, Homes returned it to the table and continued.

“Had Charles been a student of political science, I might well have passed this by as being a part of his study, but since we know he was majoring in another subject—namely, Typing—its significance increases sharply. I realize that there is a ball tonight for the visiting teams, but he could not have been referring to this party, since it was obvious that his paper was written much earlier. It can therefore only be a message.”

“But, Homes,” I interrupted, “what can it intend to convey?”

“Think, Watney! In this International Competition tomorrow, there must be many teams from behind the Iron Curtain. Charles, by referring to the Party is telling us who his captors are! I admit I am surprised that they adopted a method so lacking in subtlety but time, I imagine, was running out. These Governments, which we will not mention by name, will do anything to win a sporting event!”

“Of course!” cried Mr. Legion, striking his fist upon his knee. “Now I understand it! It was not the first attempt, Mr. Homes. Just yesterday one of the members of an Iron Curtain team falsely accused Charles of having stolen his watch. The facts are quite innocent: Charlie has taken up amateur magic as a hobby and as yet is not too adept at it. He can make things disappear, but he still has trouble at times in bringing them back. His first efforts being unsuccessful led these people to call for the police, but when, after a further try he was able to produce the watch, they were forced to drop their ridiculous charge. Now I can see that it was only a means of preventing him from competing in the race!”

Homes nodded. “Had they known, as I do,” said he, “that Charles is the possessor of some fifty watches they would have realized the idiocy of such a charge, for Charles—of all people—has no need for another timepiece. However, to return to our exposition, we now are familiar with the group who arranged the kidnapping. It now remains to show you the exact person involved, and the place where he is being held prisoner!”

Taking the folded Valentine from the table, he opened it to the scrawled message within and passed it to us to read. Written in a bold hand it said:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue;

Sugar is sweet,

And so are you.

“The fact of finding a Valentine in June, when everyone knows that the Saint’s day is always commemorated in February, made it plain to me that it was planted there, necessarily as a purpose of leaving a message. Note the words well, for they are Charles’s means of directing us to the place of incarceration selected for him. In studying the room assignments of the various teams I paid small attention to the Iron Curtain countries, for they are too intelligent to hide him in their own quarters. No, for this I was certain that they would employ the services of sympathizers, and I therefore searched among teams coming from countries who have long exhibited jealousy of all things British. And then I found, as I had truly expected to find, that the Vassar team from the American colonies had the following people——.”

His thin, strong finger pointed to the list before us, and we read:

VASSAR TEAM:

John (Muscles) O’Grady.………Room 196

Marybelle (Honey) Ross………Room 211

Thomas (Bull) Jones.……………Room 243

Ming Toy (Sugar) Epstein..……Room 216

Both Legion and myself stared at Homes in complete puzzlement, for we could see no connexion between this list and the Valentine message. Homes saw our expression and could not repress a laugh.

“Re-read the Valentine message phonetically,” said he with a deep smile, “taking alternate lines and see what you have. Ross is a red; violets are blue; Sugar’s suite; and so forth. Yes, my friends, that is the answer! Mr. Charles is being held against his will in Room 216, in the dormitory assigned to Vassar. The feminine members of the team were the sympathizers who fell in with the foul plan; I should have suspected a woman immediately, for Charles was too smart to fall victim to a man. However, the native chivalry of the British sportsman would have demanded that he allow a female entrance to his quarters without involved checking! We must rescue him tonight if he is to race tomorrow. Heaven knows what these fiends might have done to him in his incarceration!”

“But, Homes!” I cried. “Is this not a matter for the police?”

Homes shook his head. “We have a duty to England in this, her hour of need, not to involve her in international incidents, Watney,” he replied, his voice reproachful at my lack of understanding. “No, during the dance tonight they may well feel safe enough to leave him unguarded, for they have no idea that Schlock Homes is on their trail! We must spirit him away before they know he is gone, and guard him until the race!”

“But, Mr. Homes,” interrupted Legion, his strong young face alit at the prospect of action, “how will we gain entrance? The door is sure to be locked, and we cannot break in without exciting suspicion.”

“I happen to be familiar with all types of latching devices,” replied Homes confidently. “My reputation in this field has reached a point, I believe, where one seldom thinks of Bagel Street without thinking of locks! It will be small trouble to adapt a standard picklock to our purpose. Watney, my welding equipment!”

“You wish the blanched solder?”

“No, no! The silver braze! There, that should do the trick! Now, gentlemen, the plan shall be as follows: You, Mr. Legion, shall stay below in the entry to see that we are not followed. Watney, you and I shall make our way to Room 216 and see if we can manage to spirit Charles away without raising an alarm. Should we have need of your physical prowess, Mr. Legion, be sure we will call out! And now, gentlemen, if you are ready I suggest we waste no further time!”

Within an hour we were once again on the Putney campus and Legion melted into the shadows as Homes and I slipped silently into the darkened building. Across the quadrangle music and laughter came from the hall where the crew members were enjoying their party, but all was still and desolate in our sector. Legion had furnished us with the layout of the building and we were able to make our way to Room 216 without the necessity of showing a light. As I waited breathlessly, Homes crept to the door, picklock in hand, and pressed his ear to the panel. When no sound came to him, he silently tried the handle, and to his amazement the door swung open.

“The fools did not even lock it!” he whispered. “Come, Watney, with care!”

A crumpled figure lurched half erect from a chair in one corner, and then collapsed once more, muttering incoherently. “You were certainly gone long enough, baby doll,” babbled this apparition. “Did you bring the other bottle?”

“Delirious, poor devil!” exclaimed Homes in a low voice. “Quickly, Watney, your medical skill is urgently required!”

I instantly took charge of the boy, checking for pulse and respiration, but as I bent over him the true cause of his suffering immediately became apparent. “We must get him back to his room!” I cried. “Have Mr. Legion arrange for black coffee at once! These devils have plied him with alcohol, and he is in sad shape!”

It was some thirty minutes later before I had the boy sitting up amid the dishevelment of his own room. He was pale and silent, but the worst effects of his drugging had passed.

“Do not attempt to speak, Mr. Charles,” said Homes in a warm voice. “You have been the victim of an attempt at kidnapping, but thanks to your cleverness in leaving those messages, and Mr. Legion’s promptness in calling me into the case, we were able to locate you and rescue you in time. I wish to congratulate you on keeping your head as you have done, and to tell you that England is proud of you! Go out tomorrow and win that race, for that will be the biggest blow against your captors and their alien philosophy!”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Homes,” replied the lad, attempting to speak calmly, although memory of his past ordeal forced bitterness into his voice. “And now, if you will forgive me, I must get my rest.”

He embraced us both with a warmth that was surprising from one in his weakened condition, and immediately turned to his bed. Homes and I walked quickly into the night, while Legion prepared to mount guard over his star until the actual moment of the race.

The following day, exhausted by the events of the previous evening, both Homes and myself slept late, and it was therefore well into the afternoon when I came into the dining room. Homes appeared a moment later, yawning deeply, but by that time I had already folded the journal to the sporting section and was reading the racing results. Homes merely lifted an eyebrow in interrogation, and I smiled back at him.

“Yes, Cheyne, of Lincs, representing England, did indeed win the mixed foursome sculling championship, and the teams have already dispersed to their respective homelands,” I said, folding the paper with a smile and handing it to him. “And in my estimation the thanks for this brave deed should go as much to you as to Charles!”

Homes shrugged modestly. “Where our great country is involved,” said he, “there is no question, nor can there ever be, of thanks. I am happy that we were able to settle the problem so peacefully; and in my humble opinion the greatest share of the credit should go to that brilliant lad, who is a credit to England!

“But that case is finished now, Watney, and although we have need for new horizons, I feel we have honestly earned ourselves a day’s rest. So no crime news at the moment, if you please. Rather, I suggest we pass the time at an afternoon concert at Robert Hall. There is a gas-pipe organ solo today which I should sorely hate to miss. We may, however be late; what time do you have, Watney?”

I searched my pockets without success for several moments. “I am afraid I must have dropped my timepiece during last night’s events,” I answered a bit shamefacedly. “Do you not have the correct hour?”

“My watch is also missing,” replied Homes. “In the excitement of rescuing that poor chap last night, I fear I must have lost it without noting. However, surely one of the visiting Vassar team must have encountered our watches this morning; yet you tell me they have disbanded and left without attempting to contact us! We shall have to notify the authorities at once!”

“But, Homes,” I protested, remembering his words, “is there not the possibility of an international incident occurring over this?”

“Kidnapping is one thing,” he replied coldly, his voice tinged with anger, “but the failure to report and return lost property is quite another! A telegram to my brother Criscroft at the Home Office, if you please, Watney!”