The Adventure of the SNARED DRUMMER

It was rare indeed that my friend Mr. Schlock Homes forsook the sanctuary of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street for the social life that swirled through the London of our day. There was one occasion, however, when he always made an appearance in public: the annual dinner of the Crones, the woman’s auxiliary of the Actor’s Club. While I have never questioned this complete reversal of his normal tendency towards seclusion, I have always suspected that it was largely due to the fact that the only women with whom Homes felt at ease were Crones.

The dinner in the spring of ’52 was a great success. As was customary the guests furnished the entertainment, and Homes had given his celebrated imitations of William Gillette and Basil Rathbone and had been received as always with enthusiasm. Now, with the entertainment finished and dinner past, the party broke up into small groups that formed islands in the vast hall, discussing the various items of interest of the day. I was standing at Homes’s side, attempting to properly diagnose the exact proportions of gin and vermouth in the punch bowl, when a small agitated man scurried up and clutched my friend’s arm.

“Mr. Homes!” he said in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried a note of desperation. “I am in serious difficulty. I have a problem which only you, I am afraid, can solve. I am sure that you do not remember me, but I have been fortunate enough to have met you in the past.”

“Certainly,” replied Homes with a friendly smile. “You are Mr. Frederic Highe, as I recall, and you are a producer of musical extravagances. As to where we met before, it is not as great a problem as you suppose. As a matter of fact, we were introduced earlier this evening.”

“So we were!” exclaimed Mr. Highe in astonishment, amazed as were so many when, for the first time, they fronted evidence of my friend’s remarkable memory. “Well, Mr. Homes, I find myself in desperate straits indeed! I would appreciate it very much if you could find it in your power to come to my assistance.”

“Of course!” Homes replied warmly, drawing our new acquaintance to one side. “Just what is your problem?”

The small man glanced over his shoulder furtively. “Not here, Mr. Homes!” he whispered nervously. “Not here! If you could come to the theater tomorrow morning at eleven, I shall explain everything!”

He looked about once more, his sharp eyes darting about the assembled throng in search of potential eavesdroppers. “I have rented the Castle in King’s Row, where I am rehearsing The Ruins Of Astolot. Do not fail me, for the love of God!” Without another word our new-found friend detached himself from our side and with one last appealing glance at Homes, melted into the crowd about us.

“A new case do you suppose, Watney?” Homes asked, frowning in calculation.

“I beg your pardon, Homes?” I asked. “I’m afraid my curiosity regarding this exact blend …”

He sighed deeply as he answered his own question. “It could only be, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “He has never heard me sing!”

At exactly eleven o’clock the following morning, Homes dismissed our hansom at the entrance to the deserted Castle Theater, and we made our way through the unattended door to the darkness within. In the distance we could see the lighted stage, with our friend Mr. Highe speaking with another man on its empty expanse, but before we could move down the deserted aisle, a shadowy figure suddenly barred our way.

“Here, now,” he said fretfully. “No admittance, gents!”

“But we are here to see Mr. Highe at his own behest,” Homes explained quietly.

“He’s pretty busy,” said the other, scratching his head. “He’s casting The Ruins, you know. However, if he is expecting you, please seat yourselves until he is free.”

We edged our way to the front row and silently slid into two empty seats while the conversation on the lighted stage continued. Mr. Highe was speaking to another man seated at a table with a paper before him, and a pencil in his hand.

“Do you have sufficient bowmen?”

The other ran a finger down his list, nodded, and made a mark against one of the items.

“Enough halberd carriers? Musketeers? Pikemen?”

These were dutifully checked off and the man once again nodded.

“How are you fixed for blades?” But before the other could complete his examination on this point, Mr. Highe noticed our presence in the auditorium and came hurrying down the steps at one corner of the stage.

“Mr. Homes!” he cried in embarrassment. “They should have informed me of your arrival. Please forgive me for having made you wait, but if you will be kind enough to come with me I shall explain everything!”

He led us immediately to his office, and once the door was closed fell into a chair, his face white and strained. Homes and I settled ourselves on a divan against the wall as our friend leaned forward in obvious agitation.

“Mr. Homes,” he said, twisting his fingers nervously, “I am in a terrible position! We are planning to open The Ruins Of Astolot in less than two weeks, and our principal tympanist has disappeared! He is absolutely vital to the production, for he is the only one who knows the score!”

“Disappeared?” Homes asked, his voice alive with interest.

“Completely! I have checked his rooming house, the local police precinct, and the four closest bars, and he has not been seen for over three days. He could not be visiting friends for he has been in England but two weeks and is acquainted with no one. It is essential that he be located at once!”

Homes absorbed this information in silence, his broad, scholarly forehead creased in a frown of concentration.

“What is his name?”

“Richard I. Porter.”

“And his description?”

“He is a man in his middle thirties, approximately six feet tall, with a tanned complexion, light-browning hair, and weighing, I should judge, in the neighborhood of thirteen stone.”

Homes nodded. “And you say he has been here but two weeks?”

“Yes. He is an American who came here under contract to me for this one production.”

“And he left no note?”

Mr. Highe shook his head sadly. “Nothing. Nor any explanation in any form whatsoever. The only thing we found in his dressing room was a clipping from an American journal, and hoping that you might find it of use, I took the liberty of saving it.”

He produced from his pocket a torn piece of newsprint, long and narrow, and handed it to Homes. The great detective took it from the outstretched fingers and leaned forward to study it. I leaned over his shoulder; it was apparently a column devoted to the type of tattling which has become so popular, and carried the byline of a certain Hilda Harper. One item had been heavily encircled with dark pencil, and read:

Dig Those Crazy Dues Dept.: The T-men are going to nail some of those musical tax-dodgers. One square from Local 802 crossed the pond to lay low, but they have him boxed. Better kick in March 15th or find a better ’ole, pal!

This gibberish made no sense to me at all, but I was amazed at the change wrought in my friend Schlock Homes. His eyes glittered with interest as they raced across the printed lines; his hands tightened convulsively on the fragile paper as he came to the end. He quickly read it a second time, his excitement mounting, and then fell back in deep thought, his thin, strong fingers tapping against the article.

“Homes!” I cried. “Is it a code? Have you solved it so soon?”

“It is no code, Watney,” he replied slowly. “Would that it were!” He rose to his feet, clutching the column of newsprint in his hand. “Mr. Highe, this promises to be a most interesting investigation. If you will allow me to retain possession of this paper, I shall begin work at once!”

“Of course, Mr. Homes,” replied the producer, also arising. “I saved it solely for your use. Take it and pray heaven it aids you in solving this mysterious disappearance.”

Homes smiled enigmatically. “I fear that ‘disappearance’ may not be the proper word,” he said. “However, sir, I hope to have more definite information for you tomorrow.”

“The sooner the better, Mr. Homes,” said the producer fervently. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” replied Homes, his jaw tightening as he considered his answer. “I would suggest you begin to immediately instruct another tympanist in the vagaries of your score!”

In our hansom back to Bagel Street I attempted to draw Homes out on the cryptic meaning of his last statement, as well as on his interpretation of the odd case, but he remained silent and preoccupied, refusing to take any of the bait I extended. As we approached our destination he suddenly leaned forward and paid our driver so that we were free to spring from the cab as soon as it wheeled itself to a halt before our door.

No sooner were we within our quarters than he flung himself into a chair, still clutching the newspaper article tightly in one hand, and scowling at it fiercely.

“It is here!” he said, almost to himself. “I am sure of it!”

“But, Homes!” I exclaimed. “What is there? It appears to me to be the purest of nonsense.”

“No, no, Watney. Far from it. Most of the message is crystal clear; it lacks but a shade to be complete.”

I stared at my friend in astonishment. “Really, Homes,” I said slowly, “I can find no meaning whatsoever in those strange words.”

“No? And yet, Watney, there is no attempt to disguise the message. It is extremely clear—tragically clear, I might say. It states without equivocation that a group of hoodlums from the London slums have decided to do away with our tympanist. Their reference to the place where they intend to perpetrate this foul deed is all that puzzles me at the moment.…” His voice faded as he studied the paper with renewed vigour. “Of course! What a fool I am! Quickly, Watney, the London Directory!”

In haste I pulled the required volume from our shelf of reference books and handed it to Homes. He ran his finger rapidly down the various listings of the book, and then with a bound he was once again on his feet and turning in the direction of the door.

“I shall return as quickly as possible, Watney,” he said, his eyes shining as always at the thought of action. “Should I be late I suggest you prepare a bull’s-eye lantern and see to the priming of your pistol, for if I am correct in my analysis of this strange affair we shall be busy tonight, and it will not be pleasant business!”

It was quite late in the evening when my friend reappeared. Mrs. Essex, our housekeeper, had laid on a sumptuous tea of toasted Brussel sprouts, and Homes grasped one hungrily, munching on it as he spoke.

“You have the lantern and the pistol?” he inquired. “Good!” His face fell as he added, “I am afraid that we are too late to save Mr. Porter, but at least we shall be able to locate his body and convince our client of the uselessness of awaiting his return.”

“His body, Homes?” I cried in dismay. “You mean …?”

He nodded his head sadly. “Yes, Watney, it is almost certain that Mr. Porter is no longer among the living. But at least I know where they have concealed his remains, and it is there that we shall repair once it becomes dark.”

“But, Homes!” I cried in puzzlement, “I do not see how you were able to locate Mr. Porter simply from the cryptic references in that newspaper!”

Homes finished the last of the toasted Brussel sprouts, and wiping his lips, dropped into a chair. He lit an Armenian, and once it was drawing to his satisfaction, withdrew the clipping and presented it to me.

“You will note this message, Watney,” he said in that slightly superior manner he always adopted when explaining the solution to one of his cases. “The T-men, of course, can only be teddy boys grown to manhood. And made no less vicious, I warrant, by their added years. Their exact reason for eliminating Mr. Porter is still obscure, although the motive was obviously revenge, since you will note their use of the word ‘dues.’

“The references to death and burial are too frequent to avoid. ‘Nail,’ ‘boxed,’ ‘the better hole,’ and particularly the reference to the infamous Ides of March. No, Watney, the message was quite clear on these points. It was determining the place where this foul crime was to occur that presented the only problem.”

“And how did you solve this, Homes?” I asked, all attention.

He tapped the newspaper clipping with his finger. “It is all right here, Watney! You will note that the message reads: ‘One square from Local 802’—that is to say, one city block from public house No. 802. Across a pond! This afternoon I found pub 802 in the licensing listings of the London Directory, and when I left your company I went to investigate. A square from this public house is Hyde Park, and across the pond there, there is but one edifice.” His cool eyes stared at me somberly. “It is an undertaking establishment, Watney!”

I caught my breath at the masterful manner in which Homes had managed to see light in this most puzzling of cases. But then my face fell. “That is all very well, Homes,” I said, “but how are we to prove your theory to the satisfaction of our client?”

“It is for this reason that I requested you to prepare a bulls’-eye lantern,” he replied. “Tonight we shall break into this evil house and there I am sure we shall find the remains of Mr. Porter, for they will scarcely have had time to dispose of his cadaver.” He rose to his feet, pocketing the newspaper article. “I believe it is sufficiently dark now, Watney. Come, let us be on our way!”

In a very short time we were rattling along High Holborn in the direction of Marble Arch. Homes was carrying the lantern well concealed beneath his cape, while I took charge of the primed pistol. At the corner of Hyde Park Road, Homes directed our driver to turn in the direction of Knightsbridge, but before we had proceeded very far my companion had the driver stop the cab and we descended.

“We shall proceed on foot, Watney,” he said quietly as the cab rolled away. “It would not do to blatantly announce our arrival.”

We crossed the darkened park in silence, carefully avoiding the strolling lovers and political orators, until we found ourselves at the edge of the pond. This we quickly skirted, taking every precaution not to fall in, and moments later found ourselves before a silent, deserted building. The black windows that stared down on us would have struck fear into the soul of a lesser man, but Schlock Homes, once on the scent, was beyond fear.

“Watch the path!” he commanded, and immediately tackled the huge door with his set of picklocks. Moments later he called to me softly, and I hurried to join him, passing into the building at his side. Once within, he quietly closed the door behind us and lifted the cover from the bull’s-eye lantern, flashing the beam to all corners of the room.

We were within an area that apparently served as a combination chapel and meeting hall, for wooden folding chairs were stacked neatly against the wall, and a lectern was pushed to one side. The keen eyes of my friend noted each detail revealed in the uncompromising circle of light cast by the lantern, and suddenly I heard him catch his breath. The light had traversed one wall and was now fixed upon two doors set side by side. Homes smiled in satisfaction at the sight, for they were clearly marked “Hymns” and “Hearse.”

“The one obviously goes to the organ loft,” he said. “It is the other we want. Come!”

He led the way quickly to the right-hand door and we passed into a narrow hallway that appeared to serve many rooms. With silent tread Homes went from door to door, trying each one, until I felt him pause decisively, his hand frozen on the knob.

“The final proof, Watney!” he whispered in great excitement. “Note the wreath!”

I crowded behind him and peered into the scene revealed by the bull’s-eye lantern. There, on plain wooden trestles, lay a coffin, and above it a horseshoe-shaped wreath of flowers was suspended. Homes flashed the beam across the satin band spanning the two sides of the floral arch, and my admiration for my friend’s analytical powers rose to new heights. Now there could be no doubt but that the body of Richard I. Porter lay within the casket—for his initials were clearly printed on the satin band!

The following morning, having sent a report to our client on the special black-bordered telegraph forms that Homes reserves for such occasions, I returned to our sitting room to find my friend having his first after-breakfast pipe. As was my wont, I sat down and riffled through the journals in search of some item which might prove challenging to the reasoning powers of the great detective. I was reading the Old Statesman when I must have stiffened, for the voice of Homes broke into my cogitations.

“You have found something which might prove to be of interest to us, Watney?” he asked genially.

“In all honesty I really do not know,” I replied, studying the article more closely. “Frankly, the wording is completely unintelligible to me. It appears to be in some form of cryptology, or code.”

“Code?” His interest immediately fired, Homes laid aside his pipe and reached eagerly for the folded sheet which I handed to him. He leaned forward and began to read aloud:

“One American practitioner of percussion instruments who eschewed the burden of juridical assessments on his emoluments, is rumoured to have traversed the Atlantic in search of haven. His dissembling, however, is purposeless, since the personages charged with pecuniary aggregation by the American Authorities are cognizant of his locative situation.”

Homes grasped the paper in feverish excitement, his eyes glittering as always at the challenge of a new problem.

“Watney!” he cried. “It is undoubtedly a code; it could be nothing else! Quickly, my monograph on Common Codes and their Cures, if you please!”