The Adventure of the LOST PRINCE

It was a bright Thursday morning in May, in the year of ’48. I had come into the breakfast room of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street to find my friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the process of lighting his after-breakfast hookah, a gift from the Sultan of Swatt, the former Bey Beruit, After exchanging our usual morning courtesies I sat down to eat, selecting one of the journals from a pile by the desk and perusing it intently as I attacked my first kipper. A moment later my thoughts were disrupted.

“I should not even think of the tweed, my dear Watney,” Homes remarked, a mischievous smile lighting his face.

“On the contrary,” I replied absently, and then looked up in startled amazement. “Really, Homes! I fail to see …”

“Precisely, Watney,” my friend interjected. “And yet it is neither mindreading nor legerdemain. You have a set method of attacking your Daily Times. You begin by reading the headlines of the extreme right-hand article; your eye then travels to the left-hand article, and you finally concentrate on the centre article. The right-hand article in today’s Daily Times deals with a red-petrol case, which held no interest for you. On the left you found a column head concerning a state visit of an African potentate and his retinue who are here for conferences and to enjoy the theater season. When this proved of no interest to you, you continued to the centre. Here you read that a stock merger was to be effected, and your eyebrows lifted in interest. As you continued further into the article, a smile appeared on your face. Obviously this merger will affect your holdings, small as they are, and you wondered at this point if you might afford some small extravagance. Your eye then traveled speculatively to the wardrobe chest. I recall that a few days ago we paused at a window in Regent Street and you commented upon a tweed suit you saw displayed there. Therefore my remark.”

“It does seem simple when you explain it,” I admitted, my original annoyance abating a bit. “Actually, however, this is the Herald Press in my hand, and I have been reading—with pleasure, I admit—an article on the advantages of passing one’s holidays on our lovely English rivers. I had more or less decided on the Tweed, and was wondering if my wardrobe still contained the straw floater I won on Boat Race night in ’14, when you spoke.”

Homes smiled in congratulation at my adroit escape from his trap, and returned to his hookah.

“Incidentally,” I added smugly, matching Homes’s smile, “I see that you have another case coming up, which should be a lucrative one. The person coming to see you should be here very soon, if he is not already overdue.”

“Excellent, Watney! You are improving! It would be interesting to learn the reasons for your statement.”

I shifted in my seat, imitating the pedantic tones of my colleague. “You have preceded me to breakfast, which indicates to me that you have an appointment, obviously an early one. Your selection of costume indicates that the person is an important one, since you often receive your brother Criscroft and others in your dressing gown. Hence a lucrative case.”

“But why a case at all, my dear Watney?” asked Homes, his eyes twinkling. “Certainly in our many adventures we have made sufficient acquaintances, many of high station, so that one might be calling for no reason other than to extend his regards.”

“That was the simplest of all deductions,” I answered dryly. “To be frank, your good humour this morning is a welcome change from the irritability that has had you in its grip for the past fortnight. Only a new case could have wrought this change in your nature.”

Homes laughed aloud in pure enjoyment. “Actually,” he said, copying my tones with a faithfulness that was characteristic of his great histrionic ability, “I had a dentist’s appointment this morning and dressed accordingly. Then, one-half hour ago, I received a telegram cancelling it, as my dentist himself has been taken severely with the toothache. Hence, as you say, my good humour.”

To hide my chagrin I ate another kipper. Homes arose and laid his arm in a kindly fashion across my shoulders. “At least, Watney,” he said, smiling in a friendly style, “we are free of other appointments today. Possibly we can spend the afternoon at the concert hall. Joshua Lowfitz and his Trumpeters are doing the Waltz of Jericho, and I understand their performance brings the house down.”

“I should really enjoy that, Homes!” I cried, rising to my feet. But our plans for a musical afternoon were not to be realized, for at that moment there came the sound of a carriage wheel scraping against the kerb and we looked out of the window to see a heavily-veiled woman descend and enter our doorway. A moment later our page ushered in our visitor, who was followed by a liveried footman carrying a small bundle.

“Mr. Schlock Homes?” The voice was musical, but taut with suppressed emotion.

Homes bowed slightly, moving his hand in a gentlemanly gesture towards a chair. The veiled woman seated herself gingerly on the very edge as she spoke.

“Mr. Homes, believe me when I say that the secrecy of any of your past endeavors is as nothing to the confidential nature of the case which I now bring you. Because of the eminent position of the family which I represent, even the little information I am able to give you must be treated with the utmost circumspection.” She paused as if seeking further words, and then with a muffled sob she fumbled in her reticule and withdrew an envelope which she handed to Homes.

He removed from the envelope a wrinkled sheet of paper, perusing it quickly, his eyes glittering with scarcely-suppressed excitement. I passed to his side and read the message over his shoulder. It was printed in crudely formed letters, and read:

No sens lookin under the bed or wistlin. We got him. If you wanna see him agin put eleven millun quid in a shu-box. Give it to the cooks boy he nose wat to do with it. Dont tell the busies or you wont never see him no more.

(sined) The Gang

Ps. if you cant rase that much you kin put in less but dont go under five quid or you rely wont see him no more.

Pss. better put in some toffies too it cant do no harm.

Homes was breathing heavily with excitement as he finished the strange note. He folded the wrinkled paper carefully and laid it upon the desk before turning back to our distrait guest.

“Can you give me a description?” he asked softly.

There was another muffled sob from behind the veil. “He is eight years old,” she said, “with long silky hair, black eyes, and the cutest pointed ears! And his nose is all speckled.”

“And the family wants him back?” I asked in amazement.

“Desperately,” she answered simply. She turned back to Homes. “When he was taken they also took his little blanket. However, I brought with me the little blanket that was his father’s when he was small. I did not know if it would help, but they are identical and I felt I should bring anything that might prove to be of use.” She took the bundle from the footman and placed it in Homes’s hands. His eyes lit up as he saw the word “Rex” embroidered in gold thread in one corner.

“Of course!” he muttered audibly. “I should have recognized the crest on the carriage! It is Prince …”

“Hush!” commanded the veiled figure. “No names!” She rose to her feet and passed to the door. “I am sure there is no need to remind you, Mr. Homes, that time is of the essence!”

“I swear I shall not rest until I resolve this,” Homes promised fervently. “If your Ladyship could pass at this same hour tomorrow, I hope to have some definite news for you.”

“Oh, pray heaven that you shall!” came the muffled reply, and with no further word she passed through the door, to be followed immediately by the silent, liveried servant.

As soon as the sound of the carriage had died away in Bagel Street, Homes fell into a chair and began studying the note with fierce concentration. I stood behind him and also re-read it, but it provoked no startling ideas.

“Do you suspect it of being in code, Homes?” I asked, watching his frowning features carefully.

“No, no, Watney!” he replied impatiently. “It is precisely what it purports to be: a note demanding ransom. Still, a fairly clear picture of the writer begins to emerge from his note.”

I studied the crumpled paper in his hand once again. “But I see nothing in it to give any clue whatsoever as to its author,” I objected.

Homes laughed shortly. “Do you not? Really, Watney, there are times when I despair of you! Certainly it should be evident to all that the writer of this note comes from a tropical climate, is visiting London for the first time, and is a great admirer of George Bernard Shaw!”

“Now really, Homes!” I cried. “This is a serious case! You gain nothing by levity at a time like this!”

“Oh, I am quite serious! In time you shall know all, Watney, but at the moment there is little time to lose!” He sprang from his chair, beginning to undo his cravat. “It is essential that I go out for a few hours. If you would be so kind as to arrange a hansom for me, I shall hurry and change into more suitable vestments!”

“But, Homes,” I said, studying his neat clothing with surprise, “there is nothing wrong with your costume.”

He smiled enigmatically without answering and disappeared into his room. I sent our page out to flag down a passing cab, and he managed to have one waiting at our portal when Homes emerged from his room once again. I gaped in astonishment; for had it not been for the familiar grin of my old friend, I should have been forced to swear that I was facing the famous actress Diana Dors.

“Homes!” I cried in astonishment.

“Later, Watney,” he chuckled, and with the supreme artistry that marked every detail of his incredible impersonations, he rearranged his features and minced from the room.

It was dusk before Homes returned. His high heels tapped quickly up the steps and once in the room, he removed his spike-heeled shoes, slipped off his blonde wig, and flung himself into a chair.

“It is as I suspected!” he said heavily. “An inside job! However, I have the miscreants located, and tonight we shall see an end to their foul scheme! I suggest, Watney, that you make a visit to Mrs. Essex’s domain and arrange a bite of supper, for we must go out again tonight. And you had also better arrange a bull’s-eye lantern and take along your pistol, for I know not what deviltry we may encounter!”

“You mean …,” I began.

“Yes!” he said. “Our case is nearly finished. Tonight I hope to effect the rescue. But now, if you will call upon Mrs. Essex I suggest we satisfy the inner man, for I have gone without lunch and we have a long night ahead of us!”

He refused to speak further until our supper had been placed upon the table, and then the only words he offered were a subdued request for the salt. It was not until our supper was represented by a pile of soiled dishes that Homes leaned back and sought solace from his hookah. Another person might have appeared ridiculous sitting there in a low-cut gown sucking on a curved pipe, but Homes appeared quite natural.

“Well, Homes,” I said, leaning back in surfeit, “if we have the time, I would certainly appreciate an explanation of this very odd affair.”

“Certainly, Watney,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “Actually, we have almost an hour before we must leave.” He laid aside his hookah, adjusted the strap of his gown, and reaching for the note which he had left upon the desk, opened it and handed it to me.

“There are several things which are evident from this note, Watney. First, you may note that they request eleven million pounds to be placed in a shoebox. It should have been apparent to you at first glance that this amount of money, even in the maximum of denomination, represents a volume far too great for even the largest of shoeboxes. Hence the deduction that the writer was unfamiliar with shoeboxes, and therefore, of shoes. The only conclusion one can logically draw is that he comes from a tropical climate where shoes are not a necessity.

“Then, too, you will note his instructions to pass the money to one of Cook’s boys. It is evident that the writer of this note did not realize that Thomas Cook have eleven branches in London, or he would have been more specific. That this fact was unknown to him forces one to the conclusion that this is his first visit to London.”

“But his admiration for George Bernard Shaw?” I cried.

“That was the simplest of all the deductions,” Homes replied. “Surely you must have noted in studying the message that it was written in reformed English!”

I sat in silent admiration of this masterful exposition. “But even knowing all this, Homes,” I finally said, “I fail to see how you were able to locate the miscreants.”

Homes reached over and took the Daily Times from the pile in the corner, tapping it with one finger. “You have a short memory, Watney,” he said, smiling briefly. “Do you not recall that just this morning I mentioned an article regarding the visit of an African prime minister and his retinue? In that group there are bound to be some who are visiting London for the first time; moreover, they come from a climate where shoes are unnecessary. And among other things, they came to enjoy the theater season. I would wager that Shaw was their first choice!”

“And from this you deduced an inside job?”

Homes nodded. “They are guests at the Palace,” he said. “I know it is difficult to pass the Palace guards at any time. Certainly trying to take a small boy past who might be recognized, or who might attract attention by screaming, is quite impossible. No, Watney, there can be no doubt. He is being held in the Palace itself.”

“In their quarters?”

Homes shook his head. “I do not believe so. With the constant passage of upstairs maids and housekeepers, it would be extremely foolhardy. I should imagine, rather, that they have him locked in one of the unused basement rooms; possibly in one of the coal cellars, since in this weather they would be rarely visited.”

He arose and stepping into his high-heeled shoes, adjusted his blonde wig. “But it is getting onto the hour for our departure. I suggest you arrange the accoutrements, Watney, for we must be on our way!”

Moments later we were seated in a cab heading in the direction of the Palace. I had slipped the bull’s-eye lantern under my cape, and my pistol was concealed in my waistcoat pocket.

“But are you familiar with the room arrangement at the Palace?” I asked as our cab clattered over the cobbled pavement along Piccadilly. “Have you ever been in the Palace?”

“I spent the afternoon there,” replied my friend simply. “The guard allowed me, as a returning celebrity, to visit my humble old aunt, who I convinced him is housekeeper in charge of the royal linens. And I explained, as I left, that I would be coming back tonight with an aged uncle to have one last chat with Aunt Liz before sailing for the colonies.” He turned to me seriously. “In the course of searching for the powder room I was able to make sufficient search of the premises to determine the location of the basement area. When we arrive, I suggest you to allow me to do the talking, as I made, I believe, quite an impression upon the guard!”

Our hansom drew up to a back entrance of the great, ornate Palace, and within seconds Homes was engaged in a giggling conversation with the uniformed figure at the gate. Moments later we found ourselves inside, in a long, empty corridor.

“This way, Watney!” Homes whispered in great excitement, once the outer door had closed upon us. He drew me by the hand to a staircase in one corner, leading downward. Once on the steps he removed his shoes, tucked them in his purse, and slipped silently ahead of me. The lower level was dark, and I handed him the lantern. Removing the cover he sent the light flickering over a series of cellar doors, each one labeled with the name of a different preserve. We made our way silently along the narrow passageway, and Homes paused at each door listening intently. Suddenly he raised his hand for complete silence and turned to me with triumphant satisfaction engraven in every line of his face.

“In here, Watney!” he whispered. “Where it says ‘Peaches!’ Come! We must break it down!”

Making as little noise as possible we placed our shoulders to the door and heaved with all our strength. The door sprang open with a clatter that we feared might bring our adversaries down upon us, but apparently the heavy floors and thick walls of the Palace had been built for such an eventuality, for they contained the sound and there was no outcry. Homes immediately swung the lantern about the small room and there in one corner, as he had so accurately predicted, was the figure of a small boy huddling back in terror on a pile of empty jars. At his feet was a dog who came bounding up, licking our hands.

“There, there!” said Homes soothingly, drawing the terrified boy to his ample breast. “It is all right! We are friends.” He stroked the boy’s hair as I inspected the young lad. It was true that his ears were slightly pointed, but the smear of peach jelly across his face prevented us from noting the speckles on his nose. The small figure clung to Homes, weeping copiously.

“I assure you there is nothing to fear, Your Highness,” Homes said in a kindly voice, still stroking the sobbing boy. “Come, let us take you to your suite. I am sure that no further attempt will be made against your person.”

He led us from the darkened cellar, up the curving stairway to the corridor above. The little dog followed behind faithfully, trying to lick our heels. Once in the upper reaches, however, the boy made a sudden twisting motion, and with a low cry broke away and dashed down the corridor and out of sight. I began at once to follow, but Homes laid a restraining hand upon my arm.

“No, Watney. Let him go his way alone,” he said, a happy smile creasing his face. “There has been sadness in this house tonight, and it will be a nice surprise for their Majesties!”

He turned to the rear door, with the little dog following us and whimpering softly.

“But what shall we do with the dog, Homes?” I queried.

He paused in deep thought. “Why, Watney,” he finally said, “I have long felt that we have the need of a mascot. Let us take him home with us, in memory of a case where we have been able to serve our country!”

I lifted the little creature, placing him under my cape for warmth, and we made our way back to the street. A few whispered words and a muffled slap and we were back in our cab, rolling across London in the direction of Bagel Street.

Although our activities the previous evening had consumed many hours normally devoted to sleep, the following morning found us both neatly dressed and at breakfast at eight o’clock, prepared to welcome the veiled emissary from the Palace. Our little mascot lay quietly at our feet while Homes fed him scraps from the table. At the sound of the carriage below, the great detective quickly arose and opened the door to our quarters, and before anyone could stop him our little mascot had sprung outside and was racing down the steps.

“After him, Homes!” I cried, jumping to my feet.

“Not now!” Homes cried. “We cannot keep a messenger from Her Majesty waiting! It is a shame, but there is nothing that we can do!”

There was a commotion in the street and moments later the door was flung open and the lady from the carriage, her veil now tossed back from her radiant face, stood in the doorway, our mascot clutched in her arms.

“Thank you, Madam,” I said, reaching forward. “These streets are most dangerous with the traffic of countless vehicles.”

But she paid me no heed. “Mr. Homes!” she cried. “You have done it! You have found him!” She clasped his hand in hers in profound gratitude, lifting shining eyes to his.

“It was really nothing,” Homes said modestly, although the sparkle of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

She pressed a signet ring firmly into his hand. “This is in gratefulness from an appreciative country,” she said, and without another word she turned and left our quarters.

“Homes!” I cried. “She has inadvertently taken our mascot!”

“It matters not,” said Homes, his eyes still lifted in dreamy speculation to the empty doorway. “Actually, the Palace is probably a better place for him with their countless forests.” His eyes fell again to his hand.

The mark of the signet ring is still there, and Homes often looks at it in silent contemplation on those long evenings when we sit about the fireplace and recall his most successful case.