I WENT TO THE WINDOW AND LOOKED OUT.
“Another Conan Doyle” (Charles Loomis)
This story from the April issue of Puck might have been inspired by the Berners Street prank of 1810. Someone had sent hundreds of letters—to tradesmen, greengrocers, even the Lord Mayor—asking them to come to 54 Berners Street at the same time. The result was a day of chaos and pandemonium as everyone vied to reach the home. “Perambulator” is also noteworthy for its clever exploitation of Holmesian tropes, and the witty dialogue that begs to be read aloud. Charles Loomis also contributed “A Trip to the Country” above.
I had not heard from Sherlock Holmes for some time, when one day I received a post card, with no date or signature, bearing the single word. “Come!”
I knew that I was wanted on a dangerous and delicate mission, so I put an American bowie knife, a dark lantern, a brace of revolvers, a bottle of smelling salts, and a ham sandwich in my grip. Then I kissed my wife goodby telling her I might be back in a six-month, next day or never, and bidding her to tell my patients to keep stout hearts and to continue to take whatever I had ordered until I returned. I hurried off to the station, and in two hours had reached the lodgings of Sherlock Holmes, in Baker Street, and knocked on the door which he at once opened.
“Ha! Watson, you’ve come,” said he. I couldn’t deny the fact although I did not know by what subtle processes he had arrived at the conclusion.
“Well,” said I, “what’s in the wind today?”
“Do you value your life?”
“Not a ha’porth,” said I.
“Good, neither do I. I have got a murder mystery on my hands besides which that of the Boscombe Valley sinks into insignificance. But, hark! what is that? I hear a footstep. Ten to one, it’s Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I never mistake the cocksure gait of his. He’s coming to consult with me.”
I WENT TO THE WINDOW AND LOOKED OUT.
I went to the window and looked out. For once, Holmes was mistaken. The noise he had heard was caused by a tally-ho and six that dashed by at a furious rate. Not a soul was in sight. The tally-ho stopped at the corner and a man alighted. The next minute he was knocking at our door, and a voice shouted: “Phair the divvle does Sherlock Holmes keep himself?”
“Walk in,” said the great unraveler, and a red-headed man in a smock and overalls entered the room.
“You are an English gentleman, are you not?” asked Holmes.
“Phwat make ye think so?”
“Your disguise and accent.”
“Can your friend be trusted?”
“Certainly, he is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”
“Then behold me, Sir Edward Percyvale Vere Bermondsey-on-Trent Boggs,” and with that he shed his smock and overalls, pulled off his wig and beard, and stood revealed as a slim, aristocratic-looking fellow, whose ancestors, according to Burke’s peerage, which Holmes at once consulted, turned up their noses at William the Conqueror.
“Sir Edward, take a sofa. We are at work at a little murder mystery, but we can let it stand for awhile. Please give me the smallest particulars of the mystery you want unraveled.”
Sir Edward spread himself over the sofa, and, taking out a copy of the Times, said: “Yesterday’s Times contains the following advertisement: ‘If the finder of the child’s perambulator that was mislaid somewhere between Charing Cross and Seven Dials will return same to Edward Percyvale Vere Bermondsey-on-Trent Boggs, 27 Henrietta Street, third bell, he will be handsomely rewarded, as the perambulator contained nothing save a child, of no value to any one save the owners.’”
“My wife is lying ill at my house in Henrietta Street, and the doctor has prescribed absolute quiet; but since early dawn yesterday the street has been filled with perambulators, containing all sorts and conditions of noisy children, and the bell has not ceased ringing. My wife and I are perfectly childless, and I am at a loss to conceive who could have put us to this great annoyance. This morning my wife’s illness has taken a turn for the worse, in consequence of the ceaseless clamor, and if you can help me to find the man who inserted the advertisement, I promise you that I will furnish a murder with no element of mystery in it.”
“This is a very lucid account of which promises to be the most interesting case I ever undertook. Pardon me if I ask a few questions that may appear to be trivial, but which nevertheless, may have a direct bearing on the subject.
“Was your wife ever married before?”
“She was not.”
“Ha! That is very important, and now may I ask whether you have had in your employ a Pole at any time in the last six years?”
“No sir, I employ none but English.”
“And quite right. Now one more question. What was the maiden name of your wife’s mother?”
“Saunders.”
“Enough, come here to-morrow at this time, and I will show you the busy-body who inserted the advertisement, or my name is not Sherlock Holmes.”
During the whole interview, Sir Edward was smiling in a very peculiar way, and he now took his departure still smiling.
HE PLAYED FOR ME IN A MANNER TO MAKE THE GREAT SARASATE HIMSELF BLUSH.
When he had gone, Holmes said, “It will not take long to clear up that mystery, though it is a very pretty one. Then we will make up for lost time on the murder case. In the meantime, let us forget that such things as mysteries that need ferreting. Hand me my violin, and I will play you seven variations of ‘After the Ball,’ by Grieg.” For the next half hour he played for me in a manner to make the great Sarasate himself blush, and then he said, “Come we have idled enough. I will disguise myself, and you take this business directory and hunt up all the firms engaged in the manufacture of perambulators.”
In a few minutes I had prepared a list of the perambulator manufacturers in the United Kingdom. Before I had finished, however, Holmes had stepped out of his bedroom, disguised as an unmarried Baptist preacher of Pennsylvania, U. S. of A. Not a person could have guessed what he represented, so cleverly was he made up. I, who am comparatively unknown, did not need a disguise; but Holmes suggested I carry my revolvers, as he might have to place me in a dangerous position.
HOLMES HAD STEPPED OUT OF HIS BEDROOM, DISGUISED AS AN UNMARRIED BAPTIST PREACHER.
On leaving the house we jumped into a cab, and, after giving directions to the cabman to take us to Hogg & Chichester’s, the leading manufacturers of perambulators, Holmes dismissed all thoughts of business from his mind, and, taking out a jews-harp, played the “Spanish Rhapsody” in a manner that I have rarely heard equaled.
Arriving at the warehouse, Holmes asked to see the foreman, and that worthy soon came into the room.
“Have you among your workmen a Pole?”
“No sir, we have not a Pole.”
“Quite so. Kindly let me see the man who is not a Pole.”
A young man with auburn hair and a pug nose came to us in a minute.
“Are you the young man who is not a Pole?”
“I am.”
“Is your name Saunders?”
“It is not.”
“Do you ever see the Times.”
“No, sir, the pink ’un is the only paper I ever read.”
“What do you think of this affair.”
“Nothing. Didn’t even know there was an affair.”
“Just so. That is all.”
When we had regained the street, Holmes said, “This mystery is prettier than I first gave it credit for, still I have a clue. I consider it very auspicious that that young man is not a Pole. If he is not the man who inserted the advertisement, then we must go to the Isle of Wight for him.”
“Why the Isle of Wight?” asked I.
“Wait,” said he oracularly.
Just then we passed a restaurant. “How long since you ate?” asked he.
“Breakfast was my last meal,” I replied.
“Do you know I haven’t thought to eat for the last five or six days. Suppose we go in.”
When we were seated, he ordered six hot, hard-boiled eggs, which when brought, he ate, shells and all. “I need the lime,” he said. I looked with admiration at this remarkable man, who had the stomach of a camel and a Vidocq combined.
Suddenly the door of the restaurant was opened by no less a person than Sir Edward Etcetera Boggs.
“Ha!” said Holmes. “You are the very man I wanted to see. Have an egg.”
Sir Edward, with the smile of the morning still lingering upon his face, declined the delicacy, but seated himself at our table, where he ordered a b. & s. and a cup of tea.
“Sir Edward, have you relatives in the Isle of Wight?”
“I have not.”
“Do they spend the summer there?”
“They do not.”
“H’m. Have you ever happened to drop a hint that your wife hated to have people answering advertisements for lost perambulators when she was sick?”
“No, I didn’t know she did hate it until yesterday. Now let me ask you a few questions: Aren’t you almost omnipotent?”
“Almost.”
“Well, do you know yet who inserted the advertisement?”
“No.”
“Isn’t all this Isle of Wight business a bluff to give you time to chance on a clue?”
“Yes.”
“Well then. I’ve won my bet with Watson. I inserted the advertisement myself, and bet him that you couldn’t find out who did it before we met again.”
“You bet with Dr. Watson?—Who the devil are you?”
To the everlasting discomfiture of Know-it-all Holmes, Sir Edward pulled off the whole top of his smiling face and disclosed inside of the papier mache head
The well-known features of Lestrade, the Scotland Yard detective!