The misadventures of she.., p.21
The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes, page 21
part #1 of Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes Series
Narrator: WHATSUP
THE ADVENTURES OF
SHAMROCK JOLNES
by O. HENRY
O. Henry wrote two waggish parodies of Sherlock, Holmes—“The Sleuths” and “The Adventures of Shamrock Jolnes” both to be found in Sixes and Sevens (Garden City, Doubleday, Page, 1911). The great Shamrock appeared briefly in a third story, “The Detective Detector,” in Waifs and Strays (Garden City, Doubleday, Page, 1927), but this tale was a parody of The Master Criminal rather than of The Master Detective.
Your Editors have chosen “The Adventures of Shamrock Jolnes” because it presents Shamrock at his deductive best. In “The Sleuths” Jolnes shares the spotlight with—worse, actually yields it to—another detective named Juggins; and in “The Detective Detector” Jolnes plays second fiddle to a one-man Murder, Inc. named Avery Knight. Since this anthology is dedicated to the One and Only, with rivalry of any sort firmly excommunicated, we cannot permit so nondescript a pair of interlopers as Juggins and Knight to trespass upon the sacred precincts.
O. Henry’s invention of the name Shamrock is surely an appealing conceit. The more you think of it, the more it grows on you. But delicious as it is, it does not represent the author s major effort in the field of parody names. O. Henry wrote two other detective-story burlesques, caricaturing the famous Vidocq. They are included in rolling stones (Garden City, Doubleday, Page, 1912) and the parody name for Vidocq is positively inspired. It is le nora juste, the paragon of paronomasia, the ne plus ultra of neology—in a word, Tictocq.
I am so fortunate as to count Shamrock Jolnes, the great New York detective, among my muster of friends. Jolnes is what is called the “inside man” of the city detective force. He is an expert in the use of the typewriter, and it is his duty, whenever there is a “murder mystery” to be solved, to sit at a desk telephone at Headquarters and take down the messages of “cranks” who phone in their confessions to having committed the crime.
But on certain “off” days when confessions are coming in slowly and three or four newspapers have run to earth as many different guilty persons, Jolnes will knock about the town with me, exhibiting, to my great delight and instruction, his marvelous powers of observation and deduction.
The other day I dropped in at Headquarters and found the great directive gazing thoughtfully at a string that was tied tightly around his little finger.
“Good morning, Whatsup,” he said, without turning his head. “I’m glad to notice that you’ve had your house fitted up with electric lights at last.”
“Will you please tell me,” I said, in surprise, how you knew that.
I am sure that I never mentioned the fact to anyone, and the wiring was a rush order not completed until this morning.”
“Nothing easier” said Jolnes, genially. “As you came in I caught the odor of the cigar you are smoking. I know an expensive cigar and I know that not more than three men in New York can afford to smoke cigars and pay gas bills too at the present time. That was an easy one. But I am working just now on a little problem of my own.”
“Why have you that string on your finger?” I asked.
“That’s the problem,” said Jolnes. “My wife tied that on this morning to remind me of something I was to send up to the house. Sit down, Whatsup, and excuse me for a few moments.”
The distinguished detective went to a wall telephone, and stood with the receiver to his ear for probably ten minutes.
“Were you listening to a confession?” I asked, when he had returned to his chair.
“Perhaps,” said Jolnes, with a smile, “it might be called something of the sort. To be frank with you, Whatsup, I’ve cut out the dope. I’ve been increasing the quantity for so long that morphine doesn’t have much effect on me any more. I’ve got to have something more powerful. That telephone I just went to is connected with a room in the Waldorf where there’s an author’s reading in progress. Now, to get at the solution of this string.”
After five minutes of silent pondering, Jolnes looked at me, with a smile, and nodded his head.
“Wonderful man!” I exclaimed. “Already?”
“It is quite simple,” he said, holding up his finger. “You see that knot? That is to prevent my forgetting. It is, therefore, a forget-me-knot. A forget-me-not is a flower. It was a sack of flour that I was to send home!”
“Beautiful!” I could not help crying out in admiration.
“Suppose we go out for a ramble,” suggested Jolnes.
“There is only one case of importance on hand just now. Old man McCarty, one hundred and four years old, died from eating too many bananas. The evidence points so strongly to the Mafia that the police have surrounded the Second Avenue Katzenjammer Gambrinus Club No. 2, and the capture of the assassin is only the matter of a few hours. The detective force has not yet been called on for assistance.”
Jolnes and I went out and up the street toward the corner, where we were to catch a surface car.
Halfway up the block we met Rheingelder, an acquaintance of ours, who held a City Hall position.
“Good morning, Rheingelder,” said Jolnes, halting. “Nice breakfast that was you had this morning.”
Always on the lookout for the detective’s remarkable feats of deduction, I saw Jolnes’s eyes flash for an instant upon a long yellow splash on the shirt bosom and a smaller one upon the chin of Rheingelder—both undoubtedly made by the yolk of an egg.
“Oh, dot is some of your detectiveness,” said Rheingelder, shaking all over with a smile. “Veil, I pet you trinks und cigars all round dot you cannot tell vot I haf eaten for breakfast.”
“Done,” said Jolnes. “Sausage, pumpernickel and coffee.” Rheingelder admitted the correctness of the surmise and paid the bet. When we had proceeded on our way I said to Jolnes:
“I thought you looked at the egg spilled on his chin and shirt—front.”
“I did,” said Jolnes. “That is where I began my deduction. Rheingelder is a very economical, saving man. Yesterday eggs dropped in the market to twenty-eight cents per dozen. Today they are quoted at forty-two. Rheingelder ate eggs yesterday, and today he went back to his usual fare. A little thing like this isn’t anything, Whatsup; it belongs to the primary arithmetic class.”
When we boarded the streetcar we found the seats all occupied—principally by ladies. Jolnes and I stood on the rear platform.
About the middle of the car there sat an elderly man with a short gray beard, who looked to be the typical well-dressed New Yorker. At successive corners other ladies climbed aboard, and soon three or four of them were standing over the man, clinging to straps and glaring meaningly at the man who occupied the coveted seat. But he resolutely retained his place.
“We New Yorkers,” I remarked to Jolnes, “have about lost our manners, as far as the exercise of them in public goes.”
“Perhaps so,” said Jolnes, lightly, “but the man you evidently refer to happens to be a very chivalrous and courteous gentleman from Old Virginia. He is spending a few days in New York with his wife and two daughters, and he leaves for the South tonight.
“You know him, then?” I said, in amazement.
“I never saw him before we stepped on the car,” declared the detective, smilingly.
“By the gold tooth of the Witch of Endor,” I cried, “if you can construe all that from his appearance you are dealing in nothing else than black art.”
“The habit of observation—nothing more,” said Jolnes. “If the old gentleman gets of! the car before we do, I think I can demonstrate to you the accuracy of my deduction.”
Three blocks farther along the gentleman rose to leave the car. Jolnes addressed him at the door:
“Pardon me, sir, but are you not Colonel Hunter, of Norfolk, Virginia?”
“No, suh was the extremely courteous answer. “My name, suh, is Ellison—Major Winfield R. Ellison, from Fairfax County, in the same state. I know a good many people, suh, in Norfolk the Goodriches, the Tollivers, and the Crabtrees, suh, but I never had the pleasure of meeting yo’ friend Colonel Hunter. I am happy to say, suh, that I am going back to Virginia tonight, after having spent a week in yo’ city with my wife and three daughters. I shall be in Norfolk in about ten days, and if you will give me yo’ name, suh, I will take pleasure in looking up Colonel Hunter and telling him that you inquired after him, suh.”
“Thank you,” said Jolnes. “Tell him that Reynolds sent his regards, if you will be so kind.”
I glanced at the great New York detective and saw that a look of intense chagrin had come upon his clear-cut features. Failure in the slightest point always galled Shamrock Jolnes.
“Did you say your three daughters?” he asked of the Virginia gentleman.
“Yes, suh, my three daughters, all as fine girls as there are in Fairfax County,” was the answer.
With that Major Ellison stopped the car and began to descend the step.
Shamrock Jolnes clutched his arm.
“One moment, sir—” he begged, in an urbane voice in which I alone detected the anxiety—“am I not right in believing that one of the young ladies is an adopted daughter?
“You are, suh,” admitted the major, from the ground, “but how the devil you knew it, suh, is mo’ than I can tell.
“And mo’ than I can tell, too,” I said, as the car went on.
Jolnes was restored to his calm, observant serenity by having wrested victory from his apparent failure; so after we got off the car he invited me into a cafe, promising to reveal the process of his latest wonderful feat.
“In the first place,” he began after we were comfortably seated, “I knew the gentleman was no New Yorker because he was flushed and uneasy and restless on account of the ladies that were standing, although he did not rise and give them his seat. I decided from his appearance that he was a Southerner rather than a Westerner.
“Next I began to figure out his reason for not relinquishing his seat to a lady when he evidently felt strongly, but not overpoweringly, impelled to do so. I very quickly decided upon that. I noticed that one of his eyes had received a severe jab in one corner, which was rad and inflamed, and that all over his face were tiny round marks about the size of the end of an uncut lead pencil. Also upon both of his patent-leather shoes were a number of deep imprints shaped like ovals cut off square at one end.
“Now, there is only one district in New York City where a man is. bound to receive scars and wounds and indentations of that sort—and that is along the sidewalks of Twenty-third Street and a portion of Sixth Avenue south of there. I knew from the imprint of trampling heels on his feet and the marks of countless jabs in the face from umbrellas and parasols carried by women in the shopping district that he had been in conflict with the Amazonian troops. And as he was a man of intelligent appearance, I knew he would not have braved such dangers unless he had been dragged thither by his own womenfolk. Therefore, when he got on the car his anger at the treatment he had received was sufficient to make him keep his seat in spite of his traditions of Southern chivalry.”
“That is all very well,” I said, “but why did you insist upon daughters—and especially two daughters? Why couldn’t a wife alone have taken him shopping?”
“There had to be daughters,” said Jolnes, calmly. “If he had only a wife, and she near his own age, he could have bluffed her into going alone. If he had a young wife she would prefer to go alone. So there you are.”
“I’ll admit that,” I said; “but, now, why two daughters? And how, in the name of all the prophets, did you guess that one was adopted when he told you he had three?”
“Don’t say guess,” said Jolnes, with a touch of pride in his air; “there is no such word in the lexicon of ratiocination. In Major Ellison’s buttonhole there was a carnation and a rosebud backed by a geranium leaf. No woman ever combined a carnation and a rosebud into a boutonniere. Close your eyes, Whatsup, and give the logic of your imagination a chance. Cannot you see the lovely Adele fastening the carnation to the lapel so that Papa may be gay upon the street? And then the romping Edith May dancing up with sisterly jealousy to add her rosebud to the adornment?”
“And then,” I cried, beginning to feel enthusiasm, “when he declared that he had three daughters—”
“I could see,” said Jolnes, “one in the background who added no flower; and I knew that she must be—”
“Adopted!” I broke in. “I give you every credit; but how did you know he was leaving for the South tonight?”
“In his breast pocket,” said the great detective, “something large and oval made a protuberance. Good liquor is scarce on trains, and it is a long journey from New York to Fairfax County.”
“Again I must bow to you,” I said. “And tell me this, so that my last shred of doubt will be cleared away; why did you decide that he was from Virginia?”
“It was very faint, I admit,” answered Shamrock Jolnes, “but no trained observer could have failed to detect the odor of mint in the car.”
Detective: PICKLOCK HOLES
Narrator: POTSON
THE UMBROSA BURGLARY
by R. C. LEHMANN
‘This early parody appeared first in Punch, issue of November 4, 1893. It was one of a series of eight published in book form under the title The Adventures of Picklock Holes (London, Bradbury, Agnew, 1901).
We have decided to include one of R. C. Lehmann s series for no less than four reasons: [1] the hook, the adventures of picklock holes, is unusually scarce—so scarce that Vincent Starrett could find no copy until your Editors, after many years of hunting, located a duplicate copy and presented it to an elated Mr. Starrett; [2] when the Picklock Holes adventures appeared in “Punch” they were signed as by “Cunnin Toil” a pun of the name Conan Doyle that is much cleverer than seems on first reading; [3] the parody name of Picklock Holes is surely one of the most imaginative distortions ever invented; and [4] Mr. Lehmann offers a candid and singularly convincing explanation for Picklock Holes s infallibility as a great detective—explanation that has as curious a note of realism as ever crept into the last paragraph of a burlesque.
During one of my short summer holidays I happened to be spending a few days at the delightful riverside residence of my friend James Silver, the extent of whose hospitality is only to be measured by the excellence of the fare that he sets before his guests, or by the varied amusements that he provides for them. The beauties of Umbrosa (for that is the attractive name of his house) are known to all those who during the summer months pass up (or down) the winding reaches of the Upper Thames. It was there that I witnessed a series of startling events which threw the whole county into a temporary turmoil. Had it not been for the unparalleled coolness and sagacity of Picklock Holes the results might have been fraught with disaster to many distinguished families, but the acumen of Holes saved the situation and the family plate, and restored the peace of mind of one of the best fellows in the world The party at Umbrosa consisted of the various members of the Silver family, including, besides Mr. and Mrs. Silver, three high-spirited and unmarried youths and two charming girls. Picklock Holes was of course one of the guests. In fact, it had long since come to be an understood thing that wherever I went Holes should accompany me in the character of a professional detective on the lookout for business; and James Silver, though he may have at first resented the calm unmuscularity of my marvellous friend’s immovable face, would have been the last man in the world to spoil any chance of sport or excitement by refraining from offering a cordial invitation to Holes. The party was completed by Peter Bowman, a lad of eighteen, who to an extraordinary capacity for mischief added an imperturbable cheerfulness of manner. He was generally known as Shockheaded Peter, in allusion to the brush-like appearance of his delicate auburn hair, but his intimate friends sometimes addressed him as Venus, a nickname which he thoroughly deserved by the almost classic irregularity of his Saxon features.
We were all sitting, I remember, on the riverbank, watching the countless craft go past, and enjoying that pleasant industrious indolence which is one of the chief charms of life on the Thames. A punt had just skimmed by, propelled by an athletic young fellow in boating costume. Suddenly Holes spoke.
“It is strange,” he said, “that the man should be still at large. “What man? Where? How?” we all exclaimed breathlessly.
“The young puntsman,” said Holes, with an almost aggravating coolness. “He is a bigamist, and has murdered his great aunt.”
“It cannot be,” said Mr. Silver, with evident distress. “I know the lad well, and a better fellow never breathed.”
“I speak the truth,” said Holes, unemotionally. The induction is perfect. He is wearing a red tie. That tie was not always red. It was, therefore, stained by something. Blood is red. It was, therefore, stained by blood. Now it is well known that the blood of great aunts is of a lighter shade, and the colour of that tie has a lighter shade. The blood that stained it was, therefore, the blood of his great aunt. As for the bigamy, you will have noticed that as he passed he blew two rings of cigarette smoke, and they both floated in the air at the same time. A ring is a symbol of matrimony. Two rings together mean bigamy. He is, therefore, a bigamist.”
For a moment we were silent, struck with horror at this dreadful, this convincing revelation of criminal infamy. Then I broke out: “Holes,” I said, “you deserve the thanks of the whole community. You will of course communicate with the police.”
“No,” said Holes, “they are fools, and I do not care to mix myself up with them. Besides, I have other fish to fry.”
Saying this, he led me to a secluded part of the grounds, and whispered in my ear.
“Not a word of what I am about to tell you. There will be a burglary here to-night.”
“But Holes,” I said, startled in spite of myself at the calm omniscience of my friend, “had we not better do something; arm the servants, warn the police, bolt the doors and bar the windows, and sit up with blunderbusses—anything would be better than this state of dreadful expectancy. May I not tell Mr. Silver?”
