The Memoirs of Schlock Homes by Robert L. Fish

Author:Robert L. Fish [Fish, Robert L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd
Published: 2015-07-06T16:00:00+00:00

Our exertions of the previous evening kept us both late abed, and it was close to the hour of noon before I came into our breakfast room to find Homes already at the table. He nodded to me pleasantly and was about to speak when our page entered and handed Homes a telegraph form.

I seated myself, unfolded the afternoon journal, and was just reaching for the curried kidney when a sharp exclamation of dismay caused me to glance up. Homes, his face ashen, was staring in horror at the slip of paper in his hand.

“Homes!” I cried. “What is it?”

“I am an idiot!” he muttered bitterly. “An abysmal idiot! I should have anticipated this!”

“Anticipated what, Homes?” I inquired, and for an answer received the telegraph form flung across the table. I read it hastily; its message was succinct. HOMES, YOU HAVE DONE IT AGAIN. WHISTLER’S MOTHER IS ONCE AGAIN IN OUR HANDS AND HUNG, THANKS TO YOU.

“But, Homes!” I exclaimed. “I do not understand!”

“No?” he replied scathingly. “It is easily enough understood. I failed to take into account that the old lady might follow her booty back across the channel and thus fall into their hands! I am a fool! Rather than save her, I actually led her to her death.”

“You must not blame yourself, Homes,” I said with warm sympathy. “You did your best, and no man can do more.”

“I did far too well,” he replied balefully. “Without my help Duping might have searched for the old woman and her cognac for years.” He tried to shake off his black mood, shrugging. “Ah, well! It is too late now to cry over spilt milk. Tell me, Watney, is there anything of a criminal nature in to-day’s journal to help take my mind from this terrible fiasco?”

I hastily abandoned my kidney, perusing the newspaper instead, running my eyes rapidly down one column after another, but without too much success. There was, however, one weak possibility, and in lieu of a more interesting case I offered it.

“There is this, Homes,” I said, studying the article further. “It seems that a very valuable painting was stolen from the French National Gallery. But the dateline is several days old; it may very well be that by this time the trail is much too cold.”

The renewed sparkle in Homes’s eyes told me that he was already well on the road to recovery.

“The time element makes no difference, Watney! A crime is a crime, and the more difficult the case, the better I like it! Besides, we have one bit of information the Sûreté lacks: we know that Professor Marty could not have been involved, for we would have come upon some evidence of it during our search. And eliminating this adversary takes us quite a step forward! A telegram to the authorities offering my services, Watney, if you will!”

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