Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952

International Investigators, Inc. by E. G. Ashton

It all began during a Sunday breakfast at the Ashtons’, in Glasgow, Scotland. That meal in the Ashton house is something of a traditional affair — a long, leisurely, disputatious festival, during which all the members of the Ashton family eat, argue, drinks argue, and are merry, arguing. And, you must understand, on every conceivable subject, no holds or basic premises barred. Thus, all sorts of hare-brained notions come into being, to be hotly defended by their progenitor against the withering scorn of the listeners. Now (to continue the author’s own account of the proceedings), on this particular morning, the London “Sunday Times” was adorned by a piece on Sherlock Holmes written by no less an aficionado than the gasogene-cum-tantalus of the world-famous Baker Street Irregulars, Mr. Christopher Morley. This charming and scholarly article caused one of those delightfully nostalgic discussions which the merest whisper of Baker Street always sets into motion. Carried away by sentiment and enthusiasm, the eldest Ashton suddenly found himself propounding an utterly unforgivable heresy, which was received by the other Ashtons with shrill and outraged protests. “By Mycroft,” roared the head of the family, “that’s how it was, and I’ll prove it!”

Although the senior Ashton had the uncomfortable feeling that he had gone a wee bit too far, nevertheless, if he were ever to hold up his head again at the Sunday morning bull-and-coffee sessions, he would have to deliver the goods. So, that very day, he began to reread the Baker Street saga — and lo, the proof fairly stared him in the face!

Mr. Edward G. Ashton, the perpetrator of the monstrous theory, wishes it clearly understood that though his article was the proximate cause, Mr. Morley is completely innocent of any complicity; no jury in the world would find Mr. Morley guilty, even as an accessory before the fact. The guilt — if there is any — rests solely on Edward G. Ashton, S.S. (Sherlockian Scholar).

And now, meet the eight members of the Examining Body of The Three Eyes {International Investigators, Inc.) — Lord Peter Wimsey, Miss Jane Marple, Father Brown, and Dr. Gidecon Fell, representing England; Uncle Abner, Ellery Queen, and Sam Spade, representing the United States; and Arsène Lupin, representing France. And oh, yes, one other — “obliquely referred to — offstage” — who shall remain, at least for the purposes of this sleuthian salad, nameless...

As he sipped his brandy, his lordship decided that he was quite entitled to feel pleased with himself. The dinner party had been a great success, and it now seemed likely that they could proceed to the business of the evening without disaster.

The gathering, of course, had not been without its hazards, but his lordship flattered himself that he had done everything possible to reduce the risks to the minimum. A simple meal — perfectly cooked and served, naturally — had subtly coaxed them into sociability, and serving with it a brisk young Beaujolais had been a master stroke, even for him. His lordship had pondered long before selecting it in preference to the more obvious Chateau Lafitte — after all, one could never be sure just how underbred palates would appreciate Beaujolais — but his instinct had been right and the risk had come off. For which good fortune his lordship was grateful, being modestly aware that he had some reputation to maintain in matters of connoisseurship.

Most pleasing of all, however, was the fact that the meal had passed off without the slightest hint of awkwardness or the least display of temperament among the guests — and those familiar with the characteristics and idiosyncrasies of the members of the Examining Body will appreciate that no greater tribute could be paid to his lordship’s abilities as a host.

Cupping his brandy ballon in his hands and reflectively sniffing the bouquet (Courvoisier, naturally; the Armagnac would have been wasted on them), his lordship permitted his eye to roam over the guests. A distinguished lot, of course, but like all geniuses, they required the most delicate handling if they were not to break out into regrettable and childish tantrums. They were so easily upset that even their common interest in detection did not guarantee uncomplicated social intercourse. They all had their own little peculiarities, and it was a wise host who managed to cope with them.

For instance, there was the Virginia squire in his old-fashioned evening clothes who was even now discoursing gravely to the amiable elderly lady from England. Decidedly a character, the old boy — charming in the heavy manner of the old school and quite handsome in a rock-carved sort of way — but his habit of traveling everywhere on that great chestnut horse of his was apt to be a shade disconcerting for his hosts. Not, of course, for his lordship — somehow the invaluable Bunter had procured stabling and fodder for the beast. A wonderful manservant, Bunter. Nothing could throw him out of his stride — not even the genial Dr. Thorndyke’s habit of carrying his precious green case wherever he went, even, it was said, into the shower room. Unfortunately, Dr. Thorndyke had been unable to come tonight — he was, his lordship’s long nose wrinkled happily, doubtless sitting up with a sick microscope slide; but enough members were present to form a quorum for the evening’s business.

“And talking of business,” murmured his lordship to himself, “ ‘if it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ Dash it, there I go again! I really must stop this beastly habit of quoting things. So overdone since it’s been taken up by Inspector Appleby, Gervase Fen, and that monstrous regiment of Eng. Lit. women who keep discovering corpses on college campuses.” He paused for a moment to muse, then suddenly recollected himself and said aloud, “Fellow members of the Examining Body! May I suggest we prepare for our official session?”

In a fantastically short time the debris of the meal had been removed and the uncovered oak refectory-table winked back to the lights overhead. In front of each chair was set a snowy island of scratch paper. His lordship took his place in the huge chairman’s throne, and waved the others to sit.

“Fellow Examiners, the meeting is now in session. Will the secretary read the minutes of the last meeting?”

The secretary, the amiable English lady, was the only woman present. She dived into a large reticule and after spilling two knitting needles, a ball of fleecy wool, a crochet hook, and a grocery list at which she stared in some astonishment, she found the minutes-book of the society. She smiled at his lordship, bobbed her gray head to the others, and in a pleasant voice began to read.

From under drooping lids, his lordship studied the secretary. A delightful person, Miss Jane, in quite the finest tradition of English spinsters, good-hearted, honest, and inquisitive. Parochial, of course — she did not seem able to see beyond her own tiny village, and her claim that every wickedness which could happen anywhere had already happened there was obviously absurd — but very sweet and nice. And immensely helpful too. She had actually volunteered to become secretary and keep the minutes. At such enthusiasm for dreary labor, his lordship winced delicately, and resumed his study of the Examining Body.

There were eight of them present tonight — his lordship, Miss Jane, the Virginia squire, and five others. A queer collection, without a doubt. Take the Frenchman. Admittedly he was working for the law these days and the gentleman-cambrioleur era Was behind him, but nevertheless his lordship never felt entirely comfortable about the security of his watch and wallet when the Frenchman was around. Silly, but there it was. And the Frenchman’s trick of invariably appearing in disguise had become tiresome. Heaven knew his lordship was not insular in any degree, but really, there were times when the Gallic temperament became just a little wearing. But give the fellow his due, he was both clever and daring. Unfortunately for the Examining Body, the Frenchman never seemed to tire of admitting just how clever and daring he was.

His lordship much preferred the tall blond American with the yellow-gray eyes who was rolling himself a cigarette. A little physical in his methods, perhaps, and rather more clipped in style than his lordship could wholeheartedly approve, but the American’s tough cynicism was decidedly an improvement on the Frenchman’s bravura.

Miss Jane stopped reading, and the minutes were adopted on the motion of the quiet young American whose pince-nez protected pale silver eyes. His lordship rather liked the youngster — practically no palate, of course, but he dressed rather more reasonably than most Americans, his manners were excellent, and his Duesenberg was almost as good as the Merlin. Of his professional abilities, there was no need to speak — his membership on the Examining Body was sufficient testimony.

His lordship smoothed down his glittering yellow hair, screwed his monocle firmly into his eye, and rose.

“Miss Jane and gentlemen. It is, I am well aware, quite unnecessary to remind any of you of the aims, purpose, and function of our organization. Just the same, I intend to do so tonight — oh, quite briefly, Sam, I assure you,” he added hastily as he saw the blond American raise a sardonic v-shaped eyebrow.

“I am going to do so for two reasons. One is that I disapprove of too much cerebral excitement so soon after a meal — in other words, we must give our jolly old turns time to deal with all the little vitamins and things — and the other is that I jolly well feel like doing it, so you’ll have to lump it.”

“Heh heh heh,” chuckled a huge red-faced man with a bandit mustache, “ ‘as my whimsey takes me,’ hey?”

“Exactly, doctor,” grinned his lordship. “Well, now. It is a good many years since our distinguished patron, the great Chevalier himself, founded the society which has come to be known as The Three Eyes — a rather weak pun on the initials of International Investigators, Inc., an organization which can truly be said to be unique, in the original and correct meaning of that much abused word.

“In The Three Eyes are gathered the greatest brains in the history of criminology. I admit that in the past there have been societies of a fairly similar pattern, but what raises us to our honored pinnacle is that we know no boundaries except those of intellect. We take our members from any and every country, practising by any and every code.

“The doctor here” — the man with the bandit mustache muttered “Harrumph” into a vast handkerchief, then beamed at his lordship — “the doctor has had his brilliant triumphs in England, but they are matched by the successes of the squire in Virginia.”

The squire’s gaze, oak-steady and unflinching as the courage of a mountain man, fixed upon his lordship, then after a pause during which a man might tell five slowly, the great frame bowed acknowledgement.

“Our estimable Sam” — the fair-haired Mephistopheles waved a sinewy hand in salute — “comes from a teeming, virile American city. Our adored Miss Jane” — the lady blushed and became flustered — “from a sleepy English village.

“Our French colleague has — er — operated on both sides of the fence” — the Frenchman sprang to his feet and, white teeth glistening in the black beard he was affecting tonight, bowed like a Gascon. “But,” his lordship continued drily, “has he any advantage over our padre who knows all crimes without having committed a single one?” The tubby little cleric at the end of the table looked startled and managed to drop first his pencil and then his scratch-pad on the floor.

“And if I may be immodest and speak of myself for a moment, you all know that I bear the courtesy title of Lord. But naturally, in any well-conducted regime, a Lord must always be outranked by a—” His lordship made an elegant salute to the silver-eyed American, who almost succeeded in looking modest.

His lordship lit a cigarette and went on. “So much for those of us who are here tonight. But in my opinion, our greatest advantage as an organization is that we are not static. Our membership is not restricted to some arbitrary number. We are always prepared to accept newcomers, provided of course that they attain to the standards we have set. That those standards are high — very, very high — I shall not attempt to deny. For instance, it has always been a source of deep personal regret to me that my spiritual father, one of the greatest if not actually the greatest investigator ever produced by my country, has hitherto failed to satisfy our requirements.”

“Perhaps,” the plump little priest said mildly, “our requirements failed to satisfy him.”

“Ann Chadwick’s cook used to talk in riddles like that,” murmured Miss Jane. “So irritating. Then one day she received a mysterious telephone call, went out, and never came back. Ann Chadwick was most upset.”

“Somebody goosed her cook, huh?” Sam’s fingers were busy with tobacco package and papers.

“Never mind that.” The doctor sighted along his cigar at the chairman. “I agree with you about — ahem! — the absentee. Couldn’t we do something about making him an honorary member, say?”

“No.” His lordship’s voice was regretful but firm. “Sorry, doctor, but it’s out of the question. Apart from being against the constitution of The Three Eyes, it wouldn’t be right to do it. Really, you know, after the mess he made of the Irene Adler affair, it wouldn’t do — it wouldn’t do at all.”

“Hmf. He’s not disbarred for life, then?”

“Oh, lor’, no. If he pulls off something really clever and then applies for membership, I’m positive the Board will welcome him. I really must suggest it to him, next time I see him. However, all this is by the way, so I’ll push on.

“Our custom has been that candidates wishing to join The Three Eyes submit a thesis upon some aspect of criminology. This work is then considered by the Examining Body in council, and if our verdict is favorable, the applicant is granted a Doctorate of Crime and admitted to the society. We have had some extremely interesting and informative papers in the past — I still remember with great pleasure the enlightening views offered by Mr. John J. Malone, of Chicago, in his excellent work, The Influence of Alcohol Upon the Processes of Deduction, and I shall always be grateful to Inspector John Appleby for his brilliant unmasking of the real murderer of Hamlet’s father. I am certain that other theses will come readily to your minds.

“Tonight, it is my privilege to read to you a paper submitted by a Mr. — or it may be a Monsieur — LaMont. There is this slight dubiety because, apart altogether from the French sound of his name, I am given to understand that one of his relatives was a distinguished painter of the French school.

“I may add that Mr. LaMont’s thesis will be the only one heard this evening. There was to have been another, from an American lady, but she appears to have confused her dates in some way. She has sent a note of apology. It reads,” his lordship picked up a sheet of paper from the table, “ ‘Had I but known—’ ”

“Rejected!” shouted the Examining Body in one firm voice.

His lordship inclined his sleek head. “I could not agree with you more. That then leaves us only with Mr. LaMont’s work to consider. With your permission, I shall sit down to read it.”

In their various ways, the Examining Body prepared to listen. The doctor closed his eyes, Sam pasted a cigarette to his lip and stared at the ceiling, the Virginia squire set his great clasped hands on the table before him and looked attentively at his lordship, the Frenchman fondled his beard, Miss Jane edged forward on her chair, the silver-eyed American polished his glasses, and the little priest began to build a castle of sugar-lumps he had found in his pocket while looking for his handkerchief.

His lordship cleared his throat delicately and read the title of the work: “The Greatest of Them All. An Investigation by T. A. LaMont.” Then he plunged into the thesis itself. “ ‘To the earnest student of criminology there can be no subject for deeper regret than the disappearance from the felonious scene of the master criminal, the king of crime who sat at the centre of a web, each strand of which reached out to the heart of some evil enterprise. No more does Dr. Fu Manchu bring the immemorial vices of the East to the Occident; Sophie Lang is notorious no longer; Simon Templar — The Saint — now abides by the law, even if he does not fully approve of it; Raffles has gone into virtual retirement; The Lone Wolf has prowled for the last time. Alas, the underworld is not the same...’

“ ‘But it is not my intention in this paper to attempt any comparative evaluation of the great criminal masters — my apiarist pursuits do not leave me time to undertake so vast a work—’ ”

The doctor looked up sharply. “So?” he roared. “The wind blows in that quarter, hey? By Archons of Athens, I wouldn’t — harrumph! Quite! Sorry!”

His lordship cocked a warning eye. “If I may continue — ‘blah blah to undertake so vast a work — but I should like to discuss some aspects of the man who, in my opinion, represents the highest development of criminal genius. I refer to the late Professor Moriarty’.”

A tremor of excitement stirred among the guests. A grim smile touched the firm lips of the Virginian. “ ‘Out of the eater came forth meat’,” he quoted, and the deep voice rumbled like a drum in the quiet room. “Out of past evil shall come forth future good.”

Unnerving old boy, thought his lordship. He tapped his papers gently to bring back their attention.

“ ‘Unfortunately, all too little is known of the personal history of Moriarty, and the fragments which do exist have come to us in works written by Dr. Watson, the chronicler of Sherlock Holmes.’

“ ‘It is, I know, quite unnecessary to remind the Examining Body that Moriarty was Holmes’s supreme antagonist. It is known that he actually defeated the investigator in the case that is called The Valley of Fear, and we may well speculate upon what further triumphs might have been his but for his too early disappearance at the Reichenbach Fall, as reported by Watson in The Final Problem. Holmes had the greatest respect and admiration for Moriarty — on several occasions he remarked to Watson with a somewhat wry smile that London was indeed a dull place without the evil shadow of Moriarty hanging over it. This is the kind of tribute which can be paid only by the really great to others of equal eminence’.”

His lordship looked up. “Did you say something, padre?”

The little priest shook his head. “No, no. It was merely a giggle.” He clasped his hands and beamed, like a happy child. “I am enjoying this. Do go on.”

“I wish,” said the Frenchman impatiently, “that our friend LaMont would come to the point. This aimless chatter fatigues me.”

“Why, don’t you like a lot of talk?” Miss Jane sounded surprised. “I do. The more the better.”

“So does he, ma’am,” thundered the doctor. “But only when he is doing the talking.”

Before the bickering could spread, his lordship resumed his reading. “ ‘Before considering the supra-legal activities of Professor Moriarty, however, it might be well to recapitulate briefly some of the more outstanding points of interest about the Holmes-Watson partnership at 22 iB Baker Street. After all, as we see our subject Moriarty almost solely through the eyes of one or other of the partners, it is only good policy to determine their value as witnesses and assess their relative strengths and weaknesses.

“ ‘It has become customary to set Holmes down as brilliant and the doctor as a courageous, level-headed, but — let us face it — desperately stupid man. So stupid, in fact, that he does not even have the sense to suppress his own weaknesses of intellect, but cheerfully exposes them to the public gaze through the medium of his chronicles. There is, for notorious example, the occasion on which Holmes returns to the lodgings, tears a piece from a loaf and devours it voraciously. “You are hungry!” remarks the doctor, with astonishing perspicuity. This is not by any means an isolated instance. Time after time the doctor utters some fatuity so crass that the mind rejects its probability on the instant. By any standards, they are abysmal. By Baker Street standards, they are utterly incredible.

“ ‘It is notorious that Holmes did not suffer fools gladly — his vicious outbursts at Lestrade and other officers from Scotland Yard testify to that. Is it likely then that for so many years he would tolerate a partner and colleague as congenitally feeble-minded as Watson makes himself out to be? Psychologically, I submit, it is quite out of the question’.”

“Bon.” The Frenchman’s beard bristled with appreciation. “Soundly reasoned — I could not have done better myself. I see what he is aiming at.”

“Seeing what you aim at is simple — anyone can do that,” remarked the priest abruptly. “But can you aim at what you see?” He looked at them and his eyes were very puzzled.

“May I,” asked his lordship politely, “proceed?” Again he turned to the thesis. “ ‘Two further points of interest affecting the famous friendship I commend to your notice before we proceed to the matter of Moriarty. One concerns certain expressions and turns of speech much favored by Holmes, perhaps the most frequently burlesqued talker in literature. Familiar cliches such as “Elementary, my dear Watson” hardly require any elaboration at this date.

“ ‘The other point is the inimitable and total assurance of Holmes. Facts, clues, evidence could — and so far as he was concerned, did — point in only one direction. He lived, we might say, on a one-way street of logic. A man held himself erect — ergo, he was a soldier. No other explanation — that he might be a Marine or even a civilian suffering from a stiff neck — was ever considered for a moment. A noted critic has drawn attention to this singular characteristic in the now famous dictum that one slip on the part of the criminal would have brought Holmes’s case crashing to the ground.

“ ‘Now, as to Moriarty. This king of crime had been a professor of mathematics at an English provincial University, and a brilliant one to boot, until at last driven from his Chair by the hot breath of scandal. Thereafter he went to London and became a crammer, one who stuffs young persons with just sufficient information to enable them to pass their examinations. This ex-professor, operating from his house in London, dominates the underworld of Europe and is brought in as a guest expert by even so powerful a group as the Scowrers of America. He is a veritable king among the kings of crime.

“ ‘So, at least, we are told.

“ ‘But who, we may legitimately inquire, is our informant? From whom do we hear these so-called facts? Why, none other than Holmes himself. The detective gives us two resumes of Moriarty’s career, once in The Valley of Fear and later in The Final Problem. This should be reliable enough information, but once again it would be no more than simple caution to question it. Especially when we remember Holmes’s tendency to regard only one side of the penny. He had decided that Moriarty was a crook, therefore Moriarty was a crook. It was as simple as that.

“ ‘But strangely enough, Scotland Yard had no clue whatsoever as to Moriarty’s existence in a criminal role. At one point in The Valley of Fear, Inspector MacDonald says that at the Yard they thought that Holmes had a bee in his bonnet about the professor — not an uncommon thought at the Yard about Holmes’s ideas, one must admit, but nevertheless indicative of their ignorance of a criminally-minded Moriarty.

“ ‘But the most crushing proof that Moriarty was not the man Holmes asserted him to be comes from Holmes himself. In The Valley of Fear Holmes cheerfully confesses to a flagrant crime — his breaking into and entering of Moriarty’s house. Not only that, but he searched the house thoroughly — and found nothing incriminating or compromising! Nothing whatsoever. “That,” remarks Holmes blithely, “was what amazed me.”

“ ‘Familiar as we are with Holmes’s preference for the complex rather than the simple solution, the tortuous rather than the straight path, it is certain that here he is flogging his favorite hobby-horse just too unmercifully.

“ ‘His search of the house was thorough. He was desperately anxious to prove his case, therefore he would have seized with pleasure upon the least trifle which could be construed as bolstering, his theory. Had there been the tiniest jot of evidence against Moriarty in that house, most assuredly Holmes would have found it. Yet he! found nothing. Why? Manifestly because there was nothing to find. And, as it is impossible to conduct any enterprise of magnitude without some sort of written record — even if it is no more than the plan of a bank to be robbed or a map showing where the body is buried — it follows that the Professor Moriarty suspected by Holmes was not the ruler of the underworld.

“ ‘Nevertheless, there was such a ruler. There was an expert whose services were engaged by the Scowrers. Holmes was quite right as to his existence, but erred as to his identity. Who then was this master?’ ”

“Something,” grinned the young American, polishing his pince-nez, “tells me that I am not going to like his answer when I hear it.”

“ ‘Who then was this master who kept his identity so cunningly concealed? Here, let me refer you to my remarks earlier regarding Holmes’s favorite forms of phrase. The truth about the real Moriarty is, I believe, quite clearly indicated by two well-known Holmesisms, namely, “You know my methods, Watson,” and, “When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.” In other words, my dear Examiners, I submit that the underworld king who gave such desperate battle to Sherlock Holmes was none other than Dr. Watson himself!’ ”

His lordship could not proceed for the hubbub — half-outraged protest, half-delighted laughter — which rose from the Board. His lordship screwed the monocle back into his eye, peered again at the paper, and nodded firmly. “That’s what it says here. Listen to what the crafty devil says next.

“ ‘I would like at this point to remind members of the Examining Body of the dictum that when the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’.”

“Ho ho ho,” wheezed the vast doctor, “the devil can cite Scripture to his own purpose.”

“But there’s a lot more,” went on his lordship. “ ‘When I first formulated this theory, my reaction was exactly what I suspect the Board’s has been — an immediate rejection as being utterly beyond credence. But then I began to wonder. After all, it is not unknown in times of war for secret agents to penetrate into the enemy’s territory, and even serve on the enemy’s General Staff. Consider, then, how strong a position Watson would hold as confidant of the very man who was trying to catch him, often being told in advance the full details of the very plan being hatched to bring about his own undoing.

“ ‘Still more valuable to Watson was the fact that of all the men in the world, he was the one who knew Holmes’s methods best. He knew them like the back of his hand, and Heaven knows he had them frequently re-explained just in case he ever forgot. It was child’s-play for him to make his own counter-plans, based on an accurate knowledge of how Holmes would set about solving the case.

“ ‘And here at last we have a plausible reason for Watson’s consistent self-depreciation in the stories. He presented himself as the stupid bungler because it kept suspicion away from him. No one, least of all Holmes, could ever have suspected dear old muffle-headed Watson of being a criminal, and a master criminal at that. It was a perfect disguise and was, in a way, a fresh twist to the device detected by the Chevalier in The Purloined Letter. By making himself so obviously a fool, Watson made himself invisible as a suspect.

“ ‘All this, you may contend, is merely supposition, but closer examination reveals evidence.

“ ‘Watson, by his own confession, was fond of a certain degree of high living. He frequented the Criterion Bar and was weak enough to overindulge in alcohol upon occasion. Combined with this weakness was an almost incurable indolence of nature — time after time we hear of him breakfasting after Holmes; and he had an extremely untidy streak, proof of which can be found in the famous anecdote of the two pictures, one framed, the other left unframed.

“ ‘Indeed, apart from these shortcomings of character which by themselves were sufficient to blast any hopes of a successful medical career, he does not even seem to have been a particularly knowledgeable doctor — his admissions of ignorance in The Dying Detective are a permanent blot upon the teachings of the University of London; and the fact that he was able to go gallivanting about the country with Holmes on his cases is a clear indication that his practice certainly did not flourish.

“ ‘Yet Watson had no private income. He was dependent upon his own exertions for money — yet, as we have seen, he neglected his medical practice shamefully. How then was he able to afford his way of life, the jaunts with Holmes? Obviously, he must have had a source of income which he did not mention in the chronicles, a source which he was careful to keep secret even from Holmes. But this secrecy was totally unnecessary — unless the money was procured by some dishonest means—

“ ‘But the real nub of my case against Watson is contained in what happened before, at, and after the incident at the Reichenbach Fall.

“ ‘There was first of all Holmes’s report to Watson of his interview with Moriarty, or rather I should say, with the master criminal. Even in Holmes’s drab and threadbare description, we can see that his visitor arrived heavily disguised. In Heaven’s name why? There was no reason for Moriarty to disguise himself when calling upon Holmes; but there was every reason in the world why Watson should!

“ ‘Parenthetically, I should also like to draw your attention to a detail, a small but still useful brick in the edifice: namelyб that Moriarty-the-criminal and Watson-the-chronicler were never seen together!

“ ‘Anyway, the man who called upon Holmes made a significant remark. He said, you recall, that he would be deeply sorry if he were forced to wipe out the detective. This statement is at least unexpected coming from a deadly enemy. On the other hand, it most exactly expresses what Watson’s sentiments would have been in the circumstances.

“ ‘After the report of the interview, the chronicle goes on to detail some absurdly melodramatic rushing about London, leaping in and out of hansoms to a split-second timetable, and some exceedingly snap identifications by Holmes of total strangers as pursuers.

“ ‘The upshot of all. this is that Holmes and Watson cross the Channel and begin a leisurely tour on the Continent. It is then — and this is the key point of my case — that Holmes receives a telegram informing him that the master criminal was not caught in the police net. Of course he was not! He had been carefully escorted out of the country by Holmes himself, and was standing by Holmes’s side when the telegram arrived.

“ ‘I do not know precisely when it began to dawn on Holmes that for years he had been gulled by his crony, but I am satisfied that he was in possession of the true facts of the matter by the time they reached the Meiringen Hotel. On the instant (just several years too late) Holmes realized that he was in a peculiarly humiliating situation. It takes little effort to imagine how he would have been greeted by, say, Lestrade if he returned to London and admitted the success of Watson’s deception. Sooner than make himself such a laughingstock, Holmes would disappear — and finally.

“ ‘Or, at least, with the appearance of finality. He did not relish the idea of disappearing forever. But in a year or so, three at the outside, things would have blown over, and he could reappear in his old haunts.

“ ‘But what was to happen to Watson during this period? Obviously, he could not be permitted to continue terrorizing London in his guise as Moriarty. The great criminal must vanish for good.

“ ‘In addition, Holmes had to make certain that the cause of Watson’s criminal tendencies — that dreadfully weak moral fibre of his — disappeared too. His vicious tastes were acquired rather than inherent, and would in time respond to treatment. I have no doubt that Watson, on the advice and entreaty of Holmes, entered some sort of institution. Certainly, it is curious that Watson never mentioned precisely where he was during Holmes’s three-years’ absence.

“ ‘When the plans were settled, the pair staged the comedy at the Reichenbach Fall. Holmes carefully planted the alpenstock and cigarette case to be “discovered” later. The man “seen” by Watson walking towards the Fall was seen by nobody else, and was merely an invention. The doctor himself admitted that the message from the sick Englishwoman, his excuse for leaving the Fall, was a fake. But I have sometimes wondered about the messenger from the hotel, the Swiss lad who was never seen again. Did they, to add verisimilitude to the tale Watson was to tell, perhaps push—?

“ ‘The rest is soon told. In three years Watson is back in London. But so too is the human tiger, Colonel Moran, and, mark this well, Moran was the only man left who knew the criminal king by sight. What happened? Most opportunely — in fact, suspiciously so — Holmes reappears from the dead, and Moran is removed in short order.

“ ‘That ends my case, members of the Examining Body, against the greatest of them all — the king of the kings of crime, Dr. John H. Watson. If I may add a final word, Experto crede. (Signed) T. A. LaMont’.”

“Well!” said Miss Jane. “Well!” The priest clapped his hands delightedly. The Frenchman caressed his beard. The doctor wheezed happily, the Virginia squire nodded his great head approvingly, and the silver-eyed American wore a charmed smile. Sam made himself another cigarette.

His lordship spoke. “I don’t want to be accused of influencing you unduly, but I do want to say that if you don’t elect this man immediately, you’re blithering asses.”

“One of the benefits of a liberal education” — the American detective fiddled dreamily with his pince-nez — “is that it makes one adept at solving simple anagrams.”

“You don’t miss much, do you? Well, let’s put it to the vote. All those in favor of the election of Mr. T. A. LaMont? Those against? No Nos? Excellent. Then I have the pleasure and privilege of awarding a Doctorate of Crime to my great teacher, Mr.—”

“T. A. LaMont,” warned the Body hurriedly.

His lordship groaned, then sighed happily. “Thanks. Nearly upset things at the last minute, didn’t I? To Mr. T. A. LaMont. The meeting is now adjourned — until next year.”