Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 75, No. 2. Whole No. 436, February 11, 1980

The Adventure of the Patient Resident by Robert L. Fish

© 1979 by Robert L. Fish.

The “vorld’s vurst conzulting detectiff” detects again, and if it is possible to conceive, the one and only Schlock Homes outdoes himself. Above the top of his form, the Great Schlock blazes with deductions and theories, and comes to some of the most startling conclusions of his “conzulting” career...

It was when interesting cases were either rare or non-existent that my friend Mr. Schlock Homes found life most difficult to bear, nor was he loath to pass on his feelings of frustration to me. It made for uncomfortable moments for me, but at the same time the hiatus in work allowed me the necessary time to bring some order to my voluminous notes regarding the many cases I was privileged to share with the man a German acquaintance of ours called, in his delightful accent, the “vorld’s vurst conzulting detectiff.”

I recall in particular one warm sunny afternoon in June in the year ’77, with the shadows just beginning to creep across the ceiling of our quarters at 221B Bagel Street. Homes and I had recently returned home from a visit to France. There, in the chief city of the departement of the Rhone, my friend had successfully tracked down a miscreant using the sewers of the city to give the place a bad odor. I was in the process of putting my notes together under the tentative title of The Adventure of the Lyons’ Main, while Homes, bored almost to distraction by not having a problem to occupy him, was slouched in the basket chair with his violin, playing what even to my untutored ear sounded like An Err on the G-String. I had just decided that some liquid refreshment might aid in my literary efforts, when there came a diffident knock on the door and a moment later our page had entered with the late afternoon post.

Homes quickly put aside his instrument, eagerly taking the packet from the boy and tearing the letters open in order, anxiously seeking some missive that might indicate a problem to test his enormous energies and massive brain. With a sigh I brought my attention from the sideboard to watch, wondering what new adventure for us might be concealed in the formidable pile of correspondence; but as Homes tossed aside piece after piece once he had perused it, and as the smiling look of anticipation on his lean face slowly turned to one of growing disappointment, I shook my head and returned to contemplating the sideboard. Suddenly there was a muffled exclamation from my friend and I looked over at him once again to see Homes gripping an envelope in his hand and staring at it with concentration.

“Homes!” I cried. “What is it?”

“Later, Watney,” he said impatiently, and reached behind him for one of his reference books. He brought it down, found the page he sought, and ran his finger down a column; but instead of satisfying whatever curiosity had led him to the book in the first place, the information he found seemed to puzzle him further. With a frown he returned the book to its proper place on the shelf and continued to finger the envelope as if intrigued by it.

“But, Homes,” I repeated. “What is it?”

“A rather interesting problem,” he replied, and tapped the envelope with his finger. “To begin with, the letter appears to have been misdirected, for it is not addressed to me, but rather to a certain ‘The Resident.’ I can only assume the ‘The’ to be an abbreviation for the name ‘Theodore,’ but there is no Theodore Resident in the London Directory. As a matter of fact, the directory shows no person named Resident with any first name.”

“How extremely odd, Homes!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” he replied. “Still, the address is quite clear — 221B Bagel Street — so I can only assume the message was intended for me, although the false name, I am sure, has some meaning for the writer.”

With a shrug that indicated he was merely putting the matter of the name aside for the moment and would return to it in time, he slit the envelope with his pocket-knife and withdrew the contents, unfolding the single sheet the envelope contained. I rose and came to stand at my friend’s side, reading over his shoulder. The sheet he had unfolded appeared to me to be nothing more than an ordinary advertisement, and one which made little sense to me. Little did I know that the words on that innocent-looking sheet of paper were to lead to one of Homes’s most interesting cases, and one which I now find in my notes as The Adventure of the Patient Resident. At the moment I was only puzzled at the strange words, which I reproduce below for the reader:

“Homes,” I cried, “what nonsense! Can you make the slightest sense of this gibberish?”

“Oh, I should hardly call it gibberish,” Homes replied, with that insufferable air of superiority he always employed when explaining something which was clear as crystal to him, but which I found unfathomable. “It is, as you can see, an advertisement.”

“I understand that, Homes,” I said, hurt that he should think me that obtuse. “But for what?”

“Really, Watney,” he said, frowning at me. “At times you try my patience. It is, obviously, an advertisement for a new restaurant. And,” he added, wrinkling his nose, “an advertisement I find unbearably offensive in its attempt to be what the newer generation calls ‘cute.’ I am, as you know, Watney, a most patient man, but there are limits to that patience. I find as I grow older an increasing dislike for that childish attempt at cleverness as evidenced by this advertisement. The idiots,” he added, “are also unable to spell!”

“Spell? Cute? A new restaurant, Homes?” I asked, mystified, and considered the advertisement again. “Is that what a ‘cinema’ is?”

“I have no idea what the derivation of the word might be,” he replied. “It sounds like an Indian spice, possibly related to cinnamon, but definitely culinary. Still, to think of any spice, particularly cinnamon, being added to pancreas — which they have misspelled, and which we know as sweetbreads — is unthinkable!”

I stared in profound admiration as my friend ran his finger down the list and continued his discourse.

“Whatever they refer to in the argot as being ‘dandy,’ I cannot imagine it, or anything else, being smothered in aspic!

“Undercover!” said he with a snort. “Possibly pheasant, or more likely, simple chicken. And if pheasant, undoubtedly of poor quality or they would have identified more precisely what they are serving under cover!

“The rulers of the sea, of course, are shark, and while I have heard that some people consider the flesh of this predator to be palatable, I should not care for it myself.”

I nodded in agreement. “And the stromboli?”

“An Italian pasta, obviously. You see, they advertise the cuisine as being of international character.” He continued down the list. “And the fact that on Thursdays they openly admit they serve en counters, and not on the regular tables, undoubtedly to save napery, does not speak very highly of the establishment. Not to mention the fact that they wait until Saturday, when they have the leftovers of the entire week at their disposal, before they serve Japanese food!”

“The cygne I understand,” I said, proud to be able to contribute. “That is the French word for swan, is it not?”

“Yes. Although,” Homes added cynically, “in all probability they will merely serve pressed duck.”

“But, Homes,” I said as a thought struck me, “who could this Mort be?”

“Most probably a tailor in the neighborhood who presses it, since I doubt a restaurant of this calibre would have a presser of their own.” He shook his head. “No, Watney, I fear this is one eating establishment we shall not patronise!”

“A pity in a way, Homes,” I remarked wistfully. “I have been tiring a bit of late of Mrs. Essex’s fried chutneys.”

“On the other hand,” Homes pointed out, his eyes twinkling, “the advertisement speaks nothing of a lounge.”

I looked over his shoulder and saw it was true. No refreshments!

“A place like that should be barred,” I said with feeling, and was about to return in disgust to my labours when Homes suddenly frowned, his former good humour gone as quickly as it had come.

“What is it, Homes?” I inquired anxiously.

“Has it occurred to you, Watney,” he said, staring at the sheet of paper in all seriousness, almost as if he were seeing it for the first time, “that it is exceedingly odd that this advertisement, intended to interest its readers in a new restaurant, should be sent to me? While I have no objection to a proper meal now and then, nobody, I warrant, would call me a gourmet.”

“True, Homes,” I said, thinking about it, and then recalled something else. “But the message was not sent to you, but to this Theodore Resident. Possibly he—”

“Come, come, Watney! At my address? Possibly, next to 10 Downing Street and the Lyons Corner House, the most famous address in all London?” He shook his head and reviewed the advertisement as he spoke. “No, Watney, there is something here that requires further study.” He glanced up at me significantly. “I shall probably be busy attempting to make sense of this message for some time,” he said. “Why don’t you take the opportunity to verify the pub closing hours and see if they might have been changed in the past fortnight?”

“An excellent suggestion, Homes!” I cried, and then suddenly paused, eyeing him dubiously. “But will you not require my assistance?”

“I shall do my best to manage without you, Watney,” said he, heavily.

“Very well, then,” said I, and went down the steps, remarking to myself, as always, at the true unselfishness of my old friend.

It was just after eleven that evening that I returned to our rooms, having verified that not one of the pubs within a two-mile radius had changed their hours by so much as a minute. I went up the stairs, surprised to find them a bit steeper than usual, prepared to tell Homes about the closing hours and receive his congratulations on a job well done, but just as I was about to enter, I heard a loud exclamation from within. Without further ado I burst through the door to find Homes staring at the advertisement in horror.

“Homes!” I cried. “What is it?”

“I am a fool!” he cried.

“Well, sometimes you do seem a bit—” I began, but before I could continue, Homes had come to his feet and was moving rapidly towards his rooms.

“Later, Watney,” he said. “It is good you have come, and when you did! There is not a moment to lose! One second while I change into more suitable raiment and we shall be off.”

“Off, Homes?” I asked, stifling a yawn, and moved towards the sideboard to see if possibly the liquid fare I had been subjected to in the course of my scientific experiment that evening had its equal in our more limited stock. But before I could check more than one or two mixtures, Homes had come hurrying from his room dressed for the street, and had grasped me by the arm.

“Be careful, Homes!” I cried. “You will spill it!”

He paid me no heed. “You have your pistol, Watney?”

“It’s around somewhere, I believe, Homes,” I replied, and tasted my drink. But before I even had a chance to make a decent judgment, Homes was joggling my arm again.

“Well, get it!” he said savagely. “I have my bull’s-eye lantern under my Inverness, and my own revolver in my pocket. We must hurry if we are to prevent this foul crime from being consummated!”

“What foul crime, Homes?” I asked, and began looking about vaguely for my pistol.

“I will tell you on the way,” he replied fiercely, and picked my pistol from its usual place on the desk and thrust it savagely into my pocket. I was about to remonstrate that I was wearing my best suit, but Homes had already plunged down the steps and I could hear him at the kerb calling feverishly at a passing carriage.

I barely had time to finish my drink when his voice came up the stairwell, demanding my presence. With a sigh I descended, finding the steps even steeper than before. Homes had managed a hansom and was already inside. He grasped my arm to drag me aboard, and I fell back into my seat, closing my eyes, as Homes called up loudly to our driver.

“45 Lyme Street, and a tanner extra if you get us there in five minutes, driver!”

Our jehu needed no further persuasion, and as he cracked his whip over his horse’s head we took off with a bound over the rough cobblestones. Homes leaned over and shook me. I sighed.

“All right, Homes,” I said, trying to sit a bit more erect. “What is this all about? Where are we going?”

“To that restaurant we saw advertised,” he replied grimly.

“But, Homes,” I said, surprised, “it has no bar! Besides, I thought you held the place in contempt. Also, to tell you the truth, I’ve been eating so many cashews to-night that I really have little appetite.”

“You do not understand, Watney,” he said fiercely, and reached for the advertisement in his pocket. He pulled it out but before he unfolded it, he looked at me. “Tell me, Watney, have you ever listed the days of the week in their alphabetical order?”

“Why, no, Homes,” I said, thinking about it, and then added apologetically, “I’ve never really felt the need to, you see.”

“Well,” Homes said, heavily, “had you done so you would have noticed they come in the order of Friday, Monday, Saturday, Sunday, Thursday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”

“Really, Homes?” I murmured.

“Yes. And had you paid the slightest attention to the menus offered on this advertisement,” said he coldly, unfolding the sheet and thrusting it under my nose as if expecting me to be able to read it by the intermittent light cast by the passing gas-lamps, “you might have noticed that the first letters of the various dishes for the weekdays in alphabetical order, spell out a word!”

“How interesting, Homes,” I said, yawning.

“Exactly! For the word is — murders!”

“Oh? But by what means will this foul scheme be perpetrated?” I asked, blinking rapidly to keep awake. “A tailor’s awl in the pressed duck? Or from the natural declination of week-old leftovers in the Rashomon dish?” I immediately wished I had not mentioned the latter, and leaned further to get some fresh air.

“By nothing that simple,” said Homes, his face a mask of sternness. “Once I had the basics of the scheme, it was easily supposed that if the first letters of the cuisine formed an anagram of the word ‘murders,’ then quite obviously the answer lay in an anagram of the final letters!”

“And did it, Homes?” I asked, yearning for my bed.

“It did, indeed. And the word was — arsenic!”

“What word was arsenic, Homes?” I began, but before he could answer we had come with a clatter into Lyme Street and had pulled up before Number 45, the hansom horse heaving and frothing. In a trice Homes was on the pavement, flinging our fare with the tip to our driver, and had pulled me from my comfortable place as our cab moved away in the night.

I looked about. The establishment before which we stood was dark, and I hoped that Homes would recognise the fact and allow us to return to Bagel Street and our comfortable beds. But Homes did not seem at all surprised by the darkness but moved instead stealthily in the direction of the rear of the building.

“Homes!” I said crossly. “What are we doing here at this hour? The place is obviously closed.”

“Exactly, Watney,” he said with a tinge of excitement in his voice. “Much better that we get into their kitchen when there are no chefs about with cleavers! And should they have left guards on the premises, we have our weapons! Come!”

“Come where, Homes?” I asked a bit petulantly.

“I said — but never mind! We are wasting time. Once we have located the kitchen and discovered the whereabouts of this arsenic and have removed it, I shall leave the proprietor a note telling him that all is known. I rather doubt they will attempt this malfeasance in the future.”

As he had been speaking we had arrived at the rear of the building, and Homes immediately tackled the door-lock with his set of picks. A moment later and we could hear the click as the tumblers gave way to his skill. “Come, Watney,” he said in a whisper, “and have your pistol ready!”

“Ready for what, Homes?” I began, but he had already turned the knob and was prepared to enter. With one last look over his shoulder to make sure I was with him, he took a deep breath and swung the door wide.

There was total silence for a moment, and then we seemed to hear a faint murmur of sound from somewhere below. Homes slid back the cover of his bull’s-eye lantern and swung the steady beam about. We were in some sort of storehouse, it appeared, although in one corner we were able to see a set of steps leading downward.

“Of course,” Homes whispered. “The advertisement said basement.”

He withdrew his gun and with his weapon ready and his lantern beam on the stair steps, he led the way. Slowly we descended, and as we did so the strange sounds we had been hearing seemed to grow louder. At the bottom of the steps we saw a heavy velour curtain which seemed to contain a good portion of the strange sounds we had been hearing.

Homes instantly covered the lantern and in total darkness we groped our way to the curtain. A quick touch on my shoulder to assure me he was ready and to warn me to be prepared with my own weapon, and Homes in a sudden dramatic move swept aside the curtain.

It was close to his final move, for there before us, bearing down on us, was a huge locomotive. I at once recognised the sounds we had been hearing through the intervening curtain. The engine was getting closer as we stood, transfixed, while the great monster loomed nearer and nearer, its stack spewing black smoke, its wheels clattering over the rails, its whistle screaming its warning.

Suddenly Homes woke from his trance and had grasped me and dragged me back through the curtain, our weapons forgotten. We hurried up the steps and out into the evening air. Once clear, Homes leaned against the wall, wiping perspiration from his brow.

“A close call, that, Watney,” said he and took a deep breath. “But at least we need not worry about the future of that murderous establishment.”

“How is that, Homes?” I asked, awake at last from the terrible fright I had just suffered.

“The fools have located their restaurant on the tracks of the King’s Cross railway tunnel,” said he, and despite our close call he could not help but smile. “I doubt they will have any customers at all, with all that noise and smoke!”

And he walked calmly to the kerb to hail a cab.

I came to breakfast a bit late the following morning. For some unknown reason I had awakened with a headache and had remained abed a while to allow it to abate. Homes had already completed his repast and was seated at his desk, poring over the London Directory. I seated myself and had scarcely begun to butter a chutney, shuddering a bit as I did so, when suddenly Homes looked up with a loud exclamation.

“Not so loud, please, Homes,” I said. “What is it?”

“I am a fool!” he cried.

“Could I answer that later, Homes?” I began. “At the moment I really am in no state—”

But he was paying me no attention. “The misdirected letter!” he cried, his finger pressed tightly to an entry in the directory. “I should have considered the possibility that the writer was dyslectic! Of course! The letter was meant to be addressed to Mr. Theodore Bagel at 221B Resident Street!”

He swung about, bringing down another volume, swiftly leafing through it to the entry he sought. He looked up, his face grim.

“As I suspected, Mr. Bagel is a chemist, undoubtedly with the ability to obtain arsenic at his convenience! And although his scheme may have failed in this one instance, there is no telling where and when he may try it in another place. A letter to this Mr. Bagel, if you will, Watney! Possibly once he knows that Schlock Homes is onto his murderous scheme, he will desist!”