Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 77, No. 7. Whole No. 454, June 17, 1981

The Adventure of the Pie-Eyed Piper by Robert L. Fish

© 1981 by Robert L. Fish

In which we come upon Mr. Schlock Homes, the Great Detective, the Guzzler Puzzler, in a most deplorable condition, a condition we associate more often with some of the Great Private Eyes...

It was rare, indeed, for my friend, Mr. Schlock Homes, to indulge himself excessively in spirits; but the one time I recall when he might have been said to have had one over the eight, he still proved himself capable of resolving a situation that another might well have handled in an entirely different fashion, and almost certainly with completely different results.

I had come into the breakfast room of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street one fine morning in June of the year ’79, to find Homes quite neatly fettered in a maze of rope. The chair to which he was bound had fallen to its side, carrying Homes with it, but still, in his indomitable manner, he was struggling to reach a book above him on the edge of the table.

“I should think that a most uncomfortable position in which to read, Homes,” I said, and then added, ever considerate, “However, I can see you are tied up. I can return for my repast at a later hour, if that should be more convenient.”

“No, no, Watney!” said he, a trifle impatiently. “It is simply that I suppose I should have read a bit further into Sir Baden-Powell’s book on scouting knots before I attempted to solve them. However, if you would kindly tug on this exposed portion of the cord—”

A moment later Homes was free and upon his feet, and after righting the chair and placing Sir Baden-Powell’s book in the dustbin, he seated himself across from me and reached for the parslied chutneys that Mrs. Essex had generously provided for our morning meal. As I drew my napkin into my lap, Homes began to eat while at the same time spreading the morning journal open upon the table and perusing the headlines. Suddenly he made a sound deep in his throat and looked up, considering me with a black frown upon his face.

“Tell me, Watney,” said he in dire tones, “what do you think of gifted children?”

I paused in reaching for a chutney to consider the question carefully, determined to be as analytical in my attention to the matter as Homes, himself, would have been. “Why,” I said at last, “it sounds rather onerous. Slavery has been abolished for some years now, and the giving of children, particularly as gifts, strikes me as being quite reprehensible, to say the least.”

“I should tend to agree,” said he, and continued to read further in the newspaper article that had claimed his attention. As I watched I could see the frown deepen upon his saturnine features. “Watney!” he exclaimed after a moment, looking up in horror, “this is infamous! Something must be done about it!”

“But what is it, Homes?” I cried.

“These gifted children,” he said darkly, “all of whom have in their time won medals for their musical ability, are being sent abroad! It says here ‘as a reward,’ but to whom they are being given, or what that person has done to deserve these talented children as a reward, the article does not say.”

He pushed his plate away, cast the journal to one side, and came to his feet heavily.

“We cannot stand idly by and see these poor children enslaved against their will!”

“But where are they being sent, Homes?” I inquired anxiously. “And why, if they must be enslaved, are not Englishmen at least given first occasion for their services?”

“Precisely my query!” he replied. “The children are being sent to Germany, to a small town there called Hamelin, on the banks of the Weser. But whoever arranged this fiendish mission has overlooked Schlock Homes!”

He began to undo the cord of his dressing-gown, but he had tied it in accordance with the strictures of Sir Baden-Powell and I was forced to come from my place and tug the end of the cord to free him.

“Thank you,” he said graciously. “Now, a moment for me to change to more suitable raiment, and we shall be off to scotch this nefarious scheme in the bud!”

“Scotch?” I said wonderingly, for in truth I had not been paying close attention. “And Bud? For a chaser? At this hour—?”

But Homes had already disappeared into his room, and I was left to reflect on the poor state of his memory, for he had not even attempted to pause at the sideboard on his way.

And so began the case which I find annotated in my daybook as The Adventure of the Pie-Eyed Piper, and most welcome it was. Homes had spent much of the previous fortnight at Loose Ends, the country estate of a banker friend of his, resolving the delicate matter of the huge sums that had been embezzled from the Chase Madly Bank, a case I find delineated in my notes as The Adventure of the Veiled Ledger, and now that the affair had been brought to its aoristic conclusion, he was once again restless and searching for any matter that might occupy his ever-active mind. The situation in which he had discovered the poor children was to bring his ennui to an end, as well as to bring him, I was pleased to see, the consideration his results in the case so richly deserved.

Our Bradshaw indicated there was a steamer from Callooh to Calais which we were fortunate enough to book. Since Homes’s beloved violin was out to have the frets tranquilized, and since my friend never travelled without a musical instrument of some sort to while away his unoccupied moments, he carried with him a penny-whistle, an instrument to which he had recently become introduced and which he played with considerable skill.

With it he was able to provide entertainment for our fellow passengers on the ship; nor were his efforts unappreciated, for we were regaled with coins presented, without doubt, by those in his audience familiar with the fact that Homes was an ardent numismatist. Thus occupied, my friend did not discuss the case at all during the voyage, nor did he deign to refer to it while we were on the Hamelin Express, preferring instead to softly play the Aria Coda from the Bell song on his whistle, as he undoubtedly planned his strategy.

We stepped from the train at the quaint station of Hamelin and were soon comfortably settled in at the Unterirdisch Heights Hotel, in connecting rooms. Travelling on the Continent has always been a challenge to me, since the pub hours of each country are so much at variance with our own, and I was about to knock up Homes and suggest we investigate Hamelin’s particular schedule, when there was a rap on our connecting door and I opened it to find myself staring in astonishment at Homes in the most outlandish garments.

At sight of the figure he cut all other thoughts were banished from my mind, at least temporarily, for Homes had chosen to dress in the fashion of a schoolboy. I knew he had not brought along the accoutrements necessary for any of his spectacular disguises; but then I saw he had merely cut a pair of his trousers off at the knees, had rolled down his socks, and had clipped the brim of a derby and painted stripes on it to make a fair imitation of a schoolboy’s cap. With his tremendous histrionic ability he undoubtedly felt sure he could easily pass off as a lad from a public school, albeit one who was six foot three inches in height with unusually hairy legs, in need of a facial shave, and with a penny-whistle tucked in one pocket.

“Homes!” I cried in bewilderment. “What is the meaning of this absurd costume?”

“You recognised me?” he asked in evident disappointment. “Ah, well, I suppose it was only to be expected, after the years of training I have afforded you. The costume will not be so readily penetrated by the uninitiate, however, and it will enable me to merge without suspicion with the poor enslaved children. The whistle, of course, will also give me entree into their ranks, since they are all musicians. I shall be back as soon as possible.”

“But Homes,” I cried. “Supposing you are also enslaved, since you will appear so much like the others?”

“Then, of course, one can only hope for a reasonable master,” he replied with a brave attempt at a schoolboy grin, and was off down the stairs.

While it was true that the public-house hours in Hamelin were, indeed, quite different from the outmoded practise still in force in our otherwise-enlightened Britain, the prices were also quite different, and I found myself returning to our rooms at the Unterirdisch Heights with six bottles of the local alcoholic endeavour, determined not to waste the currency of our beloved but admittedly financially distressed kingdom needlessly. I had sampled four of these liquid refreshments without determining if the savings were worthwhile, when Homes came up the stairs to my room and fell into a chair, staring at me morosely. I instantly offered him a drink which he downed in one draught, a clear indication that his mind was on other matters, or that he was thirsty. As I hurriedly refilled his glass, he sighed mightily.

“The condition of servitude of these children, Watney,” said he heavily, “is far more subtle than one might imagine. Ostensibly they are being given a modicum of freedom, but obviously only to lull them into a false sense of security before being sent to their eventual masters.”

“A modicum of freedom, Homes?” I inquired curiously.

He absent-mindedly drank off his drink and handed me the glass.

“Freedom of shorts,” he said.

I stared at him in horror. “They have deprived the children of their underwear?” I asked, aghast.

“Freedom of sorts, I meant,” said he, and took down his drink in one gulp, his mind on the problem of the children. He held out his glass. “Unforshunate for these mishcreans, they did not figure on the intervasion — intertasion—”

“The meddling of Schlock Homes?” I suggested helpfully.

“Profusely,” he said. “I mean, precisely.”

“But you do have a plan to aid these poor souls, Homes?” I asked anxiously.

“Of a certainly.” He leaned forward a bit, weaving slightly in his chair. “These chillruns, Watley, have formed theirselves into a orshester, and I have been electric loader.”

“I beg your pardon, Homes?” I said, puzzled.

“I said, I have been electered lader. I mean, leader.” He beamed at me proudly a moment, but then his face fell slightly. “Prollaly because I was the only one tall enough to be sheen from all parts of the orshester.”

“It’s still an honour, Homes,” I said soothingly. “But what has this to do with your plan to rescue the poor youngsters?”

“Ah! My plan!” He frowned a moment and then his frown disappeared as he remembered. “I shall need your help, Whitley, but I am sure I can deepen on that.”

“Of course, Homes!” I said warmly. “And your plan?”

“Ah, the plan! To-night, Whitney, I have arrange for the orshester to parade through the streets of — where are we?”

“Hamelin.”

“Hamelin, then. There is a broadridge that crosses the river Weser—”

“A what, Homes?”

“A broadridge!” Homes said impatiently, and glared at me for my stupidity. “A ridge that goes up and down to let the chips go through!”

“Oh! You mean a drawbridge!”

“Thass what I said! Anyway, you shall be in the control room of the broadridge. At precisely eight o’clock I shall lead the orshester over the ridge. At profusely eight-oh-two the lass man will have cross. At exactful eight-oh-three you will open the ridge so nobody can follow. Do you unnerstand?”

“But what of the regular operator?” I asked nervously. “Might he not take exception to my presence?”

“Play him with wicksy. I mean, ply him with whisky.” Homes pointed to a bottle. He came to his feet and then stumbled slightly. He stared at me in horror. “Witby! They are on to us!”

“What do you mean, Homes?” I cried in alarm.

“They have dragged my drunk!”

“You mean, they have drugged your drink?” I looked into his eyes, standing on tiptoe to do so. “You are right, Homes! Here, a hair of the dog and I am sure you will be fine in time for the rescue tonight!”

“Thank you,” Homes said gratefully, and then collapsed gently to the floor. “A shore nap before our work to-night...” And he relaxed to allow my cure to take effect.

It was seven in the evening when Homes awoke. The effects of the drug our vile opponents had been clever enough to serve him without his knowledge were still slightly evident, for he grimaced with headache; nor did another drink seem to help. He glanced at his timepiece and came to his feet.

“It is time to leave, Watney,” said he, feeling about for his penny-whistle.

It was with relief that he found it and played a few notes, nodding at the purity of their tone. “The night dampness,” he explained, and led the way from the room.

The members of the orchestra were awaiting their leader on the village green, and came to their feet as Homes approached, lining up in marching formation. Homes glanced at his timepiece and nodded to me to get moving on my assignment, while he raised his penny-whistle to gain the attention of his musicians. As the first notes of his concert began, I hurried down the street to the bridge and made my way to the room where the controls for raising and lowering the structure were located. Following Homes’s advice, I had brought with me a bottle of the strongest whisky I had purchased that afternoon. The bridge-tender frowned darkly when I made my appearance.

“Sir,” he said, “visitors are not allowed.”

“Not even when they bring drinks?” I asked coyly, holding out the bottle of whisky.

He raised his eyebrows. “Sir! I am the president of the Hamelin Temperance Society!” he said. “Whisky has never passed my lips, nor shall it! I must ask you to leave at once!”

I stood nonplussed, for the music of Homes and his orchestra was gaining in volume as they approached the bridge that could lead them to the other side of the river and to freedom, but only if I were successful in my mission.

“Not even a short one?” I asked pleadingly, and found myself on the street, with the imprint of the bridge-tender’s foot undoubtedly necessitating a visit in the near future to my dry-cleaner’s. I hurried down the street, coming to Homes as he marched at the head of his band. He frowned darkly to see me.

“The bridge-tender is a teetotaler,” I explained quickly.

Homes wasted not a moment, but his mammoth intellect instantly understood and concocted an alternate scheme in a moment. He signalled a player in the front row of the marchers to take his place, and hurried me along on our way back to the bridge.

“I shall ask the bridge-tender for a match to light my calabash,” he explained. “As he reaches into his pocket for a vesta, you will strike him unconscious. Do it posthaste, for time is running out!”

He swung open the door to the control room without awaiting my comments, and a moment later found himself facing an irate bridge-tender. Homes smiled at the man in his most charming manner. “I wonder if I might bother you for a match to light my calabash,” he asked ingratiatingly.

The man scowled at him. “You are asking me to encourage the foul habit of smoking?” he demanded. “You, a schoolboy too young for such a vice?” He turned away in disdain. “D’you want to stunt your growth?”

“Hurry, Watney!” Homes exclaimed.

“But he didn’t give you a match yet!” I objected.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Homes said in disgust, and struck the man on the head with the blunt end of his penny-whistle. Even as the bridge-tender collapsed to the floor, Homes reached for the lever that opened the bridge. As the sounds of the creaking cables came to us, indicating the bridge was opening, Homes had me by the arm and was hurrying me from the room.

“And now we had best escape ourselves, while the time is ripe,” he said. “I investigated this bridge thoroughly in formulating my plan, and there is an old passage here which will lead us safely a distance from the bridge itself. But wait!” He paused and looked at me. “Did you hear something?”

“A splash and then someone saying ‘Glug,’ I thought,” I said. “Or possibly a whole number of people saying ‘Glug’.”

Homes looked at me almost pityingly.

“Your ignorance is monumental, Watney,” he said with scorn. “It is undoubtedly the bridge-tender saying ‘Gluck,’ meaning ‘luck’ in German. He is undoubtedly congratulating himself on not having been more seriously injured!”

And Homes led me out upon a path far from the bridge that would take us eventually to our hotel and thence to the railway station.

Having returned late at night from our journey to Hamelin, it was close upon noon when we came into the breakfast room the following morning and seated ourselves to a repast of Mrs. Essex’s curried oreganos. Feeling that possibly my contribution to the previous evening’s success had been minimal, I hastened to open the morning journal and search for some case that might keep Homes and myself occupied.

“Is there anything at all?” Homes inquired, looking at me queryingly across the table.

“Nothing new,” I said. “But there is a reference here to those lads we rescued last evening. It states and I quote: ‘The gifted young musicians that had gone to Hamelin are still missing.’ ”

Homes laughed in pure delight.

“Ah, youth! So pleased by their unexpected freedom that they are undoubtedly celebrating with a holiday in the country, without a thought to their worried parents! A letter of reassurance to the editor of the journal, if you would, Watney!”