Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 22, No. 5, April 1968

Who’s Afraid of Sherlock Holmes? by Bill Pronzini

The inspector glared at me, at my cape and magnifying glass and my two-way hat. “Who’s this kook?” he demanded. “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I said modestly...

I said, “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

The two detectives looked at one another.

“Come again?” one of them said.

I puffed my black clay pipe.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said distinctly. “Now would you be so kind as to remove that light from my eyes?”

The tall, thin detective lowered his flashlight. “Just what are you doing back here?”

“Looking for clues,” I said.

“How’s that?”

“Clues, my good man, clues.” I took my magnifying glass from the pocket of my waistcoat and peered at the red brick of the warehouse wall. “Hmm,” I said. “Interesting, don’t y’know?”

“A nut, Charley,” the short, pudgy detective whispered behind me. “Look at the outfit he’s wearing.”

The other one said, “Inspector Morris is going to want a word with him, just the same.” Then, in a louder tone, “Come along with us, pal.”

“I will not,” I said irritably, whirling to face him. I jabbed a finger at his nose. “How will I be able to unearth any clues if I come with you. Run along, now, like good fellows.”

They exchanged glances again.

“Look, pal,” the one named Charley said, “there’s a man inside named Inspector Morris; and he’s in charge here. You know what’s good for you, you’ll come in and tell your story to him. Capici?”

“He is from the Yard, I presume?”

“The Yard?”

“Scotland Yard,” I said.

“Scotland Yard?” the pudgy detective repeated.

I adjusted my gray cloak.

“I am always most happy to assist Scotland Yard,” I said. “Proceed, gentlemen.”

After a third exchange of looks between the two detectives, I was led down the darkened alleyway and through a side door into the warehouse. To the left was a small, glass-enclosed office, brightly lit. Inside was a graying man in a blue business suit, and an elderly, stooped citizen wearing a brown khaki uniform.

I preceded the two detectives into the office. The graying man had been seated on the edge of a scarred, unfinished wooden desk. He turned as we entered.

I watched his eyes widen as he saw me. He looked at the detectives. “Who the hell is this?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the pudgy detective said.

The graying man glared at him. “Bad jokes I don’t need, Fred.”

“Ask him,” Fred said, shrugging.

“Who are you, mister?” the graying man asked me.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “At your service. And who might you be, sir?”

“Inspector Morris,” he said, scowling. “And I’ll ask the questions here. You just do the answering.”

“Bah,” I said.

“What?”

“You are impertinent, sir,” I said. “The name of your superior, please?”

“My what?”

“Your superior,” I said. “I shall report you presently.”

“I suppose you know the chief?”

“I have many acquaintances at the Yard,” I said stiffly.

Inspector Morris looked at the two detectives. “Where did you find this kook?”

“Out back,” Charley said.

“Looking for clues,” Fred said.

“Clues?”

“With a magnifying glass,” Fred said.

“As if I ain’t got enough troubles,” Inspector Morris said, “now I got to contend with kooks. Get him out of here.”

“Maybe we ought to search him first,” Charley said.

“What for?”

“Well, he was out back there.”

“It was two men robbed this place,” Inspector Morris said. He glanced at the elderly man who was sitting in a chair to one side of the desk.

“Did you ever see this character before, Mr. Bennett?”

Mr. Bennett was staring at me. He shook his head.

“You got a good look at the two guys who slugged you?”

“Oh, sure,” Mr. Bennett said. “He ain’t one of them.”

“You positive?”

“Do you think I’d forget a face like his?”

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“You know, he does sort of look like Sherlock Holmes,” Mr. Bennett said.

“Sherlock Holmes ain’t a real person,” Fred said.

“I mean the guy who played him in the pictures.”

“Basil Rathbone?” Fred offered.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Who is Basil Rathbone?” I asked.

“I still think we ought to search him,” Charley said.

“What the hell for?” Inspector Morris said.

“He could be an accomplice.”

“Accomplice, indeed!” I said indignantly.

“So all right, search him,” Inspector Morris said. “My God!”

Charley came forward.

“Now see here!” I said. “I will not tolerate—”

Charley began to pat the pockets of my waistcoat. I raised my walking stick.

“Unhand me, sir!” I shouted, menacing the stick.

Charley stepped back and drew his revolver.

“Put that damned thing away!” Inspector Morris yelled.

“He’s trying to hide something,” Charley said, holstering the revolver.

“I have nothing to hide,” I said.

“Yeah?” Charley said.

“Bah,” I said.

“Say,” Mr. Bennett said, laughing, “if you’re Sherlock Holmes, where’s Dr. Watson?”

I lowered my head and took off my checked cloth cap. I held it over my heart.

“Passed on,” I said sadly. “Gone to his reward. Heart attack, don’t y’know? All quite sudden.”

“Empty your pockets, Holmes,” Charley said, glaring at me.

“For what reason, sir?”

“I want to see what you’re carrying.”

“I am carrying nothing but my magnifying lens and a tin of throat lozenges.”

“We’ll see about that.” Charley rushed forward, catching me unprepared, and quickly ran his hands over my clothing. Then he stepped back. “He’s clean.” His voice held disappointment.

“Of course I’m clean,” I said crossly. “I bathe regularly, you know.”

Mr. Bennett snickered.

Charley said angrily, “Let’s see your wallet.”

“I have, no wallet,” I told him.

“Where do you live, Holmes?” Fred put in.

“Two-twenty-one on B Baker Street,” I said.

“This city?”

“London.”

“Where you living here?”

I told him the location of my rented room.

“What are you doing in this country?” Charley asked.

“I am here on confidential business.”

“Yeah?” Charley said. “Well, maybe when we get you downtown you’ll—”

“All right!” Morris yelled. “Now that’s enough! Now that is just about all I can take. What the hell’s the matter with all of you? We got a robbery to investigate. Six thousand dollars was stolen from the safe and Mr. Bennett here was knocked over the head. And what do you do? Waste time with this bat-head who thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes?”

“But I am Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

“Oh, hell,” Inspector Morris said tiredly. “Look, what are you doing here anyway?”

“The same as you, I expect,” I said.

“The robbery?”

“Precisely.”

He scowled. “How did you know about it?”

“I have a short-wave radio,” I told him.

“Sherlock Holmes never had no short-wave radio,” Mr. Bennett said.

“Progress, my good man,” I said off-handedly.

“You figured out who the guilty parties is yet?” Mr. Bennett said, smiling.

“Of course.”

“Oh?” Inspector Morris said, interested. “Who are they?”

“The Red-Headed League, of course.”

“Who?”

“The Red-Headed League,” I repeated. “Led by the infamous Professor Moriarty, no doubt.”

“Red-Headed League?” Inspector Morris said. “Professor Moriarty?”

“Arch villains,” I said. “Been battling them all my life. I’ll get them in the end. Justice shall be done.”

“Oh, Lord,” Inspector Morris said. He looked at Charley and Fred. “Get him out of here. Right now!”

Before I could respond, I was roughly grasped by each arm and propelled through the warehouse to the front door, where I was unceremoniously pushed outside.

“Damned nut,” Charley said from the doorway.

“Bah,” I said.

The door slammed.

I returned to the rooming house where I had rented a room upon my arrival in town some two weeks before. The landlady, Mrs. Loughery, was cooling herself on the front stoop.

“Evening, Mr. Holmes,” she said guardedly.

“Good evening,” I answered brusquely.

“Did you have a nice walk?”

“No!” I snapped. “Blasted Scotland Yard. Professor Moriarty escaped again.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Indeed.”

I went to my room, drank a cup of coffee, and promptly fell sound asleep in the chair.

Two nights later I was listening to my short-wave radio when the police dispatcher’s voice announced the theft of several valuable mink and ermine stoles from a local furrier. I donned my cloak and checked cap and hurried downstairs.

One of my neighbors, a noxious little man with a face like an emaciated fox, caught my arm in the hallway.

“Off again, eh, Sherlock?” he said. His grin was nasty.

I rapped his knuckles smartly with my walking stick.

“You are impeding justice, sir.”

His face went white.

“Damned maniac!” he muttered, rubbing his injured hand. “You ought to be locked up!”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

When I arrived at the furrier’s, I entered through a rear door when the patrolman on guard there had his back turned. I spied Inspector Morris standing with the detective named Charley near one of the fur racks.

I tapped my stick sharply on the floor.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said.

They turned. “Oh, my God!” Inspector Morris said. “Not you again!”

I sniffed the air, my nose twitching.

“Professor Moriarty has been here!” I announced. “I would know the odor of his favorite cologne anywhere!”

Charley clenched his fists. “Listen, you big pain in the—”

“I remind you, sir,” I said archly, “of whom you are addressing.”

“Let’s not get started again,” Inspector Morris said, shaking his graying head in disgust. “Just throw him out, Charley.”

Charley smiled, none too pleasantly.

I was thrown out. More literally, I may add, than figuratively.

The following evening I went for a long walk. When I returned, Mrs. Loughery was waiting outside my door.

“There was two cops here asking questions about you,” she said.

“Cops?” I said, frowning.

“From the detective squad,” Mrs. Loughery said. “A tall, skinny one and a short, fat one.”

“Ah,” I said. “Charley and Fred.”

Mrs. Loughery bobbed her head. “That’s what they called each other.”

“What was the nature of their visit?”

“They wanted to know who you was.”

“Who I am?” I said. “They know perfectly well who I am.”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Loughery said, giving me a queer look. “Well, naturally, I told them you was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

I nodded perfunctorily.

She moistened her narrow mouth. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had to let ’em look at your room. They was kind of insistent.”

“Quite all right,” I said. “But how extraordinary! What could they have been looking for, I wonder?”

“Don’t know,” Mrs. Loughery said. “I was standing there the whole time they was looking. House rules, you know. But they didn’t take nothing. I can tell you that.”

I tugged at my ear.

“This is most irregular,” I said. “I shall have to inquire at the Yard.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Loughery said. “You do that, Mr. Holmes.” She hurried off down the hall.

I went downstairs and found a telephone booth. I put through a call to Inspector Morris.

“Holmes here,” I said when he answered.

“Who?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I told him testily. “I wish to know why two of your men were investigating my room.”

“Because I sent them,” the inspector said. “Listen, you bat-head, I don’t want you coming around to any more robberies. You got that?”

“I shall do whatever I think is necessary to apprehend Professor Moriarty.”

“I’m warning you, now,” Inspector Morris said. “I’ll have you locked up.”

“You would arrest me?”

“You’re damn right I will.”

“If you do, sir, I promise to sue for false arrest. I have many acquaintances at Scotland Yard who most—”

“Ah, the hell with it!” inspector Morris said, and hung up.

Thursday evening there was another robbery in the city. A large supermarket was broken into, entrance having been gained through a skylight, and several thousand dollars was taken from the manager’s safe.

The moment I arrived at the supermarket, I was subjected by the detective named Charley to some rather abusive language. But quite suddenly, Charley was drawn aside by Inspector Morris. Although they apparently felt they were out of earshot, I managed nonetheless to overhear their conversation.

“Why don’t you just have this bird locked away?” Charley said. “He belongs in a squirrel cage somewhere.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to,” Inspector Morris said. “But I’ve been thinking it over. It’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Listen, it wouldn’t be any problem to have him put away. But think of the consequences. There’d be a hearing, right? And we’d have to testify.”

“Sure,” Charley agreed, frowning.

“Don’t you see?” Inspector Morris said. “The papers would get ahold of it. And you know what would happen then.”

“No,” Charley said.

“They’d make us look like idiots, that’s what,” the inspector said. “Can’t you see the headlines? COPS ARREST SHERLOCK HOLMES. Wouldn’t that go over big with the chief? They’d make it sound like we’ve got nothing better to do than go around collaring kooks. Hell, the public would laugh themselves sick.”

“Yeah,” Charley said. “I see what you mean.”

“The big city papers would probably get on it, too. And then the wire services. The whole damn country would be laughing. At us. That kind of notoriety we don’t need. We got enough problems.”

Charley nodded slowly.

“The way I see it,” Inspector Morris said, “putting up with Sherlock there is the lesser of the two evils. I mean, he’s harmless enough. He just pokes around and looks through that damned glass of his.”

“You mean we just let him tag along to every robbery we investigate?”

“That’s about it,” Inspector Morris said. “As long as he just keeps looking for that Professor Moriarty of his, and stays out of our way, we’ll humor him. We won’t pay any attention to him.”

“Okay,” Charley said, a bit dubiously. “If you say so.”

Inspector Morris nodded emphatically. “I say so.”

The good inspector was true to his word. There were three robberies in the month following the supermarket theft. At each of these, I was judiciously ignored. An eye was kept warily on my presence, to be sure, but other than that I was allowed to examine whatever I chose with my glass. I rather think, after a time, that Inspector Morris was becoming used to having me around.

On the fifth of the following month, Bennington’s Jewelry Store was burglarized.

I arrived moments after Inspector Morris. Both Charley and Fred were present on this occasion, and each favored me with his usual scowl. I extended greetings, which were ignored, and set about examining the glass display cases of jewelry.

Five minutes later a portly gentleman in a rumpled suit and an ill-fitting hairpiece arrived. He was obviously distraught.

“This is terrible!” he said, wringing his hands. “This is just awful!”

“Mind taking an inventory for us, Mr. Cooley?” Inspector Morris asked him. “We’d like to know what’s missing.”

“Yes, yes, certainly,” Mr. Cooley answered. Then he saw me. “Who is this person?”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Inspector Morris said. “Just take the inventory, please.”

Mr. Cooley went through a curtained doorway into the rear of the store. He was gone several seconds, and then emerged and began to dart down the aisles of display cases, scribbling furiously on a pad. Suddenly he stopped before a large, seemingly inconspicuous case.

“Oh!” he said, his voice filled with anguish. “Oh, oh, oh!”

“What is it?” Inspector Morris asked, joining him.

“It’s gone!” Mr. Cooley wailed. “It’s gone!”

“What’s gone?”

“The Kubaugh necklace!” Mr. Cooley said. “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible!”

Charley came up to them. “What’s the Kubaugh necklace?”

“Our most exquisite piece,” Mr. Cooley said. “It is kept in this case with several less expensive items, as a precautionary measure. But it’s gone!”

“How much is it worth?” Inspector Morris asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars!” Mr. Cooley said.

Inspector Morris whistled softly. “Were any of the cheaper items taken from the case?”

“No, none.”

“The thieves must have known what they were after, then,” Inspector Morris said. “What else is missing?”

“A few insignificant items,” Mr. Cooley said. “Perhaps a couple of thousand dollars worth. But the Kubaugh necklace! A catastrophe, that’s what it is!”

“Aha!” I said. I was kneeling on the floor, peering at the boards through my magnifying glass.

They all looked at me.

“The Red-Headed League!” I shouted. “And Professor Moriarty leading them, I’ll wager!”

“Who is this man?” Mr. Cooley asked.

“I must hurry,” I said, leaping to my feet. “I must follow Moriarty while the trail is still fresh.”

I rushed to the door. “I shall call you when I have him in custody,” I said to Inspector Morris.

He closed his eyes.

“I’m off!” I shouted, and dashed outside.

I turned left and walked briskly up the street. When I reached the corner, I turned left again. Halfway down the block, I stopped. I put my hand in the pocket of my waistcoat.

And I smiled.

The Kubaugh necklace felt very cool to the touch.

And why not? I reflected. It was ice, after all.

I crossed the street and turned down the nearest alleyway. There, I took off the gray cloak and the checked cloth cap and the false hawk nose and the black waistcoat. I put them, together with the walking stick, into a trash barrel beneath several papers.

I smiled again.

“So long, Holmes,” I said. “Rest in peace.”

I walked through the alley to the next street.

I doubted if the police would be too terribly unhappy when Sherlock Holmes suddenly vanished. In fact, I imagined they would be quite overjoyed.

As for the Kubaugh necklace, it would be listed amongst the items stolen in the robbery. Sherlock Holmes, for the moment at least, would not be suspected of having deftly slipped it into his pocket while in plain sight of three representatives of the city’s finest.

There was the possibility, of course, that the good inspector might eventually put two and two together. But should that happen, I would be many, many miles from this city. And there would be no way I could be traced or identified.

A lot of trouble to steal a piece of jewelry, you say? Perhaps. But there were extenuating circumstances.

You see, even a man in my profession can become bored with his work, the everlasting sameness of planning and carrying out the conventional robbery.

And just like the average man, engaged in average employment, he needs a change, a challenge as it were to relieve the pressures and stimulate the mind when that happens.

In my case, that challenge had been executing a new and totally different kind of crime.

And I had done it.

I felt exhilarated. I was no longer, to use a colloquialism, in a rut, and I would now be able to return quite happily to my normal methods of operation.

What they say is true, you know.

Variety is, indeed, the spice of life.