Some Adventures of Mr. Surelock Keys, Page 3

  *IV.*

  *THE ADVENTURE OF THEOPHILUS BROWN*

  "'Tis not in mortals to command success," as the Immortal Bard hath it,and to illustrate the fact that my friend, Mr. Surelock Keys, really ismortal which one might easily doubt from some of the marvellous thingsthat he has done, I will give you an incident that happened recently.

  A tremendous battering at my bedroom door woke me from a sound sleep,and an urgent request from Keys, to join him downstairs, hurried me intomy clothes. On entering the dining room I saw a pallid youth whom Keysintroduced as Mr. Theophilus Brown.

  Then Keys, in his most abrupt manner, asked him what he wished to tellus, and after much hesitation, and with frightened glances towards thedoor, he blurted out a very incoherent and rambling story about asevered leg, that he had seen hanging up somewhere, on his way home theprevious evening, and how he was afraid something dreadful would happento him because he didn't tell the police.

  "Well, you can now, here is our old friend, Inspector Morebusiness"(You, dear reader, can guess his real name). "Tell the Inspector whatyou saw."

  "It was a leg of mutton hanging up in a butcher's shop," shouted themiserable would-be humorist, as he made a dash out of the door, just intime to escape the bottle of ink that Keys sent hurtling through theair, only, alas! to smash on the rapidly closing door.

  The Inspector rolling on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter couldhardly get out the words. "First of April," and Keys sank back in hischair muttering the monosyllable "Stung!"

  *V.*

  *THE ADVENTURE OF THE THIRTEEN CABS*

  London was in the throes of a general strike, and the labour world insuch a seething ferment that many of the unions had broken from thecontrol of their leaders, while others were led to lengths that many ofthe members deeply regretted, but were unable to prevent, so that deedsof violence were of daily occurrence.

  As we sat at breakfast Inspector Morebusiness was announced, and Keysbade him to enter, not very cordially I am afraid, as it was the firsttime we had seen him since his display of--to put it mildly--unduelevity over the unfortunate case of Theophilus Brown. However, onseeing how white and worried the Inspector looked, Keys' look ofannoyance passed away, and heartily inviting him to join us at thetable, refused to listen to his story until he had done justice to ourham and eggs and coffee.

  It was a terrible story that the inspector had to tell us. nothing lessthan the destruction of the National Gallery, with its pricelesstreasures, and of course loss of life, or injury, to anyone happening tobe in the neighborhood, for nitro-glycerine was the destructive agentused.

  He went on to say that the police had no clue, and in despair he hadcome to Keys, a genuine acknowledgment of the Great Detective'smarvellous powers, if a somewhat tardy one.

  Keys closely questioned him as to anything unusual having been noticedin the vicinity, and the inspector said that one of his men had seenthirteen cabs passing shortly before the explosion.

  "Arrest the President and all the Officers of the Bakers' andPastrycooks' Union, at once," said Keys. Greatly wondering, but willingto catch at any straw, the Inspector hastened to obey him.

  One evening, some little time after the conviction and subsequentconfession of the men whose arrest Keys had ordered, the Inspectordropped in, he said, for a smoke, but it was easy to see that he wasdying to ask a question, so presently Keys said, "Well, Morebusiness,you want to know how I did it."

  The Inspector nodded an eager assent.

  "Well, my friend, it was quite simple. Dynamite is heavy stuff, and insuch a quantity could not have been carried by hand without excitingsuspicion, but what more harmless looking than a four-wheeler, andthirteen of them--isn't that a baker's dozen!"

  *VI.*

  *THE ADVENTURE OF MR. SANTA CLAUS*

  It was Christmas Eve. Outside the snow was falling heavily, but we werecomfortably seated in front of a cheerful fire, in our dining-room inButcher Street. With strange illogicality Keys was playing "Rest YeMerry Gentlemen" on the comb, for surely one could neither rest nor bemerry with that beastly row going on, but it was only another proof ofthe extraordinary incongruity of that marvellous man. Laying down thecomb--thank goodness--he turned to me. "Whenson, when I was a littleboy I believed in Santa Claus, and stockings, and--"

  A knock at the door interrupted these remarkable confidences, which wererevealing the Great Man in a light so foreign to his usual taciturnity.

  "Come in," he said. The door opened slowly, and a strange figureappeared before our astonished eyes. It was a small boy, hardlyreaching to the handle of the door, and his little cap was covered withsnow.

  "Ah, ha!" said Keys, in his most impressive manner, "you have just comein from outside." At the evidence of such uncanny powers of deductionthe little creature started to run away.

  "Don't be frightened, my little man. I knew it from the coagulatedmoisture collected on your cap, but little boys must learn to be polite.Lift your lid." He did so, scattering the Christmas largesse all overour priceless Bokhara rug.

  "Now come over here and tell its your troubles," said Keys kindly.

  In the genial warmth of the roaring fire, his damp clothes steaming likea hot toddy--a strange concoction of the ancient Romans--his little lipslisped a tale of a strangeness such as had surely never been toldbefore, unless I may be allowed to except some stories of mine whichhave been published by the well-known firm of Brown & Younger.

  "Please sir, I writted a letter to Mr. Sandy Claws Esq., to bring me ahairy-plain for Christmas all painted red all over, and the Post-Offisthey sent the letter back and says as how they carn't find 'im. Iknowed you could find anybody, so I come to you."

  "Quite right, my little man," and Keys' keen eyes gleamed withprofessional pride. "You go straight home to bed and to sleep, and Iwill see that Mr. Santa Claus calls and you will find the red aeroplanewhen you wake up in the morning."

  Quite satisfied the diminutive client departed, and Keys picked up thecomb again--I found I had an important engagement and departed also.

  It was close on one o'clock in the morning when I returned, and Keys wasstill sitting before the fire. With unusual geniality he got up andheld out his hand. "Merry Christmas, Whenson." We shook hands.Feeling something sticky, I looked at my right hand, and saw some redpaint on it, and then I noticed some white fluff adhering to the frontof his coat.

  Keys often assumed disguises, but--as Santa Claus!--well, I forgave himthe comb.