“This sort of thing is all understood. It is easy to follow the case. Hurst visited his sick friend—who was shamming—and was hypnotized by Henderson. Henderson ordered him to take the money next day; then take it to this empty house, which Henderson and Alexander knew belonged to Amick’s mother, and there fall asleep after delivering the satchel. Hurst did fall asleep, and slept into death.

  “Alexander—who was Henderson’s fake doctor—got the satchel, of course. Hurst, following instructions, dropped it from a window after carrying it to the house. It was picked up in the lot, outside the house, by Alexander, who also sent the anonymous message to President Cousins—too late to save Hurst. Henderson probably ordered the message sent.”

  “When did you first suspect Henderson?” I curiously asked. “Both Amick and I suspected Alexander, or Hara Singh, but never thought of Henderson.”

  “I suspected him vaguely from the first,” said Lavender. “That is, from the day of the funeral. But there was nothing to base even a suspicion upon, really. Then when we called at the rooms he occupied and listened to that poor old dupe of a woman, I clinched it, although I had to check on it throughout, afterward. You remember what the old woman said? That Henderson had been calling on himself to ‘wake up!’

  “Of course, Henderson was doing nothing of the sort. He was doing his best however, possibly conscious-stricken, to wake Hurst—miles away in that empty house!”

  “What science would have called it, had he succeeded, heaven knows!”

  “WATSON!” by Captain A.E. Dingle

  “Watson, my dear fellow, this inaction is maddening. I am ennuied,” drawled a lanky, cadaverous individual reclining lumpishly in a long deck chair, a black cigar in his teeth, his brows drawn down, and his fingertips touching in approved Sherlockian fashion. A ripple of mirth passes around the small circle of which he formed the centre, and his expression darkened in outward resentment.

  The man addressed as Watson glanced at the amused ones with a faint smile on his own face and replied indifferently, “Better take a dose of dope, my dear Holmes. The steward uncorks a rippin’ brand of Scotch. Shall I call him?”

  Holmes unfolded himself out of the chair without a reply and stalked away in the direction of the smoking room.

  “He’s on the scent!” chuckled a fiery-haired youngster.

  “That’s a scent you all can follow!” replied a merry-eyed girl, seizing the red one and dragging him off to play shuffleboard. Watson remained in his chair, and behind lowered lids his eyes glittered shrewdly.

  Percy Anstruther’s big steam yacht Vagrant never went to sea without a happy, careless party of youth aboard.

  Percy himself was of the type dubbed porcine. Finding himself tremendously wealthy quite early in life, mainly by dint of ignoring the Golden Rule and playing up the Rule of Three—which he interpreted to mean, one for the firm—of which he was head—and two for Percy Anstruther—holding no scruples which might prevent profits accruing through some such idiocy as consideration for others, he soon decided, on retiring, that a steam yacht was the thing to gain him entry into the society of the exclusive set he desired to adorn. Percy knew enough to refrain from attempting the impossible; he paid high salaries, not wages, to the best of secretaries, the cunningest of chefs, the very paragon of stewards, and he possessed that native shrewdness which prevented him offending by any vulgarity of speech in select company, no matter how free he might be among his own kind. No amount of shrewdness could warn him of the bad taste, or inadvisability, of loading himself with costly, bizarre jewelry. He saw ladies and gentlemen of the class he envied, each wearing such gems as they possessed when occasion demanded. In his small mind there was only one reason for their not wearing more—the lack of possession; only one reason for limiting the times of wearing what they had—fear of losing them. And since neither fear of losing them nor limited possession applied to himself, Percy Anstruther’s fat fingers were ever loaded with flawless diamonds, his fat neck glowed from the fires within a great single ruby in his scarf, his fat watch fob scintillated like a cluster of stars against his fat little paunch.

  “I’ve got ’em, why shouldn’t I sport ’em?” he had demanded many times in answer to suggestions from his friends. “I can afford to wear ’em, and the crook isn’t born who’ll take ’em away from your Uncle Percy. No, sir!”

  Which all brings us back to Holmes and Watson; for it was the long, lean, cadaverous Holmes who first expressed entire agreement with Percy’s ideas on the subject of fashion in gems. They had met, and become acquainted, at the great Casino of Ocean View, off which the Vagrant lay anchored while her owner and his guests disported in a dance or two, a turn or so at the wheel, or a little chopping, according to individual taste. Percy, furthermore, strongly desired to become acquainted with somebody who would accept his hospitality without making him see and feel that he became a debtor by receiving the honor of the present company. He was gratified by the celerity with which he attained his object. There could be no doubt regarding the desirability of Mr. Holmes or his friend Watson. Those names appeared on the register of their hotel, and by them they were known and introduced to Percy by the croupier of the roulette table. There could be no cavilling at friends secured through such a sponsor. And, best of all, they quite certainly did not seek his acquaintance merely to have a finger in his pocket-book, for they politely insisted upon buying wine themselves; and their taste was proven when they ordered a brand which Percy always hesitated about, though he knew it was quite the thing, simply because he wasn’t sure how to pronounce the name.

  “I say, you chaps must come for a cruise with me,” he had said eagerly at the third bottle.

  “The ocean’s rather a bore, old man, but perhaps we could endure it for a few days, ah, Watson?” Holmes had replied in a drawl which seemed incongruous with the sharpness of his big, steady eyes.

  “Oh, just for a week, perhaps,” Watson had conceded, with similar lack of eagerness, and the thing was done. They vacated their hotel that same day; the Vagrant steamed just beyond the blue skyline in the cool evening.

  * * * *

  With a young party on board, it was inevitable that Holmes should speedily acquire the name of “Sherlock.” For Dr. Watson to be dubbed “Doctor” followed as naturally as night follows day. At first they mildly resented it, although, queerly enough, Holmes rather deserved it than otherwise, for he was forever reading the detective books in the yacht’s well-stocked library, and he could easily be led on to expound the methods of the famous sleuth of fiction. But soon they accepted the titles bestowed on them, and gradually Percy, seeing the fun the others got out of the little pleasantry, and seeing that his new guests suffered nothing actually by it, fell into the mood himself, and often cast out bait in the hope of getting Holmes into a tangle of explanations over some really trivial circumstance. Such as the time, for instance, when the crew’s cook, who looked after the fowls carried to supply the owner’s table with fresh eggs, reported the best layer missing, and the boatswain, at the same time, pointed out to the chief officer chicken tracks up the side of the freshly painted smokestack.

  “You let the bloomin’ chicken loose yourself while washing down decks,” was the mate’s emphatic decision. “You scared her trying to chase her back, and the bally thing flew up against the funnel before she volplaned overboard. You want to be more careful, bo’sun.”

  But Percy, urged on by his young friends, suggested to Holmes that there might be another solution to the missing chicken mystery. Holmes placed the tips of his long, white fingers together, drew down his brows, and nodded sagaciously. From the stokehold grating came the merry whistle of a happy fireman whose spirits were proof against the discomfort of his work. A windlass clanked, and two firemen just off duty drew up a can of ashes and dumped them down the lower-deck shute; from the galley door a sculleryman emerged, staggering under the kitchen garbage pail. Both containers discharged their waste into the blue sea at once, and tigerishly Holmes darted to the rail and keenly scanned the floating refuse. Then he resumed his chair, lighted a huge briar pipe filled with strong plug, and placed his finger-tips together again, while Percy Anstruther and the merry band of youngsters waited for his next utterance.

  “You are right, Mr. Anstruther,” he said crisply. “There is another, very different answer to that seemingly simple riddle of the chicken.”

  “Oh, surely you have not solved the mystery so soon?” protested Percy. His young friends giggled.

  “My chain is almost complete, sir,” Holmes replied. “You hear that peculiar whistle emanating from the fire-room? I dare say it is the first time you have noticed it. But I, who note the meanest trifles, can assure you that there has been, is, method in that whistle. Where are the poultry pens? Right beside the stokehold ventilators, are they not? Very well. The messmate of the whistling fireman slyly opens the cage, the whistler pipes up a cunning note, the chicken creeps out, the cage is once more fastened, and the miscreant who opened and closed it darts below to join his fellow criminal. The whistling goes on, the poor deluded chicken follows it, and now it takes on the quality of ventriloquism. It seems to emanate from the funnel. The silly fowl walks up the smokestack, the fumes overcome it when it gets to the rim, and it falls down into the hands of the hungry pair waiting for its advent, singed and cooked ready to devour. That, gentlemen, is the solution of an apparent mystery. Quite simple.”

  A roar of merriment pealed out across the sea, and Holmes appeared annoyed.

  “Fine!” laughed Percy, with the conscious superiority of having discovered a palpable flaw. “But tell us, old chap, how these awful criminals got the chicken out of the furnace? It would be burned up long before it reached the bottom of that chimney.”

  “You may amuse yourselves unravelling that point, gentlemen. I will give you a tip, though. I stepped to the rail just now. You imagined I did so idly, or simply to knock out my pipe. It was not so. I examined the refuse thrown over at that instant. Feathers, some burnt, some whole, floated away on a mass of ashes. It is the trifles which count in detecting crime. Now, Watson, I think we will investigate a rumor that the steward was seen breaking out a new case of Scotch this morning.”

  There was a medley of voices in the group he left. Some actually wondered if he really believed in his own deep cunning, since he was never seen to smile even while expounding his most outlandish notions. Others were only disgusted. There were two who warned Percy without reserve that before the cruise was up he would be touched for money by the Sherlockian Holmes and his friend Watson.

  “Oh, I don’t think that,” objected Percy. “He’s rather idiotic, of course, but I think the chap’s only fooling himself. They’re both gentlemen, anyway, and we’re having some fun with them.”

  “Why not let us make up a real mystery, Percy?”

  “Oh, goody!” cried a merry-eyed girl, dancing joyously. “Oh, let’s! You can have a tremendous robbery, or something, and have all the clues point to all of us, and all of us have an alibi, and you can scatter my hair-pins and combs about, and—”

  “That’s the identical scheme!” chuckled Percy, shaking like a jelly in his mirth. “Let’s dope out a plot.”

  “Presently!” interjected the red-headed youth, intensely. “Here’s the Watson chap. Not a word!”

  Watson strolled along the deck, having left Holmes in the smoking room, and he wore a grimace of mingled boredom and contempt. He glanced around the little group inquisitively, then addressed Percy.

  “Holmes begins to irritate one, doesn’t he, Anstruther? A little of his nonsense is amusing; too much is sickening. I wonder what he’d do if faced with a real case. Sometimes I think he’s really keen on scientific investigation of problems, at others I feel disgusted at his childishness. The chicken twaddle, for instance.”

  Percy hesitated for a minute, then, smiling fatly in justification of his resolve, he said.

  “I say, Watson, you must be a thought-reader. When you came along we were discussing playing a little joke on your friend to see how far he would dig into a real puzzle. You won’t mind if we keep you out of it, will you? Might drop him a hint, you know, and spoil—”

  “Not at all,” replied Watson quickly. “Make your plans and start him going. I’ll have my fun looking on, I assure you. I hope you concoct a real mystery, though, with something far deeper than vanishing poultry as a motive. Good luck.”

  * * * *

  The first outcome of a long and close secret confabulation was the sudden increase of Percy’s jewelled embellishments. That evening at dinner he simply blazed with light from gorgeous gems, and in place of his customary offering of big, sleek Cuban cigars in a handsome snake-skin case after dinner, he preferred still choicer weeds in an amazing gold case on both sides of which his monogram leaped out at one in diamonds. Then, under pretence of showing the men some intimate curiosities, he took them into his great stateroom where, obviously through oversight, a stout cash box stood open on his table, crammed to the top with bank notes of high denomination.

  “Confound that man of mine!” he exclaimed, closing the box, but leaving it on the table. “He’s always leaving valuables about as if they were pebbles.”

  While exhibiting the trivial curiosities he had brought the men in to see, he shot keen side-glances at Holmes, and chuckled shakily as he led the way out to the after deck, omitting to reprimand his valet, however, for his carelessness.

  “It’s a gorgeous night,” he remarked, when the space under the awnings resounded with tuneful music from an excellent machine.

  “Let’s have a bit of dancing, hey, folks?”

  * * * *

  In the quietest hour of the most silent watch, about two o’clock in the morning, the yacht rang with sounds of dire mis-happening. A pistol shot shattered the stillness on deck, a heavy splash was heard over the side, and in a minute the decks were alive with alarmed seaman and excited officers; a huddle of sleepy guests milled about each other in well feigned panic. Watson was there, as panicky as the rest; and Holmes, true to his assumed character, took up the burden of discovering the meaning of that midnight alarm.

  “Where is Mr. Anstruther?” he demanded, peering around like a scrawny hawk. “Find him, steward. Fancy him sleeping through such a racket! He’s getting far too fat.”

  While Watson looked on in silence from the companionway door, and a little giggling group nudged each other delightedly, Holmes flashed a pocket torch about the decks and rails. On hands and knees at times, he nosed along waterways and peering overside into the silken blackness of the smooth sea. Presently he brought forth a huge magnifying glass, and the red-headed youth laughed outright. The sound seemed creepy in the darkness and quiet, broken before only by swish of water and that flickering circle of light from Holmes’ torch. But the steward’s sudden appearance and agitated announcement diverted attention again.

  “Mr. Anstruther’s—Oh, his room, it’s horrid!”

  Prepared as they were for such an announcement, it required all their self-control to prevent the conspirators uttering little gasps of sheer suspense, so vivid was the steward’s terror. Watson glanced keenly toward the absorbed figure of Holmes, who was scrutinizing the steward pitilessly, every inch of the man’s outward aspect coming under the inspection.

  “That will do, my man,” snapped Holmes at length. “You may show us the way to Mr. Anstruther’s stateroom. Come, Watson, I may need you.” The steward led the way trembling, and the muffled giggling burst forth again as the youthful jesters saw the Sherlockian one tumbling into the trap they had set for him. All the details of the plot had been left to Anstruther, and they were sure he had done a good piece of work, for he had outlined most of what he intended to do, but none had anticipated the perfection of theatrical setting which seemed to leap out at them through the door of Percy’s room.

  “Ooh!” cried the merry-eyed girl, and shrank back with fright which was more than half real. Her companions too, playing out their hands, peeped inside, drew back, gasped and stared in simulated terror. Watson looked in, then stepped inside, his ruddy face wearing an enigmatical expression. Holmes alone maintained an utterly expressionless air as he waved everyone back from the threshold and took from his pocket a tape measure.

  Well indeed had Percy done his part. The bed was upset, and the coverings strewed the carpet. One curtain flew loose through the wide porthole, the other hung by one hook, torn in halves. The table and writing desk in a corner were bare; the drawers, both hanging open almost out of the slides, lay empty. The stout cash box was on the floor, empty but one forlorn note of small denomination lay pinched under one corner of it. Across the room, near the bed, which was a four-poster and not a bunk, was a woman’s hair comb, broken; a yard away lay a pyjama button, still a yard further a red and green grass bath slipper, obviously far too small for Percy to have ever worn. And, stabbing the dim light like a spear, a great red smear ran from a dark stain on the bed-head clear up to and through the open port.

  Watson stepped over and touched the red smear with a finger, smelling it and peering at it under a light globe. A queer curl wreathed his lips, and he glanced curiously at Holmes who was on his knees with tape and lens. Afterward, when talking over the events of that night, some of the young men recalled that queer glance of Watson’s, and remembered, too, that he contrived to get into the foreground quite as much as Holmes, yet without in the slightest degree seeming to want to. Anyhow, in all the after pictures of that night which rose up before any of the guests, the short, heavy figure of Watson loomed as large as the long, thin, stooping figure of Holmes.