pastiche stories
Sherlock in Chicago
a vignette by inspired by "His Last Bow" (1917) by A. Conan Doyle
1912
Violet Jackson had been sitting on a park bench looking over some pages
of song lyrics, humming the tunes she would be singing that night. At a
nearby bandstand a crowd of white men were gathering. When their rising
voices began to distract her practicing, she gathered up her things and was
about to walk away.
But then a strident voice in an engaging Irish accent began stirring up the
crowd. Violet focused her eyes on the man who was speaking from the
bandstand. He was tall and slim and was sporting a goatee beard. His
general appearance reminded her of pictures of Uncle Sam. His message
to the crowd was that the people of Ireland were being unfairly treated by
the British government.
It reminded her of how unfairly her fellow Negroes were being treated by
public policies in America. She and her husband had recently come to
Chicago as members of a band from New Orleans. Her husband played
the banjo, and she was a singer. But the band's performances had almost
been limited to the areas of the city where Negroes lived. How sad, when
almost everyone rejoiced to hear this new kind of music that some were
calling jazz.
Violet had known how the sounds of music could at least temporarily
tame some of the rough and rude tendencies of people. She wondered
if this wild Irishman who was stirring up anger in a crowd had any place
in his heart for music. When the speech ended and the crowd began to
disperse, Violet again gathered up her things. As she walked away, she
noticed that "Uncle Sam" was approaching her. At first she was a little
frightened. But his voice addressed her in gentle tones.
"Pardon me, Ma'am. My name is Altamont. Before I began speaking to
the crowd, I heard you humming some tunes that I would like to hear
more of. If by any chance you are about to sing in one of those jazz bands
from New Orleans, I would certainly like to hear the performance!"
"Sir, my name is Violet Jackson. But how did you know that I am from
New Orleans and that I sing in a jazz band?"
"The way you -- oh, it was a lucky guess! I am anxious to hear some jazz
music before I leave this city!"
Violet told Altamont the address of the place where the band was playing
that night. But she felt a duty to warn him. "Our band is not allowed in
many buildings of this city. There are some of us, including my husband,
who don't like white men coming to the only places where we can
perform."
"But if they knew that I love art for art's sake --"
"If that is true, how would anyone know it? You seem more interested in
stirring up anger in crowds than enjoying music!"
Altamont's face broke into a smile. "Good day, Mrs. Jackson!" He then
strode away, leaving Violet bewildered.
That evening the place was jumping. Everybody was having a good time.
When the hot numbers gave way to the blues, and Violet was singing, an
offstage sound of a violin began to mingle with the music. Still playing
his violin, Altamont sidled into the room. The crowd went silent,
wondering who was this and what this meant.
A drunken man bellowed out, "Look! It's Uncle Sam -- and playing his
fiddle!" The room erupted with laughter. But the band continued playing,
obviously pleased by the added voice of a well-played violin.
Violet, very much surprised and impressed by Altamont's playing,
invented some lyrics to fit the occasion.
"Sometimes I think Uncle Sam don't care 'bout us.
"Sometimes I think Uncle Sam don't care 'bout us.
"But when he plays in our band, he seems like one of us."
1917
Two weeks before Christmas, Violet's husband brought her a large
envelope that had just come in the mail. It had British stamps on it. The
only thing inside the envelope was a copy of The Strand Magazine,
dated September, 1917.
"What's this, Violet?"
"I have no idea. Perhaps there's something in it that someone thought
would be interesting to us."
As Violet flipped through the pages of the magazine her eye caught the
name Altamont, printed in an article entitled "His Last Bow". Memories
of the Altamont she had known back in 1912 prompted her to read the
article.
A few minutes later, her husband heard Violet shrieking.
"What's going on?"
"You remember that night, oh, 'bout five years ago, when the man who
looked like Uncle Sam played his violin with the band?"
"How could I forget that?"
"That was Sherlock Holmes!"
"No way!"
"Here, read it for yourself!"
That evening there was some war news on the radio. The British army
had captured Jerusalem without firing a shot. Aeroplanes of the Royal
Flying Corps had flown over the city, protecting it from Turkish planes,
at the same time frightening the Turkish army into abandoning the city.
In the midst of the Great War, there would at least be peace on earth at
Bethlehem on Christmas Day.
When the news was over, Mr. Jackson turned the radio off and looked
at Violet. "Sherlock Holmes has solved many crimes, and from this
article I see that he has secretly helped the British war effort. But you
know, I think I like his violin playing more than anything else!"
"His goatee looked awful! I'm glad he shaved it off!"
Adventures of Heather Key
a novelette by inspired by "His Last Bow" (1917) by A. Conan Doyle
Chapter 1: The Cryptologist's Daughter
In August of 1916, I received a telegram from Sherlock Holmes
informing me that he would be arriving at my house early the next
day. Hoping that he wanted me to accompany him in solving some
intriguing wartime mystery that had called him out of retirement,
I prepared for the possibility.
In what seemed to me to be the middle of the night, I was
awakened by a pounding on my front door. It was Holmes. I was
too groggy to indicate my pleasure at seeing him, so I motioned
him to a chair while I hobbled to my bedroom to dress in the
attire that I had set out. When I returned and we had exchanged
greetings, I was handed a newspaper folded over so that a
particular article was indicated for my perusal. I began reading
it aloud as I backed into the chair opposite my friend.
"Three days ago we reported that a passenger ship bound for
America was torpedoed by a German U-boat off the coast of
Ireland. The ship was saved from sinking by wise decisions of the
ship's captain. Because the attack occurred in broad daylight, the
ship's crew had spotted the U-boat's periscope before torpedos
were launched. The captain immediately ordered that the lower
decks be vacated and that all watertight hatches be closed, and he
ordered that distress signals be sent by radio, which were
received by a British warship in the vicinity. Finally, he ordered,
just as the first torpedo's explosion got everyone's attention, that
all passengers assemble on the main deck to prepare for boarding
boats and inflatable rafts.
"Two explosions were felt. When no more occurred, the captain
ordered that all passengers board the boats and rafts and move
away from the ship. When the warship arrived, experts in ship
repair began shoring up the damaged hull. When the work had
been completed, the passengers were ordered to reboard the ship,
which then returned to port.
"That was what we reported three days ago based on information
from military sources. Since then our office has received several
telephone calls from eyewitnesses indicating that what we
reported told only part of what happened. We have met with three
of the telephone callers. One of them showed us some rather
revealing photographs.
"While the passengers in boats and inflatable rafts were still
circled around the torpedoed ship, the U-boat surfaced and
began circling around the boats and rafts with two of its crew
looking at the passengers through binoculars as if looking for
someone in particular. Suddenly one of them shouted down the
hatch. A rifle was passed up to the one shouting, who then aimed
at and shot to death one of the passengers, a forty year old man
who was sitting in an inflatable raft next to his eighteen year old
daughter.
"Noticing the approaching warship, the two men on the U-boat
quickly descended through the hatch and twisted it shut. But as
the U-boat began submerging, the daughter of the murdered
passenger was seen swimming to the U-boat. She scrambled
over its deck, twisted the hatch open, and began descending into
it even as water began flowing into it. As the U-boat was lost
from view, the young woman was seen swimming back to the raft
in which her father's body was lying dead.
"After a few minutes, the U-boat resurfaced several hundred
yards further away. A man was seen reclosing the hatch. The
U-boat then quickly submerged, but it was too late. The
approaching warship went right through the place in the water
where the U-boat was. A momentary jerking of the warship
told everyone watching that the U-boat was being smashed.
"The passenger ship is in dry dock for repairs. The warship is
also in dry dock so that its hull can be inspected for damage.
As for the German U-boat, only one of its crew made it to the
surface alive. The young woman was spirited away by military
officials. We have learned that her father had been a
cryptologist in America who had come to Britain to assist an
Army office specializing in deciphering encrypted messages."
I looked up to face Holmes asking me, "Well, Watson, what do
you make of it?"
"It is an interesting article, but it leaves me with several
unanswered questions."
"And what are those?"
"How would men on a German U-boat recognize an American
cryptologist? How would they know that the cryptologist was on
that particular ship? What was the cryptologist's daughter
attempting to do on the U-boat? What will become of her?"
"Yesterday I interviewed the captains of both the dry-docked
passenger ship and the dry-docked warship. The young woman
was so angry at the man who killed her father that she wanted
to get back at him. The only thing she could think of was to make
water flow into his submerging U-boat. She was nearly swept
into the U-boat when she twisted open the inner hatch.
"We must now meet with a Major Henderson, who works in the
office of decoding mentioned in the article. The captain of the
warship said that this Major Henderson had shown concern about
the death of the cryptologist."
Within an hour we met Major Henderson, who was just arriving
for his day's work at an Army office so neatly tucked away
between civilian buildings that few even knew that it was there.
We followed him through a guarded entrance, where our names
were logged, then down a passageway to a door that he had to
unlock. We entered into a windowless room in which the only
furniture were a table with several wooden chairs around it.
When we had seated ourselves, Holmes asked, "What prompted
the American cryptologist to come to Britain?"
"We had gained access to some coded messages that we had not
been able to decipher. We had reasons for believing that they
contained important information. I had heard that some American
cryptologists, as they have begun calling themselves, are
becoming more advanced in decoding than are we. I sent Mr.
Andrew Scott, one of our translators, to New York City to bring
a cryptologist back with him to help us crack these coded
messages. Mr. Scott returned with Professor Robert Key and
his eighteen year old daughter Heather, who assisted the
professor in his work.
"It was in this very room that Professor Key did his work for us.
Within a day he had decoded several messages, and within a
week he had decoded dozens of messages that might have taken
us weeks to decipher. The professor then said that he must
return to the college where he taught mathematics. Miss Key
would be entering the same college as a student.
"The professor's wife, Heather's mother, died when Heather was
very young, and Robert never remarried, so Miss Key is now an
orphan. She is at the home of Mrs. Sharon Turner, where
Professor Key and his daughter had stayed during the week that
he was working for us. The Turner mansion is not far from here.
Later today Miss Key is to board a ship bound for America."
"Tell us about Mr. Andrew Scott."
Major Henderson squirmed in his chair a little before answering.
"Mr. Scott had been preparing to work for an Edinburgh company
that had considerable interests in Germany. Mr. Scott's uncle
worked at the company's branch office in Germany, where he had
become fluent in the German language. As the uncle approached
retirement age, he began training his nephew for taking over
his position at the company. Mr. Scott spent his summer vacations
with his uncle learning the business and the German language.
"When war was declared, the company's office in Germany was
closed, the uncle was forced to retire early, and Mr. Scott enlisted
in the Army. I had been looking for recruits who were fluent in
German, so that decoded messages in that language could be
translated into English. In October of 1914, I interviewed Mr.
Scott and had him transferred to my command. Though he was
somewhat slow at first, his translations always proved to be
accurate. He gradually became my most reliable translator of
messages in German.
"There have been calls for all able-bodied young men to be sent
to the battle fronts to replace those killed or wounded. I was told
that Mr. Scott would have to go. None of my protests had any
effect.
"The abilities of American cryptologists were being called to my
attention, as I have said. I also learned that some British
industrialists were organizing a voyage to America in an attempt
to convince their American counterparts that American troops
should be sent to help the British war effort. In a futile attempt
to prevent Mr. Scott from being sent into battle, I ordered him to
go on that ship to bring back a cryptologist, as I have said. Mr.
Scott is now training for being sent to the front lines."
"Before the war began, the Edinburgh company had been
expecting to hire Mr. Scott. After the war began, the company
might have learned through his uncle that Mr. Scott was working
in an office of decoding as a translator."
"Yes. About two months after Mr. Scott began working here, the
chief owner of the company, Mr. Gary Douglas, presented
himself and desired to speak with Mr. Scott."
"In what mood did Mr. Douglas leave after meeting with Mr.
Scott?"
"You astonish me, Mr. Holmes! As a matter of fact, Mr Douglas
was heard yelling at Mr. Scott. His face was distorted with anger
as he left. I asked Mr. Scott about it. He said that it was a
personal matter, but that the result of their discussion was that
he would not be hired by the company after the war."
"After the death of her father, you have not been supplying Miss
Key with messages to decipher, have you?"
Major Henderson's face suddenly reddened, which was all the
answer that Holmes needed.
"Thank you, Major Henderson, for answering my questions.
Which way to the Turner mansion?"
I should mention that as we exited through the guard station and
the guard logged our names as leaving, Holmes got permission to
look over the names of those who had visited recently.
I could not keep up with the brisk stride of Holmes. By the time
I arrived at the Turner mansion, Holmes had already learned that
Miss Key had just been kidnapped by two masked men who had
sped away in a motorcar.
Holmes grabbed my arm and helped me move towards King's
Cross Station. "I found burned papers in the fireplace of the room
where Miss Key was staying. There was an odor of chloroform in
the room."
I was panting too much to ask what Holmes was planning for us to
do about the situation.
"See that small park over there? Notice the fresh tire tracks
across the grass from the road to that stand of bushes. From
behind them the tracks rejoin the road over there."
As we neared King's Cross Station, Holmes quickly scanned the
vehicles parked around it. "The motorcar, as described by Mrs.
Turner's housemaid, is not here."
Holmes paid for a compartment on a train that was ultimately
bound for Edinburgh. However, we would be getting off at the
first stop.
As the train began to move and we were becoming relaxed in our
compartment, I was about to ask Holmes what our plans were,
when he stood up and said, "Come, Watson!"
We moved through several cars until we came to a baggage car.
"Watson, we are looking for a large case that could be breathed
in, so not in leather but in cloth. Ah, there is one, and it is large
enough."
He zipped it open to reveal an unconscious young woman curled
up in it with her hands and feet bound with ropes and with a cloth
gag tied across her mouth. We pulled her out into the aisle and
stretched out her long limbs. While Holmes untied the gag and
ropes, I patted her cheeks and wafted air across her nostrils.
Within a minute or two she began to revive, blinking her eyes,
but saying nothing.
In a pocket of the traveling case that she had been in I found a
small bottle of chloroform. Holmes directed me to put it in one of
my pockets.
An increase in the noise level alerted us to the approach of
someone about to enter the car we were in. Holmes helped the
young woman crawl behind some luggage, tossed me the gag and
ropes, then quickly zipped up the case and darted behind some
other luggage. I rolled behind some boxes with the gag and ropes
before a large man approached the case that the young woman
had been in.
As the man zipped it open and was shocked to find it empty,
Holmes sprang out of hiding to tackle the man down. "This man
needs some rest!"
I poured chloroform on the cloth gag, and lunged at the man's
face with it just as he was kicking off Holmes, who had been
frantically trying to hold him down. The man pushed me over
some luggage and then attempted to strangle Holmes.
The tall young woman grabbed the chloroformed cloth out of my
hand, pounced on the man's back, and forced the cloth over the
man's screaming mouth and nose. All three of us held him down
until his limbs went limp. Holmes tied up the man's hands and feet
with the ropes, we all three curled him up into the case, and
I zipped him in.
After our panting had subsided, the young woman spoke first.
"Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
Watson." We were startled at her familiarity with us. She handed
Holmes his card that had fallen out of someone's pocket during
the scuffle. She said to me, "I didn't find your card, Dr. Watson,
but as Sherlock here is on one of his adventures, the shorter and
stockier of you two would have to be Watson."
Holmes and I burst into laughter. "Well, Watson, I see that your
writings chronicling some of our little adventures have been read
in America by Miss Heather Key, the cryptologist whose
mathematician father was so tragically murdered. I am deeply
saddened by your loss, Miss Key. At the next stop Dr. Watson
must see you back to Mrs. Sharon Turner, who is greatly
disturbed by your being kidnapped. Come, let us go to our
compartment to discuss the situation in which we find ourselves."
Miss Key seemed astonished at Sherlock's remarks and eagerly
followed us through the train and into our compartment. As we
sat down, I asked Holmes why he thought that the kidnappers
would put Miss Key on this particular train, and also why he
didn't seem worried about the other kidnapper.
"I asked Mrs. Turner's housemaid, who had been held down by
one man, while Miss Key was being chloroformed, slung over his
shoulder, and carried to their motorcar by the other, whether or
not the man holding her down ever looked at his watch. She
replied that just as the man got up to join his companion in their
motorcar he looked at his watch with an expression of satisfaction
showing on the portions of his face not covered by his mask. From
this information I understood that there was a deadline to meet
and that their kidnapping scheme was either on schedule or even
ahead of schedule. What would fit meeting a schedule better than
arriving in time for boarding a train, and not just any train, but
one bound for Edinburgh, where a German spy ring has been in
operation since the beginning of the war?
"As for my unconcern about the second kidnapper, when we
arrived at King's Cross Station, the motorcar used by the
kidnappers, as described by the maidservant, was not there.
Unless I am sadly mistaken, the other kidnapper is driving it
toward Edinburgh even as we speak."
I then wanted to know why he thought that we could arrive in time
to board this train by walking briskly, when the kidnappers had
preceded us and were traveling by motorcar. "Surely you were
unaware of the exact time for this train's departure!"
"It is true that they preceded us by a few minutes and traveled
much faster than we did. However, they had to stop their motorcar
in a park behind some bushes to accomplish some important tasks.
They had to tie up Miss Key, stuff her into a traveling case,
remove their masks and put on other clothing, stow away their
masks and any removed clothing, and raise the canvas top on
their motorcar so that it would not immediately look like the
vehicle that had been seen leaving the Turner mansion. I was also
counting on the fact that they were carrying out their plan a little
ahead of schedule so as not to altogether miss the train. Of course
I would have preferred having a train schedule in my pocket. I
believe you used to handle that chore quite admirably."
Listening intently to all of this, Miss Key was amused by the
verbal jab at me.
"And now, Miss Key, would you please tell us about Mrs. Sharon
Turner?"
"She has been like a mother to me both during the voyage to
Britain, while my father and I stayed in her mansion, and
especially since my father was killed. She is a widow. Her husband
was a wealthy industrialist, who, when British troops were sent
across the Channel, showed his patriotism by donating two of his
company's ships for use in supplying the troops. While he was
aboard one of those ships during a supply run, a German
submarine torpedoed and sank it. That was how her husband died.
"Their son Chester wanted to take over his father's business, for
which he was being groomed. However, Mrs. Turner, who is the
accountant for the business, assumed control and told Chester that
she would not sign control over to him until the war was over, at
which time he could also move his family into the Turner mansion.
"I wish Mrs. Turner would go with me to America and act as a
mother for me."
"Please tell us about Andrew Scott."
"I cannot do so without telling you about myself."
"Then do so."
"I have only vague memories of my mother, who fell from a
ladder while helping my father paint a house to earn some extra
money during one of his summer vacations. Her head hit the edge
of some concrete work, and she died. My father was so upset by
the tragedy that it was years before he told me what happened.
"I grew up without a mother, but did well in school, excelling in
sports because I was bigger than the other children my age. Boys
had no interest in me because I was so tall, except when they
needed another player for a baseball game.
"Probably because of my father's knowledge of mathematics, I
became interested in games of logic and in puzzles and eventually
in deciphering coded messages. In one of my father's
mathematical journals I found an article on cryptology that I
read over and over again. I even went to the college library to
read the books and articles listed in the footnotes. My father
encouraged my interest.
"By the time I was a senior in high school I was corresponding
with a man living in New York City who was actually earning a
living by decoding messages.
"When no boy wanted to take me to the senior prom, I felt like a
misfit in society. My father wanted me to continue my education
at the college at which he was a professor of mathematics. I
wanted to become a cryptologist, and I showed him an
encouraging letter from the man I had been corresponding with.
"We settled on a compromise. He would take me to New York
City to see if the cryptologists there would hire me, if I would
consent to go to college if my application for employment as a
cryptologist were rejected. With that understanding we went to
New York City.
"Although the cryptologists were impressed with my ability to
decode messages, they thought that I should get a degree in
mathematics. They even said that they would be more interested
in hiring my father than me. I was greatly disappointed and wanted
to be alone for a while.
"While my father was out visiting libraries and bookstores, I
moped around in our hotel suite until I heard a knocking at the
door. It was Andrew Scott, who said that he was looking for
Professor Robert Key. When I asked why, he said that it was
very important that he talk directly with Professor Key. He asked
me if he could wait for Professor Key in the lobby by the elevators.
I nodded assent, but I could not contain my curiosity. I went out to
the lobby to confront him about why he wanted to see my father. I
finally dragged it out of him that he was from Britain seeking an
American cryptologist to assist his nation's Army in decoding
wartime messages. He had visited the same cryptologists I had
visited. None of them had wanted to help the British decode
messages, but one of them had mentioned that a professor of
mathematics by the name of Robert Key had just been there, and
he remembered the name of the hotel where we were staying.
"I asked Andrew how he could be sure that someone was really a
cryptologist. Andrew opened his briefcase and pulled out some
samples of coded messages. 'I have the solutions to these.'
"I snatched the samples out of his hand and said, 'I'll be back
when I have decoded one of these.' He thought I was crazy.
"After a few minutes I solved one of them, went out and tossed
at him the sample with its solution written on a sheet of hotel
stationery, and went back to work on another.
"When I emerged again, he stood and said, 'You got it right!'
"I then slapped a second sample with the solution into his hands
and said, 'I got this one right too!'
"When I emerged with a third sample with its solution, which he
quickly compared with the solution that he had, he asked, 'If the
daughter can do this, what can the father do?' At that point in time
the elevator door opened and out stepped my father!
"After the three of us came to understand the truth of the whole
situation, we concluded that I could probably provide some of the
help his office of decoding was wanting, but that its masculine
pride would probably not tolerate receiving that help from an
eighteen year old girl. So we mutually conceived the idea of my
father posing as a cryptologist who would insist that his daughter
help him in his work.
"While visiting the ship we would be traveling on, my father saw
an announcement concerning a formal ball for one of the evenings
during the voyage to Britain, thought about my disappointment at
not being invited to the senior prom, and told Andrew that unless
he would buy a gown for me and be my partner for the ball, we
would not be going to Britain. Andrew kept the gown hidden until
the day of the ball, when he invited me to be his partner for the
ball and gave me the gown, saying, 'I hope your father told me the
right dress size.'
"Andrew and I fell in love with each other during that voyage. He
told me that on his arrival in Britain he would have to begin
training for being sent into battle. If he could somehow survive
the war, he wanted to marry me when it was over.
"My father's partner for the ball was Mrs. Turner, who offered
her mansion as a place for us to stay during the week or so we
would be in London.
"I worked long hours at the office of decoding because I thought
that anything I could do to help the British war effort might
result in saving Andrew from being killed in battle.
"Of course you know how my father was killed. Thanks to you two,
there is still time for me to get on a ship departing for America
later today. Oh, I wish I could see Andrew before I leave!"
At the end of her statement, when I was trying to hold back tears,
I noticed that Holmes was trying to suppress a smile.
As the train slowed, I asked Holmes, "What do we do about the
man in the traveling case?"
"I'll handle that, Watson. You and Miss Key should return to the
Turner mansion on the next train. I have business here. It has
been good seeing you, Watson. Have a good voyage, Miss Key!"
As Holmes stood to leave, Miss Key looked sorry to see him go.
Holmes handed her his card, which brightened her face a little.
He then quickly left the compartment. At the station, while
Heather and I were standing in the ticket line, Miss Key noticed
Holmes emerging from a telephone booth. Holmes was smiling
about something, noticed us, waved, and then strode away.
During the trip back to King's Cross Station, I asked Miss Key
about the kidnapping. She said that while she was packing for the
voyage back to America, she was also working on decoding some
messages that Major Henderson had supplied her with copies of,
which he would pick up before it was time for her to leave for the
port. She heard the sound of an motorcar engine outside and
thought, "It is too early for Major Henderson." She heard a
commotion downstairs and an anguished scream from the
housemaid. When she heard approaching footsteps, she grabbed
the coded messages, rushed to the fireplace, struck a match, and
set the messages on fire. She felt more concerned about
destroying them than her own safety. As she watched the papers
burn, a masked man approached her from behind and forced a
chloroformed cloth over her nose and mouth. "The next thing I
remember was waking up in the baggage car of a train."
As the train we were now on slowed and she was looking out the
window, suddenly she screamed, "It's Andrew!" She ran down the
aisle so that she would be the first to get off the car we were on. I
made my way after her, wondering if Holmes had anything to do
with this.
When I finally caught up to meet Mr. Scott, Heather showed me
the engagement ring on her finger. I congratulated the couple on
their plans to get married when the war ended.
While we walked to the Turner mansion, Mr. Scott told me what
had transpired. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes telephoned Major
Henderson, demanding that I be at the train station when Heather
returned. Mr. Holmes knew from the guard station log that I had
logged in several days before Holmes and you logged in, but that
there was no logging out for me. From that, Mr. Holmes correctly
surmised that I was still working as a German translator for Major
Henderson, despite Henderson's statement about my being in
combat training."
I asked Mr. Scott, "Why would Major Henderson tell people that
you were in training for combat, if it were not true?"
"He said that a counterespionage detachment of the Army had
told him that a German spy ring had been scheming of ways to
persuade me to give them summaries of the decoded messages I
had access to. Major Henderson was hoping to confuse the spies
with this combat training story. On my return from America he
actually had me escorted from the ship to a training base, to make
the story look real. A week later, I was returned during the night
to the office of decoding where my quarters had been and are
again. Major Henderson said he now realizes that the spies were
not fooled by the story."
When we arrived at the Turner mansion, Mrs. Turner came out to
embrace both Andrew and Heather. She was greatly relieved over
Heather's safe return and in Andrew's not being in training for
combat, and she expressed delight at their engagement. "Heather,
I am going with you to America. My son Chester will be moving
into this mansion with his family and will be in charge of the family
business. Because of the death of your father, you need someone
to get your financial situation in order, someone to see that you
make it to classes on time and do your homework. I want to be
that someone. The servants are even now loading our luggage into
Chester's motorcar."
Heather wept with joy and hugged Mrs. Turner. "I have been
deprived of the mother I have needed. Cryptology, though
interesting, has a dangerous side to it. I think I'll major in music."
I asked Mrs. Turner what prompted her to decide to go with Miss
Key to America.
"I had wanted to, but was afraid that Heather would not want me
to. Mr. Sherlock Holmes telephoned to tell me that Miss Key had
been rescued from the kidnappers and was on her way home. He
said that he heard Miss Key say that she wished that I would go
to America with her and act as a mother for her."
I met Chester and his family, then watched the tearful parting of
Andrew and Heather when Andrew had to return to his work. I
stayed at the mansion until Mrs. Turner and Miss Key had left
for the port. I was then in such a cheerful mood that I walked all
the way home.
The next day I awoke very late, ate a hearty meal, then settled
back in my couch to read the newspapers. One article especially
caught my attention.
"Yesterday the headquarters of a German spy ring based in
Edinburgh was raided by an Army detachment specializing in
counterespionage. Everyone known to be in the spy ring was
captured except for two of its London operatives. Not long after
the raid, one of the London operatives was discovered tied up
inside a traveling case on a train bound for Edinburgh. The other
was captured when a description of his motorcar led to his arrest
on a roadway in the Lake District.
"The leader of the detachment said that the key to the successful
raid in Edinburgh was accurate information supplied by Mr. Gary
Douglas of Edinburgh, whose company, which once had a German
branch, had become a front for the spy ring. At first, Mr. Douglas
ignorantly participated in their attempts to infiltrate an Army
office of decoding. When he realized what they were attempting to
do, he approached a trusted friend in the Army, who forwarded
Mr. Douglas's concern to an Army counterespionage detachment.
From that time forward, Mr. Douglas had been spying on the spies.
"Mr. Douglas claims that the spy ring was behind the torpedoing
last week of a passenger ship off the coast of Ireland. He said
that he later learned that the spy ring had given the captain of the
German U-boat a photograph of Professor Robert Key which had
been used to single him out from among the passengers on the
boats and rafts after the ship had been torpedoed. Professor Key
was shot to death by a man on the U-boat.
"Mr. Douglas claims that the reason for the murder was that the
spy ring did not want Professor Key's knowledge of German
coded messages to be shared with other American cryptologists.
"Mr. Douglas claims that the spy ring was planning to kidnap the
murdered cryptologist's daughter, then threaten a young man in
the office of decoding, who was in love with her, that they would
harm her if he did not begin supplying them with summaries of the
decoded messages that he had access to.
"Mr. Douglas said that he could not alert the counterespionage
detachment about the kidnapping scheme because the spy ring
had become suspicious of him, confined him to his house, and had
removed his telephone.
"The two members of the spy ring assigned to kidnap Miss
Heather Key were apparently the two captured elsewhere on the
same day as the Edinburgh raid. As we go to press, it is unclear
whether the kidnapping actually took place, nor is it known why
one of the operatives was found tied up in a traveling case on a
train.
"As for the timing of the raid, the leader of the detachment said
that it was about to occur anyway. But when there had been no
contact with Mr. Douglas for two days, it was decided that the
impending raid should not be postponed any longer.
"Miss Heather Key is now on a ship bound for America.
Traveling with her is Mrs. Sharon Turner of London."
I bought another copy of the paper, clipped out the article, and
sent it to Holmes, asking for his comments. It was some time
before I received his brief response. "I was not aware that a raid
on the spy ring was in progress at the time we found Miss Key in
a traveling case."
In December of 1916, I received a letter from Mrs. Sharon
Turner, from which I extract the following:
"Although Robert Key's will had left Heather everything, Uncle
Ralph, the executor of his brother's estate, was going to sell
Robert's house and have Heather live in his family's house until
she is twenty-one. Heather's preference for me as a guardian
meant that the house, which is nearly paid for, will remain in
Heather's possession. Although it is nothing like the mansion in
London, it is a pleasant place to live, and it is only a street
away from the college.
"Robert did have a life insurance policy, but since he was killed
in what the insurance company described as a theater of war, they
claimed that the manner of his death was not covered by the
policy. I hired a lawyer who successfully argued that since Robert
had been on a civilian ship in international waters, and that since
America has not yet declared war on Germany, his death was
simple murder and should not be camouflaged as an act of war.
The judge ruled in Heather's favor and ordered the insurance
company to pay, which they have done. However, the insurance
company is preparing to appeal the decision. They are gathering
news articles published in Britain mentioning that Professor
Robert Key had worked for the British government as a
cryptologist.
"Heather is doing well in her classes. She is learning to play the
piano and the violin, and she sings in the college choir. She has
admitted to me that one of the reasons she is majoring in music is
so that if the war ends before she would graduate, she could quit
college to marry Andrew, because with music, she says, ability is
more important than having a degree. She seems to have lost all
interest in cryptology.
"Finally, Heather feels honored to have been the subject of a
Sherlock Holmes investigation and perhaps thereby to have
furnished material for Dr. Watson's tin box archives.
Chapter 2: A Nodule of Flint
June 14, 1917
Dear Dr. Watson:
About six months ago I wrote to you concerning Miss Heather
Key, whom you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes rescued in England.
The insurance company's claims against her deceased father's
policy were finally thrown out of court, and I have taught Heather
how to manage her finances and property. I was planning to return
to London to live in a wing of the Turner mansion, but then
America declared war on Germany. Until it is safe for me to
return, I will remain here in Heather's house.
The reason this letter is so long is because I am recording an
astounding series of events while they are still fresh in my mind.
Heather has a collection of your writings about Sherlock Holmes.
I have read all of them and feel certain that you will be interested
in what I am now attempting to communicate.
Since Heather is majoring in music, is learning to play the violin
and the piano, and sings in the college choir, for a Christmas
present I gave her a grand piano. Several of her fellow music
students came to see it and play on it. The idea developed that
every Friday evening the music students would gather at
Heather's house and take turns performing on their instruments
and singing around the piano. This became very popular, and for
the pleasure of enjoying the music I gladly acted as chaperone.
One of the seniors, who always came with his fiancee, is an
interesting character named Buffalo Martin. As a music student
he had mastered the clarinet. He liked to play duets with Heather
on the piano. Sometimes he brought sheets of music that he
himself had composed, so we sometimes heard the first
performances of them. He was also a pitcher on the college
baseball team. His mother is a full-blooded Indian who grew up
on a reservation not far from the college.
Buffalo Martin's father, Yellow Sunrise, was a professor in the
department of languages at the college. About three weeks ago
he was found shot to death in his office. At the memorial service
there was a huge gathering of faculty, students, and Indians. No
one knew why anyone would have murdered the professor. His
only known enemy had been Jason Bolger, a former county
sheriff, who had lost a reelection bid nearly twenty-five years ago
partly due to Yellow Sunrise's efforts on behalf of the opposing
candidate. But this former sheriff became a lawyer, was appointed
to a judgeship, and was, when the murder occurred, about to be
confirmed by the state senate to be a justice on the state supreme
court.
On the day after the funeral, Buffalo Martin came to our house to
ask Heather for her help in finding out who killed his father.
When she protested that the police are much more capable at this
sort of thing, he held up in front of her a chunk of rock about the
size of his fist. "When my mother and I opened my father's safe to
see what insurance papers he had, we found this."
Heather took the rock, turned it about, and carefully examined
every detail of it. She was about to give it back, then retained
it, asking, "Why would anyone keep such a drab-looking rock in
one's safe?" When the question was not answered, she said, "I
will need this rock for a while." She promised to return it later
that day. She immediately left the house.
Buffalo shrugged his shoulders and said, "I guess this means that
she is investigating." His eyes welled up with tears. He bowed and
left.
About an hour later Heather returned with the rock and some
papers. She sat next to the telephone, unfolded a piece of paper
upon which a telephone number was written, then turned to me,
and handed me the rock. "I took this rock to one of the geology
professors, who said that it is a nodule of flint that was originally
more oval in shape. As you can see, one end has been broken off.
The lustrous black and white bands are in a concentric pattern.
There is only a duller chert in this area of the country. This rock
was from somewhere else. Do you see in the deepest crevices a
dark substance? I took the rock to one of the biology professors,
who examined some of the dark substance under a microscope
and confirmed my suspicions that it is dried blood. I am now
telephoning the man whom Yellow Sunrise helped get elected as
sheriff." She motioned for me to listen in on both ends of the
conversation.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mr. Patterson?"
"I am Joshua Patterson."
"I am Heather Key, a friend of Buffalo Martin, the son of Yellow
Sunrise, who was professor of languages at the college. Do you
know anything about a rock that was found in Yellow Sunrise's
safe after his death?"
"Yes, but I would rather tell the family about it first."
"If the family drove out to your place today, would you tell them
about the rock?"
"Yes, but have them come before it gets dark."
"I will tell them at once. Thank you, Mr. Patterson."
Heather telephoned Buffalo Martin and told him the news. She
requested that we be allowed to ride out to the Patterson place,
looking at me for confirmation that I wanted to accompany her. I
heard Buffalo's voice say, "I think we can be at your house in
about fifteen minutes."
As we readied ourselves for the trip, Heather handed me a folded
article that she had clipped from a newspaper. "When you get a
chance, you may want to read this article about the confirmation
hearing on the governor's appointment of Jason Bolger to the
state supreme court." I placed the folded article in my purse.
Our traveling party consisted of Buffalo Martin, his mother Little
Sparrow, Heather, and myself. After a dusty half-hour journey,
Buffalo parked his motorcar near the farmhouse, where we were
greeted by an elderly couple. As we moved toward the house I
noticed that Mr. Patterson was scanning the surrounding
countryside with a serious look on his face. We seated ourselves
around the dining room table. Mrs. Patterson brought in glasses
of cold water. After each person had explained his or her present
situation in life, Mr. Patterson cleared his throat for what proved
to be a rather lengthy explanation.
"I worked in the county sheriff's office under Jason Bolger, the
meanest sheriff this county has ever had. He was especially cruel
to the Indians, devising ways to catch them doing something
illegal even when they were not. Anyone who complained about
Sheriff Bolger's style of policing the county had bad things
happen to them. "When I filed to run against him for the sheriff's job, he put me
on ridiculous assignments and told false stories about me. My
campaign was going nowhere, when a young man who taught
languages at the college came to me with a plan to get votes. He
was a white man, who had recently become a member of the
Indian tribe in order to marry Little Sparrow here, who was at
that time living on the reservation. He had abandoned his Martin
name for his tribal name of Yellow Sunrise.
"His plan was this. He and I would set up times to visit all the
churches in the county, bringing along with us Indians to tell what
Sheriff Bolger was doing to members of their tribe. We would
always end with a promise that, if I were elected sheriff, the tribe
would invite anyone in the county who wanted to, to come out to
the reservation for a pot luck feast on Thanksgiving Day. It was
this idea that got me enough votes to win the election. The tribe
followed through on its promise, and the county's first
Thanksgiving Day on the reservation began a tradition that has
continued through the years.
"Soon after taking over as sheriff, on the night before Yellow
Sunrise and Little Sparrow were to be married, Yellow Sunrise
pounded on my front door and came out of the blizzard to tell me
that he had almost been killed by the former sheriff, but had
escaped thanks to a rock that he was holding in his hand. He said
that Bolger had kidnapped him at gunpoint while he was moving
items from his apartment into the house that he was buying. He
was forced into Bolger's truck and driven out to a creek at the
uninhabited end of the Indian reservation and pushed out into the
blizzard without a coat on. Bolger shouted that it would be better
that Yellow Sunrise froze to death than bring halfbreed children
into the world.
"Fearing for his life, Yellow Sunrise ran down near the creek,
found a thick bed of dead leaves under the snow, and burrowed his
way beneath the leaves. He feared that he was going to freeze to
death on the night before his wedding. After a while he began to
feel his own heat held back against himself by the leaves. So he
began to hope that he could stay there until the morning and then
find a way to get back home.
"But Bolger came on foot looking for him and tried to pull him
back out into the cold. Yellow Sunrise felt around for a weapon
and pulled out of the dirt a rock, which he used to strike Bolger's
head with, which knocked Bolger out. Yellow Sunrise then
dragged Bolger into the leaves, jumped into Bolger's truck, and
drove to my house.
"Yellow Sunrise said he was just thankful to be alive and did not
want this experience to be known by anyone, lest the memory of
his wedding day be marred by it. I agreed, drove Yellow Sunrise
home in Bolger's truck, then drove out to check on Bolger, who
was conscious again. Of course he denied Yellow Sunrise's story.
I drove myself home, then turned over his truck to Bolger with
some stern warnings.
"Bolger later appeared to have mended his ways. He went to law
school, passed his exams, and started a successful practise. Later
he was appointed to a county judgeship. Recently the governor
nominated Bolger to serve on the state supreme court. During the
confirmation hearing in the senate, someone said there were a lot
of complaints during Bolger's tenure as sheriff. Those supporting
Bolger said that that was all in the past and that Bolger's record
for the last twenty-five years was blameless. But one of the
senators opposed to Bolger demanded that I be summoned to
testify concerning Bolger's character, since I had worked under
Bolger and had replaced him as sheriff.
"Before I got my summons, Bolger came to my house pleading
that because he had mended his ways I should not say anything
that would ruin his chances to be on the state supreme court. I
finally agreed. When I testified, I avoided the worst aspects of
Bolger's tenure as sheriff, although I did mention that he liked
to harrass the Indians.
"When the news came that Yellow Sunrise had been found shot to
death in his office, I immediately guessed that Bolger had it done,
and I was angry at myself for going easy on Bolger in my
testimony. I called around until I talked to the man assigned to
investigate the murder. I asked him if he knew who did it. He said
that so far the only clue was a piece of paper found in one of
Yellow Sunrise's jacket pockets. It had written on it, 'If you try
to tell what you know, you are dead.' The paper was roughly
folded and it had coffee stains on it."
At the mention of coffee stains, Little Sparrow spoke. "That
morning my husband came in with the newspaper and called my
attention to the fact that after over twenty years of paper delivery
this was the first time the paper had been tied up with thick twine
instead of thin string. After sitting down with his morning cup of
coffee, he pushed off the twine like he had always done with string.
But as he flopped the paper open on the table in front of him with
one hand as he brought the cup to his mouth with the other, he
suddenly dropped the cup, spilling coffee over the newspaper, the
table and his lap. While I moved across the room to get a towel,
he grabbed the newspaper and rushed to the bathroom."
Heather then made some startling observations. "The coffee
stains on the note that was found in his jacket pocket indicate
that the note had been wrapped up inside the rolled paper by
someone after the paper had been delivered to your house.
Someone should immediately bring that stained newspaper to the
man investigating the murder to see if the stains on the note
match the stains on the newspaper. If so, we would know exacty
how the note was delivered. Since it would have been careless to
tell the paperboy to save the paper with the twine for a certain
house, the murderer must have waited until a newspaper was
tossed at your house, quickly cut it open, rerolled it with the note
inside, and tied it up with the twine. One of your neighbors may
have noticed someone tampering with the newspaper tossed on
your property. I want to interview your neighbors at once.
Someone may be able to describe the person tampering with your
newspaper."
Joshua seemed confused by these interruptions. "I am not sure
what to do about all of this."
Mrs. Patterson exploded with a scolding. "What you should do is
get on that telephone right now and call the governor's office
and tell how Bolger tried to kill Yellow Sunrise once before! We
don't want murderers on our state supreme court! Then you need
to drive this bright young woman to Little Sparrow's house so she
can get the newspaper to the man investigating the murder and so
she can interview the neighbors!"
Joshua Patterson acknowledged his wife's assessment of the
situation, and began walking over to the telephone. Heather was
looking up at the ceiling, noticing a shifting pattern of light coming
from one of the windows.
When Joshua said in an ominous tone, "The telephone line is
dead," Heather waved at Buffalo to get his attention and tossed
the nodule of flint to him. "That is a baseball. If the batter's head
is in the strike zone and you throw a strike, does the batter still
get to walk?" Buffalo seemed to understand what to me was a
cryptic message. He stood up, moved to a spot from which there
was a clear path to the doorway into the room and held the rock
as if it were a baseball he was about to pitch.
We heard approaching footsteps. A large man walked into the
doorway. He was holding a pair of revolver pistols in his two
hands. Before the man could speak, Buffalo Martin hurled the
nodule of flint, which struck the man's forehead with such force
that it knocked him back out of the room.
Joshua Patterson rushed over to get the guns away from the man,
but there was no struggle because the man was unconscious.
Joshua turned to us and said, "I would like to introduce to you
the man I replaced as sheriff, Jason Bolger, whose appointment to
the state supreme court must now be considered to be in serious
jeopardy!"
Joshua and Buffalo together repaired the telephone line that had
been cut, and calls to the sheriff's and the governor's offices
were quickly made. Little Sparrow lent her house key to Heather,
who asked where she kept old newspapers. Then Joshua and
Heather jumped into Joshua's motorcar, and they drove off,
leaving a cloud of dust behind them.
After Bolger had been taken away, still unconscious, by the
sheriff's department, Little Sparrow expressed a desire to visit
her aging parents on the reservation. This was fine with me,
because I was curious as to what an Indian reservation might be
like.
When we were later sitting in the wigwam of Little Sparrow's
parents, and the dreadful events that had just taken place were
described, the nodule of flint became the focus of attention. Little
Sparrow's father examined it, and said, "This reminds me of a
piece of flint my grandfather made me an arrowhead from just
before he was shot to death by a white man." Everyone looked at
the old Indian as if expecting to hear an account of what he had
just mentioned. Instead, he pulled up his leather necklace from
which an arrowhead hung over his chest. He held the broken end
of the nodule next to the arrowhead, and suddenly began shaking.
His eyes filled up with tears and his lower lip and jaw began
trembling. He gagged several times before asking, "Where did
this flint come from?"
Buffalo Martin answered. "Yellow Sunrise kept it locked up in his
safe. We found it there when we opened it to see what insurance
policies he had. Joshua Patterson told us that Yellow Sunrise had
found it on the night before his wedding down by the creek at the
far end of the reservation."
Little Sparrow's father then began to sob and cry. He took off his
leather necklace with the arrowhead and passed it with the rock
to Buffalo, who matched them up, then passed them to me. I could
see for myself by the matching bands of black and white that the
arrowhead had once been a part of that nodule of flint. I was
dazed as I passed them to Little Sparrow, who passed them to her
mother, who returned them to her husband.
The old Indian then spoke. "Our tribe moved to this reservation
when I was a child. Soon after arriving, my grandfather took me
down to the shade along the creek to teach me how to make
arrowheads. The flint he had was from the East, where our tribe
used to live. This is the piece of flint he made this arrowhead
from. He was going to have me make another arrowhead when a
white man standing across the creek shot my grandfather to death
with a rifle and then ran off. As he died, my grandfather took
the piece of flint and hurled it toward the place where the white
man had been standing. After doing so he shouted, 'May this flint
be for a curse, yea, for a flying curse upon that man's grandson!'
He then died. After my grandfather was buried, I went back to the
creek, but I could not find the piece of flint anywhere. I have worn
this arrowhead on a necklace ever since to remind me of my
grandfather."
We all sat in stunned silence for some time. Buffalo Martin then
told his grandparents how the nodule of flint had been used by
Yellow Sunrise on the night before his marriage to knock out
Jason Bolger, and how he himself had just that day hurled the
same nodule to knock out Bolger for the second time. We were all
sobbing and passing the nodule and arrowhead around for the
second time. Then I remembered that just before we traveled to
the Pattersons, Heather had given me a newspaper article to read.
Saving it for later, I had put it in my purse. After reading it, I
nudged Buffalo Martin and said, "Read this paragraph."
"At yesterday's confirmation hearing, Jason Bolger, a nominee
for the state supreme court mentioned that his father, Charles
Bolger, had once served as a county judge, and that his
grandfather, Slade Bolger, had been a municipal judge after a
long career as an Indian fighter and soldier."
After Buffalo had read this silently, I looked at the old Indian and
asked him if he knew the name of the man who had shot his
grandfather. He replied, "I think his first name was Slade, but I
can't remember his last name."
I then signaled for Buffalo to read aloud to our gathering the
paragraph I had pointed out to him. After he had done so, no one
could say anything for some time. Then the old Indian began to
chant in his own language, and his wife, his daughter, and his
grandson began to chant in response. Although I could not
understand a word of it, I clearly sensed that they were praising
the Great Spirit, and I began to hum to the tune.
It was late that night when Buffalo Martin drove me back to
Heather's house. As I closed the front door I heard a melancholy
tune being played on her violin. It was so beautiful that I did not
want to interrupt it. So I waited outside her bedroom and listened
until the music ended. I then knocked on the door and she invited
me in. I told her all about the nodule of flint. Heather was
astonished.
She then told me how her investigation had ended in success, how
the coffee stains on the newspaper matched up with those on the
note, how a neighbor was found who described someone tampering
with the newspaper, and how the murderer, who had once been one
of Sheriff Bolger's deputies, was found. He had confessed that he
had been hired by Bolger to kill Yellow Sunrise should an attempt
be made to ruin Jason Bolger's chances of being confirmed as a
justice on the state supreme court. A study of the professor's
office typewriter ribbon by Heather confirmed that Yellow Sunrise
had been making such an attempt at the time he was murdered.
After such a long and eventful day, we were both exhausted. I
yawned to signal that I was about to retire. As I left the room I
turned to ask Heather what was that beautiful tune she was
playing when I got home. She said that it had been composed by
Buffalo Martin to lament his father's death. "But when I was
playing it, I was thinking about my father's death."
I replied, "As I was listening, I was thinking about my husband's
death."
Suddenly Heather grabbed her violin and began playing a jolly
Scottish reel. I think it was "My love she's but a lassie yet". At
first she stomped one foot to the beat, then began skipping from
foot to foot and dancing about the room as she picked up the
tempo until her feet couldn't keep up, when she reverted to
stomping a foot. After bringing the piece to a snappy conclusion,
she bowed to my enthusiastic applause. As I left the room, I
turned back to say, "I believe that performance might have been
amusing to Andrew Scott, don't you think?" Heather quickly
turned from my gaze to hide her irrepressible smile.
Sincerely,
Sharon Turner
Chapter 3: A Gallery of Art
October 31, 1917
Dear Dr. Watson:
Thank you for your kind response to my last. You can see by the
postmark that I am writing from New York City. The ship I am
booked on is waiting to join the next convoy to Britain. I am
anxious to see my son Chester and his wife and family. The west
wing of the Turner mansion is being readied for me to move into.
The purpose of this letter is to report on another mystery solved
by Miss Heather Key shortly after the "nodule of flint" episode.
Most of the student body were gone for the summer when local
newspapers reported that Miss Heather Key, a student at the
college, had been involved in solving the murder of Professor
Yellow Sunrise. But these report were noticed by faculty members
who lived in the city, two professors in particular.
Soon after the dramatic withdrawal of the governor's state
supreme court nomination of Jason Bolger, who was charged with
conspiracy to murder, two professors came to Heather's house
wishing to speak with her. One was an elderly man by the name of
Wilber Alumbaugh, the chairman of the art department. The other
was Rodney Johnson, a young professor of mathematics. Heather
insisted that I be present.
When we had all settled into our chairs, Professor Alumbaugh
began. "Heather, I knew your father well. Robert had told me
about your interest in cryptology. That and your recent
involvement in solving the murder of Professor Yellow Sunrise
have prompted us to seek your help in a situation of great
interest to myself and to Professor Johnson here, who replaced
your father in the department of mathematics."
Professor Johnson then spoke. "It has to do with a museum of art
that myself and Professor Alumbaugh have been attempting to
establish. All our efforts are being opposed. We don't understand
why. You obviously have a keen mind for solving mysteries. It
may seem strange that we are seeking help from a nineteen year
old college student. That is your age isn't it? But after my
considerable work on this project, I am quite desperate for help
from anyone who can help, lest all my efforts have been for
nothing."
"If I am to help, I would need a complete account of how the
problem developed, preferably in chronological order. Let me get
a notebook before you begin. Would anyone like a cool drink?"
After drinking some lemonade, Professor Alumbaugh began. "I
have been teaching art at the college for nearly forty years. I am
planning to retire at the end of the coming school year. Our
department of art has always been small. There have been just
myself and one assistant to teach drawing, painting, and sculpture.
The whole purpose of the department has been to give students
some variety, and some easy elective credits.
"Despite this modest purpose, two of my students later became
well-known artists in local areas. Jack Winterbourne does
watercolor landscapes here in the Midwest, and Elliot Greathouse
has produced many well-known works of sculpture for commercial
buildings in the New England area. While these two were students
of mine, I encouraged them by purchasing several of their works.
When they later became well-known artists, I began to view my
purchases as valuable examples of their early work.
"About a year ago I began to ask the board of regents for a place
to display this art. Although they liked the idea, nothing was done
about it. Meanwhile, Professor Johnson was hired to replace
your father in the department of mathematics. During a lunch
break he overheard me complaining that there was still no place
to display the work of my students. Perhaps at this point
Professor Johnson should continue the story."
"Yes. My showing sympathy for Wilber's plight marked the
beginning of our friendship. I asked to see the pieces of art he
was talking about. He took me down into the basement of his
house where he is storing them. He showed me various pieces,
explaining to me what he liked about each. That was the
beginning of my interest in art.
"You have probably noticed me working on that brick duplex on
the north side of the campus. I bought it, to live in half of it, and
rent out the other half. But as I worked on fixing it up, I began to
see that by removing sections of the wall between the two sides,
it could be made into an art museum. The idea captivated me. At
first I told no one about what I was working toward. But when I
heard Wilber say that he might retire at the end of the school
year that had just ended, I told him about my idea and gave him
a tour of the building. He agreed that it would make a fine
museum and observed, 'Since it adjoins the campus, this property
could be sold to the college so that the museum could become an
official part of the campus.'
"We began planning together on how best to remodel the building.
At the next meeting of the board of regents we presented our
proposal for an art museum. The board members made several
encouraging comments about the idea. However, at the latest
meeting, after the end of the school year, there was strong
opposition.
"Since the chairman of the board, Franklin Dapplemocker, is one
of the original founders of the college, his opinions are greatly
respected by the other board members. What we would like to
know, therefore, is who persuaded the chairman of the board to
come out against the proposed museum. For he originally
supported the idea. Now he doesn't even want to discuss the
matter. If you could discover whom it was, perhaps we could
convince that person why an art museum would be good for the
college, and that person might then speak favorably about the
project to the chairman of the board."
When Professor Johnson paused to drink from his glass, Heather
excused herself and returned with her copy of the college
yearbook for 1917. After flipping back and forth through its
pages, Heather mumbled something to herself, then laid the
yearbook aside. "Professor Alumbaugh, if the project were
approved, besides the several pieces of art you purchased from
former students, what else would be on display in the museum?"
"The first floor would be entirely devoted to watercolors by Jack
Winterbourne, the several now stored in my basement, plus a
large number yet to be purchased. It would be the largest
collection of his work. Most of the second floor would be occupied
by the sculptures of Elliot Greathouse, both the ones that I have
and new purchases, plus framed photographs of some of his
sculptures in the New England area. A smaller area of the second
floor would display oil painting portraits done by Miss Susan
Spencer, one of my students, who graduated this year."
Heather smiled.
"Professor Johnson, when did you buy the duplex? When did you
decide to convert it into an art museum? And when did you first
tell Professor Alumbaugh about the idea?"
"I was renting an apartment while looking for a house to buy. The
owner of the duplex was getting tired of dealing with tenants and
keeping up with repairs, so he put it up for sale as is. I bought it
just this last February and began fixing up the interior while the
weather was cold. I planned to work on the exterior in the spring
and have the building ready for occupancy before the end of the
school year. I believe it was in early April when Professor
Alumbaugh showed me the art work stored in his basement.
Shortly thereafter I decided to convert the duplex into an art
museum. Near the end of April, when I heard Wilber talking
about retiring at the end of the semester, is when I told him
about my idea."
"Professor Alumbaugh, did you purchase any of Susan Spencer's
paintings to encourage her, as you had done for Jack
Winterbourne and Elliot Greathouse? And if so, were any of her
paintings among those viewed by Professor Johnson when you
showed him the art work stored in your basement?"
"Yes. The portraits I purchased from her were among those
viewed by Rodney."
"Has Susan Spencer ever known that there were plans to have
some of her portraits on permanent display in an art museum?"
"No. She is very anxious to have her work recognized. We
decided to keep her inclusion a secret until the art museum
project would be approved. Otherwise, she would get her hopes
up only to be disappointed later."
"When you presented your proposal for an art museum to the
board of regents, did you indicate to them that Susan Spencer
would be one of the artists included in the exhibit?"
"No."
"So until you told me today, no one has known of your intention
to place some of her portraits in the museum."
The two professors looked at each other, and Professor
Alumbaugh answered for them both, "That is correct."
"Excellent!" Heather patted her college yearbook. "Gentlemen,
I think I now know who persuaded the chairman of the board of
regents to come out against your art museum proposal. However,
it is Susan Spencer who must be the one to convince that person
to speak to his grandfather about approving the project."
Professor Alumbaugh was taken aback. "His grandfather! Of all
people I would think that William Dapplemocker would be the
least interested in persuading his grandfather to come out
against the art museum proposal! William has been dating Susan,
and has proposed marriage. Susan has told him that she wants to
postpone considering marriage until her work has gained some
recognition. Having some of her portraits on permanent display
would easily be the recognition she wants, and there would be
nothing then preventing her from considering marriage. But wait!
He did not know that her work would be included. Still, I see no
reason why he would oppose the project."
"Professor Alumbaugh, I believe that William Dapplemocker
discovered that Susan Spencer's work would be included, but a
reason for opposing the art museum project presented itself
after the end of the school year, namely, when you, Professor
Johnson, began dating Susan Spencer."
Professor Alumbaugh's face broke into a bemused smile.
"Rodney, I didn't know you have been dating Susan. When did
you become interested in her?"
With all attention fixed on him, Professor Johnson looked very
uncomfortable. After gaining some composure, he answered.
"When I was in Wilber's basement, viewing the various pieces of
art that he has stored there, one of the portraits stirred my
interest like no other. When I learned that it was a self-portrait
done by one of his students then in her senior year, I very much
wanted to meet her in real life. I soon found an opportunity. I
told her that I had seen some of her portraits and very much
admired them. She seemed very pleased.
"Due to the rule forbidding professors from dating students, I had
to wait until she graduated before I could get to know her better.
Meanwhile, I conceived the idea of converting the duplex into an
art museum. I was aware that Susan was dating someone else, but
I also knew that she wanted some recognition for her work before
she would consider marriage.
"When Wilber said that he was thinking about retiring at the end
of the school year, I showed him what I was doing to convert the
duplex into an art museum, because I knew that I would need his
support if the project were to become a reality.
"Heather, you indicated that you think that William
Dapplemocker was the one who persuaded his grandfather to
come out against the project. If that could be proven, she would
lose all interest in him, which would be quite to my liking.
However, if I would falsely accuse him, I would be the one
looking bad."
"Perhaps it would be helpful to view the situation from the
perspective of William Dapplemocker. He becomes very fond of
Susan Spencer, eventually asks her to marry him, when he learns
that she wants recognition as an artist before considering
marriage. At that point he would gladly have helped her become
recognized as an artist.
"But shortly after she graduates, he learns that there is a rival
for her affections. And then he hears through his grandfather that
this rival has a proposal for an art museum then being considered
by the board of regents, a museum to include pieces by some of
Professor Alumbaugh's former students. Well, Susan Spencer is
one of those students. If she gained the recognition she wanted
through the efforts of his rival. Well, you get the picture! What
would William want to do before the next meeting of the board of
regents?"
After a suspenseful pause, all of us started to answer the question
at once. My voice finally prevailed. "He would find out whether
or not any of Susan Spencer's work would be displayed in the art
museum!"
Professor Alumbaugh then spoke. "William did not ask me about
it. Perhaps I should ask my wife." He asked if he could use our
telephone. When he returned to the room, we all turned to hear
his verdict.
"Yes! William Dapplemocker came to our house at a time when I
was not there and got my wife's permission to see the works of
art that would be on display in the museum. She said that he
looked rather pale and nervous as he left. She had forgotten
about the incident until my telephone call just now reminded her
of it."
We all then turned to Professor Johnson, who could not suppress
a broad grin. "Well, I think I need to talk to Susan Spencer as
soon as possible. Good afternoon, everyone! Thank you for your
help, Miss Key!"
Professor Alumbaugh then prepared to leave as well. As he
waddled down the walkway, he turned and spoke. "Heather, I
always thought that your father should have remarried. But I
see that he still managed to raise a very bright young woman. I
think this college is going to have a museum of art before the
year has ended. Thank you for your help!"
A few days later Miss Susan Spencer came to Heather's house
absolutely ecstatic about the approval of the art museum project
and the prospect of some of her portraits being on permanent
display. "Heather, isn't there something that I can do for you to
show my appreciation and gratitude?"
"Well, Mrs. Sharon Turner here, after she sees that I get off to
a good start next semester, is planning to return to London.
Could you paint a portrait of us together for a memento?"
"Yes! Let me get my drawing pad. Could we start today?"
At the last Friday might concert at Heather's house before my
departure to New York City, the music students gave me a
framed photograph of themselves huddled around the grand piano
that I had given to Heather. Then Heather surprised me by giving
me the portrait of ourselves painted by Susan Spencer. I had
thought that Heather wanted it for herself. It shows myself in a
dark blue gown standing behind Heather, seated, in the light blue
gown given to her by Andrew Scott. Her left hand is clasped
round her violin and bow, which are partly resting on her lap. Her
right hand is holding a sheet of music, the title of which, though
upside down to the viewer, is readable: "Lament for Yellow
Sunrise", a piece composed by her good friend Buffalo Martin.
You will be able to see this beautiful portrait for yourself when
you join my family for dinner at the Turner mansion.
Sincerely,
Sharon Turner
Chapter 4: An Ama Diver
December 7, 1917
Dear Mother Sharon:
Although I am sorry that you missed the dedication of the art
museum, a few days later occurred some events that you may be
glad you missed, as an element of danger was present at my
house. Since everything has turned out okay, please do not get
distressed as you read my account of what happened.
I have often wondered why Sherlock Holmes, a retired consulting
detective, would have investigated my situation in London in the
summer of 1916. When I recently read the article "His Last
Bow", I learned for the first time that Mr. Holmes was, even
before the war began, very much involved in counterespionage.
Late one night I was rereading Andrew Scott's letters to me and
noticed some phrases in them that reminded me of some phrases
spoken by Mr. Holmes in Dr. Watson's writings and in my
presence on a train in England. I keep Andrew's letters to me in a
binder in the order in which they were written. Andrew had told
me that due to the sensitive nature of his work translating
decoded messages, his letters must contain no information
relating to his work. His military mailing address has never
changed. His letters containing phrases reminding me of phrases
spoken by Mr. Holmes were all dated in the summer of 1917, and
this group of letters are the only ones written on beige stationery.
One of these letters has a most curious feature. Before the
signature "Andrew" are the letters "Ans" written and then
crossed out. Why would Andrew stumble over signing his own
name? I took the beige letters out of the binder and carefully
examined them. On one of them I found a slight impression of
writing, as if the letter to me had been underneath something
else written upon. I took a pencil and lightly stroked the side
of the lead over the impression of writing. The name "Ansel
Coverdale" emerged.
As I pondered over this, I heard some strange sounds coming
from the backyard. When I looked out the window, I saw a
shadowy figure descending from the telephone pole. At the same
time, I heard a cracking sound coming from downstairs.
From the top of the stairs I could see the end of a crowbar as the
front door sprung open and a man entered my house. Rather than
panicking, I asked myself, "What should I do?" As the man
began moving up the stairs towards me, I knew that the only thing
for me to do was something that I had not done since I was in high
school. I ran up the stairs into the attic and over to its only
window near the top of one of the two gables. I unlatched the
window, swung it out, wiggled through the opening, and pulled
myself up onto the roof. I laid out on the peak of the roof with
my legs straddling each side and my head looking over the roof
edge above the window opening. It would be difficult for the
intruder to get through the opening without my disrupting any
attempt by him to get up on the roof.
The November air was cool, and I was wearing only pajamas, but
I felt confident that I was safe for now. The intruder stuck his
head through the opening, looking to see if I had jumped down
from there. Recognizing that the window was much too high to
safely jump down from, he turned to look upwards and saw me
looking downwards at him. He cussed at me and started wiggling
his way out through the opening. I slapped down upon him,
carefully avoiding allowing him to grasp my arms.
Realizing that there was no safe way for him to climb up onto the
roof, he pulled his head back inside and yelled through the attic
to a companion, apparently the shadowy figure I had seen
descending from the telephone pole. After about a minute the man
began wiggling out through the window opening again. Just as I
was about to begin slapping on him again, he quickly pulled
himself back into the attic, and I was looking down at another
man on the ground with a pistol aimed directly at my head. Had I
not suddenly jerked my head back, it may have been penetrated
by the bullet that whizzed past the edge of the roof.
The shooter could move either to the front or to the back of the
house to get another shot at me. I saw him appear in the
backyard. So I moved to the front slope of the roof. But now I
could not stop the man who had tried to follow me onto the roof,
and there he was, climbing up onto the roof.
I knew that I had one chance and one chance only to escape these
two men. Any delay and it would be too late. I scrambled down
the front slope of the roof, hung my legs over the edge, twisted
myself to grab with both hands the edge of the rain gutter, swung
myself onto the little roof over the front door, from there dropped
myself to the ground, and frantically ran off down the street
jerking myself back and forth as I ran, as several bullets whizzed
past me. At the end of the block I turned and ran toward the
campus before I finally turned back to see if anyone was still
following me. On the campus I found a hiding place within some
evergreen shrubs, where I waited to see what would happen next.
Dogs were barking, lights in neighboring houses were being
turned on, and the sirens of police cars could be heard
approaching. After about a half hour I felt that it was safe for me
to return.
As I approached the gathering of neighbors and policeman in
front of my house, my next door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Collier,
recognized me. Mrs. Collier got a blanket to wrap me in, and
since my front door could not be repaired until the next morning,
she invited me to spend the night in their house.
A policeman wanted me to go down to the station and fill out a
report. Since I wanted to dress first, I moved toward my house.
As I did so, I noticed that the dead body of a man was being
placed in the back of a police van. He looked like the man whom
I had struggled with on the roof. Before I could enter my house,
three newspaper reporters were asking me all kinds of questions.
I told them that I needed to get dressed, but they followed me
into the house anyway. I had to latch my bedroom door while I
dressed.
I decided to take with me my binder of Andrew's letters and the
card that Sherlock Holmes had given me. I didn't want snooping
reporters finding these. So I put the beige letters back in the
binder with the others, slid the Sherlock Holmes card out from
the edge of my dresser mirror where I keep it, and wedged it
between some letters in my binder, which I took over to the
Colliers, who promised to place it in the room in which I would
be staying until my front door was fixed. Then I went with the
police to their station downtown.
There I wrote out a description of what had taken place that
night. I tried to be as thorough and as honest as possible. The
officer reading over my report looked a little disappointed.
"Well, you are very precise as to what happened, but you give no
clue as to why it happened."
"At this point I do not know why it happened. How did that man
die?"
"Aren't you the young lady who went to England, and whose
father was killed by the Germans because they thought he was a
cryptologist, but it was really you who were the cryptologist?"
"That's a pretty good summary."
"The man apparently fell off the roof and landed headfirst on the
concrete walkway in front of your house. You didn't push him off,
did you?"
"No."
"Could what happened tonight be somehow related to your former
cryptology work?"
"Possibly."
"The other man, who was shooting at you, was captured and is
now in a jail cell. He had no identification on him, and he has not
spoken a single word."
"I did not recognize the man who followed me up onto the roof
and who is now dead. Perhaps I would recognize the man who is
in the jail cell."
"Come this way."
As I looked at the unfamiliar man in the cell and wondered why he
refused to say anything, I remembered that one of the crew, of
the German U-boat that had been smashed by the British
warship, had made it to the surface. He would have become a
prisoner of war. Therefore, how could this be him? If he had
somehow escaped and sought revenge against me, how could he
know where I lived?
The man who fell off the roof was definitely an American,
because he looked and cussed like an American. But this man
might not be fluent in the English language, which might explain
his refusal to speak. Even if he could speak in English, his
German accent, if that were the case, would suggest his origins.
I finally spoke. "The college has a department of languages, and
I know that German is one of the languages taught. I believe that
someone who can speak German might be able to communicate
with the man in this jail cell."
"Well, if this man speaks German, that might explain why he has
not spoken. But are you sure enough about this for me to wake
up a German professor in the middle of the night?"
"No. Can you wait until morning?"
"Certainly. But that band of reporters over there cannot."
"Wait! What was the name of the man who fell off the roof?"
"David Whitlock."
I almost fell over. "David Whitlock was the cryptologist I
corresponded with before my father and I went to New York City
to see if the cryptologists there would hire me. I had been
disappointed that he was not there among them. Why would he
want to have me killed? But that might explain how the sole
survivor of the smashed German U-boat would have learned
where I live. I wonder if the man in this jail cell is that survivor."
"Well, if this man we have in jail is an escaped prisoner of war,
I think we should immediately see if a German professor can
converse with him."
"Could I go back to my neighbor's house and get some sleep?"
"Of course! Brian, drive this college student home at once!"
Early the next morning the police came requesting my presence
at the station, not for me to be interviewed, but because they
thought that I would be interested in a statement that a German
professor was going to read to the press. I was able to secure a
copy of it.
"Good morning! I am Abraham Gardner, professor of German at
the college. Last night I was summoned to converse in German
with a man put in jail for firing bullets at Miss Heather Key, a
student at the college. After a while the prisoner did began
speaking in German. This is what he told me.
"He had served on a German U-boat that had sunk many
British vessels. In the summer of 1916, his U-boat torpedoed
a passenger ship bound for America off the coast of Ireland,
forcing the passengers to abandon ship. The U-boat surfaced
so that Professor Robert Key could be shot to death, so that his
knowledge of German coded messages would not be shared with
other American cryptologists.
"A young woman among the passengers swam over to the U-boat
as it was submerging and twisted open a hatch so that water
flowed into the U-boat, forcing it to surface again so that the hatch
could be closed. This delay resulted in an approaching British
warship smashing into the U-boat.
"The man in a jail cell here is the sole survivor of that smashed
U-boat. Since he is not an officer, he was sent to a prison camp in
France. But during the voyage across the Channel, the ship he was
on was torpedoed by a German U-boat. As the ship he was on sank,
he cried out in German for help, and he was rescued by men on the
U-boat. He was questioned by them until his identity was
established. He told them how the U-boat that he had been
stationed on came to be smashed.
"When he mentioned how a young woman was partly responsible
for the disaster to the U-boat, one of his rescuers said, 'She must
have been one of those Ama divers from Japan that the British are
using to swim down with bombs to attach to the sides of our
U-boats.' Later, some officers asked him if he would like to get
revenge on the Ama diver who had indirectly caused the death of
his shipmates. He said he would like that very much.
"He was assigned to a detachment specializing in
counterespionage and then sent to New York City, where an
American spy for Germany by the name of David Whitlock was,
and this David Whitlock knew where the Ama diver was basking
in luxury as a reward for her help in destroying German
U-boats.
"That is basically what he said. We know that the man who fell to
his death off of Miss Heather Key's house last night was none
other than David Whitlock."
After making this statement, both Professor Gardner and myself
were swarmed with reporters. I did my best to answer only the
questions that I thought should be answered. Afterwards,
Professor Gardner thanked me for having him woken up in the
middle of the night. "When the man began conversing with me in
German about these matters, it became one of the most
fascinating experiences of my life. Say, how about you going with
my wife and I to the Prairie Bouquet restaurant this evening?
We'll reserve a private room there. We would certainly be
interested in hearing your side of the story. An Ama diver! Isn't
that too much!"
Our evening together at the Prairie Bouquet restaurant was a
most enjoyable experience in every way. As we leaned back after
a hearty meal and picked our teeth, I mentioned my engagement
to Andrew Scott. "He is working as a German translator for the
British war effort. Does the college ever hire instructors in
German who do not have college degrees?"
"Yes. In such cases we require that they work on completing a
degree while they are teaching. Unfortunately, we have already
made arrangements to hire an instructor in German for the
semester beginning in September of 1918. By coincidence, he
also lives in England. He is now teaching German in a school for
boys. He is also engaged to be married, and his fiancee will also
be a student here."
"But members of the faculty are not supposed to date students."
"Well, since their engagement was made before he will join our
faculty, he will be able to date her all he wants to before they get
married."
"Since my Andrew is fluent in German, I have wanted to take at
least one German course. Perhaps I should enroll in the course
taught by this instructor of German from England. What is his
name?" While waiting for a reply, I brought my glass of water
to my lips.
"Mr. Ansel Coverdale."
I nearly gagged on the water.
Mrs. Gardner asked, "Are you all right, Heather?"
Through a broad smile I said, "I have never felt better."
And so, my dear Mother Sharon, since my Andrew is obviously
wishing to surprise me, I won't mention this in my letters to him.
But if you should happen to see Andrew before I do, perhaps
while he is admiring the Susan Spencer portrait of us, you might
in a roundabout way let him know that while his fiancee is quite
willing to change her name to Heather Scott, under no
circumstances shall she wear the name of Coverdale!
Sincerely,
Heather Key
Chapter 5: An Exchange of Prisoners
In late July of 1918, I was visited by Sherlock Holmes. Our
conversation was mostly concerned with the progress of the war.
Eventually, we began mourning war deaths and injuries affecting
families that we mutually knew. After a period of silence, Holmes
said that he needed to visit someone in a hospital in London. "You
of course remember Mr. Andrew Scott, the German translator
who is engaged to Miss Heather Key."
"What put him in a hospital?"
"A German bullet wound either in the shoulder or through a leg, I
don't remember which."
"But I thought that Mr. Scott would not have to serve on the
front lines."
"In 1916, soon after Miss Key and Mrs. Turner departed for
America, I learned that what had been a bluff, that Mr. Scott was
being sent to the front lines, was actually going to happen. An
older man had been found to replace Mr. Scott as a translator.
"I quickly met with Major X of the Army counterespionage
detachment that had successfully raided the Edinburgh spy ring. I
suggested to him that Mr. Scott's knowledge of the German
language could become valuable in the work of counterespionage
if he were first allowed a more thorough study the German
language and culture. Mr. Gary Douglas was also there and
supported my idea. 'There were bad feelings between Andrew and
myself, but all that is behind us now. When this war is over, I want
to reopen our company's office in Germany, and I want Andrew to
be in charge of it.'
"Major X was interested in my suggestion, but wanted to know
exactly what I had in mind. I suggested that if Mr. Scott were to
undergo an intensive study of German language, superior to his
original instruction for business purposes, he could be ready by
the summer of 1917 for me to teach him the arts of disguise and
assuming a new identity for the purpose of spying. I suggested
that his new identity could be that of an inspector of prisons,
and that in that role he could listen in on the conversations of
German prisoners of war and perhaps thereby gain information
valuable to our war efforts. After due consideration, my
suggestion was approved. Thus, while Miss Key was commencing
her college studies in America, Mr. Scott was studying German
language and culture at a college in England.
"In June of 1917, I helped Mr. Scott assume a new identity. He
became Ansel Coverdale, Inspector of Prisons. By that time there
were beginning to be a significant number of German prisoners of
war, some held in Britain, which is where Ansel began his work.
Major X was especially interested in receiving Ansel's report on
the prison in which members of the Edinburgh spy ring were being
held. All summer long Mr. Scott was engaged in his Ansel
Coverdale role in Britain. During this period I met with him from
time to time to check on how things were going. Plans were being
made for him to be sent to visit prison camps across the Channel.
"But then I was visited by my brother Mycroft, who reasoned
with me concerning what would result from American troops
entering the fields of battle. According to his analysis, it would
only end the present conflict sooner. He presented convincing
evidence that the American leaders are influenced by minds
whose proposals for ending the hostilities are so unrealistic that
nothing will be resolved. 'Within a generation another European
war will break out.'
"I later had an occasion to share with Mr. Gary Douglas those
portions of Mycroft's analysis that would be of direct interest to
him. Mr. Douglas understood and concluded that he should not
reopen his company's office in Germany after this war. 'But then
I will have no need to hire Andrew Scott.'
"What Mr. Scott would do after this war is over thus became a
concern of mine. In the light of Mycroft's analysis, I pushed for
a long-term plan that would have Mr. Scott, after completing
some counterespionage assignments, being honorably discharged
from the Army and moving to America. When a future war breaks
out, Mr. Scott's knowledge of the German language and Miss
Key's knowledge of cryptology could be called upon to aid Britain.
After all, that was the very arrangement upon which their
relationship had begun.
"There is a reason why Andrew and Heather should live in
America. At the end of this war, when prisoners are exchanged,
the Edinburgh spy ring will be sent to Germany. By their
communicating with sympathizers here, they may from a distance
organize the murdering of persons they want revenge on. In his
Ansel Coverdale identity, Mr. Scott learned that the spy ring
especially wants revenge on Mr. Gary Douglas and himself.
"Mycroft used his influence to put our plan into motion. Mr.
Scott became an instructor in German at a boys' school in
England. When that was going well, I suggested that Mr. Scott
apply for a similar position at the college that Heather was
attending. His doing so in the name of Ansel Coverdale was his
own idea. He wanted to surprise Heather. As you know, his
application was accepted.
"On completing his teaching assignment at the boys' school, Mr.
Scott was sent across the Channel to listen in on the
conversations of German prisoners. While engaged in that
activity, he was shot. I should very much like to know the
circumstances."
I joined Holmes in visiting Andrew Scott at the hospital. I was
first to enter Mr. Scott's room. I immediately backed out and
whispered to Holmes that Mr. Scott was holding hands with a
young woman.
At first Holmes seemed as shocked as I. Then he whispered back,
"What did you actually observe?"
I whispered, "Her back was to me, but, yes, she has dark brown
hair, and she is wearing an engagement ring."
A familiar voice then rang out. "Andrew! Sherlock Holmes and
Dr. Watson are here to visit you!" It was Heather Key.
Mr. Scott broke the silence of our astonishment. "Heather
arrived a short while ago. I was just explaining to her how I got
wounded here in the back of my left shoulder. At one of the
prison camps where I was working there were some new arrivals.
Their American captors were bemoaning the fact that their
leader, Lieutenant William Dapplemocker, had to be left behind.
When I heard the name William Dapplemocker, I wondered if he
might be the same person whom Heather had mentioned in some
of her letters. After some inquiry, I knew that he was. I had
already felt sorry for him because he had lost out to a rival for
the affections of Miss Susan Spencer, an artist whose portrait
of Heather and Mrs. Turner I have viewed.
"From Heather's letters I knew that Dapplemocker had enlisted
in the United States Army, went through boot camp, officer
training, and had been sent to the front lines. As I listened to
accounts of his valor under fire, leading an attack that resulted in
freeing some fellow Americans who had previously been captured
by the Germans, and taking two German prisoners in the process,
I thought how tragic it was that Dapplemocker, wounded, had to
give the order for his men to flee with the men they had rescued,
and the two Germans they had captured, to the American
trenches without him.
"I said to the Americans, 'Are you willing to trade these two new
prisoners in order to get Dapplemocker back?' When they
answered yes, I surprised everyone by conversing in German with
the two new prisoners. The Americans then provided me with a
rifle and drove myself and the two German prisoners to the front.
I ordered the two Germans, handcuffed, to walk in front of me
toward their trenches.
"As we approached, I shouted in German that if Dapplemocker
were released to me alive, these two prisoners would be allowed
to return to their trenches unharmed. After a tense moment,
Dapplemocker began crawling his way over to where I was. It was
only then that I realized how foolish my hastily conceived plan
was. Dapplemocker needed to be carried, and I could not carry
him without relinguishing the ability to fire my gun.
"As I slung Dapplemocker across my back and began scurrying
toward the American trenches, I hoped that we reached them
before the German prisoners reached theirs. Otherwise, both
Dapplemocker and myself might become targets for German
bullets. As I was lowering Dapplemocker down into a trench,
someone on the American side began firing, which was quickly
answered by the Germans. A bullet punched into my shoulder as
I was jumping into the trench."
Heather's eyes were filled with tears. "Is William Dapplemocker
still alive?"
"Yes. I was told that he is being honorably discharged and is
being sent home with some scars but no loss of faculties."
Andrew then turned to us and said somewhat sadly, "In a few
days I am to be honorably discharged from the Army so that I
can become an instructor in German at Heather's college."
The attention then shifted to why Miss Key was now in England.
"I suppose that Mrs. Sharon Turner has shared with you an
account of my house being broken into last November and bullets
being fired at me?" We nodded. "Well, then you know that the
cryptologist I corresponded with, before I went to New York
City in 1916, was David Whitlock, and that he fell to his death
from the roof of my house.
"About the time of my twentieth birthday in April, I received a
letter from the New York City cryptologists who in 1916 had
rejected my request to be hired by them. I have the letter here
in my purse. I am a little choked up. Perhaps Dr. Watson would
read it."
I read aloud this message dated April 6, 1918, and addressed to
Miss Heather Key:
"Although David Whitlock was once a member of our group,
prior to your coming to us wanting to be hired as a cryptologist
we had dismissed him for unreliability. Only after his death did
we learn that he had been a spy for Germany.
"Although he should never have encouraged you to seek a job
with us, we now know that we had been unwise in not hiring you.
Major Henderson, in communications with us, has praised your
all too brief work for his organization.
"One year ago, when America declared war on Germany, we
began to be deluged with requests for decoding work, but the
tragic circumstances of your father's death shamed us away from
our desire to offer you a job.
"Good cryptologists are difficult to find. Not wishing to interfere
with your college studies, we would offer you a summer job as a
cryptologist, if after a one week training period you can
demonstrate the same abilities you had in 1916. If you are
interested, please reply within a month."
"Thank you, Dr. Watson. At first I refused to even consider
this offer. But then I thought about the young men I know from
high school and from college who are now serving in the
American war effort. Perhaps I might decode messages the
knowledge of which could help save American lives. Besides,
what would I do all summer long waiting for Andrew to arrive
to be an instructor in German at the college? So when I completed
my second year of college, I went to New York City, successfully
completed the one week training period, and began working as a
cryptologist again.
"A couple of weeks ago, one of my fellow cryptologists had
discovered in a coded message from Britain that my Andrew had
been wounded. Out of sympathy for me, the leader of the group
tore up my summer contract and made arrangements for me to
arrive here. I am staying at the Turner mansion. Early tomorrow
morning I am to travel by train to visit Andrew's family in
Scotland.
"When Andrew's wound has healed enough, we are planning to
go to America. I am insisting that our wedding date be after my
twenty-first birthday in April, so that Mr. Scott will not be
marrying a lassie."
When Holmes and I were outside the hospital, I made some
observations. "It appears to me that the long-term plans of the
Holmes brothers for Andrew and Heather are working out. Of
course if Mycroft's analysis should prove wrong, then Britain
would end up losing Andrew's skills and failing to gain
Heather's." Holmes seemed more amused than irritated by my
comments.
That evening we went to the opera. Holmes stayed at my house
for the night. He planned to return to his bees and philosophical
studies early the next day.
Soon after daybreak we were awakened by a frantic pounding on
the door. It was Major X, who proceeded to fume and pace back
and forth in such anger that Holmes had to calm him down. He
finally began speaking coherently. "They should have consulted
with me before exchanging prisoners with Germany. The
Edinburgh spy ring that required hundreds of hours of careful
work to track down and capture is now in Germany in exchange
for some British officers that were being held in German
prisons."
Holmes then lit his pipe and began pacing back and forth with
anger showing on his face as well, but he quickly calmed himself
down. "Let Watson and I see to it that Mr. Scott and Miss Key
get on a ship bound for America. That will free your men to work
on everything else."
"What? I thought Miss Key was in America!"
"She just arrived yesterday to visit her wounded Andrew."
Major X threw his hands up in frustration. "Agreed! Oh, I
already have a man at the hospital ready to intercept any move
against Andrew." He then left.
Holmes and I loaded my motorcar for a journey up to Scotland.
"Let us first drive to the hospital to get some information from
Mr. Scott," said Holmes.
At the hospital Mr. Scott told us the address of his family's
small house in Ayr, Scotland. "With some of my brothers and
sisters still living there, there is no bed for Heather. My parents
were planning to go camping in the Highlands with her, to get to
know her. My father has a motorcar. They were going to stop at
Loch Lomond for a while, then drive up to Glencoe to camp out
for the night before returning to Ayr."
When we arrived at the Scott house in Ayr, we introduced
ourselves to a child answering the door. Holmes asked him if we
might be able to speak with Miss Heather Key. He told us that
Miss Key had already left with Mr. and Mrs. Scott to go on a
camping trip. Holmes asked if anyone else had come wishing to
speak with Miss Key.
"Not long ago three men in a motorcar came wishing to speak
with my father."
"Exactly what did you tell the men?"
"Only that our father was camping in the Highlands."
"Did anyone mention Loch Lomond or Glencoe?"
"No."
"Did you meet Miss Heather Key, whom your brother Andrew is
going to marry?"
"Yes. She is very pretty, but awfully tall. She plays the violin
beautifully."
"Did she take her violin with her?"
"No. It is here behind the sofa."
"I wonder if she forgot it. I would like to bring it to her."
"Here it is."
"Thank you." Holmes seemed especially glad to have Heather's
violin.
After listening to the child's descriptions of the three men and
their motorcar, we sped our way to Loch Lomond, where we saw
the three described men talking with some campers, then getting
into the described motorcar. They drove off in the direction of
Glencoe. Holmes had me follow them far enough back so that
they would not know that they were being followed.
The sun had already set by the time we approached Glencoe, but
Holmes told me to leave the headlights off. We almost drew too
near to their vehicle when theirs stopped for one of the men to
get out to look down into the valley. The man pointed out
something to his fellows. They then drove down the road leading
into the valley.
The mist hanging above the valley was so low that at one point
the road was engulfed in it. Holmes had me stop my motorcar
within the mist and turn off the engine. He got out, climbed
down the slope beneath the mist, then climbed back up, took
Heather's violin, and played as loudly as he could a mournful yet
beautiful melody that I had never heard before. Then he again
climbed down beneath the mist, then climbed back up and played
again the same mournful tune. Then he put the violin back into
my motorcar and leaned toward the valley as if listening for
something.
Within a few minutes I heard Miss Key's voice. "Sherlock
Holmes? Is that you?"
Holmes then climbed down beneath the mist and motioned for
Miss Key to join us in my motorcar. The familiar form of
Heather Key emerged. I pointed to a seat for her. Holmes again
climbed back down beneath the mist. Then he climbed back up
and whispered that I should not start the engine nor turn on its
lights, but that I should take off the brake and slowly roll the
motorcar down the road leading into the valley.
As we rolled to the bottom, Holmes took my revolver out of the
glove compartment and placed it next to me. He then unbuckled
and slid out the belt from his trousers and held it in his hands.
When my motorcar came to a stop, Holmes motioned for both
Miss Key and myself to get out and follow him.
We made our way to the campfire. Perched on a fender of the
motorcar the men had driven was one of the men, holding a
revolver. Mr. and Mrs. Scott were seated on the ground in the
light of the campfire. Holmes, with Heather and myself closely
following, snuck up behind the man perched on the motorcar.
Holmes looped his belt over the man's head and jerked the belt
tight so that the man dropped his gun as he tried with both hands
to free himself from the choking belt.
Mr. and Mrs. Scott quickly joined us in gagging and tying up the
man and placing him in his motorcar. Holmes whispered that Mr.
and Mrs. Scott should immediately begin taking down their tent
and packing their motorcar for leaving. Holmes motioned for
Miss Key to help the Scotts.
Holmes picked up the man's dropped gun and whispered to me
that we should prepare for the return of the other two men. We
moved toward the hillside and hid ourselves behind some
shrubbery. When the two men walked past us, we snuck up
behind them and ordered them to drop their weapons. When one
of them hesitated, Holmes fired a round above that man's head.
The man then dropped his gun.
Near the campfire we tied the men up and placed them with the
other man in their own motorcar. Our caravan of three vehicles
then drove toward Glasgow. Miss Key rode with the Scotts, I
drove alone, and Holmes drove the motorcar with our captives in
it.
On our arrival in Glasgow, Holmes sent the rest of us to find
lodging for the remainder of the night at a hotel he recommended.
He would telephone Major X, find an appropriate place to leave
the three captives, and then join me in the room I would rent for
Holmes and myself.
At a late hour an exhausted Holmes came into our room. As he
was settling into his bed, I sat up and said a few words. "The
melody that you played in the mist must have been 'Lament for
Yellow Sunrise' by Buffalo Martin. Miss Key must have sent a
copy of the score to you through the mail, knowing that you
also play the violin. You must have sent her a letter indicating
that you liked the piece so much that you had memorized it. So
when Miss Key heard it played from the mist above Glencoe,
she knew that it was you playing it. That would have lured her
away from the campfire then being approached by the three
men . . ."
Holmes raised his head long enough to interrupt me. "Correct on
every point. Now be quiet so I can get some sleep!"
In the morning I drove Holmes and Miss Key to the hospital in
London where Andrew was recovering. While Miss Key was in the
room telling Andrew what had happened up in Scotland, and while
Holmes and I were chatting with the guard assigned for Andrew's
protection, Major X arrived.
"Excellent work, Holmes! Two of my men peppered the three men
you captured with questions until one of them broke down under
the pressure and confessed everything. We are near to having
the situation under control. Why don't you go back to your bees?
We will see to it that Mr. Scott and Miss Key have a safe
departure for America."
We gladly relinguished responsibility for Andrew and Heather's
safety, but we wanted to be notified concerning the time and
place of their departure so that we could see them off.
On the day of their departure the sun was radiating through a
cloudless sky. Holmes and I were part of a cluster of
well-wishers including Mrs. Turner, Major X, and Major
Henderson. When the lines were tossed and the ship's whistle
sounded, we climbed to an observation deck to wave goodbye.
When we reached the railing, we saw Andrew and Heather with
mischievous smiles climbing a ladder to talk to a signalman on
one of the ship's upper decks. We suspected that they were
wanting him to use his flags to send us a message. Major X said
that he could read semaphore, as he had once been a signalman
himself. He read off their message to us: "WE PLAN TO
RETURN FOR THE NEXT ONE."
Except for Mrs. Turner, we all understood what that meant.
Each of us said, "I didn't tell them."
Mrs. Turner asked, "Didn't tell them what?"
Holmes avoided her question by asking her if she had a mirror
in her purse. She pulled it out, handed it to Holmes, who handed
it to Major X, who used it to reflect the sun's rays in Morse
code to the signalman. Major X spoke out the words as he sent
them: "HOW DID YOU FIND OUT?"
When the signalman on the ship conveyed that message to
Andrew and Heather, they smiled, spoke with each other, and
laughed. Andrew then spoke to the signalman. This time the
semaphore read: "WE ELIMINATED THE IMPOSSIBLE
THEN TALKED WITH THE MAN BEHIND YOU."
We all turned to look behind us, and there, in a shaded area, was
a corpulent man who was sweating profusely. Only one of our
party immediately recognized him. Holmes said, "My dear
brother Mycroft, you are so far out of your daily orbit that I
fear you have veered too close to the sun!"
As we gathered around Mycroft, he wiped his face with a red
handkerchief before speaking. "I wanted to join you, but I
became so overheated that I sat down in this shade, where I got
the attention of a lad whom I hired to bring me some cold water.
"Last evening, while I was in my customary place at the
Diogenes Club, I was handed a note indicating that I had
visitors in the Stranger's Room. Andrew Scott and Heather Key
had come to ask me if I knew why Sherlock Holmes had
encouraged them to live in America. I could not look into their
honest faces and withhold anything. I also presented to them my
analysis that another war will begin within a generation. They
acknowledged the wisdom of the plan that Sherlock and I had
devised. When another war breaks out, they want to use their
abilities to help the British cause."
Mrs. Turner said, "Then their message, 'We plan to return for
the next one,' means they plan to return for the next war."
Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock, please help me move over to the
railing. Perhaps I will be able to see their happy faces before
their ship is too far out."
Standard of St. George
march by Kenneth J. Alford
sequenced by George Pollen
ADDENDUM TO THE 1946 EDITION
by ret. Col. Felix R. Calibur ("Major X")
In November of 1918, Dr. John H. Watson asked me to act as the
custodian of a manuscript which in publication I have titled
"Adventures of Heather Key." When war would again be
imminent, he wanted me to have copies of it printed and
distributed among British and American cryptologists for the
purpose of promoting cooperation between them. A limited
edition appeared in 1939. Recent conversations and
correspondence have indicated that a second edition would be
appreciated. I am sorry to report that the Susan Spencer
portrait of Miss Heather Key and Mrs. Sharon Turner, which
had hung in the Turner mansion in London, was lost when the
Turner mansion was bombed in 1940. Andrew and Heather
Scott, who married in 1919, returned to Britain in 1939, to
assist in wartime cryptological work.
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