Copyright © by David Scott
"Faugh!" snarled Sherlock Holmes, wadding up a letter and throwing it at the fire.
"Whatever is the matter?" I asked. We were sitting quietly in our rooms at 221B Baker Street, looking over the last post of the day.
"Advertising, Watson, is the matter. Advertising will be the ruin of society. People do not need encouragement to buy the things they need. Advertising only goads them into buying what they don’t need, or into paying more than is necessary for the things that they do. Have you seen the advertisements for that soap, the one with endorsements from popular female singers? No one seems to realize that the money paid these women for the use of their names and faces comes out of the buyers’ pockets. The manufacturer has to either raise the price or lower the quality in order to put Adelina Patti’s image on the packet. Inevitably, the cost of living rises, and someday we will see mothers working outside the home so that the family can have phonographs and other fripperies, simply because the neighbors have them, and the neighbors will have bought them because of advertising. With the mothers away from home, the children will grow up undisciplined and we shall have chaos."
"That’s a long reach from a bar of soap," I protested.
"Nonsense. It’s simple inductive reasoning."
"Was it this letter that brought all this on?" I asked, picking up the ball of paper from where it had fallen beside the hearth. It proved to be an entreaty from the Starnes and Blackwell Tobacco Company, who wanted to put Holmes’ face and name on tins of cheap pipe tobacco. "Holmes, just refuse these people. You have no need to demean yourself in this way."
"I have refused them four times," he said, pounding the arm of the chair. "This is their fifth letter!"
He was interrupted by a rap on the door, followed by the entry of Mrs. Hudson. "Gentleman to see you, sir," she said, proffering a card.
"I have no wish to see anyone!" my friend replied.
"Sorry, and all that, but it’s not a matter of wishing." The speaker, hard on her heels, was a dapper young man in evening clothes. "I apologize awfully for barging in, but a good man’s about to hang for a crime he didn’t commit." As he stepped into the light, I recognized Galahad Threepwood, second son of the wealthy Earl of Emsworth. "Gally", as he was known to the society papers, was the brightest of the Bright Young Things in London’s clubs.
"Hallo, Doctor," he said. "I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I was cheering you on when you won the billiards tournament at Thurston’s last September. I backed you early, and netted a solid fifteen quid. Never did get the opportunity to thank you properly."
"Mister Threepwood," interrupted Holmes, "I am not disposed to accept any new commissions at present."
Threepwood turned his monocle on Holmes. "Oh, you sound just like Pater’s solicitor! Come now, an innocent man’s life is at stake, and you’re the only one who can save him. I can’t pitch it any higher. The fee’s no object. I had a fiver at seven to one on Jenny’s Fancy at Hurst Park this afternoon, and all to come on Sergeant-At-Arms at four and a half. When I left, the Silver Ring boys were weeping on each other’s shoulders."
Holmes, in a definite sulk, replied, "The only fee you could offer me would be to rid me of the harassment of a tobacco firm that wants me to endorse their muck."
To relieve Threepwood’s puzzlement, I showed him the letter. He surprised me by laughing aloud. "You’re on, Mister Holmes. Nothing simpler. Take my case, and I’ll show you how to be quit of these lads forever."
"You jest," said Holmes.
"Not at all. Look here, I’ll tell Doctor Watson how it’s done. If he approves, will you take the case?"
Holmes waved a petulant hand. "Oh, anything to stop your pestering."
Threepwood leaned down to whisper in my ear. When I heard his plan, I could not contain a hearty laugh. "Oh, it’s the goods, Holmes. It will work. My word on it. Take the fellow’s case."
With little grace, Holmes bade our guest to be seated and relate the facts. "No time," Threepwood replied. "I have a cab waiting. We have to get back to the theater before they take him away. I’ll tell the tale en route."
Moments later, as we clattered through the streets, our client began his story. "The fellow’s name is Albert Vigor, known on the halls as Vigor the Hammersmith Wonder. Knife throwing act. He’s originally from someplace in Mittel Europe, Montenegro I believe, and about three-quarters Romany. He was travelling with a circus when he met an English girl, an acrobat named Helen Morley. They married, he was naturalized and changed his name from Albrecht to Albert. They’re personal friends of mine.
"I went to see their act tonight at the Sceptre. Helen stands on stage, with balloons tied at her wrists and ankles and such, and Vigor backs halfway up the centre aisle and bursts the balloons with his knives. He’s never missed, and I’ve seen him put ten straight into an ace of spades at twenty paces.
"Tonight, in the middle of the act, Helen collapsed on stage. When they got to her, they found one of Vigor’s knives stuck right through her middle. Gruesome sort of thing. There was a policeman in the audience, a detective named Gregson, and he was all set to call it accident when somebody pointed out that Vigor would never have been so far off the mark. This Gregson fellow started talking murder, and that’s when I slipped out to get you. Trust me, the man’s no murderer. I’ve known them both for years, and they were as much in love as any couple I’ve ever seen."
"We shall see," said Holmes. "Now, tell me, what is your interest in this affair? It seems unusual for a music-hall artiste to have the son of a peer in his corner."
Threepwood chuckled. "You don’t get out much, do you? Well, there’s artistes and artistes – and varieties of corners, as well. No matter, though. A few years ago, I happened one evening to take a short-cut down the alley behind a music-hall, and a pair of ruffians with life-preservers set upon me with the idea that my purse and watch would look better on them. I was far overmatched, but as luck would have it, Bert and Helen had slipped out the stage door for a smoke and canoodle, and saw the whole thing from the shadows. Bert laid into them, and as he’s about six feet six, nineteen stone and built like the Bull of Bashan, he mopped the floor with them. I may not know much, at least according to Pater, but I do know when I’m under an obligation. Bert’s not going to hang if I have anything to say about it. Here we are, Mister Holmes. You’re the next act on the bill."
The Sceptre, long since torn down, was at the time a very popular music hall. Even from the cab, I could read "Vigor, The Hammersmith Wonder" writ large upon the bills posted on either side of the doors. We mounted the steps, only to be halted by a constable. Holmes’ name made no impression on this guardian, but our client, with the tone and bearing that could only belong to the scion of a peerage bestowed at Agincourt, announced himself and sauntered through the doors. Following in his wake, we found the theater empty of patrons. The first three rows of seats were occupied by performers; their costumes made their profession obvious. On stage, in the center of a small knot of constables, was Inspector Tobias Gregson, staring across the footlights at our entry.
"What on earth are you doing here, Mister Theorist?" It had been a long while since we’d seen Gregson, but he had lost none of his smug arrogance.
"Mr. Holmes is here at my request," boomed Threepwood.
"And who are you?"
"You might affix a ‘sir’ to the end of that sentence, my man," suggested our client. "The name’s Threepwood. You may have seen my father, the Earl of Emsworth, if you’ve ever visited the House of Lords. I expect you to give Mr. Holmes every facility, and I shall have words with the Home Secretary if you don’t!"
Gregson’s demeanour slipped quickly into obsequiousness. As he hurried to the steps to join us, Threepwood murmured, "It’s not necessary for him to know that old Bodger -- the Home Secretary -- thinks I’m a wastrel and an ass."
Whatever his personal faults, Gregson knew how to report. Vigor’s knife-throwing act had progressed as Threepwood had described it to us, up to the collapse of his wife. At that point, performers and stage hands had rushed to her and found the knife buried in her breast. Taking charge, Gregson had found a doctor in the audience and the poor woman had been carried backstage to a dressing-room. At Holmes’ suggestion, a stage hand guided me there.
Helen Vigor, though well past the first blush of youth, had certainly been a handsome woman. She lay on her back on a table, the hilt of the knife protruding from her sequined costume. The weapon had entered under the sternum and pierced the heart. Death must have been nearly instantaneous. The doctor, a young GP named Green, was frightened at being mixed up with a police case, and had not noticed the unusual aspect of the wound. I returned to the theatre to report to Holmes.
"Vigor could not have thrown the knife that killed the woman." My opening words stunned the group. Gregson demanded an explanation, so I walked up the centre aisle, and asked our client to stop me when I reached the point where Vigor had stood. "As I expected," I said, "from this point, Vigor would have stood higher than the level of the stage, throwing his knives downward."
"What of it?" demanded Gregson.
"The knife that killed Mrs. Vigor came up under the breast-bone, at a steep angle, into the heart," I explained. "Vigor could not have thrown a knife into her at that angle unless she was lying on her back on the stage."
"Bravo, Watson!" Holmes clapped his hands. "Gregson, my friend here has saved you from a horrible mistake. You agree that Vigor could not have done it?"
"I don’t see how anybody else could have, right out on stage in front of a couple hundred people. I’ll reserve judgement, Mr. Holmes, until we come up with another answer."
"Very well," said Holmes, "Watson’s done a splendid job, and now it’s my turn." He mounted the stage, drew his lens from his pocket and got down on his hands and knees to examine the boards. "Aha!" he cried. "Your answers may be forthcoming, Gregson. Where’s the stage manager?"
A stout, middle aged fellow in shirtsleeves stood up from a seat in the second row. "Right here, sir. Fred Poole, at your service."
"Come, Mr. Poole," beckoned Holmes. "I need a guide to the backstage." Poole mounted the steps and we all followed him behind the curtains.
"Now, Mr. Poole, I need to know how to.. what’s this?" Holmes broke off his question to stop and stare at a row of coats hanging on hooks in a wall.
The manager looked askance at Holmes "That? Just people’s wraps."
My friend pointed to the end of the row of garments. "Why are two of the hooks missing?"
"Cor strewth, so they are!" exclaimed Poole, stepping up to examine the two holes in the wall where the hooks had once been screwed into the wood. "I don’t know when this happened, sir."
Holmes rubbed his hands together in glee. "Oh, this is excellent! I should have expected this. All we need now is the bicycle and my theory will be proven!"
"Bicycle?" wondered Gregson.
"What’s that about a bike?" demanded Poole. "Harry Collins, one of the hands, told me his bike had gone missing tonight. He always puts it on that back wall, out of the way."
Our client gave me a quizzical look. "He’s lost me," I replied. "but I know the signs. He’s on to something."
"Indeed I am," exclaimed Holmes. "Quickly, man, a lantern, and the stairs!" These provided by Poole, we descended to the area below the stage. Holmes almost stumbled over the missing bicycle, which lay on the floor with its front wheel off. With the fire of the hunt in his eyes, he led us to just below center stage and trained the light on the ceiling. From the under side, it was easy to see the trap door, one of several. On either side of the trap, a large hook was screwed into the beam. From one hook there hung a rubber bicycle inner tube, presumably from the vehicle on the floor.
"You see it now, don’t you, Gregson?" Holmes asked. "An improvised catapult. You stretch the tube between the hooks, catch the knife on the tube by means of the hand-guards, open the trap door right at the performer’s feet, and let fly. No one but the victim could have seen it happen."
Gregson, seeing the light, turned to the stage manager. "Who has access to this area?" he demanded.
"Anyone who feels like walking down stairs," replied Poole. "There’s nowt valuable down here, just old costumes and props." The answer elicited a snort of disgust from Gregson.
Holmes laid a hand on his arm. "Come, now, we’ve at least narrowed the suspects to performers and crew. Shall we see what motives we can find?" Gregson nodded, and Holmes continued, "I’d like to speak to the man Vigor. Since we know he did not kill his wife, he may be able to point us toward the culprit."
We ascended the stairs and followed Gregson to a dressing-room, where the knife-thrower was guarded by two constables. Threepwood had not exaggerated in his description of the man; he dwarfed the two bobbies, and his costume of sequined waistcoat and tights revealed the muscles of a Hercules.
I must say Gregson did it handsomely. "Mister Vigor, further investigation has proven your innocence. You are no longer under arrest, and you have the apologies of Scotland Yard, and our condolences on the loss of your wife."
Vigor’s booming, guttural bass voice suited his appearance. "You know who have done this? Take me to him, and I will tear his heart out and eat it!" He clenched his fists and started for the door, a horrible picture of wrath.
Threepwood stepped in front of him. "Steady on, Bert. We don’t know yet who did it, but this is Mister Sherlock Holmes, and he needs your help to find the swine. Sit down and answer his questions."
The giant eyed my friend. "I know of you. They call you greatest detective, the greatest manhunter in all the world. I will answer, and we will revenge my Helen together."
"Any revenge will be taken by Her Majesty’s courts," put in Gregson. "You can come watch him dance at the end of a rope, for this one’s a hanging job and no mistake. Now, who could have wanted to kill your wife?"
Vigor shook his massive head. "No one. Why is anyone to hurt her? She is gentle, kind woman. Everybody like her!"
"That’s true," contributed Poole. "I’ve been in this business thirty-seven years, man and boy, and I hear all the talk. Some performers get a troublesome reputation, but not the Vigors. I’ve never heard a word against them, and let me tell you, backstage quarrels don’t stay secret."
Gregson pointed out the obvious. "Someone must have wanted her dead."
Holmes snorted, and asked Poole for the playbill of the evening’s acts. "Norris and Bolt, Comic Songs," he read. "The Amazing Emeril, Prince of Magic. Minnie Dell, The Cockney Canary. Pecos Slim, Fastest Lasso in Texas. The Calais String Quartet. Vigor, The Hammersmith Wonder. Pettifer’s Performing Poodles. Rowell and Dean, Songs and Dances. Chung Yee Chen, The One Man Army. Hansen’s Acrobats. The Juggling Jesters. Signor Spinelli, Violin Virtuoso. The Macready Family Singers. Quite a full evening we have here."
Poole nodded. "Best value for your ticket money anywhere in London."
"What about the backstage crew?" asked Gregson.
Poole was insulted. "You just forget that. I’ll swear by every one of them. Besides, they all got jobs to do, every minute, and if one of ‘em wasn’t at his post I’d know it. You keep your eye on them artistes. They got all the time in the world when they ain’t on stage."
Holmes nodded agreement. "My dear Gregson, you ought to recruit this fellow. Come, let us talk to the performers." As we moved to the door, Vigor started to follow, but Holmes stopped him with a sharp command in a foreign language.
On the way to the stage, Gregson asked, "What did you say to him?"
Holmes chuckled. "I simply told him that he’d better stay behind, rather than letting his anger get him into a second murder charge. Now, may I address these people?" At Gregson’s nod, he strode to the footlights, raised his voice, and continued, "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Sherlock Holmes." A smattering of murmurs and sharply drawn breaths indicated that his name was known to them. "A murderer sits among you."
"That nark said Bert done it," protested a voice.
"The expert testimony of Doctor Watson here has proven otherwise. Now, you must realize that until the true culprit is apprehended, you will all be under suspicion. Your colleagues will look askance at you and wonder if it was you who put the knife into that charming lady. Gossip will fly, and you know how fast and how far it reaches. You may find it harder to get good bookings. It is in your own best interests - -well, for all but one of you – to assist us."
"What you want to know?" came an Italian accented voice, probably Signor Spinelli of the violin.
My friend ticked the points off on his long fingers. "Firstly, there is motive. By all accounts, Helen Vigor was a cheerful, friendly soul and a happily married woman. Why would someone kill her? You’ve been together on the same bill all week, so if you know anything that may indicate a motive, you must speak out. Secondly, our culprit must have gone missing during the Vigors’ act. I can tell you that the deed was done from below stage, through a trap, so if anyone was seen going down the stairs, we need to know. Finally, any unusual thing that you have observed should be brought to our attention. The smallest fact may have the greatest consequences. Now, some of you may not want to speak out here, so we will see each person separately. You’ll be asked to come, one by one, to the managers’ office. Anything you say will be held confidential unless it must be used to catch the killer. Now, please don’t discuss the case while you’re waiting. We want each person’s own observations, unsullied by opinions."
The interviews were a long and tedious affair. Some of the performers had nothing pertinent to say, some were patently afraid to say anything, and some took the opportunity to work off spite against their fellows. The first useful information came from Miss Minnie Dell. She wafted into the room as if by Royal invitation, arranged herself prettily in the chair, and demanded, "Look ‘ere, now, is there any reward comin’ for puttin’ you wise on this?"
Threepwood, visibly smitten by her blonde curls and wide blue eyes, said, "I’m sure something of the sort can be arranged."
The singer nodded smugly. "I’ll take your word, guv’nor. I know a gent when I sees one." She turned to Holmes. "Now, mister, you need to take a good long dekko at that cowboy feller."
Holmes glanced at the playbill. "Pecos Slim?"
"That’s the one. ‘E was chattin’ her up somethin’ fierce, first day he got here. And her a married woman!"
"Perhaps they were just talking," I suggested.
"Don’t you think it," she scoffed. "I been chatted up enough meself to know a chattin-up when I hears it. Anyone what’s been around could see what he was lookin’ for, but Helen wasn’t playin’ the game. Cor, such an innocent, she didn’t even know there was a game on! Just smiled at him, and nodded her little head, and told him how interestin’ his Wild West stories were, and how he oughter tell her Bert, ‘cause he loved all that cowboy stuff. Then he got a sight o’ Bert, and ‘e backs off fast. Bert’s a sweet, but if he thought some bloke was playin’ the game with his missus, ‘e’d knock the fella right through the wall."
"I hardly think that makes Mister Slim a suspect," said Holmes drily. "If a failed flirtation were enough motive for murder, we would spend all of our time tripping over corpses."
"So you say," Miss Dell countered, "but Slim’s from the Wild West, where they’ll shoot a man for lookin’ at you funny."
"We will be talking to Pecos Slim," conceded Holmes.
Minnie Dell rose from the chair. "Just don’t you forget who gave you the office," she said. "I gets the reward."
Gregson told a constable to show her out and bring Pecos Slim. When the man entered the room, I was stuck by his resemblance, in face and figure, to Holmes himself. He had the same hawklike face, the same whipcord build and the same feline grace of movement. Sliding into the chair, he asked permission to smoke, and at Holmes’ nod, drew paper and a pouch from his pocket and rolled a cigarette.
"Lemme make this short and sweet," he began. "I mostly come in here for the smoke break. I don’t know nuthin’. That Helen was a sweet little lady, and I can’t think why anybody would want to hurt her."
Holmes steepled his fingers. "It’s been indicated to us that you took something of a personal interest in Helen Vigor."
Slim grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. I like your phraseology. Sure, I tried to cozy up to her. Pretty young filly like that, who wouldn’t? I’m a man, ain’t I?"
My indignation got the best of me. "But she was married!" I protested.
The cowboy gave me an amused, speculative look. "You’d be surprised how many of the married ones are lookin’ for a little variety, but Helen wasn’t one of them. Took me about five minutes to figger out that she thought the sun come up every morning’ just so it could shine on her man. Ain’t no percentage there, so I moved on. They’s plenty of heifers in the herd, I don’t need to waste time cuttin’ out one that’s wearing somebody else’s brand."
I could not believe my ears. "My God, man, have you no morals?" I asked.
Pecos Slim found me amusing. "Oh, sure, I got plenty of morals. Never cheat at poker, always watch your pardner’s back, give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, an’ all. But I’m a man, and if a woman’s willin’, it’s nobody else’s business what we get up to."
"So you simply forgot about Helen Vigor?" asked Holmes.
"That’s right. Hey, why should I have any hard feelin’s about it? If I got upset every time a woman wasn’t interested, I’d of put a bullet in my head a long time ago. When a claim’s worked out, you move on. Besides, it only took me about an hour to hook up with this cute little thing from the acrobats."
"And which cute little thing would that be?" demanded Gregson.
"She’s got a funny name," said Slim. "Bronwyn. Bronwyn Jones. She says it’s Welsh. Hey, don’t you worry, Doc, she’s not married, but she sure is on the hunt. I know that look o’ hers. Keeps askin’ me don’t I need an assistant in my act, says she’d like to go visit Texas an’ all."
Holmes pointed an accusing finger. "And you let her think you’re open to these ideas? You obviously have no intention of marrying."
The cowboy was becoming impatient. "Looky here, you people tryin’ to find a killer, or what? My social life’s got nothin’ to do with it. Y’all are just fishin’ now. You got nuthin’, right? I can spot a man with a busted flush."
"Perhaps," laughed Holmes, "but with a joker like you, all that I need to fill my hand is the Queen. You may go, Mister Slim, and we will talk to Miss Jones."
"One moment," put in Gregson. "Pecos Slim is obviously your stage name. I’ll need your real name for my report."
Slim frowned. "You would ask that," he moaned. "You keep this under you hat, hear? My name’s Pibb – Wolfgang Amadeus Pibb." Seeing Gregson’s amusement, he added, "My Momma likes Mozart. You got a problem with that?"
"Oh, no," said Gregson. "A fine composer. Your mother obviously has good taste in music." It was plain that any other response would have earned the detective a black eye. He kept a serious face as he ushered the cowboy out and instructed the constable to bring Miss Bronwyn Jones.
That lady, like most of her theatrical sisters, was attractive at a distance, but upon closer inspection, the lines in her face and the thickening of her artfully corseted figure betrayed the advance of middle age. Her attractions were not enhanced by the scowl on her face, or her greeting. "I’m a respectable woman, I’ll have you know, and you’ve no call to mix me up in this thing!"
"Sit down and speak when you’re spoken to," commanded Gregson.
"Oh! Can’t even say ‘please’ to a lady, eh? What do they teach you coppers?"
Holmes stopped Gregson’s retort by standing and coming around the desk. In his courtliest manner – and he could charm when it suited him – he bowed, took the lady’s hand, and said, "Would you please have a seat, Miss Jones?"
She settled herself with exaggerated daintiness, smirking at Gregson. Holmes reseated himself, steepling his fingers under his nose in a way that I had seen a hundred times. "Miss Jones, we are—" he began, but he fell silent, and a vertical line appeared between his brows. He sniffed the air like a dog on a scent. "Miss Jones, you’ve been spending some time with the American, Pecos Slim?"
"Nothing in that," she huffed, then a look of wonder spread across her face. "Oh, God, it wasn’t him, was it? I couldn’t stand to think that I’d let a murderer…"
Holmes raised one quizzical eyebrow. "Let a murderer do what?"
"Errr… hold my hand! That’s all we ever did."
"Ah yes, your hand." Holmes reached across the desk. "May I?" She extended her arm, and Holmes took her hand and turned it palm upwards. What is this?" He ran his finger across her palm, and the tip of it came away streaked with white.
"Oh, just rosin. I’m with Hansen’s Acrobats. It keeps our hands from slipping."
My friend shook his head. "Oh, no. I am something of an amateur violinist, and I know the smell of rosin. In any case, the show was stopped when the crime was discovered, long before Hansen’s Acrobats were due to go on stage. You wouldn’t rosin your hands until you went on. This is powdered talc."
"Must be from my make-up table," she simpered. "My dresser is such an untidy girl."
"But your face powder is a pale pink," Holmes pointed out, "while this is white. Tell me, have you ever changed a bicycle tyre? Talcum is used to allow the tube to move freely inside the tyre, so that it does not bunch up or pinch."
"Before you answer," interjected Gregson, "I warn you that what you say may be taken down and used as evidence."
Miss Jones tried to rise from her chair. "Here, now, you can’t do this. I’ve done nothing!"
As Gregson’s hand on her shoulder re-seated her, Holmes said, "Permit me to tell you exactly what you’ve done. You’re getting a bit past acrobatics, if you’ll pardon my saying so, and looking about you for a less strenuous berth. You’ve been playing up to Pecos Slim, trying to get taken on as his assistant."
"I never!"
"You inevitably. I assume you realized that Slim had no interest beyond a casual dalliance. You turned your thoughts toward Helen Vigor’s role, certainly much less strenuous than acrobatics. You may even have imagined that Vigor had some interest in you. I take the liberty of assuming that he is a kind and gentle fellow."
"The soul of bonhomie," confirmed Threepwood.
"Large, powerful men often are. They have no need to bray and bluster. To continue, you wanted the job, you wanted the man, and Helen Vigor stood in the way. You stole one of Vigor’s knives, improvised your catapult, and shot the knife into Helen Vigor’s body. You did take an awful risk, though. Vigor might have been hanged for murder."
"Not when you saw the angle of…" Horror spread across her face as she realized what she had done. "No more of this. I want to see a solicitor."
"Oh, you will," promised Gregson. "Anything to add, Mister Holmes?"
"I would only point out the smear of grease on the lady’s skirt. A beautiful imprint of a bicycle chain."
Gregson and his minions took Miss Jones away, and we returned to Vigor’s dressing-room. The knife thrower had changed to a broadcloth suit, but looked no less imposing. "A woman?" he cried, upon hearing the news. "I cannot strangle a woman. You say the law will punish her?"
Holmes nodded. "They will probably hang her. If not, the best she can hope for is a life sentence. I hope your wife’s spirit will rest easier knowing that justice has been done for her."
"I must pay you. What money must I pay you?"
Holmes waved the idea aside. "Mister Threepwood has underwritten my fee. You owe me nothing. However, if you feel an obligation, I would ask a favor."
"Anything!"
"I have learned many useful skills from clients, including house-breaking, card-sharping and Oriental fighting arts. I would like to add knife-throwing to my reperatoire, if you will accept a pupil." The giant acquiesced gratefully.
Threepwood returned with us to Baker Street. When he was settled by the fire, a drink in his hand, Holmes demanded that he pay his fee by showing how to handle the tobacco company. Our client indicated that I should write to his dictation, consulted the letter, and said. "Dear sirs: Regarding your recent correspondence, my answer is and will forever be ‘no’. If you persist in harassing me, the next number of the Strand Magazine will contain a case history in which Sherlock Holmes apprehends a loathsome criminal, a man who kidnaps children and kills them after the ransom is paid. The primary clue to the villain’s identity will be that he smokes Starnes and Blackwell tobacco, and I shall point out to Watson that such vile taste is to be expected from a degenerate. You may consider the mention of your product in such a manner as free advertising; I shall not bill you for the service. In the fond hope that you have a thoroughly miserable day, I remain, sir, very truly NOT yours, Sherlock Holmes, Esquire."
We had heard the last of the Starnes and Blackwell Tobacco Company.
.