The Incredible Schlock Homes: 12 Stories from Bagel Street

By Robert L. Fish and Anthony Boucher

Twelve loving parodies of the great detective—each a masterpiece in its own right

The world-famous amateur detective Schlock Homes is making his way through breakfast when a telegram arrives. It takes but a moment’s deduction for the brilliant sleuth to determine that it was sent by a woman named Miss Wimpole, and that she is terribly upset. Homes knows this because the telegram reads, “I am terribly upset,” and is signed, “Miss Wimpole.” Miss Wimpole brings a case that stretches from the tombs of Egypt to the deserts of Mexico, with a stop at the racetrack in between, and it is but the first misadventure in this riotous collection of tales.

Whether chasing a counterfeit sovereign or an “Adam Bomb,” Schlock Homes and Dr. Watney never fail to have a marvelous time—even if they don’t quite catch their man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504007245

Robert L. Fish

Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen. Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.

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Introduction

A gentle mockery is an assured sign of affection (although the object of that affection may sometimes misinterpret it). Despite all sententious utterances about the evils of minority-mocking humor, it is the Jews who tell the best Jewish stories and the Catholics who have the largest collection of Catholic jokes. And Sherlock Holmes is the most-mocked character in literature because he is the best-loved (though the Proprietors of the Estate of Dr. Watson’s literary agent have never quite come to believe in this simple truth).

There have been parodies and pastiches of Sherlock Holmes for very nearly as long as there have been Sherlock Holmes stories. Holmes first appeared in print late in 1887, and the short stories began in the Strand in July 1891. In May 1892, the Idler published Detective Stories Gone Wrong: The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs, by Luke Sharp (a pseudonym of Robert Barr)—so far as I know, the first Holmesian parody-pastiche, and quite possibly the funniest and most acute, until Robert L. Fish entered the lists in 1960.

Barr/Sharp opened the floodgates. There are by now immeasurably more imitations and parodies than there are original authentic stories of Sherlock Holmes (which number only fifty-six short stories and four novels). Ellery Queen’s superb and suppressed * anthology, The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes (Little, Brown, 1944), contains thirty-three such loving burletta—and that was over twenty years ago, and even then skimming only the cream.

Some of these are sober and serious imitations, not unworthy to stand in the Canon itself, like Vincent Starrett’s The Unique Hamlet. Some are broadly humorous and even farcical, like the many contributions of Mark Twain, Stephen Leacock and John Kendrick Bangs. Some are satiric yet acutely respectful, like Maurice Leblanc’s fine Herlock Sholmès arrive trop tard and its sequels. Some are simply shoddy commercial opportunism, like the abysmal series of German hack novels which became vastly successful in Spanish translation.

Many employ the Master’s proper name, but even more indulge in fantastic variations, such as Picklock Holes, Loufock Holmès, or Stately Homes.* Surprisingly, the best-known (and best) comic-strip version of the Master was not christened in this Mock Holmes manner, but was named Hawkshaw the Detective—after the character in Tom Tyler’s rousing 1862 melodrama, The Ticket-of-Leave Man. At least one affectionate and amused imitation has taken on a life of its own: August Derleth’s Solar Pons, who flourishes in six books on his own and has even acquired a society of scholarly enthusiasts.

Hamlet has undoubtedly evoked more critical writing than any other uninspired † work of literature—and some fine parodies too; I hope you know W. S. Gilbert’s dazzling Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Sherlock Holmes too has his Higher Criticism, as founded by Ronald Knox in 1912 and carried on today by the Baker Street Irregulars and other societies throughout the world; but he enjoys a unique rank as the most frequently (and most fondly) pilloried of characters.

One might observe that the currently common spoofs of James Bond—outstanding among them being Alligator, by I*n Fl*m*ng [Michael K. Frith and Christopher B. Cerf] (Vanitas, 1962)—lack, almost without exception, the element of affection so noticeable in most Holmesian mockeries.

In all this large literature of the misadventures of Sherlock Holmes, there is nothing quite comparable to Robert L. Fish’s tales of Schlock Homes. Not merely are they unpardonably and outrageously funny; they are small masterpieces of adroit and devious plotting. It would insult you to outline here the precise formula, as rigid as the sonata form or the shape of a limerick, by which they are constructed; you will perceive it as soon as you have read the first story, and you will be delighted anew with every fresh variant.

And as if this were not enough, Mr. Fish is even brave enough to venture the almost unprecedented * feat of a double pastiche—happily (and still lovingly) mocking both the Holmes Canon and an almost comparably immortal saga.†

I have several times stated publicly that these Fish stories are the best of all the mock-Holmesian literature in the 60-odd years since Robert Barr; and I have yet to hear a murmur of dissent from such informed authorities as Ellery Queen or Vincent Starrett. Robert L. Fish burst upon American letters with The Adventure of the Ascot Tie in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, February 1960. Since then he has been unbelievably prolific and versatile.

His first novel, The Fugitive (Simon and Schuster, 1962), won Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar as best first novel of the year, and introduced the vivid, humorous, daring and shrewd Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between the Brazilian police and Interpol, one of the few successful Great Detectives created in the 1960s.

Along with frequent new adventures for Zé Da Silva, he has, as Robert L. Pike,* chronicled in short stories and novels the procedural routine of Lieutenant Clancy of the 52d Precinct, N.Y.P.D.

He has written other short stories, some parodies, some straight—notably the entertaining exploits (in Argosy) of the all-purpose swindler Kek Huuygens. He has even, against all the odds, written a novel-based-on-a-TV-series which is brightly readable (Trials of O’Brien, Signet, 1965).

But probably his most virtuose accomplishment, aside from the creation of Schlock Homes, has been his completion of Jack London’s unfinished The Assassination Bureau, Ltd. (McGraw-Hill, 1963)—a wondrous grotesque comedy of idealistic assassination in which it is impossible to detect any seam dividing London from Fish.

Robert L. Fish, I am by now pretty thoroughly convinced, can do anything; and I wait eagerly to see what will come next. But I shall never forgive him if his unpredictably assorted output does not continue to include, from time to time, a fresh triumph/fiasco of Schlock Homes.

ANTHONY BOUCHER

Berkeley, California

* The reason for and method of suppression form a story for which the world is not yet prepared.

* For an annotated list of no fewer than forty-seven names employed by pseudo-Holmeses, see Ellery Queen’s introduction to August Derleth’s The Memoirs of Solar Pons (Mycroft &Moran, 1951).

† I speak, I hasten to add, theologically.

* But not quite unprecedented. Corey Ford’s The Rollo Boys with Sherlock in Mayfair; or, Keep It Under Your Green Hat, in his Three Rousing Cheers for the Rollo Boys (Doran, 1925), is a triple pastiche, of Holmes, the Rover Boys, and Michael Arlen (if anyone remembers him …).

† See The Return of Schlock Homes, by Robert L. Fish; from Best Detective Stories of the Year: 20th Annual Collection, Anthony Boucher, editor (Dutton, 1965).

* He has also written under the piscine pseudonym of A. C. Lamprey.

The Adventure of the ASCOT TIE

In going over my notes for the year ’59, I find many cases in which the particular talents of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes either sharply reduced the labours of Scotland Yard or eliminated the necessity of their efforts altogether. There was, for example, the case of the Dissembling Musician who, before Homes brought him to justice, managed to take apart half the instruments of the London Symphony Orchestra and cleverly hide them in various postal boxes throughout the city where they remained undiscovered until the denouement of the case. Another example that comes readily to mind is the famous Mayfair Trunk Murder, which Homes laid at the door of Mr. Claude Mayfair, the zookeeper who had goaded one of his elephants into strangling a rival for Mrs. Mayfair’s affection. And, of course, there was the well-publicized matter involving Miss Millicent Only, to whom Homes refers, even to this day, as the Only Woman. But of all the cases which I find noted for this particular year, none demonstrates the devious nature of my friend’s analytical reasoning powers so much as the case I find I have listed under the heading of The Adventure of the Ascot Tie.

It was a rather warm morning in the month of June in ’59 when I appeared for breakfast in the dining room of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street. Mr. Schlock Homes had finished his meal and was fingering a telegram which he handed me as I seated myself at the table.

Our ennui is about to end, Watney, said he, his excitement at the thought of a new case breaking through the normal calm of his voice.

I am very happy to hear that, Homes, I replied in all sincerity, for the truth was I had begun to dread the long stretches of inactivity that often led my friend to needle both himself and me. Taking the proffered telegram from his outstretched hand, I read it carefully. The lady seems terribly upset, I remarked, watching Homes all the while for his reaction.

You noticed that also, Watney? said Homes, smiling faintly.

But, of course, I replied. Her message reads, ‘Dear Mr. Homes, I urgently request an audience with you this morning at 9 o’clock. I am terribly upset.’ And it is signed Miss E. Wimpole.

He took the telegram from me and studied it with great care. Typed on a standard post-office form, he said thoughtfully, by a standard post-office typewriter. In all probability by a post-office employee. Extremely interesting. However, I fear there is little more to be learned until our client presents herself.

At that moment a loud noise in the street below our open window claimed my attention, and as I glanced out I cried in great alarm, Homes! It’s a trap!

Rather a four-wheeler I should have judged, replied Homes languidly. These various vehicles are readily identified by the tonal pitch of the hub-squeal. A trap, for example, is normally pitched in the key of F; a four-wheeler usually in B-flat. A hansom, of course, is always in G. However, I fear we must rest this discussion, for here, if I am not mistaken, is our client.

At that moment the page ushered into our rooms a young lady of normal beauty and of about twenty-five years of age. She was carefully dressed in the fashion of the day, and appeared quite distraught.

Well, Miss Wimpole, said Homes, after she had been comfortably seated and had politely refused a kipper, I am anxious to hear your story. Other than the fact that you are an addict of sidesaddle riding; have recently written a love letter; and stopped on your way here to visit a coal mine, I am afraid that I know little of your problem.

Miss Wimpole took this information with mouth agape. Even I, who am more or less familiar with his methods, was astonished.

Really, Homes, I exclaimed. This is too much! Pray explain.

Quite simple, Watney, he replied, smiling. There is a shiny spot on the outside of Miss Wimpole’s skirt a bit over the exterior central part of the thigh, which is in the shape of a cut of pie with curved sides. This is the exact shape of the new type African saddle horn which is now so popular among enthusiasts of equestrianism. The third finger of her right hand has a stain of strawberry-coloured ink which is certainly not the type one would use for business or formal correspondence. And lastly, there is a smudge beneath her left eye which could only be coal dust. Since this is the month of June, we can eliminate the handling of coal for such seasonal purposes as storage or heating, and must therefore deduce her visit to a place where coal would reasonably be in evidence the year around—namely, a coal mine.

Miss Wimpole appeared quite confused by this exchange. I was forced to leave the house in quite a hurry, she explained apologetically, and I am afraid that I was not properly careful in applying my mascara. As for the jam on my finger, it is indeed strawberry, and she quickly licked it clean before we could remonstrate with her manners. She then contemplated her skirt ruefully. These new maids, said she sadly, with a shake of her head. They are so absentminded! The one we now have continues to leave the flatiron connected when she goes to answer the door!

Ah, yes, said Homes, after a moment of introspection. Well; it was certain to have been one or the other. And now, young lady, if you should care to reveal to us the nature of your problem? He noticed her glance in my direction and added reassuringly, You may speak quite freely in Dr. Watney’s presence. He is quite hard of hearing.

Well, then, Mr. Homes, said she, leaning forward anxiously, "as you undoubtedly deduced from my telegram, my name is Elizabeth Wimpole, and I live with my uncle Jno. Wimpole in a small flat in Barrett Street. My uncle is an itinerant Egyptologist by trade, and for some time we have managed a fairly comfortable living through the itineraries he has supplied to people contemplating visits to Egypt. However, since the recent troubles there, his business has been very slow, and as a result he has become extremely moody, keeping to his own company during the day, and consorting with a very rough-looking group at the local in the evening.

"In order to understand the complete change in the man, it is necessary to understand the type of life we enjoyed when itinerant Egyptologists were in greater demand. Our home, while always modest, nonetheless was the meeting place for the intelligentsia. No less than three curators, an odd politician or two, and several writers on serious subjects counted themselves as friends of my uncle; and the head mummy-unwrapper at the British Museum often dropped by for tea and a friendly chat on common subjects.

"Today this has all changed. The type of person with whom my uncle is now consorting is extremely crude both in appearance and language, and while I hesitate to make accusations which may be solely based upon my imagination, I fear that several of these ruffians have even been considering making advances against my person, which I am certain my uncle would never have countenanced at an earlier day.

While this situation has naturally worried me a bit, I should have passed it off without too much thought, except that yesterday a rather odd thing occurred. In the course of casually arranging my uncle’s room, I chanced upon a telegram in a sealed envelope sewn to the inner surface of one of his shirts in a locked drawer. The nature of the message was so puzzling that I felt I needed outside assistance, and therefore made bold to call upon you. With this, she handed Homes a telegram form which she had drawn from her purse during her discourse.

Homes laid it upon the table and I stood over his shoulder as we both studied it. It read as follows: WIMPY—WE HEIST THE ORIENTAL ICE SATURDAY. AMECHE OTHERS. HARDWARE NEEDLESS—THE FIX IS IN. WE RIG THE SPLIT FOR TUESDAY. JOE.

A curious change had come over Homes’s face as he read this cryptic message. Without a word he turned to a shelf at his side and selected a heavy book bound in calfskin. Opening it, he silently studied several headings in the index and then, closing it, spoke quietly to our visitor.

I wish to thank you for having brought me what promises to be a most interesting problem, he said, tilting his head forward politely. I shall devote my entire time to the solution. However, I fear there is little I can tell you without further cogitation. If you will be so kind as to leave your address with Dr. Watney here, I am sure that we shall soon be in touch with you with good news.

When the young woman had been shown out, Homes turned to me in great excitement. An extremely ingenious code, Watney, he chuckled, rubbing his hands together in glee. As you know, I have written some sixteen monographs on cryptography, covering all phases of hidden and secret writings, from the Rosetta stone to my latest on the interpretation of instructions for assembling Yule toys. I believe I can honestly state, without false modesty, that there are few in the world who could hope to baffle me with a cipher or code. I shall be very much surprised, therefore, if I do not quickly arrive at the solution to this one. The difficulty, of course, lies in the fact that there are very few words employed, but as you know the only problems which interest me are the difficult ones. I fear this is going to be a five-pipe problem, so if you do not mind, Watney, handing down my smoking equipment before you leave, I shall get right to it!

I reached behind me and furnished to him the set of five saffron pipes which had been the gift of a famous tobacconist to whom Homes had been of service: a case which I have already related in The Adventure of the Five Orange Pipes. By the time I left the room to get my medical bag he had already filled one and was sending clouds of smoke ceilingward, as he hunched over the telegram in fierce concentration.

I had a very busy day, and did not return to our rooms until late afternoon. Homes was pacing up and down the room in satisfaction. The five pipes were still smoking in various ashtrays about the room, but the frown of concentration had been replaced by the peaceful look Homes invariably employed when he saw daylight in a particularly complex problem.

You have solved the code, I remarked, setting my bag upon the sideboard.

You are getting to be quite a detective yourself, Watney, replied Schlock Homes with a smile. Yes. It was devilishly clever, but in the end I solved it as I felt sure I would.

I was never in doubt, Homes, I said warmly.

Watney, you are good for me, answered my friend, clasping my hand gratefully. "Well, the solution is here. You will note the message carefully. It says: ‘WIMPY—WE HEIST THE ORIENTAL ICE SATURDAY. AMECHE OTHERS. HARDWARE NEEDLESS—THE FIX IS IN. WE RIG THE SPLIT FOR TUESDAY, JOE.’ Now, disregarding the punctuation that separates this gibberish, I applied the various mathematical formulae which are standard in codifying,