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Authors: Edward D. Hoch
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playing cards in sequence to confuse us. Instead of looking back at the first clue, the ten of spades, we looked ahead, speculating on where the series was going, seeking an overall pattern that didn’t exist.”
“What could the ten of spades have meant?” Elizabeth wondered.
“The spade was simply the first ten he came to. It was the ten that was important. The Germanic Rhinebeck was trying to tell us his killer’s name was Haskin Zehn…the number ten in German!”
“Of course!” Sir Patrick slapped his knee with an open palm. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten too much of my public school German.”
“But Agnes Baxter hadn’t. She accused him, perhaps threatened him, and she had to die, too. By that time, it must have been obvious he was in deep trouble. My presence, if I may say so, must have added to his growing concern. Then, last evening, a solution presented itself, virtually out of the blue. The escaped convict, for whom the police were searching, appeared at your zoo…perhaps trying to steal some of the animals’ food. Haskin came upon him and realized at once that the man was his own size and weight, with the same hair coloring. His escape had presented itself. The convict was knocked unconscious and hidden for a time. I believe Haskin wounded him and disfigured his face with a sharp garden tool. Then he changed clothes with the man and pushed his body into the lion’s cage with an appropriate playing card. I fear I was too quick in killing the lion for a death he only partly caused.”
“How did you know Haskin would be on the London train?”
“He could not afford to remain in this area where he might be recognized, and the schedule showed that on Sunday, the London train was the next one out. I knew he couldn’t have caught an earlier train because he had to walk all the way to Reading Station.”
“You were so sure that the body wasn’t Haskin Zehn?”
Holmes nodded. “When I finally heard his last name for the first time, I was virtually certain of the truth. I examined the body, especially the belt and shoes, and found confirmation. The belt buckle was one hole tighter than it had ordinarily been worn, and the shoes fit a bit too loosely on the feet. That was all the proof I needed.”
It was the following week at the Diogenes Club when I met Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft for the first time. Early in the conversation, Mycroft asked about the Manor House Case.
“It was Adams, of course?”
“Yes, it was Adams,” Sherlock agreed.
“I was sure of it from the first.”
Later, when we were alone, I asked why he had told Mycroft that the convict was the killer.
Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly. “It was just a bit of brotherly rivalry, Watson. He will learn the truth soon enough, and realize that he was wrong for once.”
THE CHRISTMAS CLIENT
I T WAS ON CHRISTMAS Day of the year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her goose later in the day and, when we heard her on the stair, I assumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.
“A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.”
“On Christmas Day?” I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I’d been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.
“My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day, it must be a matter of extreme urgency. Either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day, he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson.”
Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build,
“What could the ten of spades have meant?” Elizabeth wondered.
“The spade was simply the first ten he came to. It was the ten that was important. The Germanic Rhinebeck was trying to tell us his killer’s name was Haskin Zehn…the number ten in German!”
“Of course!” Sir Patrick slapped his knee with an open palm. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten too much of my public school German.”
“But Agnes Baxter hadn’t. She accused him, perhaps threatened him, and she had to die, too. By that time, it must have been obvious he was in deep trouble. My presence, if I may say so, must have added to his growing concern. Then, last evening, a solution presented itself, virtually out of the blue. The escaped convict, for whom the police were searching, appeared at your zoo…perhaps trying to steal some of the animals’ food. Haskin came upon him and realized at once that the man was his own size and weight, with the same hair coloring. His escape had presented itself. The convict was knocked unconscious and hidden for a time. I believe Haskin wounded him and disfigured his face with a sharp garden tool. Then he changed clothes with the man and pushed his body into the lion’s cage with an appropriate playing card. I fear I was too quick in killing the lion for a death he only partly caused.”
“How did you know Haskin would be on the London train?”
“He could not afford to remain in this area where he might be recognized, and the schedule showed that on Sunday, the London train was the next one out. I knew he couldn’t have caught an earlier train because he had to walk all the way to Reading Station.”
“You were so sure that the body wasn’t Haskin Zehn?”
Holmes nodded. “When I finally heard his last name for the first time, I was virtually certain of the truth. I examined the body, especially the belt and shoes, and found confirmation. The belt buckle was one hole tighter than it had ordinarily been worn, and the shoes fit a bit too loosely on the feet. That was all the proof I needed.”
It was the following week at the Diogenes Club when I met Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft for the first time. Early in the conversation, Mycroft asked about the Manor House Case.
“It was Adams, of course?”
“Yes, it was Adams,” Sherlock agreed.
“I was sure of it from the first.”
Later, when we were alone, I asked why he had told Mycroft that the convict was the killer.
Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly. “It was just a bit of brotherly rivalry, Watson. He will learn the truth soon enough, and realize that he was wrong for once.”
THE CHRISTMAS CLIENT
I T WAS ON CHRISTMAS Day of the year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her goose later in the day and, when we heard her on the stair, I assumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.
“A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.”
“On Christmas Day?” I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I’d been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.
“My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day, it must be a matter of extreme urgency. Either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day, he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson.”
Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build,
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