I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one morning and found him perched cross-legged on a pile of cushions and buried in a volume of Browning. Poetry in the morning is strange food for any man to break his mental fast with, but for Holmes to be so feeding his craving appetite almost amounted to the abnormal; and although long experience of my friend's peculiar habits might have taught me to be surprised at nothing that he did, I confess to feeling more than amazed at this extraordinary spectacle.
Never in all the years I had known him had I observed any of the softer passions successfully appealing to his cold precise nature; and while I have no doubt he had inherited with all humanity a certain natural proneness to Emotion generally, by deliberate cultivation he had so diminished his natural inheritance in this department that Volition and Intellect might truly be said to be the sole occupants of his remarkable mind. "Poetry? Holmes in love!" The thought staggered me.
"My dear Watson," said Holmes, looking up, "I have no objection, of course, to the feelings which my present study excites in you, but I should suggest a little more reserve in your intellectual processes. At the present rate of governmental interference with the individual I anticipate that in ten years such a public exposure of the mental digestive organs as you are now giving will be regarded as indecent and a punishable offence."
"But my dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much! I have not opened my mouth."
He chuckled to himself. "Only a doctor, my dear fellow, could suggest that the way to an understanding of the mind lay through peeping into the open mouth. Did you not stare with wide-open eyes as you caught sight of Browning's poems in my hand? Did you not hastily look round at my shelves?—obviously to reassure yourself that they were filled with philosophy, scientific works, records of crimes, and so forth. Did you not next run your eyes rapidly round the room in search of a photograph or other indication of the invasion of my life by some charming feminine adventurer? Then did you not hastily scan my features to see if you could find there the glimmering dawn of some soft and tender feeling? It is all so simple to an observer of detail," he finished, with a half-suppressed yawn, and throwing the book on the floor by his side.
"But, my dear Watson, I am not in love. Nor do I read Browning to stimulate my emotions. I enjoy him because I am fond of mathematics. Browning to me is as interesting and serves the same purpose as the Differential Calculus.
Indeed as an introduction to the Differential and Integral Calculus I am inclined to the opinion that 'Sordello' might...."
But at that moment there was a tap at the door, and a young man in uniform, laden with three long black tin cylinders, entered and saluted.
"Good-morning, John," said Holmes. "What brings you here?"
"I have got a mystery, Mr. Holmes, sir," said the uniformed person in a loud whisper, "and I thought as how you would like to hear of it, if you was not too busy, sir."
"Certainly, John," said Holmes; "sit down. This is my friend Dr. Watson who has occasionally helped me in my cases. Doctor, this is John, the Billiard Marker from my club. John has got a surname like other people, I am informed, but up till now even I have been baffled in all attempts to discover it." John grinned. "But to business. What is the mystery, John?"
"Well, Mr. Holmes, sir, it's like this here: Three members of the club entered for the Amateur Championship this year, and though I coached them carefully myself— and, though I says it, Mannock could have taken no more pains than what I did—every one of them gents was knocked out in the first round. And I take it hard, sir!" sighed the Marker mournfully. "I take it very hard!"
"Naturally," said Holmes. "Proceed."
"Not that they were all top-notchers, sir. But the gent what belongs to this here cue," tapping one of the long tin cylinders, which I now recognised as cue cases, "is entitled on his handicap card record to be in the semi-final; and the gents what belongs to them other cues had a fair chance of getting into the third round. And it's a mystery, Mr. Holmes, sir, a fair mystery what caused it not to come off." Here John lowered his voice: "I think myself, sir, as there's been foul play, and I've brought something with me as will show you that I ain't talking through my hat neither."
The Marker produced from a pocket three much-creased envelopes each of which contained a small grey pellet flattened on one side, with some preparation, apparently of an adhesive nature, painted on the flat surface. Holmes examined the pellets with interest, went to a drawer in his desk from which he took a similar pellet, and compared all four under his glass. The examination seemed to satisfy him.
He replaced his own pellet and resumed his seat, signing to John to continue.
"One of them envelopes came to each of the gents, sir, exactly on the morning of the day on which he was to play his tie. And every one of them gents behaved in the same way when they opened the envelope."
"Ah!" said Holmes, bending forward eagerly, "and how did they behave, John?"
"They tore the envelope open, sir," looked at the pellet, and said, angry-like,' Damn! 'and tossed the envelope and the pellet in the wastepaper basket. I picked up the first out of curiosity, sir, after the gent had gone Out. I did not know what to make of it, but stuck it behind the marking board for no reason at all. Well, the gent lost his tie that night, got an awful beating—and went abroad immediately.
Then the second gent got an envelope delivered to him on the morning of his tie, and cursed when he opened it, and threw it away suddenly. And I picked it up to see what had made him swear and found it was one of them pellets. And I remembered the first, and kept them both.
And that gent lost his tie, Mr. Holmes—by half the game.
And he went abroad too, sir. And then the day of the third gent's tie came round, and he got an envelope; and he opened it, and damned, and threw it away, just like the others. And when I got hold of it I found the same kind of pellet. And the last gent lost his tie, gentlemen, and packed up and followed the others abroad. And there's all the envelopes and the three little pellets, Mr. Holmes. And now I ask you what is it? "There's foul play on, sir, but what is it?"
Holmes handed me the envelopes. "Do you observe anything remarkable about these envelopes, Watson?" he asked.
I examined them carefully. "They have all been addressed by the same person," said I, "they all bear the postmark' Greek Street, Soho,' and on the inner flap the letter S has been repeated three times, S.S.S.—evidently the sign or badge of some secret society."
"That's just my opinion, sir," said John. "Greek Street, Soho, is the worst quarter in London, full of foreigners. And some of them foreigners have got our members into their power and sent them them there pellets as a warning. And, of course, it put the poor gents off their game seeing as how they would be thinking all the time they was playing of escaping to the continent out of the clutches of their enemies."
"A very plausible theory,"observed Holmes, with a smile," I congratulate you, John."
"But what does S.S.S. stand for?" I asked.
"Possibly Society for the Suppression of Side," suggested Holmes wriggling in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. Many billiard players think the ordinary amateur too much inclined to fancy shots instead of playing a plain stroke and building up his game on simple lines. Foreigners, I understand, are purists in sport as in language.
"But let me see those cues, John. I suppose you brought them round on purpose to be examined?"
"Yes, sir," said John. "I have been to the Match-room to fetch the cues back to the club, and I thought as how you'd like to look at them."
Sherlock Holmes had the tips of the gentlemen's cues under his powerful glass. The Marker watched him intently. At last Holmes turned from his examination.
"Your theory won't fit the facts, John, I am sorry to inform you,"he said."Your members have lost then games through carelessness, pretentiousness, and gross neglect of opportunities offered. For instance, the chalk used by all of them I find to be wretched stuff that would not grip the ball in any circumstance."
"It's Spinks chalk, sir,"said John—the best chalk!"
"It is a cheap colourable imitation," said Holmes, "but not the genuine article. Take my glass and look for yourself. You see it is a common white chalk doctored with a green colouring. Remember the billiard proverb, John 'All is not Spinks chalk that is green.' Then your friends have each of them attempted to win admiration and applause by screwing, using side unnecessarily, and other fancy strokes, instead of playing a plain game. Result: the leathers of their two-piece tips have come apart and are too loose to permit of accurate striking. Striking with such tips is not merely a tempting of providence, it is deliberate suicide. These people could do nothing other than fail."
"But what about S.S.S. and the three grey pellets?"
said John. "And the foreigners from Soho?"
"See!" said Holmes, flipping the tip off one of the cues with his fingers, and popping one of the pellets into his mouth.
"For God's sake, Holmes, stop!" I shouted, starting forward. "You may be poisoned!"
"Think of Hove, Mr. Holmes," cried John.
But Holmes smiled, and, taking the pellet from his mouth, placed it flat side down on the top of the cue, pressed it with his thumb, and handed the cue to the Marker. "I have no billiard balls here," he said, "but try that tip on those dumb-bells, John, and see if it holds."
John struck the heavy dumb-bells a blow. Then he gazed with wonder at the tip "Why, sir, it's as firm as a rock, and just newly on! Is it a real tip?"
"A good tip for you, my lad," said Holmes. "And now, Watson, pass me that street map, please. And those envelopes.
You will note all three envelopes are addressed in a careful business hand by the same clerk; and, therefore, from the same place. And also the paper is of a high-class quality, obviously from a good house. Now, looking at the map, we find that Greek Street, Soho, runs from Shaftesbury Avenue to Soho Square; and it is more likely that we shall find the business house whence those envelopes emanated in one of these two respectable thoroughfares rather than in Greek Street or the other low quarters of Soho.
But Greek Street post office is at the Soho Square end of the street and somewhat out of the way for Shaftesbury Avenue people. That limits our search, therefore, to the Square, according to my hypothesis, and there may be some firm in that Square that is interested in billiards and that recommends Spinks Self-Sticker—a tip in one piece that you can put on in one second and use immediately. Each of these envelopes contained a sample Spinks Self-Sticker tip and a gentle and kindly hint from this firm, which, had your friends taken, would probably have put them where you expected them to be in the tournament. One cannot be too careful of one's tip. And this tip made in one piece is the only tip that will withstand excessive side. But never mind, John.
The club's honour is still safe. I play my own tie to-day, and I play with the new tip, and shall win with it."
"I believe you will, Mr. Holmes," said John, rising to go. "And I was sure you would solve the mystery of the three grey pellets, sir."
"But why did those gentlemen all go abroad, Holmes?"
I asked.
"Where would you go if you had make an ass of yourself, Watson?"
The acumen of my friend was a source of never-ending wonder to me.
LAURENCE KIRK.