Sherlock Parody: “Mortimer Mudge, Mayhem”

It’s Wednesday, and that means it’s time for Sherlock parodies day! Today, despite popular demand, I’m returning to the Washington Times for another adventure about the great detective, Mortimer Mudge. (The last one was “Mortimer Mudge and the Fur Watch-Chain.“). This piece of macabre silly logic by the anonymous “Rhoda Montade” appeared in the Aug. 28, 1921, edition.

“Mind handing me the yeast, doctor?”

It was the great detective himself who spoke. As I gave him the powerful stimulant I noticed that he had arrayed himself in his taupe dressing gown with the fur-lined pockets and that he had donned Beard No. 7. a neat gray Imperial.

This could mean but one thing.

The great psychic was on the alert!

“What’s up, Mort!” I asked.

“Nothing, for three minutes.” he answered lazily, then sat erect, his four limbs twitching as the yeast took effect.

“But in three minutes a young and beautiful lady will be here. She will be dressed in street clothes. Her shoes, I think–yes, I am positive. Her shoes will be mates!” There was a ring of triumph in Mudge’s voice.

“And she will positively wear a hat!” he went on exultantly. “See if I’m not right.”

Came a knock at the door.

“Quick!” I gasped. “How did you know?”

“Simple, Snoggs, simple,” he returned. “I saw you craning your neck at the window, watching someone come to the street door. That told me it was a woman, and a beautiful one. Then, you are fastidious, Snoggs– you would never have craned your neck at a woman whose shoes didn’t match, no matter how beautiful she might be otherwise. Right? Isn’t she?”

He was. She was. She entered.

We rose.

“Which–?”

It was the great detective. Again he had read the mind, foretold the question, answered without being asked.

He knew what she had been about to ask. Knew!

It was uncanny.

“Oh, this is terrible!” she began. ‘What an awful place Scotland Yard is! Why, it isn’t a yard at all. I’m so disappointed”

The great detective scorned to apologize.

“Not even a yard. I don’t wish to have to speak of this again.” Her manner was imperious.

“Mr. Mudge” she went on. “I have been referred to you, after going to many others. First, I went to Mr. Murdock–”

“Why?” I interrupted.

“Why? Because the sign read Martin Murdock, Murder, you idiot!”

I subsided. I had an idea the young lady disliked me.

“Then I went to Sigmund Sousa. Suicide-because Mr. Murdock said he never took any case unless it was really, truly murder–and, of course, I couldn’t be sure. Mr. Sousa thought from my description that there might have been burglary and some other crimes connected with it, so we took along Albert Appleby, Arson; Lawrence G. Leery, Larceny (Grand); Lawrence G. Leary, Larceny (Petty), and Bartholomew Billings, Burglary.

“But Mr. Mudge, when they had got there and looked things over, they would have nothing to do with the case!”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why? Well, you poor simpleton, my sister’s ear was off, and she had bled to death.”

I felt sure the young lady wasn’t keen on me.

“ ‘Mortimer Mudge, Mayhem. That’s the man for you,’ they said, and quit me cold,” she continued.

“Hm,” hm’ed the great detective. “Sure it’s mayhem?”

“Well, I don’t know. That’s what the other detectives said. Anyway, I brought the ear along. I thought it might be helpful. Would you like to look at it?”

The great detective reached for the ear. For a minute he examined it silently, weighed it, tossing it absently from one hand to the other. Then he spoke.

“No doubt about it.” he said. “Mayhem–if I’m any judge. And I think I am, eh Snoggs?”

“Well, when it comes to mayhem. Mortimer –“ Then to the young lady: “If there’s any one in the world who knows mayhem when he sees it, rest assured it’s Mr. Mudge, madam.”

She seemed relieved. “Well, I’m glad it’s all settled, anyway. I was afraid I might have to go to a specialist in ear-mayhem only. Will you take the case?”

Mudge nodded.

“Now,” he said, slowly, “from what I have already deduced about this case you entered this room, found your sister lying on her RIGHT side in a pool of blood, and immediately you started for Scotland Yard. Is that right?”

“Wonderful,” exclaimed Melba Melicatone, for so she had introduced herself. “How could you know?”

“Simple, madam. This is a right ear. If she had been lying on her left side you would have noticed the earless condition at once, would you not? Am I right?”

He was. He always was.

Mousse Melicatnne-for such was the sister’s name-HAD been lying on her right side! It was uncanny. It always was uncanny.

“Miss Melicatone,” continued the great detective, “are you familiar with your sister’s ears?”

“Well, I hardly know,” she hesitated. “You see, I haven’t seen them since the present styles came in—that is, not very often.”

“But familiar enough with them to swear that this is your sister’s ear—not your own, not someone else’s? Do you swear?”

She did. Fluently.

“Now,” the great detective said, “now, did you ever year your sister use the words ‘fear,’ ‘sneer,’ ‘queer,’ ‘leer,’ hear,’ ‘tear,’ ‘mere,’ ‘beer,’ ‘dear,’ ‘gear,’ ‘jeer,’ ‘near,’ ‘peer,’ ‘rear,’ ‘sear,’ ‘veer,’ ‘we’re,’ ‘year’ and ‘ser-o?’ Did she use such words?”

“Why, I think so,” Miss Melba stammered.

“So do I,” said the detective triumphantly. “Right, am I not?”

He was! Uncanny. He always was.

“And did she have dreams in which some one seemed to be talking very loudly? And are there phonographs in all the apartments in your building?”

Right again! Positively marvelous!

“And did your sister know a man named Vere—Vere Vere de Vere, perhaps?”

She did! Uncannier than ever!

“But your sister did not love this man–tried to get rid of him?”

Righter than ever before. Most marvellousest of all!

“Well. that is sufficient, Miss Melicatone. I’ll send you the bill. I can’t take the case after all.”

“Can’t take it? Why, isn’t it mayhem?’’

“Yes. It’s mayhem, I’m glad to say. But it’s something else, too. My advice to you–and this will not be included in the bill–is to go home and see if your sister is really dead. If she isn’t call a doctor. If she is–see Sousa again. Tell him I sent you. That’s all.” And he rose in dismissal.

Then, as she was leaving: “And, by the way, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this ear. It’s one of the few rights I have come across and–well, you know, your sister won’t need it, alive or dead—unless the styles should change. May I have it?”

He might! Eerie. I should call it. Positively eerie! He had a way with women, did Mortimer Mudge!

She left.

“Well, Snogg, what’s puzzling you,” asked my friend, taking another cake of yeast.

“Only this: Why did you send her to Sousa?”

“Simple, Snogg, simple. By psycho-analysing her sister I soon found a repressed dislike. She hated this man Vere Vere de Vere. Get the sound of ‘ear’ in the name? This I deduced from the fact that she used words such as ‘her,’ ‘near’ and so forth. Further, she had dreams concerned with her ear. Phonographs played constantly about her. She got to hate ears. Simple. Snoggs, simple.”

“But you told Miss Melba Melicatone that if her sister were dead to go to Sousa!”

“Of course.”

“But he’s suicides only.”

“Yes.”

“You mean –”

“Why certainly. A child could see it.”

“What!”

“Positively. She bit her ear off. I could see the teeth marks.”