IV. Mr. Homes Reaches an Unhistorical Conclusion.

Welcome to the fourth installment of “The Adventures of Shylock Homes” by John Kendrick Bangs. (Read the first one here.) Bangs wrote 10 of these installments of Shylock’s adventures in the underworld for American newspapers in 1903. In this episode, he matches wits again with his nemesis LeCoq, involving the solution of an historical mystery.

It was not long before I was made aware that there was to be no lack of occupation for me in the new sphere of my residence. The story of LeCoq’s attempt to frighten me away from the practice of my profession soon got about, and it became more or less of a fad among the social lights of Cimmeria to get up mysteries for my solution.

Queen Elizabeth offered me a large sum of money — indeed sent me in advance a check for a considerable amount — if I would attend one of her evening receptions, and there give to her assembled guests evidences of my skill in such games as “Hiding the Handkerchief” and “Twenty Questions.”

Considering drawing-room work beneath my dignity, I wrote my regrets on the back of the check, and remailed it to the royal spinster, the story of which act, in some mysterious fashion, crept into print and for a time served to win for me the enmity of the ex-queen, for which I was sincerely sorry, for I have always held the lady in the highest esteem. How the incident came to be published I do not know, for I certainly told no one but James Boswell and Paul Pry of the editorial staff of the Gehenna Gazette about it, and they both assure me that they have told none but their wives, under cover of confidence, of the episode.

For a period, feeling that I must become acclimated before undertaking professional work seriously, I kept close to my rooms at the hotel and declined many commissions, but one morning I was forced into action in a most peculiar fashion.

While sitting alone in my room, immediately after breakfast, I became suddenly conscious that some one was looking at me, but from what precise quarter I was unable immediately to determine. It was an uncanny feeling that came over me at first, and it made me somewhat uneasy, but I deemed it the part of wisdom in no way to betray the fact that I was uncomfortable. I continued, therefore, to appear to read my morning paper, as if wholly unconscious of this piercing eye which I felt was fixed upon me.

Occasionally I glanced casually about, as a man may naturally do, without giving evidence of a perturbed spirit, and began by a mental process of elimination, to solve the question the problem presented. There was no one in the room but myself, so it was clear that my disturber was on the outside somewhere. Hence the placing of the intruder was not, to one of my habit of thought wholly difficult. One glance in the direction of the window demonstrated beyond all peradventure that it was not thence that the annoyance sprang.

It was several stories up from the street, and there was no coign of vantage upon which an intruder might stand. The door was closed and the skylight of my apartment opened in an inner chamber, and not upon the room in which I sat. Consequently, my next thought was that the prying person, who was eagerly contemplating my person, was neither in the hall nor upon the roof, but in a moment I had reason to modify this conclusion in so far as it related to the hall. I rose from my chair and sauntered idly across the room, and was immediately relieved of the sensation which had disturbed me. It was evident that I was not everywhere in the range of the staring eyes. Then I walked back again, and observed, as I did so, and confirmed the observation, with further experimentation, that it was only when within a limited range of the door knob that the cause of my vexation operated.

“‘The door-knob, eh? Impossible,” I muttered. “No one can see through a door-knob. Then what? Ah! the keyhole! Let us investigate.”

I acted quickly. Filling my cocaine injector with soap and water at the wash stand, I let drive a goodly spurt of the resultant suds through the keyhole, and was rewarded by an immediate response in the form of a muffled yowl.

“It must be LeCoq, the Key-hole Detective, again!” I muttered to myself, and immediately opened the door. Much to my surprise I discovered, leaning against the wall opposite, no less a person, seemingly, than the Man of the Iron Mask. He was mopping his eye through the steel visor that he wore, and using language, which, while it certainly was apt, I deem it well not to reproduce.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked, recognizing him at once, in spite of his disguise, by the grave accent upon his profanity — for it was indeed my enemy, LeCoq, up to some new trick to get me into trouble.

“I was looking for Mr. Shylock Homes’ apartment,” he said.

“I am Mr. Shylock Homes,” I replied, “Why did you not send up a card?”

“I wished my visit to you kept secret,” he explained. “I am very anxious to solve the mystery of my identity, and powerful persons here are equally anxious that I should not, and if they knew I was consulting you, there’d be trouble for both of us.”

“Ah — I see,” said I. “Come in. Do you mean to say that you, too, are in the dark as to who you really are?” I added, as he came in and seated himself.

“Exactly,” said he. “That knowledge was always withheld from me.”

“Take off your mask and be comfortable,” I put in, as I eyed him abstractedly.

“I can’t,” he sighed. “It’s locked on and I don’t know the combination.”

“Poor chap!”I said, sympathetically. “I had supposed that when you got here all your earthly troubles would be over. Tell me, Monsieur Blank — I shall call you Blank until we get down to the real facts — is there anybody hereabout that really knows who you are?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Mazarin knows, and Louis XIV knows, but they won’t tell, and they’d raise the deuce if they thought the secret was likely to be unveiled.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said I. “I’ll take your case, because it interests me, but you have got to put yourself unreservedly in my hands.”

“I’ll do that, with pleasure,” said he.

“Good. I’ll find out who you are in less than ten days. First thing, I want a disguise,” said I.

“As what?”

“As yourself,” said I. “The Man in the Iron Mask.”

“What for?” he cried.

“Because I want it,” said I. “It is necessary. If you are not willing to get it for me, I shall have to give up your case.”

“But how can I?” he asked. “You can’t find a mask like this every day. M. LeCoq, the distinguished detective, has the only other one I know of in existence.”

“Get me his, then,” I rejoined, curtly, “or employ him to ferret out the mystery for you.”

“I will try,” he replied, and then he rose up to depart, but I was not yet ready to have him go. As yet, while I was quite confident of the real identity of the person hidden behind that face of steel, I was unwilling to stake my reputation on it, and it was only too evident that if it were LeCoq, it was nothing so much as my humiliation that he was seeking.

“Don’t be in a hurry, Monsieur Blank,” said I. “Sit down a few minutes and let’s have a smoke. I’d like to ask you some thing as to your ancestry.”

“I’m perfectly willing to sit down and smoke, Mr. Homes,” he replied, “but really, I can’t tell you any more about myself than you already know.”

“Oh, very well,” I said, “as you wish.” And then a scheme of confirmation of my suspicions dashed across my mind.

I handed him one of my Prismatic Cigarettes! This was a little invention of my own to aid me in the identification of criminals. For ten days after smoking one of them the finger tips are so stained with the colors of the rainbow that they can not be cleaned, and I knew that if the man behind that mask smoked but one of them it would serve at least to identify the mask later, which under the circumstances was most desirable. My victim fell readily into the plot, and as he smoked and chatted affably away, I was pleased to note the slight discoloration of the steel lips by means of which I should be able irrefutably to establish the identity of the apparatus, if it ever became necessary. At the end of half an hour, during which we talked of many things, and in the course of which I sold my visitor a complete set of my works, he rose up to go.

“Now,” said I, as he started, “don’t forget. For a few days I shall myself impersonate you. To enable me to do this, pray be good enough to send me the necessary disguise. LeCoq’s mask will do as well as another.”

“You shall have it,” he said, shaking inwardly, as I thought, with laughter, and took his departure. I closed my door and listened to his retreating footsteps, and then a short time later saw him emerge into the street, accompanied by no less a personage than Mazarin. both of them seemingly exploding with mirth. There was some great game afloat that was clear. But they reckoned without their victim.

That afternoon the mask arrived from the office of LeCoq. Hawkshaw & Sleuth. I inspected it closely, and knew that I had my man. The lips bore the prismatic discoloration — so I was at once able to see the plot that had been laid to accomplish my ruin. LeCoq was merely going to get me to identify the Man in the Iron Mask as some distinguished prisoner of the Bastile, and then, by removing the mask, reveal only himself, thus making a fool of me and a hero of LeCoq. Had this been done. I should have instantly become an object of derision. But he was foiled. Two days later I returned the mask to its owner, and prepared for a second call. I had not long to wait. Within twenty-four hours my visitor was at my door again.

“Well?” said he.

“Very well.” said I. “I’ve spotted you. I know who you are perfectly well.”

“My benefactor!” he cried, falling upon his knees and imprinting a cold, steely kiss upon my hand. “Reveal it — reveal my identity, so long a mystery —”

That the trick was a great one was at this point shown by the sudden opening of my door, and the entrance of a dozen prominent members of the Stygian Club, come to witness the results of LeCoq’s jest. I greeted them pleasantly.

“One moment, sir,” I observed, quietly, as the others filed in. “You have for gotten one little formality. My — er — my retainer. One thousand dollars, please.”

“Pay it!” growled Hawkshaw, who was a member of the visiting party. “It’s worth the money to show him up.”

The money was counted out upon my table, and carefully secured before I went further.

“Well, gentlemen,” said I, “this man’s identity has long been a mystery, and I confess to much surprise at the revelation which has come to me. I have had many theories as to who he was. but none of them is correct. In the first place, if you will follow me closely I will show you several interesting things about him which prove conclusively to my mind who and what he is. Note the condition of his shoes. They are worn away at the back of the heel.

“This proves that he walks and does not ride — therefore he does not belong to royalty, as has been thought, but to the common herd who pace the highways on the vehicles of nature. I judge from the thickness of his neck that he is a man of great ambition, but of little capacity, while the dust on his collar, which, upon closer inspection, you will observe is not brick dust, or gold dust, but just the plain, ordinary accretion of a walk along the thoroughfares on a windy day shows a strongly irreligious bent.”

“I don’t quite see that,” murmured my victim.

“I didn’t suppose you would, said I. “But please do not interrupt. By looking at his hands,” I continued, “you will see the bulging knuckles and tapering
finger nails, which betoken one designed by nature for a life of crime —”

My victim winced, but I was not at all disposed to let up on him, who would have had no pity for me.

“And moreover, you will see when I poke him in the ribs, thus —” I suited the action to my words — “and he shrinks before so trifling an operation, that he is a coward.”

The company began to grow restive, and some, seeing how this joke on me was faring, were inclined to interfere, but there were others, notably Sir Walter Raleigh and Dr. Johnson, who insisted upon fair play.

“Now for the final test,” said I, taking the metal covering of a key-hole from my vest pocket, and holding it before my victim’s eye. “Can you see through that?”

“No,” he roared, “I can’t.”

“Precisely as I thought,” said I. “That proves that you are untruthful,
for that is all you can see through. Gentlemen, this Man in the Iron Mask is not only of low birth, but of irreligious turn of mind, inherently a criminal, and untruthful, but he is worse. He is an anachronism. The Man in the Iron Mask lived in the days of Louis XIV. This man is of the eighteenth century, and his name is Pierre LeCoq, the Key-hole Detective.”

“It’s a lie!” he cried.

“Remove the mask, gentlemen, and you will see for yourselves,” I put in, with a careless shrug of my shoulders.

“Alas! The key is lost!” cried LeCoq, from within. “So you are foiled again, after all.”

“I have a duplicate,” said I, producing the key, which I had taken the precaution to have made, from my pocket, and. unlocking the mask with it, the heavy steel mask was removed from my victim’s head, and there he stood revealed — LeCoq, as I had imagined.

“You shall pay for this!” he hissed, as he fled from the room.

“Well,” I called after him. “I’ve got a thousand good dollars to pay with.”

And with that I bowed the rest of the company out, with the exception of Raleigh and Shakespeare, who remained behind.

“You have marvelous skill,” said Raleigh.

“Stupendous.” added Shakespeare. “But tell me. Mr. Sherlock Homes, how does dust on one’s collar betray an irreligious nature?”

“Plainly enough,” I explained. “People who go to church always brush their coats thoroughly before going.”

And I bowed the gentlemen out.

LeCoq has temporarily retired from business, and is at present in the Cimmeria Sanatorium, suffering from nervous prostration.