The case of the missing wanker, Part 2

July 19, 2012 § 2 Comments

As I pulled myself up into the cab next to Holmes, a chill went down my spine in that typically British, closeted homosexual way of two men pushed shoulder to shoulder and imagining how the other would look dressed in leathers, tied to a tree stump, and barking like a dog while the other spanked him with a wet baguette.

“What could have happened to him, Holmes?” I asked as the cab rattled across the cobbled streets.

“Do you suppose that’s the correct question?” Holmes riposted, and I could see his face turn towards mine in the dark.

“Dash it, Holmes, aren’t you the one who said the poor wanker had vanished without a trace?”

“I did, indeed, my dear Watson.”

“Then what else in blue blazes could the question be? He was here, now he’s gone. What on earth happened to him?”

Holmes chuckled that maddening chuckle of his, when his rapier-like mind has fastened onto its prey like a hungry mastiff, and no goading can loose its grip. I wondered if he’d ever paid to see a grown man naked. “I’ll be at your service when you need me, then,” I said, somewhat gruffly, and pained by Holmes’s sudden turn of silence.

Soon the cobbled roads of London gave way to the rutted unpaved roads leading out of that great city, and my mind drifted, then dozed, until I awoke with a start. “We’ve arrived, Watson,” said Holmes as we both exited the cab.

There before us was a quiet home, to all appearances as normal a place as you could ever hope to find. A tall hedge was in front, and a pretty garden filled with trees suggested the blissful hearth of that happiest British convention, the country home. Holmes rapped on the door, which was swiftly answered by the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Dark haired, voluptuous, and radiating sorrow, she cried out, “Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you for coming! I thought you’d never arrive! Please do come in!”

The wanker’s abode

Holmes strode across the threshold with the piercing look I have seen so often, when the genius of his mind misses no detail, and when what to others is a mass of confusion is, to him, an ordered story legible only to him.

The lovely lady stood there, uncountenanced somewhat as Holmes had not bothered to introduce us, and the awkwardness was furthered by her stare at the giant bulge in my trousers where I had placed my revolver. “Pleased to meet you, madam. John Watson.”

She blushed and held out her hand. “Mrs. Prez. It’s a pleasure, my good sir.”

Holmes turned to us, startled to realize that there was anyone in the room, so raptly had he focused on the living room. “Do you mind,” he asked, “if I have a look in the bedroom?”

“By all means,” said the lovely lady, blushing again.

“Watson, if you would,” Holmes motioned me to follow.

We entered the bedroom of the wanker and Holmes went straight to the closet. Rapha clothing of every variety, Assos bibs and jersey of every color under the rainbow, and cycling shoes in green, yellow, pink, orange, and mucous filled the closet. “Great gods,” I exclaimed. “The man’s a fashion model!”

Holmes shook his head. “As usual, Watson, you cannot see the trees for the forest. There’s nothing here.” He turned back, and took a quick look beneath the coverlet on the bed as he left the room.

“Can you find my husband, Mr. Holmes?” the distraught woman asked, her tear-streaked bosom heaving in worry and fear.

Holmes smiled at her in that comforting way a man has of reassuring a woman, as if to say “You can trust me, my dear, I’m thoroughly gay.”

We remounted the cab, and Holmes let out a short, satisfied laugh. “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

“Make of it? Deuce it all, Holmes, it’s a mystery wrapped in a riddle ensconced in an enigma, that’s what I make of it!”

“Come now, Watson, surely you jest? Isn’t it clear what happened to the poor man?”

“Holmes, if I didn’t rate you as my closest friend, I would be so exasperated as to refuse all further attempts at conversation! Don’t tell me you have figured this out? The poor wanker had a terrible wardrobe and even worse fashion sense! What else was there?”

“In the main, the mystery is solved, Watson. There are but two small details I should like to make certain of before we retire for the evening.”

The shanties of London

Before long our cab had brought us back to the outskirts of the city, and from the dim lights of the gas lamps I could see that we were in the slums of Chutney, London’s most notoriously impoverished shantytown, where life’s outcasts, men who had gambled all and lost, dragged themselves to die amidst the stink of filth and the reek of gin. I braced myself as we got out in front of the most wretched, dilapidated tenement I had ever seen, and did all I could to hold my breath as Holmes banged on the door with his walking stick.

A bedraggled, besotted, broken, and surly fellow came to the door, his long greasy locks covering a pock-marked face in which two red, sunken eyes stared out from his gaunt and deathlike skull, the last embers of a spirit that was all but quenched.

“Mr. Smith, I dare say?” said Holmes.

“And what is it to you if I be?” snarled the man.

“It could be nothing, or it could be this and bit more,” said Holmes with a wicked smile, carefully tucking a sovereign into the man’s curled paw.

In a flash we were over the threshold, and never have I seen a more horrid den of iniquity. Floozies lay draped in whatever position their drunkenness or opium stupor left them, while similarly stupefied patrons lounged on the couches, awaiting the dawn that would force them out again into the world they had shunned for a few brief hours of night.

“Come in ‘ere, guv’nor,” said Mr. Smith. “An’ tell ol’ USCF district rep Smithy ‘ow ‘e can be o’ service to the guv’nor.”

“Mr. Smith,” said Holmes. “It can come as no surprise that we’re here to inquire about a certain Prez. Wanker of all on two wheels.”

“Prez!” shrieked the old man, his body shivering with rage. “Prez! O, guv’nor, don’t come ‘ere an’ ask me about ‘im! It’s all I been ahearin’ these last five years, guv’nor, ‘Force upgrade the lad, Smithy!’ an’ ‘E’s winnin’ all the Category 3 races, Smithy, damn ‘is eyes, force upgrade the lad!’ ’tis all they can say from dawn to sunset, guv’nor! An’ what uz I to do, guv’nor? One minute some young lad’s father’s a’ breathin’ down me neck, ‘Force upgrade Prez or I’ll have your hide, Smithy!’ an’ the next it’s Prez ‘imself, guv’nor, writin’ letters and callin’ the higher-ups and takin’ me aside on Sundays an’ sayin’ ‘Now see here, Smithy, you keep me here a Category 3 ’til the SoCal Cup’s all said and done and see here, Smithy, I’ll make it worth your while, eh, Smithy?’ until ol’ Smithy’s been pulled and stretched like a piece of good English taffy in the Indian sun, guv’nor!”

“I’m sure you’ve done your very best, my good sir,” said Holmes in that sympathetic way he had. “But pray tell, what did you decide?”

“What did I decide, guv’nor? Odds bodkins, I force upgraded the lad! I ‘ad to, guv’nor! I ‘ad to! Oh, may the lord have mercy on me wicked soul!” With that the anguished man collapsed in a heap, sobbing inconsolably. Then he sat bolt upright. “But I didn’t do away with ‘im, guv’nor! An’ y’can’t say I did! P’raps one o’ them Cat 3 fellows did ‘im in, guv’nor, but me ‘ands are clean!”

“I thank you for your time, Mr. Smith. Here’s something for your trouble.” The old wretch’s trembling paw accepted the gift, and we left.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Won’t you arrest the man? He’s the killer as plain as day. Either that, or he knows who is!”

With his maddening chuckle, he replied, “Watson, I’m surprised you don’t see it. It’s as plain as day. Let us make one last stop. I think you shall find this amusing enough to place it in that little history of my cases at which you apply yourself so assiduously.”

Palace of the lord

“Cabbie, take us to Kensington!” Holmes shouted to the man.

Before long we found ourselves in front of an iron gate, with a watchman who was none too pleased to see us pull up in our shabby hack. With all the ease of a man who had lived there his entire life, Holmes handed the man his card. “Please tell Lord Smythington that Sherlock Holmes desires the honor of a few moments of his lordship’s time.”

“You can’t be serious, Holmes!” I said. “Lord Charon Smythington? At this hour of the night, uninvited and crudely announced?”

“Let us see,” he said with a smile, “whether Lord Smythington can fit us into his busy schedule, even at such a late hour as this.”

In minutes the watchman led us to the front door of the great home, where the butler ushered us in. “Lord Smythington is taking his evening massage. If the gentlemen have no objection, milord will see them in the massage parlor.”

As we entered, the great man barely nodded his head in greeting. His massive legs, covered in massage oil, were being assiduously worked by his masseuse. “Mr. Holmes?” he said. “To what do I owe this unusual, late night visit?”

“We’ve come for Prez,” said Holmes, his steely blue eyes matched with razor thin lips that meant only business.

“Prez? The wanker? I’ve not seen him since the forced upgrade back in April. It’s a bit of a mystery, really, and I can’t imagine why you’ve come to me.”

“Lord Smythington,” said Holmes “you can either show us to him or we will request official assistance. I’m not certain that the publicity would be welcome to a man such as yourself.”

Smythington looked up. “How did you know he was here, Mr. Holmes? I thought I’d covered my tracks quite professionally.”

“Indeed, sir, you had, but you made one fatal mistake.”

“Ah, yes. And it was?”

“The coverlet, of course. Prez slept every night with pictures of Your Excellency taped to the underside of his coverlet. As soon as I saw them, I knew it was you who had kidnapped him, fearful that with an upgrade he would now become your biggest threat at the Dominguez Hills crit. I needed only a brief chat with Mr. Smith, the district rep, to confirm that Prez had received a forced upgrade, and from there to conclude that it must have been you.”

I couldn’t hold back my admiration. “But Holmes, why didn’t you suspect one of his fellow Cat 3’s? Or one of the junior riders whose parents complain after every race because their boy never gets a chance to win?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. The 3’s had no reason to do away with him, as he’d been upgraded. From there it was child’s play. Despite his matchless string of victories, Lord Smythington was still concerned about Prez in the 35+ or Cat 2 peloton, if only because of his propensity to fall and crash everyone else out. So he brought him here.”

Lord Smythington looked at Holmes. “And how did you know he was here?”

“Prez went to bed each evening staring longingly at your pictures beneath his covers, Lord Smythingon. You sent a messenger to him, inviting him to come to Kensington to learn the ‘sprinter’s secret.’ He couldn’t resist. Once here, you placed him in the basement with ten years’ worth of cycling magazines, and told him that once he had finished reading them, he would finally win a 35+ masters race. And the poor fool believed you.”

“Yes,” Lord Smythington said, laughing, “he certainly did. I also told him that if he rode all over the peninsula in a giant gear and lifted huge weights in the gym he’d be invincible.”

Even Holmes, ever the steely investigator, broke into a smile at the thought of poor Prez, pushing a 53 x 11 up Hawthorne in the middle of December. Lord Smythington bade us adieu, and we left the great house, Prez in tow.

Epilogue

The following racing season, shortly after I had been apprehended while watching another gentleman through a small hole I had cut in a public lavatory, but prior to sentencing at the Old Bailey, I ran across Prez. He looked to be in the finest of fettle. “How are you, my boy?” I asked.

“Never been better!”

“Oh really? Be a good fellow and do tell.”

“I’ve won every 35+ crit of the season so far! And no crashes!”

“It appears your hard work has paid off, then.”

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “It certainly has.”

The case of the missing wanker, Part 1

July 18, 2012 § 7 Comments

When I reached 221B Baker Street, I was highly agitated. Holmes had sent me a message through the street urchin Stathis the Wily Greek, and he had intercepted me on the way to dinner.

“‘Scuse me, sir, message from Mr. ‘Olmes,” he’d said, in that impertinent way of urchins everywhere, one hand thrusting the message and the other grasping for a few pence.

I had unfolded the paper immediately, and quickly scanned the note written in his long, spidery hand: “Watson, come quick. I’m in a spot of bother and need your immediate assistance.” Holmes never requested my presence unless it was a matter of quite some urgency.

As I went up the stairs at Baker Street, two at a time, I wondered what could be so pressing. It was only two weeks ago that he’d solved the Case of the Wheelsucking Wanker, a matter of international intrigue and diplomatic delicacy that, had matters turned out otherwise, might have implicated the very highest levels of Her Majesty’s government.

Almost as recently, he’d found the culprit in the Matter of the Wheelchopping Wanker, just before the criminal had taken down an entire peloton’s worth of the very finest men and women in the South Bay. And of course, Scotland Yard was still covering itself in glory after Holmes had uncovered the chain of events that led to the Dropping of the Sag-bellied Wanker, a matter about which Lestrade would be marveling for the rest of his days.

Liquor in front, poker in rear

I burst into Holmes’s flat and was taken aback to see him lethargically staring at the ceiling, a monogram of some sort open on his lap, amidst the telltale signs that he was deep in throes of his beloved opium.

“Dash it all, Holmes!” I said. “You can’t have had me cross London like a madman just to watch you smoke that devilish drug! What is it, man?”

In that languid and sexy way he had just before taking off his clothes and exposing himself to the neighborhood toughs, Holmes slowly turned his head. “Good of you to come, Watson. Pray have a seat. I’ll be with you presently.”

Fidgeting at the ridiculous prospect of watching him in his drug addled state, but secretly pleased that he’d needed my services, I settled down in my habitual chair, unfolded the paper I’d brought with me, and settled into reading the latest front page news. Soon enough, I surmised, Holmes would finish dreaming about prison showers and turn his attention to me. My patience was soon rewarded, as he came out of the drug’s fog with an alacrity that can only be described as astonishing.

“My dear Watson,” he beamed. “Why on earth did you give the cabbie such an absurdly generous tip after he argued with you so about the fare? Surely his joke about the carpenter wasn’t as humorous as all that?”

If amazement had a price on it, mine would have been ten thousand sovereigns. “What on earth, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Surely you watched me from the window as I alit from the cab! But how would you know about the argument and the jest? They happened before I ever arrived!”

“It’s quite elementary, actually, my dear Watson. You’re a careful fellow who pays particular attention to his boots. Yet your boots are covered in mud, which has only partially dried. You’ve obviously been standing in mud, quite uncharacteristic of you, particularly when riding a cab, and particularly when interrupted by my urchin on the way to dinner at the club–a place you’d hardly appear at looking like you’d taken a tramp through a public latrine.”

“It’s true I abhor a filthy boot.”

“Of course you do, my good fellow. And that’s why you stand on the curb and positively never step in a puddle when mounting a carriage. I’ve seen you protect the shine on your boots this way a thousand times. Yet you did so today, as the mud is not yet dry.”

“That’s plain enough, I suppose.”

“Plain if you observe, my dear Watson. So the question becomes, why did Watson stand in the mud prior to mounting the carriage when it’s plainly not his custom? Obviously, just as he prepared to mount, or shortly thereafter, the cabbie said something to him that made him reconsider. So he stepped back down, missed the curb, and landed in the mud. Quite simple, really.”

“Dash it all, Holmes, it may be just as you say, but it hardly explains how you knew I’d argued with the cabman about the fare, though he was in fact a blackguard and a thief!”

“Aren’t they all, Watson? But what else would have caused you to dismount? Perhaps he could have offended you, but you’re a thick-skinned fellow and well accustomed to dealing with cabbies. More to the point, you’re tight with a pound, Watson, and it’s likely the chap changed his fare once you took a seat.”

“That’s exactly what happened, Holmes! It all sounds so simple to hear you explain it.”

“It sounds simple, Watson, because it is. One only has to look at what’s in front of his nose, rule out the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

I was now enjoying his little game. “But you’ve still not explained how you knew about the large gratuity or the jest. You must have watched me from the window, Holmes. That’s too easy.”

“Not at all, Watson. I’ve not moved from this chair for the last three hours. You dashed into the room and your right pocket was unbuttoned.”

“So it is!” I said with surprise.

“A man such as yourself never keeps small change in a capacious pocket like that. For such things he uses a change purse. No, in his right pocket, aside from the sheepskin condoms he uses to protect himself from the microbes in the prostitutes he frequents, a proper English gentleman would keep only a pound note or two.”

“I do, indeed,” I chortled, seeing the way the game would end.

“Why remove a pound note unless you were pleased with the fellow and intended to give him something extra for his troubles?”

“I did indeed!”

“And what could have pleased you about a filthy, boorish, argumentative hackney driver other than a jest? Surely he wasn’t giving you advice on the finer points of brain surgery.”

“Right again, Holmes!”

“Well, then, the rest is mere child’s play. The newspaper that you brought with you has a bold headline about Sir Timothy Carpenter, the banker who now stands accused of fraud. The cabbie, in an attempt to jolly you up after your spat over the fare, made some silly jest about Sir Timothy. Unlike the cabbie, however, I know how greatly you detest Sir Carpenter, and how pleased you are to see him brought to justice. You laughed roundly at the joke, let bygones be bygones, and left the man with a tidy little sum.”

“By Jove, Holmes, when you explain it like that it seems like only a fool wouldn’t have seen it. But I confess that your powers, without the explanation, are astounding.”

“You’re too kind, Watson, but they’re nothing of the sort. I’ve not brought you here to banter about cabbies, however, as you must know.”

“I assumed not.”

“To the contrary, I stand on the verge of the most devilishly confounding mystery I’ve ever encountered. It’s a small thing in its own way, as it concerns a wanker who most agree is a generally disgraceful chap when it comes to cycle racing, somewhat prone to hitting his head on the paving stones, that sort of thing. But the chief difficulty of the thing is that he’s vanished without a trace. And Watson…”

“What is it, Holmes?”

“No ever vanishes without a trace.”

He stood up, threw on his trench coat, pressed his hat against his head, took one last draw from his pipe, and bade me follow. “Do you have your service revolver, Watson?”

“I never travel without it, Holmes.”

“Then let us see what we can find.”

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