Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Dead Deliveryman

By Galaxy1001D

Based off the story 'Murder is Corny' by Rex Stout

Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout

Chapter Ten: A Reasoned Conclusion

"You didn't think it was dynamite, you knew it was," Lestrade ejaculated. "Care to share how you might have been blown to kingdom come, Mister Holmes? Either Mister Holmes will do, I'm not choosy."

Mycroft, his lips tight, was breathing deep. "Not me," he said. "It would have been the doctor or Sherlock, or my cook. And of course my house. The possibility occurred to me, and I went to the door, barely in time. Three minutes later ... Phooey. That man is a blackguard." He shook his head, as if getting rid of a fly.

"If you'll allow me Inspector, I must confess that I'm the instigator of this little episode," my friend chimed in. "It seems that I was the one who pulled the tiger by the tail and put all of us in jeopardy."

"Who put that dynamite in that carton?" Lestrade interrupted.

"I'm telling you, my dear Lestrade," Sherlock Holmes purred. "I typed up a little note and made a carbon in case I should be asked this very question. I did it to take to Duncan McLeod's farm this morning and give it to Mister McLeod. I made a copy for just this moment, in case you should ask me." He was about to give it to the little policeman but paused and handed to me instead. "No since Watson has been in the middle of this mess from the beginning, he should read it first."

I took my time reading it before handing it to Lestrade. He kept it, but this is what it said:

MEMORANDUM FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES TO DUNCAN MCLEOD

I suggest that you should have in readiness acceptable answers to the following questions if and when they are asked:

1. When did Kenneth Faber tell you that your daughter was pregnant and he was responsible?

2. Where did you go when you left your farm Tuesday afternoon around two o'clock - perhaps a little later - and returned around seven o'clock, late for milking?

3. Where did you get the piece of pipe? Was it on your premises?

4. Do you know that your daughter saw you leaving the alley Tuesday afternoon? Did you see her?

5. Is it true that the man with the bulldozer told you Monday night that he would have to come Wednesday instead of Thursday?

There are many questions you may be asked; these are only samples. If competent investigators are moved to start inquiries of this nature, you will of course be in a difficult position, and it would be well to anticipate it.

Lestrade looked up and aimed his beady eyes at Holmes. "You already knew that McLeod killed Faber."

"Not certain knowledge," my friend assured him. "A reasoned conclusion."

"You knew he left his farm Tuesday afternoon. You knew his daughter saw him at the alley. You knew - "

"No. Those were conclusions." Holmes turned a palm up. "My dear Lestrade. You sat there yesterday morning and read a document sworn to by Doctor Watson and me. When you finished it you knew everything that I knew, and I have learned nothing since then. From the knowledge we shared I had concluded that McLeod had killed Faber. You haven't. Shall I detail it?"

"Yes."

"It was Mycroft who revealed to us the first clue: the corn. You remember the day you took Watson away, when my brother told you to forget the dear doctor and asked who had picked his precious corn? I presume McLeod told you, as he did us, that he had Faber pick the corn because he had to dynamite some stumps and rocks."

"Yes."

"Ah! You would think so wouldn't you? But it would be highly unlikely. He knows how extremely particular my dear brother is, and also the restaurant. They pay him well, more than well; it must be a substantial portion of his income. He knew that irresponsible young man couldn't possibly do that job. It must have been something more urgent than stumps and rocks that led him to risk losing such desirable customers. Mycroft knew in an instant, but only after smoking a pound of shag was I able to- "

"Are you telling me your brother knew it was McLeod because only murder is more important than his precious corn?"

"Quite," Mycroft rumbled from behind his desk. "I should think that was self-evident."

"Are you having me on?" Lestrade protested.

"Not at all my dear inspector," my friend assured him. "That was how Mycroft deduced it. It was the pipe, the actual murder weapon itself that solved it for me. When I saw the other suspects, Mister Heydt, Mister Maslow, and Mister Jay, I noted that - "

"When did you see them?" the policeman demanded.

"They came to us, at our lodgings, at Miss McLeod's request," Sherlock explained. "Now about the pipe: Any man, sufficiently provoked, might plan to kill, but very few men would choose a massive iron bludgeon for a weapon to carry through the streets. Seeing those three I thought it highly improbable that any of them would. After all, they have their sticks. But a countryman might, a man who does rough work with rough and heavy tools."

"You came to a conclusion based on trifles like that?"

"No," my friend shook his head. "Those details were merely corroborative. The conclusive item came from Miss McLeod. You read that document. I asked her - I'll quote it from memory. I said to her, 'You know those men quite well. You know their temperaments. If one of them enraged beyond endurance by Mister Faber's conduct went there and killed him, which one? It wasn't a sudden fit of passion, it was premeditated and planned. From your knowledge of them, which one?' How did she answer me?"

"She said, 'They didn't.'"

"Yes. Didn't you think that significant? Of course I had the advantage of seeing and hearing her."

"Of course!" I snapped my fingers in realization. "You're right Holmes! It wasn't shock. It wasn't denial. She just stated a fact. She knew they hadn't!"

Holmes nodded. "Precisely. She knew that hadn't. And there was only one way she could know they hadn't, with such certainty in her words and voice and manner: She knew who had. Did you form that conclusion Lestrade?"

"Yes," the policeman admitted.

"Then why didn't you move on it my dear fellow?" my friend asked him. "If she hadn't killed him herself but knew who had, and it wasn't one of those three men - isn't it obvious?"

"How could we know she hadn't killed himself?" Lestrade protested. "Why hadn't she?"

A corner of Holmes' mouth went up. "There it is, your one major flaw: a distorted conception of the impossible. You will reject as inconceivable such a phenomenon as a man being at two different spots simultaneously, though any adroit trickster could easily contrive it; but you consider it credible that a young woman - even after you had studied her conversation with Doctor Watson and I - that she concealed a piece of pipe on her person and took it there with the intention of crushing a man's skull with it. Preposterous. That is inconceivable." He waved it away. "Of course that's academic, now that that wretch has betrayed himself by sending us dynamite instead of corn, and the last step to my conclusion was inevitable. Since she knew who had killed Faber but wouldn't name him, and it wasn't one of those three, it was her father; and since she was certain - I heard and saw her say, 'They didn't' - she had seen him there. I doubt if he knew it, because - but that's immaterial. So much for - "

He stopped because Lestrade went for Mycroft's desk. He picked up the phone, spoke to the operator, and in a moment said, "Irwin? Inspector Lestrade. I want Constable Clark." After another moment: "Clarkie? Get Ridley, in Chesham. Ask him to get Duncan McLeod and hold him, and no mistake... Yes, Susan McLeod's father. Send two men to Ridley and tell them to call in as soon as they arrive. Tell Ridley to watch it, McLeod is down for murder and he may be rough... No, that can wait. I'll be there soon - half an hour, maybe less."

He hung up, about-faced to Holmes, and growled, "You knew all this since yesterday! Both of you did!" he snarled as he glanced back and forth between the two Holmes brothers.

Sherlock nodded. "And you have known it since this morning."

"It's a question of interpretation, not of knowledge," Mycroft interjected. "Will you two sit? As you know, I like eyes at my level. Thank you."

"Please Inspector, have mercy on my brother," Sherlock requested as he chose a chair in front and to the right of Mycroft's desk. "It was mere conjecture on his part, a baseless suspicion only. It is I you should be focusing your rancor on."

"Yes I think I will," Lestrade nodded angrily. "Your brother guessed, but you knew. So why in blazes did you send him a note instead of contacting me?"

"Yes" Mycroft nodded. "What on earth possessed you to bait the fellow?"

"Now wait a moment," Sherlock held up a conciliatory hand. He glanced back and forth between his brother and the inspector before choosing to address the policeman. "Now Lestrade, I gave you all the facts I had, I had met my obligation as a citizen and a licensed private agent. I was under no compulsion, legal or moral, to assume the role of a nemesis. It was only conjecture that Faber had told Mister McLeod that he had debauched his daughter, but he had told others, and McLeod must have had a potent motive, so it was highly probable. If so, the question of moral turpitude was moot, and I would not rule on it. Since I had given you the facts, I thought it only fair to inform Mister McLeod that he was menaced by a logical conclusion from those facts; and I did so, without involving Doctor Watson. He was unaware of the conclusion I had reached, and if I had told him there might have been disagreement regarding the course to take."

Lestrade grunted. "So you deliberately warned a murderer. Telling him to have answers ready. You stupid git. You expected him to flee."

"No. I expected him to confess," my friend insisted. "With his daughter in mortal jeopardy, I was curious why he hadn't confessed earlier. I assumed that knowing his secret was out would goad him into doing the right thing -"

"You imbecile!" Mycroft roared, startling us all. "Didn't you recognize the stubborn ego of a self-righteous man? He wouldn't surrender his neck to the noose without punishing the man who set his daughter up for murder if he had killed a hundred Fabers! Couldn't you put it all together? Dynamite for stumps and rocks; corn; a closed carton. Most improbable, I admit, but conceivable! Can you fathom the consequences if you hadn't told me about your blasted note?"

"Luck," Lestrade said. "Your bloody incredible luck. What if that telephone call had said the carton held corn, just corn? You think you could have talked me off, don't you?"

"We could have tried," my friend shrugged.

"By God. Talk about stubborn egos." Lestrade shook his head. "You know, any normal man, if he got a break like that, just in the nick of time, what any normal man would do, he would go down on his knees and thank God. Do you know what you and your brother will do? You'll thank yourselves. I admit it would be quite a job for your brother to get down on his knees, but as for you Mister Sherlock Holmes- "

The phone rang. Mycroft answered it before handing it to Inspector Lestrade. "An Inspector Ridley," and he came and took it. The conversation was even shorter than the one about the carton, and Lestrade's part was only a dozen words and a couple of growls. He hung up, went and got his hat, and headed for the hall, but a step short of the door he stopped and turned.

"I might as well tell you," he said. "It'll give you a better appetite for dinner, even if it's not corn. About an hour ago Duncan McLeod sat or stood or lay on a pile of dynamite and it went off. They've got his head and some other pieces. They'll want to decide whether it was an accident or he did it. Maybe you can help them interpret the facts."

He turned and went.

"Hum!" my friend exclaimed sheepishly as he turned and strode back to his brother's office. "Considering the tragedy at the McLeod farm and the debacle with the corn, perhaps we should all eat at the Royale. Coming Mycroft?"

"Phooey!" Mycroft grunted. "Try again in six years."

"Ah yes, perfectly understandable," Sherlock admitted. "What about you Watson? My treat."

"Why not?" I nodded warily. "You owe me."

"Excellent," my friend nodded. "I'll hail a cab. Farewell Mycroft," he called as he left the room. "We really must do this again."

Brother Mycroft's only response was a noncommittal grunt.

I turned to follow Sherlock, but then I remembered something I owed the corpulent figure seated behind the desk. He had performed a service for me and so far I had not acknowledged it to him. It was time to assure him that at least one denizen of 221b Baker Street possessed common decency.

"You know I never got around to thanking you," I said to the elder Holmes. "It took a lot of faith to do what you did."

"I?" Mycroft Holmes' grey eyes glowered at me. "What did I do?"

"You payed my bail, Mister Holmes, and let me walk free," I explained. "I am indebted to you."

"What are you jabbering about?" he snorted. "I did no such thing. Why would you think I would place bail for a man I barely know?"

"But your brother said…" I began. "Sorry, my mistake," I stammered as I turned to go. "Good day."

If Mycroft hadn't paid my bail who had? The only other suspect was Sherlock Holmes himself. When I thought about it, it made sense. Born to wealth and privilege, what better way to rebel against the inequality of the classes than to assume the mantle of genteel poverty and earn a living by the lurid and unsavory profession as the professional sleuth? It would suit my friend's nature to thumb his nose at the idle rich while engaging in criminal cases merely for the challenge or for the sake of justice. Why then had he needed to find a roommate to share his expenses? Perhaps my ingenious friend was wise enough to realize that the one thing missing from his life was the human element, a companion to keep him grounded and cognizant that his fellow beings were real people who hoped and wished and felt. Once more I had to admit the greatest mystery I ever encountered was my dearest friend Mister Sherlock Holmes.

END