As the title suggests, this story is inspired by the Sherlock Holmes stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is also a sequel of sorts to "House of Max." It takes place in 1971 but is written from the perspective of 1989, the conceit being that it is a chapter from the book 99 is writing in Get Smart, Again! - ChrisR

In this month's issue of Popular Espionage:
A STUDY IN MAGENTA
An exclusive extract from the forthcoming book "Out of CONTROL", by Agent 99, "America's most glamorous spy".

I hope that this memoir so far has not given the impression that my husband, Maxwell Smart, was anything less than a superlative secret agent.

True, all the idiosyncrasies listed in the last nineteen pages may have given some readers pause, but that same marvelous mind is also capable of truly astounding leaps of logic and feats of deduction.

Perhaps the best illustration of this is the following case.

It was the year after The Mystery of the Living Wax Figures, and Max and I had been invited back to London to assist Scotland Yard with a matter that Chief Inspector Sparrow described as "a most singular case" which could benefit from Max's "most singular talents."

"What's this all about, Inspector?" Max asked with his usual directness.

"What this is all about, Mr Smart, is bloody murder most foul. A study in magenta, if you will." Inspector Sparrow picked up a folder from a neaby table and handed it to Max. "The coroner's photographs are in there. If you have the stomach for it."

"Don't worry, Inspector," Max replied, "I've seen my share of gruesome crime scenes." But his face visibly blanched when he looked inside the folder. "Of course, technically, this is your share."

He turned around so that I could see. I let out an involuntary gasp but I forced myself to take the folder and spread the pictures out on the table.

The inspector had not exaggerated: There were five of them altogether, three men and two women; each victim terribly and bizarrely mutilated.

But there was something else. Beside each corpse was sheet of paper with what looked like a child's drawing of a male stick figure.

"These drawings . . . " Max began.

The inspector grimaced. "The Fleet Street scandal rags have been having quite the field day with that. They're calling them 'The Dancing Men Murders'."

"I assume you've noticed the arms. Each figure has them in a different pose."

"Yes. The positioning of the arms of the figures appears to be consistent with the letters of the semaphore code. That's a system of communications employed by sailors using-"

"Flags," Max interrupted. "Yes, I know."

"You're familiar with it?"

"Max is an ensign in the Naval Reserve," I explained.

"Is this the order that the murders were committed?" Max asked.

"It is."

"Let's see now..." Max squinted at the pictures and read out, "R-A-C-H-E."

"Rache! That's German for 'revenge'!" I exclaimed.

Max stared at me. "You speak German?"

Inspector Sparrow stared at Max. "You didn't know your wife spoke German?'

"Well, it comes and goes," I admitted sheepishly.

Inspector Sparrow stared at me.

Truth be told, I had sometimes pretended to forget that I spoke certain languages to give Max a chance to practice. He eventually picked it up watching old war movies on TV.

After a pause, the inspector continued.

"Well, be that as it may, we've been unable to establish any other connection between the victims, which makes it hard to assign a motive to the crimes."

"I would say that the motive is pretty obvious," said Max.

"Yes?"

"Somebody wanted these people dead."

A pained look crossed the inspector's face. I think he was starting to regret calling us in. "I meant a more precise motive."

"More precise. Yes, well, I was just getting to that. It's just a matter of applying the most important rule in the Science of Criminology."

Sparrow sighed. "And that is?"

"Murders always come in threes."

The inspector rubbed his eyes. "Mr. Smart, I've devoted my entire professional life to the study of criminology," he said frostily, "and I assure you there is no such rule."

"There isn't? Maybe it was 'there's always three coins in a fountain'. No matter. The principle's the same."

"And, what's more, there have already been five murders."

"Exactly."

Inspector Sparrow's eyes started to glaze over the way I'd seen on the faces of so many before him.

"Go on, Max," I encouraged. I wasn't sure where he was headed but I had learned over the years that there was often a pearl of wisdom inside the oyster shell of his seemingly inane words.

"Well, suppose instead of one series of five murders, the killer has completed one set of three and started another."

The inspector shook his head. "An unpleasant thought. If the killer is planning another murder, our work becomes that much more urgent. But 'rache' is only a five-letter word."

"And what letter can be added to turn this five-letter word into a six-letter word?'

The answer popped into my head straight away. "'L'. It makes 'Rachel'."

"Very good, 99. Those late nights playing Scrabble have really paid off. That's two points to you."

Of course, I knew that Proper Nouns were not allowed in a game of Scrabble but this was no time to quibble.

Max turned back to Sparrow. "Well, there you have it, Inspector."

"There I have what?"

"Your motive," Max declared dramatically. "Revenge for Rachel!"

"Revenge for Rachel?" The inspector repeated dubiously. "It alliterates nicely, I''ll grant you, but the notion that the same set of letters stands for two different words seems improbable at best."

"But not impossible," I suggested.

Inspector Sparrow was a chivalrous man. "Indeed not, Mrs. Smart." He paused. "Revenge for Rachel." he repeated again, this time more thoughtfully. "An unorthodox interpretation to be sure, but, then again, your unorthodoxy is the reason I requested your assistance. However, if that is to be our working theory, it does raise one important question."

"What's that?" Max asked.

"Who is Rachel?"

Max shrugged. "How should I know? I'm a stranger in town."

The answer to that question came the next day when Chief Inspector Sparrow paid us a visit in our suite at the Royal Park Hotel.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he got right to the point.

"My department has spent the night scouring the Public Record and we believe that the Rachel in question is Lady Rachel Musgrave. She died exactly one year to the day before the first of our murders. The Musgraves are a wealthy family but not among the major nobles so her death did not make much of a splash at the time."

"How did she die?" I asked.

"Drowning after falling overboard from her private yacht."

"Well, that must have made a splash," Max commented.

The inspector remained stone-faced. Max glanced at me and I shook my head slightly. Max was not always the best judge of when humor was appropriate.

"It turns out that the five victims were all guests on board the yacht when she fell, but the death was ruled accidental and no one was charged with any offence."

"Obviously someone didn't agree with the verdict," Max said.

"That would be Rachel's half-brother Reggie," the inspector replied. "Evidently he made quite a scene at the inquest insisting that Rachel had been pushed overboard by someone on the yacht. Furthermore, in his youth he spent some time in Hamburg while with the Merchant Navy, so he would be familiar with both German and Semaphore.""

'Then Reggie is our suspect."

"Yes, that's why I'm here. My men and I are on the way to Musgrave Manor to interview him. I thought you both may care to come along and witness the denouement of our little drama."

We needed no further persuasion and in less than an hour we found ourselves on the doorstep of an imposing albeit rundown mansion.

Sparrow knocked on the door, rang on the bell, and tapped on the window, too, but there was no response from inside.

We were mulling our next move when we heard a voice behind us.

"Tally ho, chaps! And Miss," he added when he saw me. "What's all the jolly ruckus?"

The speaker was as much of a stereotypical English gentleman as you would wish to see, complete with umbrella and bowler hat.

"I'm Chief Inspector Sparrow of Scotland Yard and these are my associates Mr. and Mrs. Smart from the United States. May I enquire as to who you are?"

"Teddy Milverton's the name. Just in for the day to visit Cousin Reggie. I say, he's not in any sort of trouble, is he?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of our investigation, However, it is quite urgent that we speak with him."

"Cousin, eh?" said Max. "You don't happen to have a key to the place, do you?"

"Frightfully sorry, no. In point of fact, I've never been here before. Just thought I'd pop in for a birthday surprise, don't you know?"

Sparrow frowned. "Birthday? According to our records, Reggie was born in October."

"Surprise! Haw!" Milverton guffawed and chuckled at his own joke.

The three of us consulted out of Milverton's earshot. The Inspector decided that even if Reggie was out he might have left behind a clue to his next victim, and ordered his men to break down the door.

Milverton followed us into a small vestibule and beyond that to a spacious living room where we made a grim discovery. In the middle of the floor lay a man's body; beside it, the now-familiar sheet of paper. Other than that, it was unlike the previous five crime scenes. The body had not been mutilated. Instead, there was a single gunshot wound to the chest, apparently self-inflicted; the weapon still clutched in the victim's hand.

"How horrible," I whispered.

"I know," Max replied. "It's going to be very hard to get that blood out of the carpet."

"By Jove, it's Reggie," Milverton said. "He's . . . " He trailed off, unable bring himself to finish the sentence.

"Dead," Max filled in helpfully.

"Quite so," Sparrow agreed. "It would appear that Reggie's final victim was himself." He squatted so as to examine the paper without picking it up. "A suicide note," he announced. "With a stick figure scrawled in the corner. The positioning of the arms appears to be consistent with the semaphore code for the letter L. As you predicted." He leaned closer. "The note reads: 'I'm sorry, Rachel. I am as guilty as any of them. I should have been there to protect you'." He stood up. "A sad ending, if I may say so."

"The Dancing Man Murderer a member of my own family," Milverton murmered. "It's a shock to one's system."

Max regarded him suspiciously. "Really? You don't look shocked."

"Stiff upper lip and all that, I expect."

"Yes," Max replied, but I could see that he was unconvinced.

I looked at Milverton anew. Maybe his ingenuous air was a little too mannered at that.

"But an open-and-shut case, as you fellows call it, what?" he enquired.

"Quite," said Inspector Sparrow. He adressed Milverton: "On behalf of Scotland Yard, I extend my deepest condolences." He turned to Max. "I think our work here is done, Mr. Smart. Wouldn't you agree?"

Max took his eyes off Milverton, looked down at the body, and then turned back to Sparrow. "I think not, Inspector. This is not a case of suicide. This man was murdered. And I believe our bereaved is also our killer."

This pronouncement hit the room like a bomb.

"That's pre-pre-posterous!" Milverton spluttered.

"I'd rather you said it was ridiculous," Max replied calmly.

"Why?"

"Because you're spitting all over me."

"What leads you to make such an outlandish accusation?" Sparrow asked.

"Well, first of all, that so-called suicide note is unsigned."

"Which is not unusual, as I'm sure you know."

"And there are certain things about this room that don't quite fit."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that the clock on the wall is three minutes slow, the sofa cushions don't match the sofa, and that side table would look better just a little to the left."

"This is riduiculous!" Milverton protested.

"There. Was that so hard? Dry as a bone."

"I've never heard such addle-pated blather!"

"Well, keep listening and you'l hear a lot more."

"Mr. Smart, I hardly think-" Sparrow began.

"Then there's the matter of the barking dog."

"I didn't hear any barking dog," said the inspector.

"Of course not. But if Milverton here had really never been to the house before, the dog wouldn't have known him and it would have barked."

"What dog?" Milverton demanded.

"The dog I noticed outside when we got here."

"I didn't see any dog."

"Inspector?"

"I didn't see a dog either."

"99?"

"I'm afraid not, Max."

"Reggie doesn't even own a dog," Milverton added.

"How 'bout a cat?"

"No."

"Tell me. Did your cousin own any sort of pet?"

"There's a fishbowl on the table in the corner," I offered.

"Dogfish?"

"Goldfish."

"This line of questioning doesn't appear to be getting us anywhere," Inspector Sparrow interrupted. "In any case, if there were a dog, it would have barked at us, too."

I could see the frustration on Max's face; sure in his own mind that he was right, but unable to put his finger on the evidence to prove it. But moments like this had often preceded one of his astonishing breakthroughs.

Milverton smirked. "Then I'll be toddling off. If it's all right with you, Inspector."

"By all means. And our apologies for any inconvenience."

"I should say so."

Max scowled as he watched Milverton stalk from the room. Then suddenly he frowned. Then the cloud lifted from his face and I knew that something wonderful was about to happen. "Just a minute, Milverton," he said steadily. "where do you think you're going?"

"The inspector said I could leave."

"Then why are you walking away from the door?'

"Houses have back doors, old boy."

"I know," Max replied. "But how do you know the way to it?'

"Well, I, er ..."

"If you've never been in this house before, as you claim, then wouldn't it be more natural to leave the same way you came in?"

Max's voice began to take on that special quality that always gained attention. That special edge that always made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"I submit that you sneaked into the house from the back and cruelly murdered Richie -"

"Reggie."

"Reggie, yes, in cold blood! When you heard us outside, you left the same way and walked around to the front to make it appear that you arrived after us."

"That's absurd."

"I notice that you're wearing gloves. Strange on such a warm day."

"They're part of my ensemble," Milverton asserted.

"Patent leather, very nice."

"Thank you."

"I submit that you wore those gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints."

"Even if that were true, you couldn't prove it."

"I don't have to prove it. Like all cunning criminals, you overlooked one small detail: If you fired the gun before you put it into Reggie's hand, your fingerprints won't be on the gun but there will be gunshot residue on the gloves."

Milverton appealed to Inspector Sparrow. "Surely you're not taking this twaddle seriously."

"To the contrary, Mr. Milverton," Sparrow replied. "I find it quite plausible. However, in either case, it will be simple enough to check your gloves for gunshot residue at the Yard, but I warn you: If you're guilty it will go easier on you if you confess now."

"This is ridiculous," Milverton bleated.

"It's too late to play nice now," said Max.

Milverton's eyes darted around the room as though he was thinking of trying to make a run for it, but burly officers had quietly positioned themselves in front of the all the doors and windows. He was trapped and he knew it. Thanks to Maxwell Smart. This was one of those times when I felt that my heart might literally burst from my chest with pride.

He glared at Max and all trace of his foppish facade faded. "Damn you, Smart," he seethed. "Very well. I confess!"

"Take this down, Sergeant Poole," Sparrow directed. "Mr. Milverton is about to confess to six murders."

"Seven." He spoke blankly now, resigned.

"Seven?" Max repeated with a frown. "Of course! You killed Rachel, too!"

"I hadn't intended to. I went on board the yacht that night simply to confront her. I'm a Musgrave by blood - we share a grandfather - but my father was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I implored my cousin Rachel to recognize my claim, but she laughed in my face. There was a struggle and she fell overboard.

"I didn't think any of the guests saw me, but after the inquest I started getting letters threatening me with blackmail. I didn't know which one it was so I had to kill them all."

"And that's when you hit on the idea of blaming the murders on Reggie and making it look like he committed suicide, leaving you as the only claimant to the Musgrave money and title," Max concluded.

"Yes. That snivelling half-brother of hers had made himself an obvious suspect by making such a fuss at the inquest, and I was incensed that Rachel had made him her sole heir when he wasn't even of our bloodline. I thought it was poetic justice."

"Well, now you'll face British justice," said Sparrow crisply. "Sergeant Poole. Place this man under arrest. And send for the coroner."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant clapped a pair of handcuffs on Milverton's wrists, then he and his men herded him out though the front door leaving Max, Inspector Sparrow and me to await the coroner.

"Max! That was brilliant!" I gushed.

"Elementary, 99."

"Yes, Mr. Smart, very well observed. I'll admit I've had my doubts but, if not for you, the bounder would have gotten away with it."

"Thank you, Inspector." Max set his gaze on the middle distance. "And so it must always end for those who would follow the path of evil - instead of goodness."

"Indeed," said Sparrow.

"There's just one loose end," Max went on.

"Oh?"

"I could have sworn I saw some sort of animal prowling around outside when we arrived."

"Perhaps you did," Inspector Sparrow replied. "Some of the local residents have been reporting what they say sounds like some supernatural creature howling from somewhere on the moor on the other side of the Baskerville estate where no creature ought to be, but we've been unable to identify the source." He smiled. "Perhaps you and your charming wife might visit us again sometime and help us solve that mystery, too."

"We'd be happy to, Inspector," said Max. "Working with Scotland Yard is always a pleasure."

And we did. But that's another story.