American Sherlocks

upon the floor beside his father, strangled as was supposed by the weight of that father’s arm. The theory is, and there seems to be none other, that the father, hearing a suspicious noise at the window, set down the child he was endeavouring to soothe and made for the bed and his own pistol, and, mistaking a reflection of the assassin for the assassin himself, sent his shot sidewise at a mirror just as the other let go the trigger which drove a similar bullet into his breast. The course of the one was straight and fatal and that of the other deflected. Striking the mirror at an oblique angle, the bullet fell to the floor where it was picked up by the crawling child, and, as was most natural, thrust at once into his mouth. Perhaps it felt hot to the little tongue; perhaps the child was simply frightened by some convulsive movement of the father who evidently spent his last moment in an endeavour to reach the child, but, whatever the cause, in the quick gasp it gave, the bullet was drawn into the larynx, strangling him.

‘That the father’s arm, in his last struggle, should have fallen directly across the little throat is one of those anomalies which confounds reason and misleads justice by stopping investigation at the very point where truth lies and mystery disappears.

‘Mrs Hammond is to be congratulated that there are detectives who do not give too much credence to outward appearances.’

We expect soon to hear of the capture of the man who sped home the death-dealing bullet.

PROFESSOR AUGUSTUS SFX VAN DUSEN (‘THE THINKING MACHINE’)

Created by Jacques Futrelle (1875-1912)

Is there a fictional detective even more cerebral than Sherlock Holmes? One more committed to the power of cold, unemotional reasoning? Step forward the extravagantly named Professor Augustus SFX Van Dusen, otherwise known as ‘The Thinking Machine’. Van Dusen was the creation of Jacques Futrelle. His most famous appearance is in a much-anthologised story entitled ‘The Problem of Cell 13’ in which the Professor applies his gigantic brain to the challenge of exiting an apparently escape-proof prison cell. (The story is included in my own anthology, The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes.) However, Futrelle wrote dozens of other tales about The Thinking Machine between 1905 and 1912, all of which are worth reading. Futrelle himself was born in Georgia and worked as a journalist in Atlanta before moving to New England to write for newspapers in New York and Boston. He began publishing fiction and both his novels and his short stories proved popular. One of the novels, The Diamond Master, was adapted for Hollywood three times in the silent era. In 1912, Futrelle visited England and booked passage back to New York on an ocean liner. Unfortunately, the liner was the Titanic. When ship met iceberg and sank, he was amongst nearly 1500 who drowned. His detective – brilliant, cantankerous and eccentric – lives on.

THE PROBLEM OF THE OPERA BOX

Gradually the lights dimmed and the great audience became an impalpable, shadowy mass broken here and there by the vagrant glint of a jewel or the gleam of white shoulders. There was a preliminary blare of horns, then the crashing anvil chorus of Il Trovatore began. Sparks spattered and flashed as the sledges rose and fell in exquisite rhythm while the clangorous music roared through the big theatre.

Eleanor Oliver arose, and moving from the front of the box into the gloom at the rear, leaned her head wearily against the latticed partition. Her mother, beside whom she had been sitting, glanced up inquiringly as did her father and their guest Sylvester Knight.

‘What’s the matter, my dear?’ asked Mrs Oliver.

‘Those sparks and that noise give me a headache,’ she explained. ‘Father, sit in front there if you wish. I’ll stay here in the dark until I feel better.’

Mr Oliver took the seat near his wife and Knight immediately lost interest in the stage, turning his chair to face Eleanor. She seemed a little pale and mingled eagerness and anxiety in his face showed his concern. They chatted together for a minute or so and under cover of darkness his hand caught hers and held it a fluttering prisoner.

As they talked the drone of their voices interfered with Mrs Oliver’s enjoyment of the music and she glanced back warningly. Neither noticed it for Knight was gazing deeply into the girl’s eyes with adoration in his own. She made some remark to him and he protested quickly.

‘Please don’t,’ Mrs Oliver heard him say pleadingly as his voice was raised. ‘It won’t be long.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to,’ the girl replied.

‘You mustn’t,’ Knight commanded earnestly. ‘If you insist on it I shall have to do something desperate.’

Mrs Oliver turned and looked back at them reprovingly.

‘You children chatter too much,’ she said good-naturedly. ‘You make more noise than the anvils.’

She turned again to the stage and Knight was silent for a moment. Finally the girl said something else that the mother didn’t catch.

‘Certainly,’ he replied.

He arose quietly and left the box. The swish and fall of the curtain behind him were smothered in the heavy volume of music. The girl sat white and inert. Knight found her in just that position when he returned with a glass of water. He had been out only a minute or so, and the encore to the chorus was just ending.

He offered the glass to Eleanor but she made no move to take it and he touched her lightly on the arm. Still she did not move and he leaned over and looked at her closely. Then he turned quickly to Mrs Oliver.

‘Eleanor has fainted, I think,’ he whispered uneasily.

‘Fainted?’ exclaimed Mrs Oliver as she arose. ‘Fainted?’

She pushed her chair back and in a moment was beside her daughter chafing her hands. Mr Oliver turned and glanced at them with languid interest.

‘What’s the matter now?’ he inquired.

‘We’ll have to go,’ replied Mrs Oliver. ‘Eleanor has fainted.’

‘Again?’ he asked impatiently.

Knight hovered about anxiously, helplessly as the father