For the Gazette, but I wanted some opinions first. I know it's dumb - but is it funny??
(excuse lack of formatting, please.)
The Case of the Missing Cigar Case
It has often occurred to me to wonder what possessed the mother of my dear friend, the great detective Headlock Bones, to give a poor defenceless young child such an outlandish name. And as I sat in the aforementioned detective's sitting room, smoking my pipe in thoughtful silence (Headlock was busy with a delicate science experiment and I dared not interrupt him), I mulled over the woman's character. Surely she had been eccentric, to say the least.
"My father did it." The deep voice startled me, and I jumped slightly, turning to look at Headlock. He was bent over his phials with a studious expression, yet I who knew him so well, caught the twitch at the corner of his lips.
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name. My father was the one who gave it to me, not my mother."
I started with astonishment. "My dear Headlock, how…what…" I paused for a moment. "Was I talking to myself? I do it sometimes, you know."
"I heard you say nothing."
"But…Headlock, not even you…that is, how could you possibly have known what I was thinking?"
He corked a phial of amber fluid. Leaping to his feet, he strode over and leaned against the mantelpiece. "My dear Doctor Whatsup, your mind is as crystal. In essence, clear."
I begged him to explain, and after a few seconds, he obliged. (Headlock is every so obliging that way) Steepling his fingertips together in a way that is not unfamiliar to me, he spoke. "Though you may have thought that I was deeply engrossed in my experiment, I was also observing you. My mind has the unusual ability of being able to focus on two, four, or even five or six things at once, and I was able to follow your thought processes while still concentrating on my experiment."
I opened my mouth to beg him to get to the point, but he forestalled me by lifting a hand. "Elementary, my dear Whatsup. I observed you sit down, and when a small, quite distinct pucker appeared between your eyes, I knew you were in deep thought. I followed your path of vision to the plaque on the wall, inscribed with my name, and the pucker deepened. At first you smiled, but after a few moments, your eyebrows drew together in disapproval. I knew that you were wondering what kind of a mother would name her son Headlock. And so I decided to make your mind easy - my mother was perfectly sane."
I laughed heartily. "Of course, of course. Quite a simple explanation, really."
Headlock frowned, and he spoke a trifle severely. "Things are always simple once explained." He gave it a moment to sink in, and then smiled upon me, as though I was quite stupid, but unable to help it, and therefore to be pitied. "COME IN!" he roared.
I jumped, and my pipe fell from my insensible hand. "I beg your pardon!" I gasped.
The door opened, and a portly gentleman of about sixty-five years stepped into the room. I gaped at Bones. Apparently he had known that the gentleman was preparing to knock on the door. But how? The strange gentleman had the same question. He removed his hat and held it in slightly shaking hands. "My d-dear s-sir," he stammered. "How d-did you k-know I was out t-there?"
Headlock Bones looked annoyed. "I know everything, Mr. Reginald Rowle. You belong to an exclusive club where you are known as Reggie, you were a sailor in your younger days, and have since married and had three children - two boys, Frank and Joseph, and a girl. (the marriage is a happy one, I might add) You suffer from asthma, and have an old shoulder wound that used to give you trouble, but no longer does, not since you took a fall from your horse. You smoke cigars and are a keen lover of horses. You have taken up writing your memoirs rather recently, and-" I daresay he would have continued his lecture until doomsday, but the gentleman interrupted him. His mouth had fallen open during the speech, and he closed it with a audible snap. "My dear…my very dear Mr Bones! Reports of you have not been exaggerated, I assure you! My good man, you are wonderful…but wonderful! Astounding! Amazing! And may I ask how you have known such things about me?"
"They are all true, then?"
"Of course, of course!" Mr. Rowle enthused. Suddenly, a frown appeared on his forehead. "However, I daresay you've read all about me somewhere."
"Not at all. I have never heard of you before tonight."
"Then how? May I beg you to explain, sir?"
"Elementary, my dear Reggie - I may call you Reggie, mayn't I? Thank you. Now where was I? Oh, yes. When you took off your hat, I was able to glimpse on the hatband your name, embroidered, not written. No doubt by a loving wife. And on the outside of the hat, a piece of white paper is stuck to it, inscribed with the word, 'Reggie.' No doubt done by one of the more exuberant members of an exclusive club. There is an anchor tattooed on the back of your neck, almost - but not quite- covered by your hair, which proves that you have been a sailor. Besides, you have the peculiarly rolling gait learnt on long voyages. It is not as pronounced as it would have been had you been a sailor at this particular time, but has almost disappeared completely, which tells me that you have been retired for thirty or forty years, at least. As for the children, I noticed that your boots were slightly dusty, and in the dust of each one was written a name in a childish scrawl. The dust was put there by your boys, because your wife would never allow you to go anywhere with dusty boots. I see you are wearing a faded, not particularly lovely flower in your buttonhole - the gift of a small girl and worn out of affection by a loving father. There was a certain shortness of breath when you arrived at my room, which accounts for the asthma, and you are holding your left arm at a peculiar angle - doubtless the result of some long-lasting ache or discomfort. You showed no present discomfort when you accidentally hit against the doorway with that arm, so the pain has disappeared. You walk with a certain stiffness, and I deduced that it was caused by a fall off of a horse - I noticed you were a horse fancier by the gold horse-head pin in your cravat. As for the memoirs, your hands are liberally sprinkled with black ink, yet your fingers have not obtained the peculiar calluses of long association with a fountain pen. The ink is of such degrees of fading darkness that I deduced you have been writing something for about a week now - and nothing would persuade a respectable man like yourself to do secretarial work for so long unless you were writing your memoirs, and wouldn't trust a secretary to get everything down correctly."
Mr. Rowle threw back his head and laughed heartily. "I say! Nothing simpler! Quite obvious, when one thinks about it! I had begun to think there was something quite special about you, Mr. Headlock Bones. Now I see it's all very simple indeed!"
Headlock glared at him. "You came to me with a problem, I believe?" he inquired frostily.
"Yes, yes. You see, I can't find my jewelled cigar case anywhere, and I suspect that it has been stolen from me."
"I see. And what made you suspect this?"
"Well, I had been sitting at my desk, writing my memoirs. My cigar case was in plain view right in front of me. I heard my wife coming down the hallway, and I turned to see if she were coming in. She passed right by the open door, but when I turned back to the desk, my cigar case was gone! It was nowhere to be found, Mr. Bones! Now what do you think of that?"
"Hmm…difficult to say, sir," Bones murmured. "Your wife, I think, does not wholly approve of your smoking?"
"No, she hates it! I never smoke in front of her when I can help it."
"I see. And where there any strangers in the house?"
"Well…there's my wife's young brother, come for a visit. A very disreputable sort, very wild. I hate to say it, but he must have hidden in my study somewhere, and, dash it all, I don't know how he did it, but he must have taken it!"
"Hmm. Were you wearing anything large and voluminous during this incident?"
"Ah, you think that I wouldn't have been able to see behind myself if I were? No, I was wearing this very same overcoat. Just came in from the outdoors, having remembered something to write about. Didn't bother taking it off."
"Ah. And…this is a very important question, Mr. Rowle. A great deal depends on your answer. Did you happen to see a pink and indigo snail crawling across the floor?"
"A pink and…no, I can't say that I did."
"Ah-hah! Mr. Rowle, I know what happened to your cigar case. It is in your overcoat pocket. He held the door open for Mr. Rowle and ushered him out quickly, squelching his thanks and exclamations of awe. "Good day, sir!"
"Headlock. . . a pink and indigo snail?" I gasped, bewildered and befuddled.
"The snail had nothing whatsoever to do with the cigar case. I threw it in to mystify Mr. Rowle, who does not fully appreciate my talents of observation and deduction. He shall remain puzzled until his dying day, whereas if I had explained myself, he would have thought it nothing at all.
"Will you not explain to me, Bones? I am just as puzzled as he no doubt is."
"No, Dr. Whatsup. I won't." And he settled in his chair, muttering something about, "perfectly simple, indeed!" and "nothing special, pah!" in tones of the deepest sarcasm.
THE END