A Slipper in Bohemia

A SLIPPER IN BOHEMIA

One day, Saturday to be specific, I was journeying from a patient’s to my home. But due to heavy traffic the hansom had to go through Quaker Street. I remembered that Hemlock Jones had borrowed twenty shillings from me. Feeling an overpowering greed to get my money back, I ordered my cab to stop. I tried looking through the window for signs of life, but all was dark and I could not see any sign of Jones pacing in his study. I rang the bell and was shown up the familiar chamber by Mrs. Hud-son.
Hemlock was playing his violin in a sad, slightly inefficient manner. His face was pale and his cheeks were deep inside his mouth. He ushered me to an armchair beside him and suddenly threw his violin aside and sat silently facing the fire.
“It’s a most terrible to happen during your visit, Whatson.” he said “You remember the Persian slipper?”
“Yes, I do. It had your favorite Shag tobacco and you had brought it from a street hawker for ten pounds.”
“Well, you will be grieved to know that it has been stolen.
“What! You, Hemlock, the terror of solicitors!” I exclaimed, but in my mind I thought “Good! This will teach him a lesson not to borrow money from far-away relatives!”
“I really can’t believe this Jones. You, of all people! ”
“Yes, my dear Whatson, such things do happen. Now enough of this trifle! I think that I can safely say that you had been over a patient’s house, is it not?”
“How the deuce did you deduce that?”
“You have blood marks on your vest which shows that you had visited a patient for operation. Besides, you are carrying your tool box, which you usually carry while visiting a patient.” he said.
“Truly astounding, Jones!” I exclaimed, although I had carried the tool box to kill him if he refused to pay.
“Besides that, I think this would interest you.” Jones said with a shy smile.
It was a sheet of the worst quality foolscap which could be ever found, torn in places and yellow with age. On it was written-

“Mr. Jones, tonight at exactly seven o clock, a man dressed in a red jacket will visit you. He might wear a mask, so please don’t think him to be a robber lunatic and listen to his queries. It will be of the utmost importance. Please postpone any other cases that you have. You will be paid. ”

“Well, Watson, I think our visitor is an eccentric one who barely cares for his family. He will send a messenger, who, undoubtedly, is the writer of this message himself. He has ink splattered on his forefinger which shows carelessness. Well, I think I hear the man on the stairs.”
I heard the thumping of footsteps on the stairs. A minute later a man emerged from the door. He was about seven feet tall, with the chest and limbs of a man who had been fasting for several months. He was a shabby man who wore a black overcoat, black trousers and a pair of branded shoes. There was no red jacket.
He also wore a Guy Fawkes mask over which he wore a top hat. He had an air of royal birth; He always stood erect and his manner of talking was pleasant.
“Well, Mr. Jones, we meet on a cold London night! The weather might give you an idea of my problem.” He said with shivers.
“A cold-blooded murder, no doubt.” I said. “Correct! And do you know who was murdered yesterday night?”
“Who, Who?” Jones barked.
“My father!” Exclaimed our client hysterically.
“What! Murder, Mystery and hysteria all in one! Pray let me have the details now!” said Hemlock.
“Well, the facts are these. My father, Sir Willcox James Porterfield, was taking an evening stroll in the mansions when I heard a most blood-curdling scream. On reaching the place where the noise occurred, I found my wife and the dead body of my father. Irish was holding a bloody knife in her hand and was staring at me, the knife inside my father’s chest. How such a crime had occurred I don’t know. There was no enmity between my wife and my father. He never objected to my choice of a wife or anything of that sort. Please do tell me what to do!” he said madly.
“Calm down, man!” Jones consoled, though I thought he was suspicious of his wife’s choice. “You are in a terrible dilemma! Whatson! Come here! Pour brandy down his throat! Now!”
I hurriedly did as I was told to do. On removing his mask, I saw a terribly agitated face, with lines and other pale features. We waited for a few minutes while I kept pushing brandy down his throat. A while later Hemlock had revived the patient and asked him to leave as he was feeling very excited at the thought of solving a new case.

(NEXT MORNING)

“Get up, Whatson! Get up!”
On opening my eyes, I found the loathsome face of Hemlock Jones, almost insane with excitement. His breath smelled of tobacco. Just the thing you wanted on a Sunday morning.
“There is no need to dress up now Whatson! We must immediately go to our noble friend’s hotel now. I have hailed a hansom, so for god’s sake get up!”
This had to be the worst case till now which I had the misfortune to experience that time. In my nightshirt and pajamas I sat with Jones in the coach.
“I just had an urgent phone call from Jeaves ed Patterson, our client. He says that he is going somewhere” he ended.
“What!” I exclaimed “Where is he going?”
“How in the name of Shag tobacco would I know?” He said
“Well, I thought he would tell you on the phone.”
“My dear Whatson, Even a complete dimwit like you can figure that out, can you not? Now we must prepare to get down, for Bingham is near.”
The hansom screeched in front of a most preposterously designed tow-storied hotel, with moths eating the wooden doors and window sills. An air of gloom hung around the building. Ivy hung from the upper windows. It looked so pathetic that it had almost made me throw up. Jones thumped my chest and told me to breath easy.
“Talk, Whatson!”
“Who is the doctor here, man?” I said “this is really starting to irritate me.”
“I beg you to shut up, Watson. Think what my client would think if we approached his room throwing up and screaming about the state of things.”
Hemlock asked the lodger if any man by the name of Jeaves were staying in the house.
“I’m really sorry, sir, but that gentleman had just left a few minutes ago” she said.
“Did he tell you where he was going?” Hemlock asked eagerly.
“Yes, sir, he went to Quaker Street to meet a gentleman called Helmock or Hellock, I can’t remember. Hey! Where…?”
“Quick, Whatson! Quick!” Jones kept shouting “Heavens forgive me if I am too late!”
“Why, Jones, what’s the matter?” I said.
“I had told Jeaves that if he were bored and wanted to go to Hide Park Corner he should tell the lodger ‘Quaker Street’.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“At Irish Elder’s, our innocent woman suspect. Hansom! Hey you out there!” he screamed.
“Corny Lodge, Mongoose line Avenue, St. Bon’s Timber, as fast as you can!” he said.
“Now Watson (he said, after we were in the cab) I knew something like this would happen. We are going to settle the matter of the Persian Slipper forever. Oh, things are getting really dark now!”
“Hey, coachman! Can’t you drive faster?” He said.
“Sir, this is the fastest that I can run the horses.”
BLAM! BLAM! Jones was firing his revolver in the air.
“Hurry up, man! Can’t this thing go faster?”
“Stop the firing, you’re scaring the beasts!” The driver shouted.
It was too late. The excited driver had fallen from his seat and the horses were sprinting wildly towards Corny Lodge.
“Just look at what you did Jones!” I cried “The coachman has fallen!”
“No time for trifles now, Whatson!” Jones said “listen to me very closely.” And we were discussing a plan with about ten seconds to jump out or die.
“Elder’s henchmen will be drawn towards the noise of the crash. They will carry me inside the mansion. I am giving you this torch. When I give the signal you must throw it at Elder’s face and shout ‘It’s a hoax’, you hear me!” Jones said in five seconds.
“Yes, I understand!” I said in a second.
“Then jump now!” He took three seconds to do the following-
Now this was really unexpected. Just as I opened the door, Jones pushed me out of the coach. I must have injured my arm; I felt a sting in my muscles. You could say that I was a second away from death’s door. But all my thoughts were frozen with fear when I saw the hansom crash at the mansion’s Backyard. The horses ran away in all directions. I hid myself behind a cluster of bushes, with my service revolver in my hand. I saw a throng of people, both well and ill dressed, rush out towards the backyard. They were all inside the hansom, fighting to look for passengers. A while later I saw them carry a limp Hemlock inside the mansion. I thought of calling the Bobbies when I realized that Jones still had to repay my twenty shillings which he had borrowed. With my mind set for revenge I ran towards the mansion.
I stationed myself close towards the window. Through it, I saw a woman whom I knew could be Irish Elder, wearing a dress which was patched at least god-knows-how-many-times. Such an ugly and dirty woman she was that I longed to shoot her with my revolver. On a sofa sat Jones, bleeding profusely from his head and raising his hand like he was being exorcised. I knew that it was the signal I was waiting for and lit the torch and threw it through the window.
“It’s a hoax!” I screamed. The results were terrifying.
The torch, instead of hitting Elder, hit Jones squarely on the face. In an instant everyone shouted “It’s a hoax!” Irish was so terrified she fainted and all the people in the house rushed to revive her. Jones ran out of the house and caught hold of my hand.
“You complete donkey, why did you hit my face?” he snarled.
“I’m sorry Jones, my aim was wrong, forgive me!” I moaned.
“You are forgiven. Now come, follow me” He said in his robotic manner.
The next thing to do, as Jones said, was to go to Hyde Park Corner. We hailed a hansom and were soon rattling along Hyde Park Corner. I was afraid that he was going to scare the horses again, but nothing of that sort occurred. The hansom screeched to a halt. Near the entrance we found Patterson smoking Shag tobacco and sipping a can of soda.
“Look how relaxed he is! The old scoundrel!” Jones said.
“Ah, Mr. Jones, How pleasant to see you” the noble said between a mouthful of hotdog.
In an instant Jones had cocked his revolver at Jeaves’ head.
“Give me my Persian Slipper!” He said with a hiss.
“What is the meaning of this insolence, Jones?” Our client said in a scared voice.
“I know it. I knew it. And I will have it!” shouted Jones “Listen to me”
“You came to my chamber the day before you came to visit us. I told you that I have to go to the toilet. But before that happened, you had exclaimed “Oh, I wish I had that slipper!” At that moment, I knew you meant “I will have that slipper once and for all!”
So when I came back I had noticed that the Persian slipper had gone. Besides that, when you left the room, I saw a trail of fluffy, black cottony dust which I recognized as Shag. That made me sure that you had hidden the slipper under your vest. And the day you came to consult us, you were smoking a pipe, the flavor of which I recognized as Shag tobacco. On your overcoat, a small fluff of tobacco was lingering and your mouth smelt of Shag tobacco. Watson here told me that when he poured brandy down your inscrutable throat he smelt Shag tobacco. When I went to visit you at your lodgings, I asked the lodger whether you smoked or not. She asked me to consult Billy, your bellboy. The observant lad was none other than Letstrade, of the Wonderland Bard. He told me that you smoked a strong, black tobacco and there was a very familiar looking slipper in that room. Need I tell you more? Oh yes, that moment Whatson here threw a torch at my face, which aroused much excitement during which I escaped and followed the trail of shag tobacco and came over here” He finished in a breathless voice.
I looked at the place where our client stood, or at least, was standing a few minutes ago. He ran away while Jones was giving his lecture!
“Curse him, Whatson! That traitor of a smoker! But what is this?”
I looked down and saw, to my astonishment, that there was a slipper on the ground.
“Hooray, Watson! This is the Persian slipper! The Persian slipper! The one which he carried! Ha, Yes!” He cried, through tears of joy.
“Jones” I said.
“Yes, what’s wrong?” he said happily.
“My twenty shillings which I lent you and you did not return” I asked.
“Oh, here” he said, fumbling “Here! Your twenty shillings!”
“God bless you, Jones!” I said, and walked away from him.
At midnight, we received a telegram from Letstrade saying that Jeaves and Irish had fled to the continent. They were secretly engaged to each other and had married quietly in a church at sunset. They had also found the murderer of Sir Will Cox. He was killed by Irish who had been helped by Jeaves. We never heard from the couple but the case was solved and no more of it was talked about by anymore, save when Jones smoked a pipe of shag.