The Adventures of Sherlock Jones

"A Motorcar Engine that runs on mother's milk? Intriguing concept, eh, Datson?" Mr. Sherlock Jones's ebon orbs twinkled my way; he tugged at the luxuriant steel-wool "do" under his deerstalker cap with a spatulalike Afro comb and touched a match to the bowl of his calabash, sending clouds of his favorite tobacco--Julian Bond Street--scudding with aromatic militance across our sitting room. The pipe had been a gift from the Newport Jazz Festival for proving that the untypical white blotches on the faces of the Count Basie aggregation were not, as first feared, (continued on page 90) Adventures of Sherlock Jones (continued from page 81) manifestations of some tropical disease but merely Kem-Tone inadvertently spilled into the trumpet section by a careless painter at Carnegie Hall and subsequently sprayed into the air during a wailing version of Shiny Stockings, the affair I like to call "The Adventure of the Speckled Band."

"Yes, Mr. Jones and Dr. Datson," said our eminent caller, Lord Tappet-Spanner, the automotive tycoon, who had always been the prime innovator in his industry. Whereas the other manufacturers gave the motorist such options as power brakes, power steering and power windows, Lord Tappet-Spanner went a step further and threw in a Powers model... with the usual warranty, 12 months or 12 affairs, whichever came first. "Imagine, a motor so unusual it does not require petrol but can go for days on just a few drops of the old booby juice."

"Indeed," Jones said, "such an invention would have enormous implications in the energy field." His interest acutely stoked by Lord Tappet-Spanner's mind-boggling revelation, my companion sprang up and played a water can upon the Colombian coca plant in the corner, which would soon yield enough ecstasy to keep Jones's gold spoon and splayed nostrils occupied for many days. The exotic flora also had been a gift, this from the Melbourne Music Appreciation Society for Jones's rescue of a globally famous pop singer in danger of being gnawed to death Down Under by a ten-foot rodent mutation, the affair I titled "The Giant Rat of Sinatra."

"Quite so, Mr. Jones," agreed the portly nobleman. "No fear of future Arab boycotts, no more domination by the oil cartel...."

"With mother's milk fueling the old Morris Minor," joshed Jones, "it would be 'Adieu, Exxon, hello, Nipplon' and," he sang lustily, " 'You can trust your car to the one who wears the bra.'"

"Excellent wordplay, Jones," I interjected in sheer admiration, dropping the hibachi I was knitting to applaud his phrasemaking.

"Elementary, my dear Datson. Do go on, Lord Tappet-Spanner."

"This engine," our guest continued, "which we've designated as the MM-8, is on the verge of success, although there were many scoffers in my industry who said 'tut-tut.'"

"Given the peculiar nature of the power source, I would have said 'tit-tit' myself," Jones said, jumping in irrepressibly.

"Sparkling bon mot, Jones," I said.

"Elementary, my dear Datson."

"Gentlemen, my conglomerate is now in the process of constructing the first model of the MM-8 block. All the motorist need do is to get a quick fill-up at any convenient corner from a strategically placed lactating mother."

"Oooowwweeeee, yo' lactatin' mothuh, yo'!" And Jones's hitherto flawless Oxonian accent was routed by something more deeply embedded in his being, proving that you could take the man out of the South Side of Chicago but never the South Side of Chicago out of the man. As if to underscore this dictum, Jones reflexively felt for the razor stashed in his six-inch, klunky, Superfly shoe. "But now, Lord Tappet-Spanner"--Oxford was again dominant in his voice, having pushed ghetto to the back of the throat--"you have journeyed to Baker Street on this abysmal night because you are deeply disturbed."

"Yes," he said, "but how in the world... ?"

"Simple," Jones said, smiling, as he darted to the fireplace to baste a revolving rack of ribs with the prized Jane Pittman Soul Sauce. "There is a patch of bloodied toilet tissue on your neck, suggesting hurried, careless shaving; on your left foot, a bunny-rabbit bedroom slipper and on your right, a Head ski; and a coat hanger protruding from the back of your jacket, all of which clearly indicates to the trained observer the picture of a distraught individual."

"Amazing," breathed Lord Tappet-Spanner.

"Wearing your wife's panty hose over your trousers did not hinder my analytical flow, either," Jones noted.

"Brilliant deduction, Jones" I said.

"Elementary, my dear Datson."

"Why," asked our visitor, "do you keep saying elementary?"

Over those black eyes came the mist of reminiscence. "Because in Alabama, where I was born, they wouldn't let us attend the all-honkie high school. Hence, I only went as far as----"

"Elementary," I broke in maliciously.

"I'll do the funny shit, Fuji face," Jones said, snarling, as he went for me with stiffened hands. Luckily, I was prepared for his onslaught and ducked the flailing chops that whizzed over my inscrutable Japanese features. For the next minute, we worked off our aggressions with a medley of our all-time hits... karate, kung fu, judo and an occasional Harlem Murphy, the last the old knee in the nutshop that Jones had learned from an elderly maiden aunt with whom he had summered as a youth. Dear Aunt Winona had owned a ranch at 116th Street and Lenox Avenue where she rode herd over 2000 head of roaches. (Jones had oft regaled me with amusing anecdotes about roundup and branding time.)

Lord Tappet-Spanner's look of reproach halted our playful combat and brought us back to the matter at hand. "Yes, I am distraught. I have irrefutable evidence that major portions of the MM-8 plans have been stolen by systematic espionage and are already on the assembly line of a foreign automotive concern whose name I cannot divulge, but"--and his tone turned conspiratorial--"the initials are G. M."

"General Motors," said Jones, without batting an eye.

The lord's jaw dropped. "You... you knew? That encyclopedic mind never ceases to amaze, sir. Now, if they mass-produce the MM-8 before we do, it can mean economic disaster for the Empire."

"No doubt you have instituted a security screen," said Jones, knocking the red-hot ash from his calabash into my palm to keep my interest at a high level.

"The tightest, sir. The area of top-secret research is completely sealed off from the rest of my factory. Only three men are working in that inner compound and they are not permitted to leave until they've been subjected to the most exhaustive scrutiny, which includes electronic scanning of clothing, internal and external body searches, etc."

"In that sealed-off compound, is there a capability for microfilming?"

"Yes. The dhree men use that special camera constantly to preserve records of their notes. I, of course, understand what you're driving at, Mr. Jones, but we precluded that threat at the onset by installing a brand-new X-ray apparatus through which the men must pass on their way out. This device totally fogs and destroys any film they might be concealing ... whether developed or undeveloped."

"With the country's economic interests at stake surely this is a matter for the Yard or M.I. 5 or 6," Jones said casually, "and does not necessitate calling in a humble private detective, superior though I may be to any human on God's good earth."

"I dare not summon those agencies, Mr. Jones, because the three men in charge of that project are"--and his voice cracked--"my nephews. Each bears one of the most prestigious names in the kingdom and, ergo, the utmost discretion is required to prevent a scandal that would rock die peerage if one of them is the rotter. I implore you, sir, take the case."

"My lord, I sympathize with you in your plight, but at this very moment, my talents are needed for an even more pressing situation. One of England's most beloved and respected hookers is in danger of having her good name besmirched by the base charge that she has been seen in the company of a politician."

Lord Tappet-Spanner frowned: "Deplorable business, this blackmail."

"I prefer the term whitemail," Jones countered widi some asperity. "Why should we take the rap for everything?"

"But you must help me, Mr. Jones, you must," and in a trice that mighty captain of industry was on his knees before my friend, blubbering like a child.

Mulling over the man's plea, Jones, as was his wont, took down from the wall the battered alto saxophone once owned (continued on page 163) Adventures of Sherlock Jones (continued from page 90) by Bird and nimbly worked over the changes to Parker's Mood. At the end of a dazzling double-time passage, he un-puckered his lips from the reed and stared contemplatively at an object on the mantel, an exotic Persian slipper with an exotic Persian still in it. As she smiled at him, I remembered that she had also been a gift, a token of gratitude from the Whitechapel Merchants' Association for Jones's discovery that the garter belt, panties and chemise left at the scenes of the latest harlot murders belonged to that kinkiest of killers, Jack the Stripper. Then Jones whirled and said to our anxious guest, "My lord, I have decided to take the case."

"Bless you," gushed the exultant magnate. "You will not find me ungenerous. If you were of the Hebraic faith, I would have a tree planted for you in Israel. Considering your background, in your name a bomb will be planted in Rhodesia."

•••

The following noon found us inside Tappet-Spanner Ltd., being awaited by the motor mogul whose brow furrows had so deepened overnight with angst that they could have held enough crops to feed Bangladesh. "It's good you're here, Jones. My nephews have started the final phase and if that data leaks out, we're for it." At the lord's side was a young Chinese woman who, although attired in a prim, tailored business suit, still revealed a sensational construction that would have been the envy of the Tishman organization. "Gentlemen, this is my secretary, Miss Wu."

"Fi-i-in-n-ne-lookin' fox," and in Jones's voice, ghetto slammed a service ace at Oxford, but Oxford lobbed back elegantly:

"I say, Datson, bit of a smashing fortune cookie, eh, wot?"

"I know her type, Jones. That cookie could cost you a fortune," I riposted, whereupon Jones said testily:

"I told you before, yellow fellow, I do the shtick. Your gig is to worship me, immortalize my every utterance and see that my shirts and my rice aren't too starchy."

Stung by his imperiousness, I snapped, "Here you may be the premier detective Sherlock Jones, but remember, in Alabama, you were only Sam Spade."

Jones found that sally intolerable, cried, "Climb down off my back, Sony boy, 'cause I'm gonna whup yo'," and crouched in the stance of the master of openhanded combat in which he possessed a black belt, but, considering his pigmentation, who could tell? But just then, Miss Wu sensibly interposed her willowy configuration between us and as Jones and I drank in all that undulating Yangtze protein, we lost the urge to fight, remembering sagely that hands were created for more delightful purposes than splitting windpipes.

"May I pin on your security badges, sirs?" she trilled in a sweet singsong.

As she got close to affix mine, I whispered into that peach-toned ear, "Since we're both of the Asian persuasion, what say to a late-date plate of moo goo gai pan at Mr. Chow's and let the chopsticks fall where they may?"

Her smile remained painted on, but she thrust the point of the badge past my lapel deep into the flesh of my chest, then pinned it to the plastic square, her singsong mutating into an ugly hiss: "This is for my grandmother, who was raped at Nanking, Nipponese pig!" As a devotee of the code of Bushido, I stoically bore the agony. Later I might permit myself the luxury of an uninterrupted, 20-minute scream, but now was no time to exhibit effeteness before a mere woman.

Then Jones made his lecherous bid, with a sample of his sophisticated repartee: "Hey, Momma. Midnight at the oasis?" Oddly, this precipitated a trembling in her and she dropped the badge slated for his lapel. She knelt to retrieve it, but Jones, moving like white lightning (or its Swahili facsimile), swooped to the carpet and got it first. Noticing a powdery substance on the toes of her plain pumps, Jones remained in the kneeling position, plucked a hanky from the pocket of his Inverness cape, wet it with his lips and gave her a spit-shine in the old street-corner mode. I was shocked at this display of Tomism from a man so advanced in racial pride that with his tea he preferred Huey Newtons to Fig Newtons, but his rolling eyes seemed to say to me in apologia, Forgive me, but it's hard to break the habits of a lifetime. Indeed, die rhythmic slapping of the hanky inspired him to sing à la Bojangles:

"Oh, when a shine does yo' shoes, Dey's a melody in yo' heart."

With a grand flourish, he pointed to his handiwork, two brilliantly buffed pumps, but as he started to rise, I saw him pause at her pelvis, heard those broad nostrils emit a long snuffling sound, and when he did pull himself to his full height, I saw those carbon eyes flicker fractionally and almost heard the clicking of that Bowmar Brain. But whatever Jones had filed in the Rolodex of his mind he was keeping to himself.

Miss Wu, unauthorized to enter the inner compound, stayed behind as Lord Tappet-Spanner led us in. We traversed a long hallway leading to the MM-8 laboratory, walking past a number of small rooms that Jones meticulously examined with his magnifying glass. (A basically worthless device, as I knew quite well, but it always looked impressive on his itemized bill to the client: "Use of genuine sleuth's magnifying glass--90 guineas.") Vetted were a bathroom with shower, a cloakroom holding the nephews' coats, bowlers and bumbershoots and the aforementioned microfilm room with its special cameras. There was a fourth door, but its knob did not yield to Jones's twisting.

"Oh," said Lord Tappet-Spanner, "that's merely a utility washroom, Jones. Brooms, mops and that sort of paraphernalia, but you, of all people, should be familiar with.... Oh," and our host coughed daintily. "That was inexcusable bad taste on my part. Fact is, I adore you colored folk. Why, I have every record that Al Jolson ever made."

Jones let that bit of bigotry slide by, but I had no doubt that it would be revenged in another excessive item on the lord's bill.

"This utility washroom," the lord explained, "has two entrances, both on this side and from my suite in the outer compound. However, for security purposes, it has been bolted from the outside so no one in here can enter it."

Then we reached the lab itself and there, poring over charts and blueprints of the almost-completed engine, which hung from a chain in the center of the room, were three patrician-looking young men who wore white lab coats over their dark, dust-spattered trousers. "My lads," called out the magnate, "may I present Dr. Datson and the famed Baker Street detective, Mr. Sherlock Jones."

"Pleasure, sirs," said one of them, a reedy, fair-haired chap with fluttering hands. "I am Lord Windsor and this distressing business has my stomach tied in a knot. And you know how hard it is to tie a Windsor knot."

Jones's sinewy frame quivered, but he said through clenched teeth, "I'll overlook that."

The second young noble, who reeked of ennui, lassitude and a beakerful of accidie, offered a limp hand. "'J'doo. I am the Earl of Marlborough and my life is a drag. And you know how hard it is to drag on a Marlborough."

If it had been within Jones's power to turn white with anger, he would have. But though near the breaking point, he said icily, "I'll also overlook that."

"And I, sir," bellowed number three, an aggressive fellow with angry blue eyes, "am the Duke of Wellington and I have a beef. And you know how hard it is to prepare----"

But Jones's left hook was already sweeping up from the floor Sugar Ray style, its fearsome trajectory impacting on the young duke's jaw before the gratuitous remark concerning beef Wellington could slip out. Sent spinning like a Catherine wheel, he tumbled over benches, lathes and punch presses and ended up against the cinder-block wall with a head-cracking thump. He arose, shook his head and remarked offhandedly, "Curiously refreshing."

It being lunchtime, the nephews invited us to join in their simple but nourishing repast, a gigantic garlic pizza that they hotted up with a welder's torch and cut into the eight traditional slices. We washed down these pungent wedges with glasses of ice-cold seltzer from a large siphon. After the meal, the fastidious noblemen sought to expunge the lingering odor of the just-devoured Sicilian Frisbee. Windsor produced a spray container, using it liberally on his tongue. "Hate the bloody stuff," he said, smiling wanly, "but I use it twice a day." Marlborough shook a few golden drops from a tiny bullet-shaped bottle onto the back of his hand and held it to his lips. From a red packet, Wellington placed some particles between his expensively capped canines, triggering Jones's nostrils into another sniffing spasm.

"I perceive, my dear duke, that you tend to be a bit of a traditionalist. You're still using Sen Sen."

The duke's brows arched with surprise. "Yes, matter of fact. I discovered the stuff in a shop on Portobello Road and have been using it for months now. Would you care for some?" And when Jones nodded, Wellington shook some into Jones's palm, which soon held a dozen or so tiny black squares. "How did you identify them?"

'It so happens," Jones said, "that I have published the definitive monograph on the forty-nine best-known breath purifiers and I dare say this proboscis of mine could distinguish from ten yards off the difference between the brutal candor of a Listerine and the subtler bouquet of Binaca. Hence, I would be a poor expert, indeed, not to be able to identify the characteristic licorice-cum-parfum tang of Sen Sen, the daddy of them all."

"All very interesting, this display of nasal virtuosity," said an impatient Lord Tappet-Spanner, "but, damn it, Jones, time is of the essence."

"No," said Sherlock Jones, a new hardness in his demeanor, "in this case, the essence is of the essence." He pivoted on his high heels and stalked out of the lab.

Silence in the room.... I, too, mute. Had Jones found the crack in the case? If so, who was the traitor? Windsor? Marlborough? Wellington? Tappet-Spanner himself? Devoid of my colleague's ineffable powers of deduction, I did not even attempt in my own mind to guess the guilty party. But with a few moments to kill, there was one thing I could do, let loose the scream I'd been stifling ever since Miss Wu had pierced my flesh with the pin, and I did, long and loudly, but the sound died in my throat when the door to the utility washroom opened from the outer compound. Through it walked Sherlock Jones with Miss Wu in tow, on her downcast face a look of shame.

"So," said Lord Tappet-Spanner, "it was my Chinese secretary. I should have known better than to accuse my own dear, clean-cut Anglo-Saxon kin when it was the old Yellow Peril behind the plot all the time."

"Yes," wept the lovely maiden, "I am guilty."

"But only of loving not wisely but too well," said Jones, with uncharacteristic gentleness. "My dear, you were the unwitting espionage conveyance of your paramour."

"No, no," she gasped, and her hands flew theatrically to her breasts.

"Splendid notion," mused Jones, and his hands flew to her breasts, and so did mine, and so did the lord's, and the three of us spent a marvelous few moments kneading those insuperable Chinese love apples until Jones barked, "Enough! Back to the case!"

Now tension returned to every face as my friend began his peroration. "Miss Wu, when first we met, I was exceedingly curious as to why an otherwise well-dressed, impeccable amanuensis should have an unsightly layer of powder on the toes of her shoes, and so, utilizing my racial heritage as a cover, I did my obsequious shoeshine bit... for which, incidentally, you will receive a bill for twenty guineas, 'cause, Momma, dere's been some changes goin' down in the Shinola scene. No more of that two-bit shit. Having identified the powder, I became even more curious when, as I arose, I detected the heady scent of licorice. Initially, I presumed it to be the latest feminine-hygiene spray and inwardly I cheered. I've been terribly bored by women lately. They all seem to smell like a strawberry patch."

"What has all this to do with the stolen plans, man?" roared Tappet-Spanner.

"These two facts seemed relatively insignificant until you, Duke of Wellington, used that distinctive licorice-flavored Sen Sen, which told me immediately that you were meeting Miss Wu clandestinely in the utility washroom, where you, sir, were getting down to the real nitty-clitty and paying lip service to the fun-fur place for the purpose of espionage."

"I admit, Mr. Jones, that Miss Wu and I have, uh, been intimate in the past, but such meetings could have occurred anywhere. You have no proof," the duke said with disdain, "that ties me physically to the washroom."

"The dust on your knees," said Jones.

Wellington's mocking laugh rang out. "I have you there, you impetuous, overrated wog! All of us in this lab have dust on our trousers, due to the very nature of our work."

"Behold!" Jones commanded, as he snatched up the siphon, depressed the lever and sent a fizzing spray of cold seltzer across the knees of all three nephews.

Windsor and Marlborough jumped up and whooped, "Jolly fun, eh?" but Wellington's nasty laugh faded as the dust on his knees made a startling mutation from white to foaming blue.

"Yes," thundered Jones in triumph, "your dust is the same telltale hue as on this," and he whipped out the hanky he had flicked across Miss Wu's shoes. "Of course, it is axiomatic that virtually all utility-washroom floors are littered with patches of the ever-popular cleansing agent Ajax, and when Ajax is moistened, it turns... blue!"

"You'll never take me alive!" screamed the duke, dashing for the door, but a charge of chocolate surged by him and before Wellington reached the exit, there, barring it, was Sherlock Jones, his forefinger idly running down the length of his deadly sepia snickersnee.

"So you'll take me alive," he said.

•••

Back in our sitting room, a still-incredulous Lord Tappet-Spanner pondered, "Who would have thought that my own nephew would sell out to the oppo? Why? He had it all--money, title, stature...."

"Because," Jones said, "they knew Wellington was a fanatic collector of rare objects and, in exchange for his betrayal, they offered him something he could not resist--a zoological wonder: a mutant strain of lemming that at the height of the suicide season rushes to the sea, stops, thinks, 'I'm supposed to drown myself because of some insane tradition?' and dashes back to the safety of the land."

"But, Jones, old fellow," I interrupted, "you still haven't explained how Wellington got the MM-8 plans through security."

Jones waved his hand airily. "See if you can follow my train of thought."

"Your Soul Train of thought... or your Coltrane of thought?" I said, proving myself no slouch in the realm of ethnic humor.

"Buddha will get you for that one," Jones said, wagging a finger. "When Wellington was bribed by the rival firm, he set into motion a diabolical scheme. For some time, he had been carrying on with Miss Wu and noticed that she was driven into an erotic frenzy by oralism. He had also secretly substituted a micro-reduction lens in the microfilm-room camera, allowing him to reduce each vital component to the size of a Sen Sen. Since he made a point of constantly using those little black squares, who would have suspected one of them to be a microdot? In their hasty trysts in the washroom, which the poor lovesick maiden unbolted from her side to permit him access, he would drop to his knees, perform the old Mao Tse-tongue technique, depositing the Sen Sen in that fine fox's lair. She, no security risk, could leave the factory unvetted, and Wellington, with no incriminating film on his person, could sail through the X-ray apparatus, meet her later somewhere and remove the miniaturized data in his own sweet way. A rather unique case in one major aspect, because in order for the criminal to successfully do the job, he had to muff it."

"If I ever write up this case, Jones," I said, laughing gaily, "I shall most certainly dub it 'The Adventure of the Chinese Box.'"

But Jones had already wearied of the affair and spotted an item in The Times. "By Godfrey Cambridge, I see Supersax is in concert this evening at Albert Hall! Coruscating pyrotechnics, incredible tempi, dazzling conceptualization. In other words, they gonna lay some heavy shit on us."

"Good show, Jones." I said, and rose quickly. "Of course, I shall accompany you."

"Not tonight, old fellow. I have already made an engagement with Miss Wu... on a strictly professional basis, you understand. I suspect that she may be concealing on her person the plans for the entire MIRV missile system that will be the bulwark of NATO defense for the next decade."

"The entire system? Jones, that's impossible."

"Perhaps," he grinned, "but this dude gonna have a real ball checkin' her out." He bounded down the stairs and soon his slim figure was lost in the swirling fog of Baker Street.