Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. “Could it have been the ‘Missing Three-Quarter?’” I ventured tentatively. “There was a story in Collier’s Weekly by that title. I can’t recall the author.”

“Can’t you really?” Armbruster said with a laugh. “That was a Sherlock Holmes story, and a corker at that, but I doubt Cumberland read it. He is far too serious for any light literature. Anyway, he distinctly said ‘missing three quarters.’ Plural.”

“Did you ask him what he meant?” Holmes asked.

“I did. He looked rather startled. He obviously hadn’t known I’d heard him. He tried to laugh it off. ‘I carelessly left three quarters on this table last week,’ he said, ‘and they’ve disappeared. I know you’re too pious and holy to be a thief, Armbruster, but one of our visitors must be light-fingered.’ Then he claimed he was hungry and suggested we go hunt down some sustenance. He was very eager to change the subject.”

“So you didn’t accept his explanation,” I said, rather obviously.

“Not for a moment. But what could it all mean?”

“Did Cumberland ever typewrite his papers?” Holmes asked. An odd question, I thought, and Armbruster seemed equally nonplussed.

“No. I don’t believe he knows how to typewrite. He has a beautiful hand, though. Perfectly legible.”

With Armbruster’s permission, Holmes looked through the books and other papers on Cumberland’s desk. I saw him slip a sheet of paper and an envelope into his pocket, not ostentatiously but not with any obvious furtiveness either.

As we were leaving, Armbruster asked, “Mr. Benson, as a detective yourself, have you learned anything from reading about Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not a thing,” declared Holmes. “A most inferior fellow. Dupin and Lecoq were both far more capable.”

Ensconced in a cab that would take us back to Holmes’s hotel, I ventured to ask, “What could the reference to the missing three quarters refer to? Cumberland’s explanation was obviously a clumsy improvisation.”

“I agree. But you have the advantage over me in these matters, Armitage. Does the expression have any significance in American football?”

“Well, the game is played in four quarters, but I don’t know how you could be missing three of them. There is a position in American football called quarterback, but there is only one on the field at a time.” Sudden inspiration struck me. “What about that reference in the note from ‘Pop’ Warner about Cumberland’s supposed Indian blood? Perhaps Cumberland was one quarter Indian and Warner can only recruit fullblooded Indians, making the missing three quarters problematic.”

My exultation at the brilliance of my theory was short-lived. Holmes shook his head. “It leaves too much unexplained,” he said. “But there may be a clue in this letter. Also a clue to his present whereabouts, assuming, as I believe, his disappearance was at least semi-voluntary.”

He handed over the letter and envelope, which I perused quickly. The envelope bore the address in the city of one James Gustavson, but the letter was unfinished, as if Cumberland had been interrupted in its writing. As Armbruster had proclaimed, his roommate had an attractive and easily readable hand.

Dear Oscar,

Thanks for your encouraging letter. Your old pal Saucy knew he could rely on a teammate. You are right that it was a breach of contract, and no one knows that blackguard O’Hara better than you. Don’t know how you lasted out the season. But does receiving less than promised really mean what we would like it to mean? For now, I am staying on here, but if events make it necessary, I shall certainly avail myself

And there it broke off in midsentence.

“What does it mean?” I wondered. “He addresses the envelope to James and writes a letter to Oscar. And who the devil is Saucy?”

Holmes told me, “I have an idea about that, but time is short. We must go our separate ways for the next few hours.” He instructed the cabby, then instructed me.

My assigned task was a puzzling one.

“You want me to do what?” I exclaimed. “But why?”

“There’s no time to explain. Simply get it done and meet me back at my hotel at seven this evening.”

Now I knew how Watson felt when kept in the dark. I grumbled a bit, but of course agreed to the mission.

The next morning, we were once again in Stagg’s office, and this time young Clayton Cumberland, clearly unharmed but shamefaced, was present as well. I still did not know the entire story yet, and listened closely to Holmes as he explained it to Stagg.

“To begin with, that message from Warner was obviously faked. The signature was positioned right in the middle of the page, suggesting that Warner’s secretary-I hardly think the great coach typewrites his own correspondence-is singularly lacking in the rudiments of his profession. Surely the body of the letter should be centered on the page, with the signature nearer the bottom. The implication was obvious: someone had obtained Coach Warner’s signature on a sheet of Carlisle Indian School letterhead, probably on the pretense of being an autograph collector, then added the typewritten message after the fact. Every typewriter has its own peculiarities. The one used for the bogus Warner letter had a small letter ‘e’ that struck slightly above the line and a small letter ‘o’ that was filled in because of a dirty key.”

“But, Mr. Holmes, who would do that, and why?” Stagg asked.

“Though I was puzzled as to his motive, I suspected Cumberland might have composed the message himself. However, his roommate told me that Cumberland does not typewrite, and I found no typewritten sheets among his papers that shared those characteristics.”

“Then who was responsible for the false message?” Stagg demanded.

“Armitage came up with a good idea.” (Had I? Not that I could remember.) “Could the person who faked the message be the reporter, Perry Garth? He told us that he was under pressure to recruit you as a writer, but you had spurned all his overtures. If he could make you angry enough about abuses by one of your coaching brethren, perhaps he believed he could get an exclusive story for his paper, and a lively one. We knew he had interviewed Warner at the Carlisle Indian School, so he could have obtained his autograph then. I asked Armitage to visit Garth’s office and obtain a sample of his typewritten copy. The peculiarities of the type proved the same machine had produced the supposed letter from Warner.

“But to make his plan work, Cumberland had to vanish. How could Garth manage that? What hold did he have over Cumberland? An unfinished letter on the young man’s desk gave me a clue. Stagg, you are well-known as a champion of amateur sports. Are your athletes allowed to play professionally?”

“Certainly not!” Stagg was outraged at the idea. “Playing professionally carries a stigma. It could result in disqualification and perhaps expulsion.”

“And if a college player were to play professionally as well, could he cover his tracks?”

“He might play under an alias,” Stagg said reluctantly, disgust in his tone.

“Exactly. Cumberland had addressed the envelope to James Gustavson, but the salutation of the letter was ‘Dear Oscar.’ In the third person, he referred to himself as Saucy.”

Holmes turned to me. “Cumberland sauce, Armitage. I’m sure you’ve enjoyed it on game dishes many times, as have I. Any Englishman would know it, including Cumberland as the product of an English family, thus the odd choice of alias. As teammates, the two young men called each other by their assumed names, and other clues in the letter suggest that they were paid for their efforts. The words ‘I shall certainly avail myself’ I suspected might refer to an invitation from this Oscar to stay with him should Cumberland feel the need to leave the University abruptly.”