Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

“Excellent,” Goodfellow said, unrolling a document and producing a quill. “Sign here.”

John Goodfellow tied his mount to the battered hitchrack and went inside the largest shanty on the dusty street. In another moment he sat across a desk from the mayor.

“I just closed a deal with the former Robbing — now called Robin Hood,” he said. He displayed the contract for the mayor’s fascinated eyes.

The mayor was a rough-hewn, fat man. “He won’t steal our pigs and sheep anymore?”

“Pish, never,” Goodfellow said, pointing out the correct clause on the foolscap. “He’s agreed not to steal anything in town or from the poor. As of yesterday Robin Hood steals only from the rich and gives to the poor!”

The mayor’s eyes grew round. He read the words again, moving his lips. “The poor. That’s us.”

“Robin Hood is a saint — the paper says so.” Goodfellow put on his spectacles. “Only politicians would steal — oh, pardon me, Your Honor. Only bums would steal from the poor.” He ran his finger down a list of towns. “This is the village of Glenville. Now, for protection from bandits, your fee is fifty pieces of silver per annum. Have you got the money?”

The mayor nodded and opened the desk drawer.

Conan Doyle was insistent. Holmes was adamant. Dr. Watson was befuddled. H.G. Wells was to blame, as well as modern publishers for whom nothing is too sacred, not even the reputation of the world’s greatest detective!

From the diaries OF Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.:

“Excuse me, Holmes, but it’s almost time for your obligatory love scene.”

In all my years with Sherlock Holmes, I never saw such a look of withering contempt as that which he turned upon our distinguished author, Mr. Conan Doyle.

“You know, Doyle,” he said, his voice dripping with venom, “I think you enjoy this.”

“Holmes, Holmes, how many times must I explain to you it’s not my fault? If you must place blame, place it where it belongs — on the shoulders of the blockhead H.G. Wells and his confounded time machine!”

“He’s right, my dear fellow,” I agreed. “It was all very well for Wells to shoot us a century into the future, but he should have had the decency to tell us how to return.”

Holmes snorted and went back to examining a charred pipe dottle that had been left at the scene of the murder.

“I’m too busy,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Doyle replied, “but this comes first.”

Holmes slapped the table with his palm, overturning a bottle of Perrier water.

“If I had spent my time in the Hound of the Baskervilles case,” he sneered, “dallying with wenches like a cockney carter, it is very likely Dr. Watson would not be alive today. And you, Doyle would be reduced to ghost writing!”

Doyle gently shook his head.

“Have a little respect for your creator, Holmes,” he remonstrated. “Have I ever let you down?”

“You let Professor Moriarity escape from my clutches more than once,” Holmes reminded him, “and at this rate, he’s more than likely to escape again. You don’t see him bedding some tart when the game’s afoot!”

“You haven’t read Chapter Four,” Doyle said. “The professor, too, has his obligatory scene.”

“Then I am ashamed for him,” Holmes declared.

“I say, Doyle, does that mean I—”

“All in good time, Watson, all in good time!” he cut me off. “Despite the low standards of the current market, I try to preserve a modicum of good taste.”

“With whom do you want Holmes to perform the scene?” I asked. “Do you remember that topless go-go dancer in Chapter Two?”

“Oh, Lord!” Holmes groaned. “Doyle, have you lost your mind? He’s mad, Watson — stark, staring mad!”

I had to admit I was surprised by Doyle’s selection of a partner for my friend. I thought he should at least rate a university professor or a public official.

“She’s a nice girl, Holmes,” our author said.

“She’s a bloody drab!” snarled Holmes. “Who did Moriarity get?”

“Miss Daiworthy, the luggage heiress.”

“Daiworthy?” I cried. “Oh, damn!”

“I don’t care if you offer me a Princess of the Blood!” Holmes growled. “See here, Doyle; a hundred years ago, you wouldn’t allow me so much as a kiss from Irene Adler, a truly fascinating woman. You led me on and on, and nothing ever came of it. Now you want to pair me with a go-go dancer!

“By heaven, it is intolerable! I resign, Doyle. Find yourself another detective. Consult the TV Guide for inspiration.”

“A hundred years ago was a hundred years ago,” Doyle replied, as Holmes jammed his deerstalker cap onto his head. “Do you think I like larding my novels with these puerile scenes? Do you think I enjoy breaking up the narrative flow with sordid little bedroom incidents?”

“Times change, Holmes. This is 1982. No publisher will touch a book unless it includes raw sex. At least allow me to provide it with a certain literary grace.”

“They’re still buying the books you wrote a hundred years ago,” Holmes pointed out.

“Only because they can’t be changed. You can’t write books like that anymore and hope to earn a living.

“Good heavens, Holmes,” he added, “be thankful I didn’t make you gay! That’s what one publisher wanted.”

“Gay?” Holmes cried. He had not yet picked up the slang of the times.

“He means a poof, old fellow,” I whispered.

Holmes looked faintly seasick.

“I retire,” he declared.

“I say, Doyle,” I spoke up. “Is it necessary to hitch Holmes up with a go-go dancer? Obviously she doesn’t appeal to him. Why don’t you find him a more suitable companion? I’ll be glad to take the dancer off your hands.”

“Capital idea, Watson!” Doyle concurred. “Well, Holmes? In Chapter Eight you will meet a beautiful, cultured drama critic. If you agree to do the scene with her, I’ll make the necessary revisions on the manuscript.”

“There is no such thing as a small loss of integrity,” Holmes sniffed. “I will not cooperate in this sham.”

“Very well,” the author sighed. “Fortunately, Dr. Watson has accompanied you on enough adventures to gain some familiarity with your methods. I suppose I’ll have to turn this case over to him.”

Despite my friend’s discomfiture, I could not suppress a thrill of pride. At last I would come into my own!

But Holmes turned beet-red, and almost hit the ceiling. “You’d turn my case over to this putterer!” he screamed. “How dare you! I won’t have it!”

“You’ll have to do the scene with the critic,” Doyle reminded him.

“I’ll do a scene with our landlady Mrs. Hudson before I let this clumsy dabbler muddle my methods!” roared Holmes. “Bring on your confounded drama critic!”

“Good show, old man!” Doyle beamed ecstatically. “It’s all settled then. I knew I could count on you!”

And so I lost my moment of glory, but I hoped the incident was not without its compensations.

“I say, Doyle,” I spoke up. “I still get the go-go dancer, don’t I?”

He couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d been on his way to the state penitentiary — and suddenly he’d been rescued and was on his way to freedom! Who said crime didn’t pay?

Reed Cummings settled himself into the back seat as best as he could, considering the heavy leather belt around his waist to which his handcuffs were attached. He was wearing standard denim trousers, a worn gray sweatshirt and a denim jacket, just the attire for a man on his way to the state penitentiary in Deer Lodge. His usually carefully combed brown hair was a mess, partly from the hot July wind, but mostly from six weeks in the Bowden County Jail.