A Study in Sherlock

The sheriff’s deputies posted there had made good use of their time, one staying with the car while three others searched the woods. “No sign of the colonel yet, sir,” the one at the car reported. “Though it seems obvious that poor young gentleman crawled out to the lane after being shot. We followed your orders and didn’t touch the car. Any idea when the fingerprint man will be here?”

“Any time now.”

I saw that Hanslow, when in his element, was not the idiot I had assumed him to be. He could not be dissuaded from mimicking what he believed to be Sherlock Holmes’s manner of investigating, making use of the magnifying glass, muttering to himself, and frowning a great deal. Slye several times had to point out that there was more than one way to interpret the tire tracks and boot marks Wishy observed in the mud. But these were mere preliminaries.

When Aloysius Hanslow stopped playing at being the Great Detective and really looked at the vehicle mired in the lane, he did what none of the rest of us could do—and with a degree of confidence that transformed him. Some part of my brain registered this transformation, but not for long, for the shock of his pronouncement dislodged all other thought.

“Dear me, Bunny!” he said. “This isn’t the colonel’s car!”

Slye had an arrested look, as I’m sure we all did. Then he smiled and said, “Tell us how you know.”

I couldn’t completely follow all that followed, but I could grasp that some sort of difference in radiators and other features of the machine itself were nothing compared to what one could learn simply by looking at—and smelling, through a window that was not quite closed—the interior of the automobile. “Bunny, this car was not owned by a man of the colonel’s disposition!”

He was right. The car was strewn with wads of paper, bits of tinfoil wrappers, and empty bottles. It stank of cheap gin and emitted other unsavory odors of unmistakable but unnamable origins. I thought of the neat, well-kept home I had just been in and knew Wishy was absolutely correct.

“Carlton’s?” Slye asked.

Wishy surprised me by considering the question carefully as he put on a pair of gloves. “I believe so. Sheriff, you said you’ll have a fingerprint man up here soon?”

“Yes, he’s on his way. But Aloysius, you know that Carlton’s fingerprints on his own car, if it is his car—”

“Certainly—of no use. But if the fingerprints of the colonel and Mr. Robert Harris are on the inside of the vehicle—”

“I don’t think anyone other than a driver has recently occupied this vehicle,” Slye said, peering in through a side window. “The seats are covered with too much detritus. At the very least, those wads of paper would have been crushed and flattened. I suspect if you are brave enough to look through them, you will find evidence that this is indeed Carlton’s Model T. In fact, I can see several envelopes addressed to him lying on the backseat.” He stepped away from the car. “Wishy, could a Rolls-Royce be driven down this lane?”

“Not without damage to the paint. That’s why we left my car on the paved road.”

“The grocery truck?”

“It’s a Model T truck. No wider than this car.”

“Confound it,” the sheriff said, “this only raises more questions! If this is Carlton’s car, then what happened to the colonel’s car? And if no passenger sat in this car, how did Mr. Robert Harris come to be here?”

“Sheriff,” Slye said, “our answers are undoubtedly at the house. I’d like to return there as quickly as possible. Also, I’m afraid Carlton Wedge may be in some danger.”

“My men are looking for him, I assure you. I intend to try to get the Simmses to be more forthcoming about his recent whereabouts.”

With this we had to be satisfied.

Once back at the colonel’s house, the sheriff went into the study to use the telephone, while Wishy, given specific instructions by Slye, walked toward the Silver Ghost. I followed Slye into the kitchen, where I frightened a young maid into giving a little scream. I begged the cook not to carry out her threat to beat some sense into the girl. Slye asked if Rawls and the housekeeper could be brought there without alerting the Simmses to the fact, which the maid readily agreed to.

Slye questioned these two worthies about the arrival of the Simmses, thanked them, and strode outdoors. He stood gazing toward the outbuildings. Wishy hurried up to us. “You were right, Bunny. The floorboards are filthy. A shame, to muddy a car like that!”

“I suspect they were rather rushed.” He paused, then said in one of the gentlest voices I had ever heard him use, “I’m afraid I must next look into the horse barn, Wishy.”

“Oh,” Wishy said, turning pale.

“Would you like to search the other outbuildings, while Max helps me there? Or report your findings to the sheriff?”

“I’ll search the other buildings, if that’s quite all right.”

“Most helpful,” Slye said.

“Good, then.”