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By John Watson, M.D.
as edited by A. L. Hinkle and Rick Kennedy
 

It was late in the autumn of ’90 that I was awakened one Sunday morning by the pleasant aroma of Mrs. Hudson’s yeoman breakfast. The tantalizing smell of rashers and coffee wafting from the sitting room prompted me to quickly throw back the bed covers and don my dressing gown. Hurrying to the table, I found that my olfactory senses had not deceived me. I was busy spooning thick marmalade on my biscuit before I observed that Holmes’ setting was untouched. Hesitatingly, I laid the spoon on my plate and turned the chair to see if the door to Holmes’ sleeping room was still closed.

“Pray continue, Watson,” I heard Holmes’ familiar voice say.

“I fear that my appetite can not match your appreciation of Mrs. Hudson’s culinary skills.”

Turning to see that Holmes was slouched comfortably in his favorite armchair by the fireplace with his back to the table, I guessed that he had inferred my action from the noise of my movements. Still I was somewhat nettled by his oblique reference to the extra pounds I had added lately. I started to object to his gentle rebuke, but thought better of it and turned again to the prospect at hand.

“Quite right, Watson,” he continued, without looking my way. I detected your actions from the clatter of your spoon and the squeak of your chair. From this, your thoughts were obvious.”

Obstinately refusing to confirm his conclusion, I did not reply and continued to eat morosely, feeling somewhat resentful that my innermost thoughts were so transparent to his studied logic.

Continuing, he said, “And I see that my little jibe has found its mark. Else you would be in a more conversational mood. Excuse my joke, dear Watson. I’m afraid that I’m more at fault than you.”

With that he became quiet and my initial irritation turned to one of curiosity and concern. Finishing the remains of the repast and making a mental note to compliment Mrs. Hudson, I rose from the table and took a seat vis-à-vis Holmes for the first time that morning. I had been quite busy for the past few days as an outbreak of ague had accompanied the chilly weather and I had not closely observed Holmes recently. I was somewhat shocked by the pallor of his face and the listlessness of his body.

“Hullo, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been busy with my patients and have neglected my own household. You look positively pale,” I offered. As a medical man, I could see that his health had taken an abrupt reverse. “Perhaps a hot brandy,” I solicitously suggested with a nod to the sideboard.

“Were it that simple, Watson,” he offered with some effort, “No, I’m afraid that medicinal spirits are not the remedy. The body is only a repository for the brain – no attention to the physical can release me from the curse of intellectual inactivity. Ennui! Boredom! Are there no more challenges in these modern times?”

Well familiar with his little idiosyncrasies, I knew that mental stagnation was far more debilitating to Holmes than any physical malady. I had often thought of him as one of our powerful steam engines which is a paragon of power and efficiency when heated to capacity, but rusts, leaks and corrodes when there is no fuel to fire the box.

Grasping for a solution, “I have it, Holmes,” I exclaimed, with a burst of forced enthusiasm. “A little holiday on the continent! A change of scenery, climate. I can ring up my locum tenens and we can be off on the 6:10.”

“Ah, well meaning, faithful Watson…” Holmes offered with genuine feeling. Warmed by his obvious response to my concern, I continued. “Perhaps a fortnight in the highlands – the smell of heather, fresh air…”

“It is not the senses, but the intellect that craves stimulation,” Holmes interrupted with a visible show of effort.

Casting about, it occurred to me that perhaps a mental challenge offered by the contrivance of a game might pique his intellectual curiosity.

“Holmes,” I recalled, “I have never known you to take a hand of cards or a chance at the gaming table.* Why,” it occurred to me, “if you were only to direct your mental energies toward such a diversion, you might be rid of this melancholy humor – and turn a pound or two besides,” I added as an afterthought.

“Although I know you derive considerable satisfaction at your billiard table, I’m afraid that such amusements hold no interest to me.”

“But Holmes,” I protested, “there is considerable opportunity for you to apply reason and logic to such a challenge, artificial though it may be.”

Leaning forward somewhat, he expounded, “Consider this, Watson. All games may be thought of as existing on two intersecting continua of chance and skill. For example, the outcome of a toss of the dice or a spin at the roulette wheel is determined entirely by chance.”

“True,” I concurred.

“Such games hold no interest to me as one cannot apply deductive power to a world where all occurrence is random. Conversely, a game of billiards or chess can be determined entirely by skill. Yet, there is still no challenge here. By the application of my methods, I can arrive at only one solution – the winning one. Card games such as whist or euchre are, of course, varying mixtures of luck and skill – but for the same reasons, hold no interest to the logical mind.”

With that, Holmes sank back into his velvet-covered chair and a cloud of blue, pungent smoke from his charred briar began to obscure his face. Well aware that Holmes exercised no false modesty, I nevertheless must admit that I took umbrage at his insinuation that he could beat my practiced hand at billiards, although his own had never touched a cue.

However, our mutual silence was broken by the sound of voices below in the street. Confirmed by knocking on the door, Holmes started from his reverie and a hopeful spark illuminated his eye as he speculated, “Perhaps a case, Watson!”

In no time, Mrs. Hudson showed three gentlemen to our sitting room, and Holmes waved them to a seat as introductions were made all around. The Youngest, a Mr. Ian Telliver, was clean-shaven, without a hat but sporting a well-cut morning coat. The other two gentlemen were somewhat older and though attired in a similar fashion, carried top-hats and wore mutton-chops as was the current fashion. Their cards introduced them as Angus Holyoke, C.B.E. (retired) and Mr. Elijah Williams. **

Each waited for the other to speak as Holmes impatiently drummed his fingers on the chair arm. Then all three began to speak in simultaneous confusion.

“The stranger in black…”

“One thousand pounds lost…”

“I don’t think we…”

“Please, please, gentlemen,” interceded Holmes. “It is clear that you are not agreed. Yet a common purpose has brought you here. There can be no harm in speaking.”

“Well,” began Williams, “it is just that the matter seems so trivial.”

“Not so,” interrupted Telliver. “One thousand pounds lost – why I myself lost fifty.”

“No matter is too unimportant,” encouraged Holmes with a smile, obviously anticipating a diversion.

“Then you shall have it,” Mr. Holyoke resolved. “We are the committee of the greater London Chess Club. We meet regularly to play and welcome all aficionados and new challengers. About a fortnight ago, an unknown but powerful challenger appeared at the club. Although he did not present any letter of introduction, his membership was accepted as we always welcome a skilful hand.

“Since then, we have come to regret his presence as he has had a very injurious effect on the club’s affairs.”

“Yes, something of a scandal, actually!” interjected Telliver.

“Williams continued, “We don’t, of course, regularly gamble on the outcome of a game, but an occasional friendly wager is often made. The presence of this stranger – Moran, he called himself – has provoked several of our members to challenge him beyond their means, both skill and purse. Now we are quite at ends as what to do.”

“Could you not expel him from the club,” I questioned.

“Well, yes and no, sir. We are a private club in that we hold membership and pay dues. However, having no club room as such, we meet regularly to play in a public lounge, at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. He has paid his dues a year in advance, and even if we voted him out and remitted the balance of his dues, we could not prohibit his presence in a public accommodation.”

“The whole matter is rather awkward,” admitted Holyoke uneasily.

“Yes,” agreed Williams. “It may seem as small matter to you, sir, “ he said, speaking to Holmes, “But the fact is – he is ruining us. No one has beaten him yet and it has become quite an obsession, particularly with the younger members,” he said, glancing at Telliver. “It is a fact that he has put several of our associates in serious financial difficulty.”

“We have nearly forgotten,” said  Holyoke, clapping his forehead, “The most damnable thing. Moran always dresses in black, complete to shirt and cuffs. And he always plays with the Black pieces.”

“What, always?” I exclaimed.

“Extraordinary,” agreed Holmes. He then reached for his pipe and settled back into the chair. He was silent for some minutes, deep in contemplation of this particular Moran and the disastrous consequences of his chess mastery.

Abruptly Holmes stood and said, “Gentlemen, I shall look into the matter. If  you’ll just step out, Watson will hail a hansom and we’ll be off.”

We crowded ourselves into the cab, and Holyoke, despite his initial reservation, was now quite conversational. “By way of introduction,” Holyoke explained, “Simpson’s is not only a popular restaurant but serves as a chess divan for the amateur and master players. For sixpence, a gentleman may browse over chess magazines, smoke cigars and play chess. For a shilling and sixpence, coffee is included and regular patrons can subscribe for a guinea a year.”

“Yes,” Holmes acknowledged, “I have had the pleasure of dining there on occasion, though I have not availed myself of the playing room.”

“Well,” continued Holyoke, “Although the playing area is open to the public, the fact that it is just up a few steps to the next level discourages the casual visitor. The ground floor was originally a cigar shop until Mr. Crathis put in the restaurant.”

As we pulled to the curb, and alighted from the coach, I noted the great bay window facing on the Strand and the imitation marble pillars at the entrance. On entering the door, the colored tile floor, potted palms and polished brass bespoke the comfortable elegance of the establishment. In the center stood the large dumb-waiter with two great candelabra to either side.

As Holyoke led us past the Smoking Room Bar to the divan upstairs, I noted a fine selection of spirits and wines on display in heavy plated coolers. A liveried attendant was just wheeling out a trolley cart to display a large joint of meat for the diners’ inspection. With the comfortable appointment of the lounge and the excellent fare provided, I found the club very agreeable to my taste.

As we were mounting the steps, I was jostled by a top-hatted messenger who I later learned was running the sealed move of a guest to an opponent at a neighboring coffeehouse.

Peering though the glass doors into the chess divan, I noted that the attention of the patrons was being diverted by a mild altercation. We entered the room unnoticed and as we took a seat in a horsehair-stuffed, black-cushioned lounge, Holmes observed, “Watson, the object of our little investigation.” He inclined his head slightly toward the corner and I noticed a large man dressed in black, sitting across the board from a rather ordinary chap. The dark stranger was attired completely in a black suit, including a black shirt. Though of a muscular and athletic physique, his prominent, deep lined brow and aggressive nose suggested a comparable intellectual capacity. His cruel blue eyes marked by drooping, cynical lids revealed the excesses of the sensualist. His Van Dyke and swarthy complexion completed the visage of a rather sinister but imposing personage. His opponent was gesturing with some agitation and his strident voice indicated that he was clearly distraught.

“You’ve ruined me, sir…” he vehemently protested while the dark stranger slouched indolently in his chair with a smirk of satisfaction.

“Please,” admonished the latter, “Spare me. You knew the stakes.”

The argument grew louder over the entombed silence of the room. Just as the scene seemed quite out of hand, Mr. Crathie, the manager of the establishment, stepped forward, obviously hoping to settle the disagreement in a diplomatic manner.

“Gentlemen, since gambling is prohibited here, I suggest that the game is mutually forfeited and neither has lost. Now, if you would be so kind…”

“Nonsense,” the stranger haughtily protested, raising the palm of his hand, “I have won this game. And, while this unfortunate man has lost his purse, there has been no gambling.” Continuing, he asserted, “Gambling is a matter of uncertainty, of chance. I have gained my prize through the knowledge of absolute certainty, by application of…”

“Skill,” interceded Holmes, as, much to my amazement he motioned the misfortunate from his chair, and occupying his place across from the stranger, began to arrange the pieces.

 “White and 100 pounds, Mr. Holmes,” the stranger proffered with an arrogant expression.

“Yes, I thought I was expected,” Holmes retorted with little surprise. “You may convey my compliments to the Professor,” Holmes added enigmatically. “En garde,” he challenged, moving his Queen’s Knight to the Queen’s Bishop Three square – 1.Kt-QB3 by Mr. Staunton’s notation.***

If I was amazed that Holmes had interceded in a private dispute, I was astounded that the chessboard held for him no secrets, despite his unconventional move. Of course, I had come to expect the unexpected with him; yet, this…?

I pulled a seat near to the table, and the other occupants of the room, sensing a bitter duel, quickly formed a gallery and settled down to whispered commentary.

“What, no advancing pawn?”

“Highly irregular!”

To Black’s 1…e5, Holmes’ rejoinder was the surprising 2.Nf3. Black’s conventional 2…d6 was answered with the tardy 3.d4.

 “A lone pawn?”

3…Nc6 4.d5

Despite my amateur knowledge of this noble game, the groans from the gallery confirmed my suspicion  that Holmes was off to a shaky start.

4…Nce7 5.e4 f5

Here Holyoke, seated nearby, sought to bring me some bleak encouragement. “Never fear,” he whispered, “Mr. Holmes may yet gather up his forces to sustain a draw. Even that would be of some consequence.”

Buoyed by a confidence in Holmes, and quite unburdened by any chessic ability to prove otherwise, I extrapolated, “And where a draw is at hand, why not a win?”

From behind us came a disbelieving Pshaw!, which found its way into words as the next two moves were being played.

6.Bg5 h6

“Holmes is lost. Moran has begun his attack on the Kingside, my friend, as he always does. Soon your companion will be hard-pressed for breathing room, and if he does not respond sharply he will be forced to surrender his King! That can hardly be called opportune.”

7.Bh4 g5

“Der Laufer is kaput!” grumbled a disconsolate club member, as he gathered up his topcoat and stormed out. It was clear Holmes was about to lose a piece.

8.Nxe5

At this, several observers gasped, while others started forward, eagerly. Facing the sure loss of his Queen’s Bishop, Holmes had decided to offer King’s Knight as well! From the excited murmurs, I deduced that there were two camps quickly forming one which held that White’s play was inexplicably brilliant, the other, that it was incomprehensibly poor.

A glance at the face of the stranger showed only a cruel, thin smile. If he were in any way inconvenienced by Holmes’ move, he revealed nothing.

8…dxe5

To my left, Williams chuckled dryly, and mumbled to no one in particular, “Taking the Bishop, of course, allows White to checkmate in three moves! It seems that Mr. Holmes has retained his sense of humor, if not the piece.” Williams then lapsed into silence, chin resting upon upturned palm.

Holmes resolutely lifted his Queen to give check – 9.Qh5+ -- displacing his opponent’s King – 9…Kd7. He seemed to be recovering his game as with 10.Bxg5 he captured part of the black army, and in response to 10…Bg2 he again checked with 11.Bb5, although the King scurried away with 11…Kd6.

Young Telliver passed by as Holmes’ 12.Be3 was met by 12…f4. “Your man may check the King until Doomsday itself, or march his Bishops back and forth to avoid it. I hardly see how he can forestall the loss of yet another piece, however!”

“Twaddle,” another observer cheerfully admonished. “Mr. Holmes has already held out several moves longer against his opponent than you have ever lasted.” The crowd chuckled in agreement, and Telliver, visibly piqued, said no more.

13.Bxf4 exf4

Moran’s eyes glinted, and with a slight inclination of the head, acknowledged the capture. Holmes had now lost two pieces, and all traces of frivolity amongst the observers had fled.

14.e5+ Kc5

“Why not take with the Bishop?” came the whispers.

Williams cackled, “To win the Pawn with the Bishop would wind up losing the Queen, followed by an eventual mate -- or allows a straight checkmate in seven moves. Mr. Holmes, I fear, has been terribly underrated.”****

These words heartened my spirit, and I was in the midst of encouraging myself to look more positively on the situation when the moaning increased tenfold.

15.Na4+ Kxb5

 “He has squandered his third piece!”

16.Qe2 Kxa4

“And- now a fourth! Duffer!”

“My incompetent wastrel of a nephew would fare no worse than that, and perhaps, better yet.”

The observers shifted in their seats, some throwing them back and preparing to leave, hoping to escape the final blood-letting. My cheeks burned in embarrassment, and confusion. I felt deeply for my companion, who should have never taken up such a challenge. Even in such a test of skill, Holmes had apparently seen his limits, and now as soon to meet his match.

“Watson,” Holmes said, looking for the first time away from the board, “Come here, and observe the situation. How does it strike you?”

“Dreadful,” I stammered, making my way to the board. “You have lost four pieces! Ordinarily, one in such a position can expect to resign or be checkmated. “  I hoped my subtle suggestion would be taken with graceful acquiescence.

“ ‘Ordinary’? You see nothing?”

I confessed I did not.

“Except for the fact that I have a checkmate in seven moves, the position is, agreed, rather ‘ordinary’ ” Holmes chuckled. Then, he began “17.Qc4+ Ka5 18.b4+ Ka4 19.Qb3+ Kb5 20.a4+ Kb6 21.a5+ Kb5 22.c4+ Ka6 23.b5, checkmate.” Turning back to his opponent, Holmes queried, “Shall we play it out?”

There was a long silence as the scattered whispers receded before the brilliance of Holmes’ play. Moran was motionless for several minutes and my eyes alternated between Moran’s gloomy countenance, Holmes’ impatiently drumming fingers, and the pieces on the board, now revealing their cleverly developed insult.

“Capital, Holmes!” I exclaimed, clapping him on the back.

Moran stood and with a slight inclination of his body and a stiff “Good day,”: grasped his Malacca stick and strode out of the club.

“Good riddance,” I heard someone say. “I doubt that he’ll be back,” offered another. The committee pressed around Holmes, thinking him profusely, much to his obvious discomfort. I knew that he was glad to excuse himself when he finally he bade our adieus.

“Let us walk, Watson,” Holmes suggested, and although tired by the strain of the game, I could see that he was quite exhilarated. I was burning with curiosity but knew that he would explain in his own good time.

“You are wondering,” Holmes eventually began, as we leisurely strolled along, “who this man was and why I expected him. I expected him because he expected me.”

“But, it is not clear at all…” I began to protest.

“On the surface, Watson, it appeared a very simple and trivial matter. Yet, I discerned some purpose, some intent by his behavior. Was it simply a matter of greed? No, for if he wanted to turn a pound or two he would be surreptitious and discrete in his behavior. A professional swindler does not call attention to himself. To the contrary, his affected dress, unerring skill and churlish manner were meant to attract comment and attention. Whose attention? Certainly not the members of the club. He, or rather I should say the Professor, was depending that such a compelling figure would eventually come to my attention.”

“The Professor?” I inquired.

“Yes, Watson, there is an evil genius who masterminds the crimes, the thefts, the misfortunes of London. Behind the threads of a robbery here, a burglary there, the Professor lurks near the center of the web – consistently directing, though seldom visible. I am his nemesis, his adversary, his equal, who battles him at every turn. His plan was to publicly discredit me, to damage my reputation. He has failed at other means but his plan here was cleverly fiendish. Had his carefully tutored minion, Moran, bested me in this game, then my intellectual powers would have come under scrutiny. Lestrade and other officials would not seek my assistance. Soon, the Professor would be master of the London underworld and I would sit by, useless. He has failed in this, but other attempts will be made,” Holmes concluded.

Brooding on his words as we stepped across the lane to Baker Street, I finally suggested that he certainly took a risk, if indeed this was the scheme.

“No risk, Watson,” Holmes rebutted.

“But where did you learn…?”

“Some time back, at the Diogenes Club,” Holmes interrupted, anticipating my question. “But that is a story for another time.”

Return to the Sherlock Holmes Index Page

Read Rick's Perry the PawnPusher Stories too!

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