The Mystery of the Missing Shirt: Difference between revisions

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''The "Mystery" of the Missing Shirt'' is an American [[Sherlock Holmes]] parody written by [[A. E. Swoyer]] published in [[The Sunday Oregonian]] on 18 august 1912.
''The "Mystery" of the Missing Shirt'' is an American [[Sherlock Holmes]] parody written by [[A. E. Swoyer]] published in [[The Sunday Oregonian]] on 18 august 1912.


Characters are Herlock Shomes & Fatson.
Characters are Herlock Shomes (Sherlock Holmes), Fatson (Dr. Watson), Mr. Dalrymple (the client) and Desperate Desmond (Moriarty).


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== The "Mystery" of the Missing Shirt ==
== The "Mystery" of the Missing Shirt ==
[[File:the-sunday-oregonian-1912-08-18-s6-p3-the-mystery-of-the-missing-shirt.jpg|thumb|750px|center|[[The Sunday Oregonian]] (18 august 1912, section 6, p. 3)]]
[[File:the-sunday-oregonian-1912-08-18-s6-p3-the-mystery-of-the-missing-shirt.jpg|thumb|750px|center|[[The Sunday Oregonian]] (18 august 1912, section 6, p. 3)]]


By A. E. Swoyer
By A. E. Swoyer
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Before the faithful Fatson could reach the door, it opened, and a tall man, with a huge and shaggy beard, entered and sank heavily into a chair; the latter, not built for heavy sinking, collapsed. The strange visitor continued until stopped by the floor.  
Before the faithful Fatson could reach the door, it opened, and a tall man, with a huge and shaggy beard, entered and sank heavily into a chair; the latter, not built for heavy sinking, collapsed. The strange visitor continued until stopped by the floor.  


"Aha!" said Shomes. "I see that you are the victim of a slight accident!  
"Aha!" said Shomes. "I see that you are the victim of a slight accident! You wonder how I know? These things are easy to the trained mind! Fatson, you remember the interesting little problem of the Emerald Frankfurter, in which this power enabled me to trace a clew the dull wits of the police had not even seen?"
 
The stranger, who, framed amid the wreckage of the broken chair, had been listening, open mouthed, now rose. "Mr. Shomes," said he, "you are the man I need! Something mysterious and dreadful threatens me! I am a marked man! Last evening" — the trembling tones of this strong man made even the callous Fatson shiver — "last evening, as an evidence of this power, the very shirt was stolen from my back. You, alone, can save me!"
 
"This is, indeed, a mystery, a case after my own heart. I can see in it the hand of that master criminal, Desperate Desmond, who has thwarted me for years! Our lives are all in danger! But come, tell me the details."
 
"They are few enough. In the first place, my name is Dalrymple. I run a doughnut foundry, and am fairly well to do. Last evening I dressed carefully to go to the club; I remember my undershirt particularly, it was of the knitted kind I always wear, but new. I spent an hour at the club, and on retiring found the shirt was gone! My outer shirt, vest and coat were intact."
 
"H'm!" said Shomes. "You must have been robbed of this—er—undergarment then. either in your home, at the club or between the two places!"
 
"Marvelous ejaculated Fatson. Shorn.., with the remarkable agility he always showed when on a clew, whipped out a pocket rule and meas-ured the distance between Dairymple's eyes. Swiftly he entered the results in a large ledger. "'Tis, indeed, Desmond's work!" he muttered. "We must be Quick! Mr. Dalrymple. may I have a sample of your whiskers? It is im-portant! Thanks." Snipping off a gen-erous portion of the guest's lace cur-tains, he turned his back, stufed them into his pipe and began smoking vig-orously. Again turning to his guest, he shot
 


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Revision as of 21:41, 20 June 2022

The "Mystery" of the Missing Shirt is an American Sherlock Holmes parody written by A. E. Swoyer published in The Sunday Oregonian on 18 august 1912.

Characters are Herlock Shomes (Sherlock Holmes), Fatson (Dr. Watson), Mr. Dalrymple (the client) and Desperate Desmond (Moriarty).


Editions


The "Mystery" of the Missing Shirt

The Sunday Oregonian (18 august 1912, section 6, p. 3)


By A. E. Swoyer

(With abject apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)


Herlock Shomes, the great detective, sat, pipe in mouth, idly strumming a banjo. Times were dull in the sleuthing business, and our hero had not the price of his regular shot of hop; no mysterious murders nor clueless robberies sought his mighty brain for a solution. The truth must be told — the peerless Shomes was on his uppers!

"Great days, these, Fatson!" he said, carefully emptying the ashes from his pipe into a bit of paper, and dexterously rolling it into a cigarette. "Great days! No work for me; no annals for you to chronicle (at so much per chronic) for posterity! It seems as if the pleasures of a neat murder no longer appeal to the strong-arm man; we are becoming a race of mollycoddles!" A tear for a moment dimmed the eagle eye of Shomes, trickled gently down his classic nose and lost itself in the stubble of his two weeks' beard.

"Education has done it," replied his friend. "The real brainy criminal has learned that it is easier and more genteel to start a bank than to break into one; while the monetary results are the same. But, cheer up, Shomes, nothing can keep a good man down but a tombstone or a cash register!"

"You are right, Fatson! And even now I feel that in exactly five minutes, by yonder clock, a client, the victim of a dark and awful crime, will come—"

A ponderous knocking at the door interrupted him. Rising hastily he set the clock ahead five minutes. "Thus is the power of deduction vindicated! Right to the minute! Fatson, open the door. It is our client! (Or, perhaps, the landlord for last January's rent," he muttered, aside. "'Tis well I was not seen!")

Before the faithful Fatson could reach the door, it opened, and a tall man, with a huge and shaggy beard, entered and sank heavily into a chair; the latter, not built for heavy sinking, collapsed. The strange visitor continued until stopped by the floor.

"Aha!" said Shomes. "I see that you are the victim of a slight accident! You wonder how I know? These things are easy to the trained mind! Fatson, you remember the interesting little problem of the Emerald Frankfurter, in which this power enabled me to trace a clew the dull wits of the police had not even seen?"

The stranger, who, framed amid the wreckage of the broken chair, had been listening, open mouthed, now rose. "Mr. Shomes," said he, "you are the man I need! Something mysterious and dreadful threatens me! I am a marked man! Last evening" — the trembling tones of this strong man made even the callous Fatson shiver — "last evening, as an evidence of this power, the very shirt was stolen from my back. You, alone, can save me!"

"This is, indeed, a mystery, a case after my own heart. I can see in it the hand of that master criminal, Desperate Desmond, who has thwarted me for years! Our lives are all in danger! But come, tell me the details."

"They are few enough. In the first place, my name is Dalrymple. I run a doughnut foundry, and am fairly well to do. Last evening I dressed carefully to go to the club; I remember my undershirt particularly, it was of the knitted kind I always wear, but new. I spent an hour at the club, and on retiring found the shirt was gone! My outer shirt, vest and coat were intact."

"H'm!" said Shomes. "You must have been robbed of this—er—undergarment then. either in your home, at the club or between the two places!"

"Marvelous ejaculated Fatson. Shorn.., with the remarkable agility he always showed when on a clew, whipped out a pocket rule and meas-ured the distance between Dairymple's eyes. Swiftly he entered the results in a large ledger. "'Tis, indeed, Desmond's work!" he muttered. "We must be Quick! Mr. Dalrymple. may I have a sample of your whiskers? It is im-portant! Thanks." Snipping off a gen-erous portion of the guest's lace cur-tains, he turned his back, stufed them into his pipe and began smoking vig-orously. Again turning to his guest, he shot


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