“I beg your pardon, Homes?” I said, puzzled.
“I said, I have been electered lader. I mean, leader.” He beamed at me proudly a moment, but then his face fell slightly. “Prollaly because I was the only one tall enough to be sheen from all parts of the orshester.”
“It’s still an honour, Homes,” I said soothingly. “But what has this to do with your plan to rescue the poor youngsters?”
“Ah! My plan!” He frowned a moment and then his frown disappeared as he remembered. “I shall need your help, Whitley, but I am sure I can deepen on that.”
“Of course, Homes!” I said warmly. “And your plan?”
“Ah, the plan! To-night, Whitney, I have arrange for the orshester to parade through the streets of — where are we?”
“Hamelin.”
“Hamelin, then. There is a broadridge that crosses the river Weser—”
“A what, Homes?”
“A broadridge!” Homes said impatiently, and glared at me for my stupidity. “A ridge that goes up and down to let the chips go through!”
“Oh! You mean a drawbridge!”
“Thass what I said! Anyway, you shall be in the control room of the broadridge. At precisely eight o’clock I shall lead the orshester over the ridge. At profusely eight-oh-two the lass man will have cross. At exactful eight-oh-three you will open the ridge so nobody can follow. Do you unnerstand?”
“But what of the regular operator?” I asked nervously. “Might he not take exception to my presence?”
“Play him with wicksy. I mean, ply him with whisky.” Homes pointed to a bottle. He came to his feet and then stumbled slightly. He stared at me in horror. “Witby! They are on to us!”
“What do you mean, Homes?” I cried in alarm.
“They have dragged my drunk!”
“You mean, they have drugged your drink?” I looked into his eyes, standing on tiptoe to do so. “You are right, Homes! Here, a hair of the dog and I am sure you will be fine in time for the rescue tonight!”
“Thank you,” Homes said gratefully, and then collapsed gently to the floor. “A shore nap before our work to-night...” And he relaxed to allow my cure to take effect.
It was seven in the evening when Homes awoke. The effects of the drug our vile opponents had been clever enough to serve him without his knowledge were still slightly evident, for he grimaced with headache; nor did another drink seem to help. He glanced at his timepiece and came to his feet.
“It is time to leave, Watney,” said he, feeling about for his penny-whistle.
It was with relief that he found it and played a few notes, nodding at the purity of their tone. “The night dampness,” he explained, and led the way from the room.
The members of the orchestra were awaiting their leader on the village green, and came to their feet as Homes approached, lining up in marching formation. Homes glanced at his timepiece and nodded to me to get moving on my assignment, while he raised his penny-whistle to gain the attention of his musicians. As the first notes of his concert began, I hurried down the street to the bridge and made my way to the room where the controls for raising and lowering the structure were located. Following Homes’s advice, I had brought with me a bottle of the strongest whisky I had purchased that afternoon. The bridge-tender frowned darkly when I made my appearance.
“Sir,” he said, “visitors are not allowed.”
“Not even when they bring drinks?” I asked coyly, holding out the bottle of whisky.
He raised his eyebrows. “Sir! I am the president of the Hamelin Temperance Society!” he said. “Whisky has never passed my lips, nor shall it! I must ask you to leave at once!”
I stood nonplussed, for the music of Homes and his orchestra was gaining in volume as they approached the bridge that could lead them to the other side of the river and to freedom, but only if I were successful in my mission.
“Not even a short one?” I asked pleadingly, and found myself on the street, with the imprint of the bridge-tender’s foot undoubtedly necessitating a visit in the near future to my dry-cleaner’s. I hurried down the street, coming to Homes as he marched at the head of his band. He frowned darkly to see me.
“The bridge-tender is a teetotaler,” I explained quickly.
Homes wasted not a moment, but his mammoth intellect instantly understood and concocted an alternate scheme in a moment. He signalled a player in the front row of the marchers to take his place, and hurried me along on our way back to the bridge.
“I shall ask the bridge-tender for a match to light my calabash,” he explained. “As he reaches into his pocket for a vesta, you will strike him unconscious. Do it posthaste, for time is running out!”
He swung open the door to the control room without awaiting my comments, and a moment later found himself facing an irate bridge-tender. Homes smiled at the man in his most charming manner. “I wonder if I might bother you for a match to light my calabash,” he asked ingratiatingly.
The man scowled at him. “You are asking me to encourage the foul habit of smoking?” he demanded. “You, a schoolboy too young for such a vice?” He turned away in disdain. “D’you want to stunt your growth?”
“Hurry, Watney!” Homes exclaimed.
“But he didn’t give you a match yet!” I objected.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Homes said in disgust, and struck the man on the head with the blunt end of his penny-whistle. Even as the bridge-tender collapsed to the floor, Homes reached for the lever that opened the bridge. As the sounds of the creaking cables came to us, indicating the bridge was opening, Homes had me by the arm and was hurrying me from the room.
“And now we had best escape ourselves, while the time is ripe,” he said. “I investigated this bridge thoroughly in formulating my plan, and there is an old passage here which will lead us safely a distance from the bridge itself. But wait!” He paused and looked at me. “Did you hear something?”
“A splash and then someone saying ‘Glug,’ I thought,” I said. “Or possibly a whole number of people saying ‘Glug’.”
Homes looked at me almost pityingly.
“Your ignorance is monumental, Watney,” he said with scorn. “It is undoubtedly the bridge-tender saying ‘Gluck,’ meaning ‘luck’ in German. He is undoubtedly congratulating himself on not having been more seriously injured!”
And Homes led me out upon a path far from the bridge that would take us eventually to our hotel and thence to the railway station.
Having returned late at night from our journey to Hamelin, it was close upon noon when we came into the breakfast room the following morning and seated ourselves to a repast of Mrs. Essex’s curried oreganos. Feeling that possibly my contribution to the previous evening’s success had been minimal, I hastened to open the morning journal and search for some case that might keep Homes and myself occupied.
“Is there anything at all?” Homes inquired, looking at me queryingly across the table.
“Nothing new,” I said. “But there is a reference here to those lads we rescued last evening. It states and I quote: ‘The gifted young musicians that had gone to Hamelin are still missing.’ ”
Homes laughed in pure delight.
“Ah, youth! So pleased by their unexpected freedom that they are undoubtedly celebrating with a holiday in the country, without a thought to their worried parents! A letter of reassurance to the editor of the journal, if you would, Watney!”
The Decline and Fall of Norbert Tuffy
by Ron Goulart
© 1981 by Ron Goulart