No Police Like Holmes Read Free

St. Benignus College, has more friends than I have rejections from publishers. Apparently their ranks include just about the entire membership of the Mystery Writers of America as well as something like 4,374 people on Facebook. You probably know that Mac himself is the author of the popular Damon Devlin mystery series, Devlin being a magician who solves murders on the side. When I tell you that my brother-in-law was once a professional conjuror before he settled down to get a college degree as a non-traditional student, you don’t need to be Sigmund Freud to see this as wish fulfillment. I don’t think much of these tales, and I don’t believe for a minute that Devlin or any other amateur could out-sleuth my Max Cutter in real life. But they sell.
    â€œI’ve read all your books, including The Baker Street Caper ,” I said to Kane, “and these Sherlockians are going to eat you alive for that one.”
    Kane took a drink of what appeared to be bourbon, then set down his glass on the dining room table. “That story satirizes the Baker Street Irregular types, not Holmes himself. I respect Holmes as the protagonist of the modern-day private eye of fiction. What I don’t like is the game some people play, pretending that Holmes is real and Conan Doyle was nothing more than a literary agent.”
    â€œBut of course Holmes is real!”
    That didn’t come from me, you may be sure. The fellow with the Basil Rathbone nose, the one I’d seen in the living room, had butted into the conversation. He introduced himself as Dr. Noah Queensbury, Official Secretary of the Anglo-Indian Club. That’s the Holmes group in Cincinnati, about forty miles downriver from Erin, to which Mac and many of the other colloquium participants belonged. Apparently the group took its name from a club mentioned in one of the Sherlock Holmes stories.
    â€œPerhaps you missed my monograph on ‘Ten Proofs for the Existence of Sherlock Holmes,’” Queensbury said.
    Kane gave me a “What the hell?” look.
    â€œProof number one.” Queensbury held up a finger. “There used to be a Metropolitan Line train on the London underground called The Sherlock Holmes . The British do not name trains after fictional characters.”
    I abandoned my unfinished Diet Coke and opened the Samuel Adams Light. This was not to be endured without fortification. My sister, still hovering over the cheese ball, gave me a weak smile as I swallowed the brew.
    â€œProof number two,” Queensbury droned on. “In 1988, I wrote a letter to Mr. Holmes at 221B Baker Street, London. It was answered by a secretary. Fictional characters do not have secretaries. Proof number three-”
    â€œWait a minute,” I interrupted. “Sherlock Holmes has to be a fictional character. It says so on Wikipedia.” I just assumed that, having never looked it up.
    Queensbury snorted. “That almost proves my case. Everyone knows Wikipedia is unreliable.”
    â€œYou’re impossible,” Kane growled.
    â€œProof number three-” Queensbury persisted, unruffled.
    I’d intended to press Kane on the state of detective fiction for an article in the alumni magazine, but that obviously would have to wait. I had to get out of there before I started screaming. I edged past Queensbury, who didn’t seem to notice, and into the now-crowded hallway.
    For a minute I felt trapped there amid the dozen or so lunatics gibbering about Sherlock Holmes. Then I spotted Mac on the other side of the hall, sitting by the unlit fire in his thirty-foot living room.
    â€œAh, Jefferson,” he said as I approached. “Driven you to drink, have we?”
    He thought he was joking. I know that because he laughed, his bearded chins wobbling above a polka-dot bow tie. With his whale-like body settled in a wingback chair, he looked innocent enough. There was no indication, for example, of his predilection for marching