Life — July 12, 1928 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Movie Macnate: I want a man who can say NO, when I talk nonsense. Are you that man? Arricant: No! Movie Macnate (enthusiastically): You're hired! k! Ir was in the summer of 1929 that I ran down to his homé in Sussex, to see my old friend, Sherlock Holmes. I found Holmes seated in the garden, near his bechives. His eyes were closed, and he sat without moving, a rug over his knees. Mrs. Hudson, his housekeeper, told me that he had been sorely afflicted with rheumatism, and could only hobble from his bed to his chair in the garden. “Ah, Watson!” said he, without look- ing up, or even opening his eyes. “You bring the usual whiff of iodoform with you. “Holmes,” I replied, “I have been talking by telephone with Creedon of the New York police. There has been a mur- der in the Browne family; in the old family mansion in 54th Street.” “Wonderful people, the Americans,” murmured Holmes. “Their motto is: A murder a day keeps boredom away.” “Crecdon says the situation is serious. It is now the custom in New York, it appears, for a murderer to establish him- slf in a household, and work right through, from the second housemaid up to the head of the family.” Holmes opened one cye. “One of the Browne family has been killed,—or so I understood Creedon’s phrase. ‘Bumped off’? was what he said. An amateur detective has been retained. He is the leading consultant in the States; the greatest criminal expert ever produced in America. His name, I understand, is Philo Vance.” Holmes sprang up, his eyes blazing. “My God, Watson! Vance! Do you realize what happened when he handled the Greene murder case? And now the Browne family! They're all doomed, I tell you: every man jack of them!” In a second the aged detective, his | rheumatism cured as by a miracle, was dashing toward the house, shouting for Mrs. Hudson to pack our bags. He rushed to the telephone, and put through a call to the Government aérodrome. Two hours later, Holmes and I, seated in the cockpit of one of the swiftest planes, were far out over the Atlantic, bound for New York on our errand of rescue. Holmes, with his old fore-and-aft cap pulled down over his hawklike face, gazed straight ahead. He spoke only once during the twenty hours. This was to mutter: “Philo Vance retained! Poor devils!” Next aye at noon, we stood in the library of the Browne mansion. There were present the District Attorney of New York, three detectives, and a large dele- |gation of journalists. We had already viewed the body of young Jethro Browne. As we were talking with the officials, the policemen separated, and one of them an- nounced, in tones of deep respect: “Mr. Philo Vance, sir!” Tt was plain that they considered this a great moment: the meeting of the two famous detectives. We looked toward the door, where there appeared a young man, hastily fitting a monocle into his eye. It gave him much trouble, but at last he got it to stay in place, when he came forward and saluted Holmes. “Mr. Holmes! Ah, most extraordin'ry! Simply rippin’, I'm sure. Charmed to have you Rere.” Holmes bowed. “Mr. Vance,” said he, “perhaps if you will outline your plans, we need not work at cross-purposes.”” “Right-o!” said the American de- tective. “Awf'ly toppin’ of you, old bean. This is the way of it, d'ye see? This afternoon I shall take all these police johnnies up to the Metropolitan Museum an’ show ‘em the old weapons in the Armor Room. Deliver a little talk, myself, what, what? All about the petronels, and arquebuses, an’ so on. While we are there I expect Grandpa and Grandma Browne to be assassinated. Tomorrow, a little con- ference on moaern music; I'll have the comicbooks.com