Hercule Holmes : Short Stories

Walk your child everyday

The confidence that Hercule Holmes's name and outfit had instilled in the Griffins had finally started to wane.

He still sat there in the plush grey armchair, his legs outstretched close to the empty fireplace. His silver framed magnifying glass was gripped in his hand and he was looking at the cold coals in front of him. The tweed suit of the finest Irish wool had been donned. A silver swan walking stick, its shaft carved of black hardwood was perched against the wall. A dead rose, that Mrs. Griffin assumed to be a boutonniere peeked out of his pocket.

Mr. Griffin would have joked in his sophisticated manner that this guy slept with his suit on if he was playing the casual party host. But, today, he could only imagine his son sitting in that armchair. There would have been the soft cackling of his sobs if he was there, not the hollow weeps of his wife.

"Did you sleep well, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Griffin asked, his voice weaker and even more prosthetic than usual.

The man looked up from his armchair and smiled. His canines were weird, they had popped on top of his molars and glared at you from both sides.

"Not at all." he said, grinning broadly. Before Mr. Griffin could utter his makeshift apology, he continued, "It is not your fault. Mr. Griffin, is it?"

He paused, as if he had deduced a long-lost secret.

"...Yeah" Mr. Griffin added.

"Yeah, thought so! Anyway, a detective cannot sleep, Mr. Griffin. I sleep like a wolf, with an open eye, looking for trouble. It isn't ideal, I agree, but it sure comes in handy when you have enemies like The Bloodwit. This one time, an assassin had sneaked in my motel room and would have shot me dead, if it wasn't for my-"

A snivelling of the nose and a high-pitched whimper interrupted the detective who sat back into his chair, visibly annoyed.

"My son, Mr. Holmes. You said you'd start the investigation in the morning." Mr. Griffin said trying not to bring up the snores he had heard last night.

"Ah, yes. Of course, that is why I am here. Let's begin with you, Mr. Griffin. What's the story. And before I can start, would you be nice enough to make me a cup of coffee, Mrs. Griffin?"

Mrs. Griffin got to her feet and walked away disappearing behind the wooden walls into the hallway.

"Now. What happened?" Holmes said, fidgeting around in his pocket. He took out a notepad, a diamond encrusted pen and a long-stemmed cherrywood pipe. He put the pipe in his mouth, grinning as he did so.

"It happened two days ago, Mr. Holmes. I was at my factory. Isabella, that's my wife's name, was in the hall on the ground floor, where we had dinner last night."

"We had dinner there, indeed. Absolutely delicious food, I must say." Holmes interrupted, breaking Mr. Griffin's flow and then going back to his pipe. He wasn't smoking it, it just sat there in his mouth, making his voice lopsided.

"Yes, Isabella was down there with her friends. And Johnny, that's my son was upstairs in his room with his tutor."

Holmes coughed as he finally smoked. An awkward silence followed as Mr. Griffin expected an artificial 'sorry' to follow, which didn't.

"Anyway, then, I think Isabella could tell you better, but then, the tutor came downstairs. He asked Isabella if Johnny had come down as he wasn't in his room. That is, I am afraid, all we know Mr. Holmes. No sign of the boy ever since."

Holmes put his pipe back in his suit pocket, grinning obviously.

"Yes, very interesting, Mr. Griffin. So you called the police I imagine?"