Case the Third: The Case of the Missing Hat

Well, that one was pretty good. Perhaps I had written it? But no, there was no mistaking Watley's spidery handwriting. But then how to explain the first-person narration? Perhaps I had forged Watley's hand? Or—and here I shuddered with the apprehension of a concept both horrifyingly foul and devilishly clever—had Watley forged my mind, slipping me on like a dressing gown woven from a thread of "I"s and "me"s, with the occasional "myself" filigree?

All this talk about my dressing gown made me think, momentarily, about my dressing gown. Absent-mindedly sliding a hand into the pocket, I happily came upon a handful of old filberts. Popping them into my mouth, I eagerly flipped the page, and read on.

*******

It was an exceptionally fine Tuesday morning, and I was relaxing in my favorite armchair by the window, enjoying the crisp autumn breeze and a handful of roasted filberts. Although my body appeared relaxed, my brain, which housed the brilliant mind of the world's greatest living detective, was hard at work. I was trying to remember if I had scheduled a 9:30 appointment.

Just as I was really getting going on the problem, however, my ruminations were interrupted by a lively knock on the parlor door. A small figure burst in, clothed from head to foot in herringbone. "My dear Sleuthe!" he cried around the pipestem clenched firmly between his teeth, and his small eyes beamed excitedly behind his round wire-rimmed spectacles.

It was my upstairs neighbor, sometime assistant, and ardent admirer Watley. He was a decent enough chap, but he could be a bit dense at times. "'Morning, Watley," I said, with feigned joviality. I was only too well aware that my chances of sneaking a morning nap had just gone up in smoke. To be quite honest, Watley was often downright annoying, but on the other hand he was affianced to the daughter of the man who owned the largest filbert-packaging plant in all of Wales. Sure enough, I noted that in his right hand he carried a sealed glass jar which was practically chock full of the tasty round nuggets.

"Set those down on the endtable, my good man," I told him, and waved him over to the small high-backed chair on my left. "You're just in time for my 9:30 appointment. Stay and observe, Watley. You may yet learn a thing or two." Watley's eyes lit with excitement as he settled his frame into the chair. "Is it a case, Sleuthe?" he inquired eagerly. "Yes," I replied gravely. "I expect so. I call it ... The Case of the 9:30 Appointment".

"Quite so, quite so," mumbled Watley, taking a few rapid puffs on his pipe. At that very moment a tall, slightly handsome young man strode confidently into the room through the open doorway, set his cane by the door, then doffed his greatcoat and hung it upon the coatrack which I had cleverly provided for that very purpose. "Mr. Sleuthe," he said by way of greeting, bowing slightly toward me, and then settled himself in the chair opposite from mine. Instantly my renowned powers of observation and deduction were at the ready.

"Allow me to introduce myself," my guest said. "I am ..."

I interrupted him. "You," I intoned, "are Lord Peter Whipfish". An audible gasp of admiration was heard, and with some embarrassment I realized it had emanated from myself. I went on. "You reside at 27 Hampton Court. You are a collector of fine Egyptian tableware and I dare say a connoisseur of Welsh wines. You appear to be unmarried and have no pets larger than a goldfish. And," I paused, for dramatic affect, "you are here because someone has stolen your hat!"

"Bravo!" cried a voice. I scanned my short-term memory to determine if, once again, it was myself who had cried out in admiration, but with relief I noticed that Watley had risen to his feet and was shaking his head in awe and disbelief. "Brilliant!" he cried. "How do you do it, Sleuthe old boy?"

My guest, Lord Peter, smiled indulgently. "Well, Mr. Sleuthe, I am pleased to see that you remember the details of our last meeting so clearly. I had been attempting to introduce myself to your companion here."

I coughed twice to cover my embarrassment, then a third time. It seemed to work, since I observed with a quick sidelong glance that Watley was now fast asleep in his chair. His pipe had fallen impotently upon my new fire-retardant rug. "Now, as for your missing hat," I shouted, straining to be heard over the deafening snoring noises which filled the room. Then I coughed some more, to stall for time. The truth was, you see, that I had no idea where the fellow's hat was, or who had stolen it. Unless ... unless it had been Watley all along! I stole another sidelong glance at him, and after several moments of keen observation determined that he was not, in fact, wearing a hat. Yet another dead lead. But at least now I had a story to tell my client. "Lord Peter, I have been following several leads, but they have led nowhere I'm afraid. Of course, in a case as intricate as this one, it may take a detective of even my impressive intellectual prowess several weeks to make any headway."

To test the agility of my brain, I quickly and silently spelled out the word "prowess", first forward, then backward. I then concentrated on the question of whether or not the word is a palindrome, and concluded with astonishing speed that it is not, despite the presence of a double 's'. Thus reassured of my brilliance, I focused again on my guest. He appeared quite agitated. "Mr. Sleuthe, thank goodness you've come round! You've been gazing into the distance for the last five minutes, softly whistling. I thought something terrible had happened."

I snagged a handful of filberts, and chewed on them with determination. To my astonishment, my guest was still speaking.

"What I've been trying to say, Mr. Sleuthe, is that my hat wasn't stolen at all. I'd simply misplaced it. In fact, it's been here atop your coat rack all week. I must have left it here after my last visit. I can't see how you failed to notice it."

I chewed noisily on my filberts. My guest rose, donned his hat and coat, and moved toward the door. "Well, see you next week," he called cheerily, then he was gone. I was about to wake Watley when we were both startled by a loud cry from outside. It was Lord Peter's voice, carried back to us on the autumn breeze as his carriage sped away. "Good God, my cane's been stolen!"

Watley rose to his feet. "Another case for you, Sleuthe!" he announced enthusiastically. "Might I suggest ... The Case of the Missing Cane?"

"Excellent choice, Watley. But it will have to wait. I'm a busy man, you know."

"Indeed. You are, after all, the world's greatest living detective." As he turned to leave I drew his attention to the cane propped up by the doorway. "I say, is that yours, Watley?"

"I've never seen it before in my life," he answered. I assured him that neither had I, and he departed. I tried to focus my weary brain on the provenance of the mysterious cane, but there was no solving the problem. So instead I directed my attention toward a well-deserved and long overdue morning nap.