I WRITE OF THIS late in life, because I feel some record must be left of the astounding events of April 1912. I am aware that prior attempts to record my adventures personally have suffered when compared to those of my old and good friend Watson but, following my retirement from active practice as a consulting detective late in 1904, I saw very little of him. There were occasional weekend visits when he was in the area of my little Sussex home overlooking the Channel but, for the most part, we had retired to our separate lives. It was not until 1914, at the outbreak of the Great War, that we would come together for a final adventure.

But that was more than two years away when I decided, quite irrationally, to accept an invitation from the president of the White Star Line to be a guest on the maiden voyage of the R.M.S. Titanic across the Atlantic to New York. He was a man for whom I had performed a slight service some years back, not even worthy of mention in Watson's notes, and he hardly owed me compensation on such a grand scale. There were several reasons why I agreed to it but, perhaps, the truth was that I had simply grown bored with retirement. Still in my mid-fifties and enjoying good health, I quickly learned that, even at the height of the season, the physical demands of bee keeping were slight indeed. The winter months were spent in correspondence with fellow enthusiasts and a review and classification of my past cases. What few needs I had were seen to by an elderly housekeeper.

My initial reaction upon receiving the invitation was to ignore it. I had never been much of a world traveler, except for my years in Tibet and the Middle East, but the offer of a trip to America intrigued me for two reasons. It would enable me to visit places like the Great Alkali Plain of Utah and the coal mining region of Pennsylvania, which had figured in some of my investigations. And I could meet with one or two American bee keepers with whom I'd struck up a correspondence. I agreed to the invitation on one condition—that I travel under an assumed name. For the voyage, I became simply Mr. Smith, a name I shared with five other passengers and the ship's captain.

Early April had been a time of chilly temperatures and high winds. I was more than a little apprehensive as I departed from London on the firstclass boat-train to Southampton, arriving there at 11:30 a.m. on Wednesday, the 10th. Happily, my seat companion on the boat-train proved to be a young American writer and journalist named Jacques Futrelle. He was a stocky man with a round, boyish face and dark hair that dipped down over his forehead on the right side. He wore pince-nez glasses and a flowing bow tie, with white gloves that seemed formal for the occasion. Because of his name, I took him to be French at first, but he quickly corrected the misapprehension.

"I am a Georgian, sir, by way of Boston," he told me, "which might explain my strange accent."

"But surely your name..."

"My family is of French Huguenot stock. And you are..." "Smith," I told him.

"Ah!" He indicated the attractive woman seated across the aisle from us. "This is my wife, May. She is also a writer." "A journalist, like your husband?" I asked.

She gave me a winning smile. "We both write fiction. My first story appeared in The Saturday Evening Post some years back." She added, "The maiden voyage of the Titanic might provide an article for your old employer, Jacques."

He laughed. "I'm certain the Boston American will have any number of Hearst writers covering the voyage. They hardly need me, though I do owe them a debt of gratitude for publishing my early short stories while I worked there."

"Might I be familiar with your books?" I asked. Retirement to Sussex had left me with a mixed blessing: time to read the sort of popular fiction which I'd always ignored in the past.

It was May Futrelle who answered for him. "His novel, The Diamond Master, was published three years ago. I think that is the best of his romances, though many people prefer his detective stories."

The words stirred my memory. "Of course! Futrelle! You are the author of 'The Problem of Cell 13.' I have read that gem of a story more than once."

Futrelle smiled slightly. "Thank you. It has proven to be quite popular. My newspaper published it over six days and offered prizes for the correct solution."

"Your detective is known as 'The Thinking Machine.'"

The smile widened a bit. "Professor Augustus S.F.X. Van Dusen. I have published nearly fifty stories about the character in the past seven years, and have another seven with me that I wrote on the journey. None has equaled the popularity of the first, however."

Fifty stories! That was more than Watson had published about our exploits up to that time, but Futrelle was correct in saying the first of them had been the most popular.

"Have you two ever collaborated?" I asked.

May Futrelle laughed. "We swore that we never would, but we did try it once, in a way. I wrote a story that seemed to be a fantasy, and Jacques wrote his own story in which The Thinking Machine provided a logical solution to mine."

The talk shifted from his writing to their travels and I found him a most pleasant conversationalist. The time on the boat-train passed quickly and, before long, we were at the docks in Southampton. We parted then, promising to see each other on the voyage.

I stood on the dock for a moment, staring up at the great ship before me. Then I boarded the Titanic and was escorted to my cabin. It was suite B-57 on the starboard side of Bridge Deck B, reached by the impressive Grand Staircase or by a small elevator. Once in the cabin, I found a comfortable bed with a brass and enamel head- and footboard. There was a wardrobe room next to the bed and a luxurious sitting area opposite it. An electric space heater provided warmth, if needed. The suite's two windows were framed in gleaming brass. In the bath and water closet, there was a marble-topped sink. For just a moment, I wished that my old friend Watson was there to see it.

I had been on board barely a half-hour when the ship cast off, exactly at noon. As the tugs maneuvered it away from the dock and moved downstream into the River Test, I left my stateroom on the Bridge Deck and went out to the railing, lighting a cigarette as I watched our progress past banks lined with well-wishers. Then we stopped, narrowly avoiding a collision with another ship. It was almost an hour before we were under way again, and the next twenty-four hours were frustrating ones. We steamed downstream to the English Channel and then across to Cherbourg, where 274 additional passengers boarded by tender. Then it was a night crossing to Queenstown, Ireland, where we anchored about two miles offshore, while more passengers were brought out by tender.

When at last the anchor was raised for the final time, Captain Smith posted a notice that there were some 2,227 passengers and crew aboard, the exact number uncertain. This was about two-thirds the maximum capacity of 3,360 passengers and crew.

As I watched us pull out at 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, April 11th, I suddenly realized that an attractive red-haired young woman had joined me on deck.

"Is this your first trip across?" she asked.

"Across the Atlantic, yes."

"I'm Margo Collier. It's my first, too."

Women seldom have been an attraction to me, but there were exceptions. Looking into the deep, intelligent eyes of Margo Collier, I knew she could have been one of them, had I not been old enough to have sired her.

"A pleasure to meet you," I replied. "I am Mr. Smith."

She blinked, or winked, at me. "Mr. John Smith, no doubt. Are you in first class?"

"I am. And you are an American, judging by the sound of your accent."

"I thought you could tell from my red hair."

I smiled. "Do all Americans have red hair?"

"The ones that are in trouble seem to. Sometimes I think it's my red hair that gets me in trouble."

"What sort of trouble could one so young have gotten into?"

Her expression changed, and in an instant she was coldly serious.

"There's a man on board who's been following me, Mr. Holmes."

The sound of my own name startled me. "You know me, Miss

Collier?"

"You were pointed out by one of the ship's officers. He was telling me about the famous people on board—John Jacob Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, Sherlock Holmes, and many others."

I laughed. "My life's work has hardly been comparable to theirs. But pray tell me of this man who follows you. We are, after all, on shipboard. Perhaps he only strolls the deck as you do yourself."

She shook her head. "He was following me before I boarded the ship at Cherbourg."

I pondered this news. "Are you certain? One does not suddenly board the maiden voyage of the Titanic because he is shadowing a woman who has done so. If what you say is true, he must have known of your plans well in advance."

She grew suddenly nervous. "I can say no more now. Could you meet me in the first-class lounge on A deck? I'll try to be in the writing room tomorrow morning at eleven."

I bowed slightly. "I'll expect to see you then, Miss Collier."

There was a chill in the air on Friday morning, though the weather was calm and clear. Captain Smith reported that the Titanic had covered 386 miles since leaving Queenstown harbor. I ate an early breakfast in the firstclass dining saloon and, after a stroll around the deck, spent some time in the ship's gymnasium on the Boat Deck. The idea of using a rowing machine on this great ocean liner appealed to me, though I am certain Watson would have groused about it, reminding me of my age. Finally, shortly before eleven, I went down one flight of stairs to the writing room.

Margo Collier was seated alone at one of the tables, sipping a cup of tea. The reading and writing room adjoined the first-class lounge. It was a spacious, inviting area with groups of upholstered chairs and tables placed at comfortable intervals. I smiled as I seated myself opposite her.

"Good morning, Miss Collier. Did you have a good night's sleep?"

"As well as could be expected," she murmured, her voice barely carrying across the table. "The man who's been following me is in the lounge right now, standing by that leaded glass window."

I turned casually in my chair and realized that Jacques Futrelle and his wife were seated with an older man in a black suit. Seeing them gave me an excuse to walk into the lounge and get a better look at the man she'd indicated. I paused at their table with a few words of greeting, noting that the man with them was studying the tea leaves in one of the cups.

"Mr. Smith!" May Futrelle greeted me. "You must meet Franklin

Baynes, the British spiritualist."

The man eyed me solemnly as he stood up to shake my hand. "Smith? What is your line of work?"

"I am retired from a research position. This voyage is strictly for pleasure. But I see you are at work, sir, attempting to divine the world in a teacup."

"The Futrelles asked for a demonstration."

"I will leave you to it," I said, continuing on my way into the woodpaneled lounge. The man Margo Collier had indicated now stood a few paces from the window. He was almost bald, with a growth of graying beard along his chin, and his left hand was clutched around the knob of a thick walking stick. As I approached, he turned on me with blazing eyes.

"Has she sent you to confront me, sir?"

"Miss Collier says you have been following her since Cherbourg. You are frightening the poor woman half to death. Would you care to identify yourself?"

The bearded man drew himself up until he was almost my height. "I am Pierre Glacet. Cherbourg is my home. I am like yourself."

"And why do you follow her?" I asked, not quite understanding his remark.

"Because she runs away from me. Margo Collier is my wife."

I cannot pretend that the news did not astound me. I had noticed the faint indentation on her ring finger, but I assumed it was only the sign of a broken engagement in one so young. Likewise, the manner in which she approached me had seemed quite sincere.

"I find that difficult to believe," I told Glacet.

"Ask her! We have been married for more than a year, though we are living apart at the moment."

"Under what circumstances?"

"That is a personal matter, sir."

"How were you able to obtain a booking on the voyage at the last minute in order to follow her?"

"The ship is not fully booked at these prices."

"Forgive me, sir, if I have done you an injustice."

I retreated back to the writing room where Margo Collier was waiting.

"Did you confront him, Mr. Holmes?" she asked immediately.

"I did. The man claims to be your legal husband. Is that true?"

"We are separated. He has no business following me about!"

"I am sorry, Mrs. Glacet. I am, or was, a consulting detective. I have never been a marriage counselor."

"Mr. Holmes..."

"Pardon me, madam. I can no longer help you." I turned and walked away.

For the rest of the day and the next, I managed to avoid both Margo Collier and Pierre Glacet. The Titanic covered 519 miles on its second day, though it received several warnings of heavy pack ice from other ships. Captain Smith assured us via his posted notices that ice warnings were not uncommon for April crossings.

On Saturday evening, I dined with the Futrelles and the spiritualist, Franklin Baynes, in the first-class dining saloon. He was an interesting gentleman, well steeped in occult lore. Futrelle seemed especially taken with him and I could only assume that the author was researching a possible idea for one of his detective stories. It developed that the spiritualist was traveling to America for a series of lectures and demonstrations.

"You are a showman, then," I proposed, as much to bait him as anything else.

"No, no!" he insisted. "Spiritualism is as much a science as Madame Curie's radiology."

May Futrelle spoke. "Mr. Baynes has invited us to his cabin after dinner for a demonstration of some of his devices. Perhaps you could join us, Mr. Smith."

"By all means, do so!" Baynes urged.

I agreed with some reluctance and, following dessert, we took the elevator up three floors to his stateroom on the Promenade Deck. It was even larger than my cabin, and I wondered if this, too, might be a reward from the White Star president.

The spiritualist went directly to his steamer trunk and opened it. He removed a crystal ball some six inches in diameter, mounted on a wooden base with an electrical cord attached. Quickly unplugging the cabin's electric space heater by the bed, he plugged his device in its place. The crystal ball sprang to life with a bright, intense light.

"Look in here, Mr. Smith, but not too long, or you will be blinded." "What am I supposed to see?" I inquired.

"Perhaps those who have gone before you into the great beyond."

I glanced at the brightly glowing filament for an instant and then looked away, its image burnt into my retina.

"I see nothing of the past," I told him, "though something of the future might be had in lights like this."

Franklin Baynes unplugged the crystal ball and brought out an oversized deck of cards. I began to suspect he was more magician than spiritualist.

"You are not a believer in the hereafter, Mr. Smith? In that other world where our ancestors await us, where it is always spring and the fairies and elves flit across the meadow?"

I smiled slightly. "I have my own vision of the hereafter, Mr. Baynes. It is not the same as yours."

May Futrelle seemed to sense that the visit to his cabin had been a mistake.

"We really should be going, Jacques," she told her husband.

The spiritualist shook their hands. "Thank you for dinner. It was most delightful. And you, Mr. Smith, I trust we can discuss our differing views before the ship docks in New York." "Perhaps," I agreed.

I left the cabin in the company of the Futrelles and walked a few steps to the elevator.

"Obviously the man is something of a charlatan," May said, "but

Jacques thinks he might get a story idea out of this." "It is always possible," I agreed.

The elevator arrived and I opened the folding gate for them.

Futrelle peered at me and asked, "If it's not too personal a question, Mr. Smith, are you a detective?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Our steward told us you were the famous Sherlock Holmes."

I laughed as I stepped into the elevator with them and closed the gate. "My secret seems to be a secret no longer. You're the second person who's confronted me about my identity."

"We won't tell anyone," May promised, "though Mr. Baynes has heard it, too. Certainly it's an honor to meet you. Jacques was inspired to write his stories after reading Dr. Watson's accounts of your cases."

"Watson glamorizes me, I fear."

"How is the old fellow?" Futrelle asked.

"Fine. He comes to see me on occasion, though it's been some time now since I've had the pleasure of his company." I got off one flight down on the Bridge Deck.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I told them.

Futrelle grinned. "Good night, Mr. Smith."

Sunday, April 14th—the longest day of my life—began with divine services held in the first-class dining saloon. I had overslept and, when I went for breakfast at 10:30 a.m., I found the services in progress. That was how I happened upon Margo Collier again. She spotted me at once, standing in the back of the room, and pushed through the late arrivals to join me.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Hello, Mrs. Glacet."

"Please don't call me that. If you would grant me time, I could explain the entire matter to you."

Something in her desperate tone made me regret the harshness of my earlier dismissal.

"Very well," I said. "Join me at dinner tonight in the first-class saloon.

I will be in the outer reception room at eight o'clock."

"I will be there," she promised, brightening at once.

During the day, I continued to hear reports of ice sightings from the other passengers. In the twenty-four hours since noon Saturday, we had covered another 546 miles, and the map showed us approaching the Grand Banks off Newfoundland. The temperature remained in the forties much of the afternoon but, after 5:30, as darkness descended, it plunged quite quickly to 33 degrees. Captain Smith altered the ship's course slightly to the south and west, possibly as a precaution to avoid icebergs. Lookouts in the ship's crow's nest would remain on duty all night watching for ice. Looking up at them from the top deck, I decided it must be the loneliest of shipboard tasks, even though there were two men up there.

Exactly at eight o'clock, Margo Collier met me in the reception room on the Saloon Deck.

"My cabin is in second class," she confided. "I feared they might put another woman in with me to occupy the other bunk but, happily, I'm alone."

"That is more pleasant," I agreed as we were shown to our table.

"Did you know that the passengers' maids and valets eat in a separate dining room on Shelter Deck C? I saw it yesterday as I was touring the ship. They just have long communal tables, of course."

"Nothing about this ship would surprise me," I admitted. "It must be the grandest thing afloat."

At the far end of the dining saloon an orchestra had begun to play. The menu was a delight, as it had been each night of the voyage thus far. Margo Collier ordered the roast duckling with apple sauce. After some debate between the lamb and the filet mignons, I chose the latter with boiled new potatoes and creamed carrots, preceded by oysters and cream of barley soup.

"Now, let us get down to business," I told the young woman. "Tell me about your marriage to Pierre Glacet."

She sighed and began her story. "As you can see, there is a great difference in our ages. I met him on a weekend holiday in Cherbourg last year, and he persuaded me to work for him."

"Work? What sort of work?"

"He is a consulting detective like yourself, Mr. Holmes."

At last I understood the meaning of the man's words, "I am like yourself." He, too, knew my identity, as most everyone on the ship seemed to.

"Being in his employ hardly necessitated marriage, did it?" I asked.

"He specializes in cases involving family matters. Often his investigations involve checking into hotels to keep certain parties under surveillance. He needed me to pose as his wife and, since he was a moral man, he felt we should be truly married if we were to share a hotel room." "You agreed to this?" I asked, with some astonishment.

"Not at first. The idea of being married to a man more than twice my age, who had a graying beard and walked with a cane, was more than I could imagine. I agreed to it only when he assured me it would be a marriage in name only, for business purposes. The pay he offered was quite good, and I agreed to try it for one year."

"What happened next?"

"We went through a brief civil ceremony which he assured me could be easily annulled. I quickly found out, Mr. Holmes, that I had made a foolish mistake. The first time we shared a hotel room while shadowing someone, he was a perfect gentleman, sleeping on the sofa while I took the only bed. After that, things began to change. He mentioned the troubles with his leg and how uncomfortable hotel room sofas were. I allowed him to share the bed, but nothing more. Gradually he began taking liberties and, when I objected, he reminded me that we were legally man and wife. After a few months of that, I left him."

"And he has been following you ever since?"

"No. Even though I remained in Cherbourg through the winter months, he made no effort to bother me. It was when I decided to go to America and purchased my ticket on the Titanic that I saw him again. He wanted me to stay in Cherbourg."

Over a dessert of Waldorf pudding, I tried to learn more about the French detective's cases.

"Were they all divorces?"

"No, no. Some involved confidence men trying to swindle wealthy widows. I remember a pair of them, Cozel and Sanbey, who operated as a team. We followed them to Paris once and I kept Mr. Cozel occupied in a café while Pierre searched his room." She smiled at the memory. "We had some good times together."

"Then why did you seek my protection?"

"He wanted more than I was willing to give," she said with a sigh. "When I saw him on the ship, I feared I would end up having to fight him off."

"I will speak with him again before we dock in New York," I promised. "Perhaps I can persuade him to leave you alone."

We parted around eleven as the orchestra was playing "The Tales of Hoffmann," and I decided to go up to the Boat Deck for a stroll. The temperature was just below freezing, with a mist that cut visibility sharply. I thought of the poor seamen in the crow's nest and shivered for them. Then I retreated inside to the first-class smoking room on A Deck. I could hear the orchestra still playing. May had already retired for the evening, but Futrelle was sitting alone enjoying a nightcap. I joined him and ordered one myself. We were having a lively conversation about detective stories when there was a faint grinding jar to the ship.

"Iceberg!" someone shouted. Several of us ran outside to look. We were in time to see a giant berg, almost as high as the Boat Deck, vanishing into the mist astern.

"That was a close call," Futrelle said. "I think we actually scarped it going past!"

We went back inside to finish our drinks. After about ten minutes, I observed that the level of liquid in my glass was beginning to tilt a bit toward the bow of the ship. Before that fact could register in my mind, Margo Collier came running in.

"What is it?" I asked, seeing her ashen face.

"I've been seeking you everywhere, Mr. Holmes. My husband has fallen down the elevator shaft! He's dead."

It was true. One of the first-class stewards had noticed the open gate on the top deck. Looking into the shaft, he was able to make out a body on top of the elevator car four floors below. Futrelle and I reached the scene just as the broken body of Pierre Glacet was being removed.

I stared hard at the body as it lay in the corridor, then said, "Let me through here, please."

A ship's officer blocked the way. "Sorry, sir. You're too near the shaft."

"I want to examine it."

"Nothing to see in there, sir. Just the elevator cables."

He was correct, of course. The top of the car had nothing on it

"Can you raise it up so I can see to the bottom of the shaft?" I asked.

Futrelle smiled at my request. "Are you searching for a murder weapon, Mr. Holmes?"

I did not answer, but merely stared at the bottom of the shaft as it came into view beneath the rising elevator car. It was empty, as I suspected it would be. Some first-class passengers came in to use the elevator, but the officer directed them to the main staircase or the aft elevator.

"Why is the ship listing?" one of the gentlemen asked.

"We're looking into it," the officer said. For the first time, I was aware that we were tilting forward, and I remembered the liquid in my glass. From far off came the sudden sound of a lively ragtime tune being played by the orchestra.

Franklin Baynes, the spiritualist, was coming down the stairs from the boat deck. "What's going on?" he asked. "The crew is uncovering the lifeboats."

Captain Smith himself appeared on the stairs in time to hear the question.

"It's just a precaution," he told them. "The ship is taking on water." "From that iceberg?" Futrelle asked.

"Yes. Please gather your families and follow directions to your lifeboat stations."

Margo Collier seemed dazed. "This ship is unsinkable! There are waterproof compartments. I read all the literature."

"Please follow instructions," the Captain said, a bit more sharply. "Leave that body where it is."

"I must get to May," Futrelle said. I hurried after him. There would be time for the rest later.

Within minutes, we were on the deck with May. She was clinging to her husband, unwilling to let go.

"Aren't there enough lifeboats for everyone?" she asked.

The answer was already plain. The Titanic was sinking and there was room enough for only half the passengers in the lifeboats. It was 12:25 a.m. when the order came for women and children to abandon ship. We had scraped against the iceberg only forty-five minutes earlier.

"Jacques!" May Futrelle screamed, and he pushed her to safety in the nearest lifeboat.

"Now what?" he asked me, as the half-full lifeboat was being lowered to the dark, churning waters. Do we go back for our murderer?" "So you spotted it, too?" I asked, already leading the way.

"The missing cane. I only saw Glacet once, but he walked with the aid of a stout walking stick."

"Exactly," I agreed. "And I'm told he used it regularly. It wasn't on top of the elevator car and it hadn't slipped down to the bottom of the shaft.

That meant he didn't step into that empty shaft accidentally. He had help." We were on the Grand Staircase now and I spotted our quarry.

"Didn't he, Mr. Baynes?"

He turned at the sound of his name and drew a revolver from under his coat. "Damn you, Holmes! You'll go down with the ship."

"We all will, Baynes. The women and children are leaving. The rest of us will stay. Glacet recognized you as a confidence man he'd once pursued, a man named Sanbey—a simple anagram for Baynes. Somehow, you got him into your cabin tonight to stare at your electric crystal ball. When the bright light had temporarily blinded him, you helped him to the elevator, then sent the car down and pushed him after it. Only you forgot his walking stick. That probably went over the side when you discovered it."

The great ship listed suddenly, throwing us against the staircase railing.

"I'm getting out of here, Holmes! I'll find room in a lifeboat if I have to don women's clothes!"

He raised the revolver and fired.

And, in that instant, before I could move, Futrelle jumped between us. He took the bullet meant for me and collided with Baynes, sending them both over the railing of the Great Staircase.

Somehow I made my way into the night air. It was just after one o'clock and the orchestra had moved to the boat deck to continue playing. The remaining passengers were beginning to panic. Suddenly someone grabbed me and shoved me toward a lifeboat.

"Only twelve aboard starboard number one, sir. Plenty of room for you."

"I'll stay," I said, but it was not to be. I was pushed bodily into the boat as it was being lowered.

It was from there, an hour later, that I saw the last of the great Titanic vanish beneath the waves, carrying a victim, a murderer and a mystery writer with it. Two hours after that, a ship called the Carpathia plucked us from the water, amidst floating ice and debris. Margo Collier was among the survivors, but I never saw her again.

A final note by Dr. John H. Watson: It was not until 1918, at the close of the Great War, that my old friend Holmes entrusted this account to my care. By that time, my literary agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, had embraced spiritualism. He refused to handle a story in which a spiritualist was revealed to be a sham and a murderer. This most dramatic of adventures has remained unpublished until now.

EDWARD D. HOCH: An Appreciation

WHEN WE BEGAN TO talk over the idea of doing a volume collecting all of Ed's Sherlock Holmes short story pastiches, I never imagined this would turn into a memorial edition. However, it may be fitting that his last book, is a collection of his beloved Sherlock Holmes stories.

An appreciation—a few short words at least—was certainly warranted for this edition. However, I did not want the sad fact of his passing to preface the book and perhaps interfere with your enjoyment of Ed's wonderful stories, hence this brief afterword.

Ed Hoch was a talented and versatile writer. He excelled in the short story, a form of entertainment with often severe limitations that make it very difficult for most writers to do really well. Ed always did his stories really well, producing quality, thoughtful and entertaining tales. In fact, Ed's incredible short story success beginning in the 1950s numbered almost one thousand stories published professionally. A new story appeared in every issue of Ellery Queens Mystery Magazine every month for the last 35 years! His Simon Ark and Nick Velvet stories, among many others, are avidly read and collected. Ed Hoch was a writing legend.

Ed was also a great guy, a gentle and kind man. We had fun getting to know each other, emailing each other, as we worked to get this book out. While Ed never saw the final edition, he did see a preliminary of Jukka's wonderful cover and he liked that very much.

Ed Hoch passed away of a heart attack on Thursday, January 17, 2008, just after this book had been finalized but before it appeared. He was 77 years old and his death was a terrible blow to his many fans and friends the world over.

Gary Lovisi

Brooklyn, New York

February, 2008 

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All stories published with kind permission of the author.

"Introduction" by Edward D. Hoch is copyright © 2007 by Edward D. Hoch. The Stories originally appeared as follows: "The Most Dangerous Man" as by R. L. Stevens in Ellery Queens Mystery Magazine, February 1973, copyright © 1972 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Return of the Speckled

Band" by Edward D. Hoch in The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, St. Martins Press, copyright

© 1996 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Manor House Case" by Edward D. Hoch in The Resurrected

Holmes, St. Martins Press, copyright © 1996 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Christmas Client" by

Edward D. Hoch in Holmes For The Holidays, Berkley Books, copyright © 1996 by Edward D.

Hoch. "The Adventure of Vittoria, the Circus Belle" by Edward D. Hoch in The Mammoth Book of

New Sherlock Holmes Adventures, Robinson Books, copyright © 1997, by Edward D. Hoch. "The

Adventure of the Dying Ship" by Edward D. Hoch in The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock

Holmes, St. Martins Press, copyright © 1998 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Adventure of Cipher in the

Sand" by Edward D. Hoch in The Adventure of Cipher in the Sand, Mysterious Bookshop, copyright © 1999 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Christmas Conspiracy" by Edward D. Hoch in More Holmes for the Holidays, Berkley Books, copyright © 1999 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Adventure of the

Anonymous Author" by Edward D. Hoch in Murder in Baker Street, Carroll & Graf, copyright ©

2001 by Edward D. Hoch. "the Adventure of the Domino Club" by Edward D. Hoch in The Strand

Magazine, February-May 2005 issue, copyright © 2005 by Edward D. Hoch. "The Addleton

Tragedy" by Edward D. Hoch in Sherlock Holmes @ 35, The Bootmakers of Toronto, copyright © 2006 by Edward D. Hoch. "A Scandal in Montreal" by Edward D. Hoch in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, February, 2008 issue, copyright © 2007 by Edward D. Hoch. All Rights Reserved.

"Edward D. Hoch: An Appreciation" by Gary Lovisi copyright © 2008 by Gary Lovisi

Copyright © 2008 by Edward D. Hoch

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4804-5650-1

This 2013 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street New York, NY 10014 www.mysteriouspress.com www.openroadmedia.com

 

EBOOKS BY EDWARD D. HOCH

FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

Available wherever ebooks are sold

Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

MysteriousPress.com offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

FIND OUT MORE AT

WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

FOLLOW US:

@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.

WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM

FOLLOW US:

@openroadmedia and

Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia

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