“Well, Bobbie,” I said, “it’s a pretty hard case to spring on an
untrained amateur like me. Suppose someone had come to Sherlock Holmes
and said, ‘Mr. Holmes, here’s a case for you. When is my wife’s
birthday?’ Wouldn’t that have given Sherlock a jolt? However, I know
enough about the game to understand that a fellow can’t shoot off his
deductive theories unless you start him with a clue, so rouse yourself
out of that pop-eyed trance and come across with two or three. For
instance, can’t you remember the last time she had a birthday? What
sort of weather was it? That might fix the month.”
Bobbie shook his head.
“It was just ordinary weather, as near as I can recollect.”
“Warm?”
“Warmish.”
“Or cold?”
“Well, fairly cold, perhaps. I can’t remember.”
I ordered two more of the same. They seemed indicated in the Young
Detective’s Manual. “You’re a great help, Bobbie,” I said. “An
invaluable assistant. One of those indispensable adjuncts without which
no home is complete.”
Bobbie seemed to be thinking.
“I’ve got it,” he said suddenly. “Look here. I gave her a present on
her last birthday. All we have to do is to go to the shop, hunt up the
date when it was bought, and the thing’s done.”
“Absolutely. What did you give her?”
He sagged.
“I can’t remember,” he said.
Getting ideas is like golf. Some days you’re right off, others it’s as
easy as falling off a log. I don’t suppose dear old Bobbie had ever had
two ideas in the same morning before in his life; but now he did it
without an effort. He just loosed another dry Martini into the
undergrowth, and before you could turn round it had flushed quite a
brain-wave.
Do you know those little books called _When were you Born_? There’s one
for each month. They tell you your character, your talents, your strong
points, and your weak points at fourpence halfpenny a go. Bobbie’s idea
was to buy the whole twelve, and go through them till we found out
which month hit off Mary’s character. That would give us the month, and
narrow it down a whole lot.
A pretty hot idea for a non-thinker like dear old Bobbie. We sallied
out at once. He took half and I took half, and we settled down to work.
As I say, it sounded good. But when we came to go into the thing, we
saw that there was a flaw. There was plenty of information all right,
but there wasn’t a single month that didn’t have something that exactly
hit off Mary. For instance, in the December book it said, “December
people are apt to keep their own secrets. They are extensive
travellers.” Well, Mary had certainly kept her secret, and she had
travelled quite extensively enough for Bobbie’s needs. Then, October
people were “born with original ideas” and “loved moving.” You couldn’t
have summed up Mary’s little jaunt more neatly. February people had
“wonderful memories”—Mary’s speciality.
We took a bit of a rest, then had another go at the thing.
Bobbie was all for May, because the book said that women born in that
month were “inclined to be capricious, which is always a barrier to a
happy married life”; but I plumped for February, because February women
“are unusually determined to have their own way, are very earnest, and
expect a full return in their companion or mates.” Which he owned was
about as like Mary as anything could be.
In the end he tore the books up, stamped on them, burnt them, and went
home.
It was wonderful what a change the next few days made in dear old
Bobbie. Have you ever seen that picture, “The Soul’s Awakening”? It
represents a flapper of sorts gazing in a startled sort of way into the
middle distance with a look in her eyes that seems to say, “Surely that
is George’s step I hear on the mat! Can this be love?” Well, Bobbie had
a soul’s awakening too. I don’t suppose he had ever troubled to think
in his life before—not really _think_. But now he was wearing his brain
to the bone. It was painful in a way, of course, to see a fellow human
being so thoroughly in the soup, but I felt strongly that it was all
for the best. I could see as plainly as possible that all these
brainstorms were improving Bobbie out of knowledge. When it was all
over he might possibly become a rotter again of a sort, but it would
only be a pale reflection of the rotter he had been. It bore out the
idea I had always had that what he needed was a real good jolt.
I saw a great deal of him these days. I was his best friend, and he
came to me for sympathy. I gave it him, too, with both hands, but I
never failed to hand him the Moral Lesson when I had him weak.
One day he came to me as I was sitting in the club, and I could see
that he had had an idea. He looked happier than he had done in weeks.
“Reggie,” he said, “I’m on the trail. This time I’m convinced that I
shall pull it off. I’ve remembered something of vital importance.”
“Yes?” I said.
“I remember distinctly,” he said, “that on Mary’s last birthday we went
together to the Coliseum. How does that hit you?”
“It’s a fine bit of memorizing,” I said; “but how does it help?”
“Why, they change the programme every week there.”
“Ah!” I said. “Now you are talking.”
“And the week we went one of the turns was Professor Some One’s
Terpsichorean Cats. I recollect them distinctly. Now, are we narrowing
it down, or aren’t we? Reggie, I’m going round to the Coliseum this
minute, and I’m going to dig the date of those Terpsichorean Cats out
of them, if I have to use a crowbar.”
So that got him within six days; for the management treated us like
brothers; brought out the archives, and ran agile fingers over the
pages till they treed the cats in the middle of May.
“I told you it was May,” said Bobbie. “Maybe you’ll listen to me
another time.”
“If you’ve any sense,” I said, “there won’t be another time.”
And Bobbie said that there wouldn’t.
Once you get your memory on the run, it parts as if it enjoyed doing
it. I had just got off to sleep that night when my telephone-bell rang.
It was Bobbie, of course. He didn’t apologize.
“Reggie,” he said, “I’ve got it now for certain. It’s just come to me.
We saw those Terpsichorean Cats at a matinee, old man.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Well, don’t you see that that brings it down to two days? It must have
been either Wednesday the seventh or Saturday the tenth.”
“Yes,” I said, “if they didn’t have daily matinees at the Coliseum.”