Sherlock Holmes

Dreadful.

There's grease on your hands.

Grease.

And with a faint trace of boot blacking.

Good Lord, Holmes, that means... It means, Watson, that someone knowing that Hankin was going to kiss the Bliny Stone smeared his boots with grease so that he would slip out of the grasp of whoever was holding him.

As clever a method of indirect long-distance murder as ever I've encountered.

Oh, we tried to, Mr. Bartell, but the authorities were curiously uncooperative.

They refused to let us search, insisting that the police be called first.

And so, Mr. Bartell, half an hour after the tragedy, Holmes and I found ourselves standing in a tiny police station as we told the story to the local sergeant.

I sure do stand to be praised, Mr. Holmes.

This is a terrible story you've told me.

Tomorrow I'll be after restaurant Sean O'Flaherty.

Sean O'Flaherty?

He's the waiter at the inn, the one who sings.

That he is, that he is.

And he sings like a breath of spring.

I'll be sorry to see him hang.

But do you know proof that he was responsible for the murder?

Proof, you say, sir?

Well, I can't arrest a big manufacturing man like Mr. Cochran, can I?