That Damned Fellow Upstairs

Mr. Pickwick knew an old man who said that the rooms in the Inns of
Court were 'queer old places'--odd and lonely.

'Not a bit of it!' said a sceptical friend.

Then the sceptic, who lived by himself in one of these rooms, died
one morning of apoplexy, as he was about to open his door. Fell with
his head in his own letterbox, and lay there for eighteen months. At
last, as the rent was not being paid, the landlords had the door
forced, 'and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts
and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the
door'.

Years after Mr. Pickwick's adventures were over, entrance was one day
forced into another queer old room in a London house, and, with a
tremendous clatter, out tumbled another skeleton, of a still stranger
kind.

The noise it made was not heard in America, since we were completely
absorbed, that summer, in the first Battle of Bull Run. The story
would be forgotten in England today, were it not for the admirable
essay published seven years ago by the late Sir John Hall, Bart. This
gentleman is respected by all those who appreciate scholarly
descriptions of curious events. It is probable, however, that of all
who see my retelling of the tale, only experts like Messrs. Alexander
Woollcott and S.S. Van Dine will be familiar with Sir John Hall's
work. And as it has been solemnly asserted, in print, that the names
of both Mr. Woollcott and Mr. Van Dine are but pseudonyms of the
writer of this piece, the circle is very much narrowed. So I feel
moderately safe in going ahead, especially as I have unearthed one or
two details on my own account.

Towards noon of a day in July, in that far-off year, Mr. Clay, the
manager of the Catalonian Cork-Cutting Company, was in the rear of his
premises in Northumberland Street, London. He heard two pistol shots
from within the house, one shot following the other at a five-minute
interval. He paid no attention, since he knew that one of the
residents of the house had, for a month past, anticipated Sherlock
Holmes in the eccentric custom of indoor pistol-practice.

After a few minutes, a rear window on the second floor was opened,
and there appeared the hero of the story. His conduct, his
accoutrement, and some of his speeches, have always recalled to me
those half-demented and curious persons who flit through the novels of
Mr. G.K. Chesterton. He was a man in his forties; wearing, I think,
side-whiskers, and carrying in one hand an umbrella, in the other,
half a pair of tongs. He put one foot on the sill, and seemed about to
jump twenty feet or more into the yard.