Other editions of book R. Holmes & Co.

ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR JENKINSPetty larceny, that is.It's in his blood you, see. His name is Raffles Holmes. His grandfather is none other than the Victorian gentleman criminal A.J. Raffles. His father? None other than Sherlock Holmes.Half of him wants to rob the rich blind. Half of him wants to solve mysteries.And all of him wants to make money, by selling his misadventures to the reading public with a writer named Jenkins.Result: Hilarious stories.Stories like "Adventure of the Missing Pendants" -- in which R. Holmes uses nefarious methods and deductive reasoning to restore purloined jewelry."Adventure of the Brass Check" -- In which Raffle Holmes brings along Jenkins to help him with the temptation of stealing a priceless rope of pearls."Adventure of a Hired Burglar" -- in which a robbery is committed for highly noble purposes."The Redemption of Young Billington Rand" -- in which Raffles Holmes saves a man from himself by robbing him like a highwayman.

Raffles Holmes comes from impressive stock, with both larceny and detection in his blood in equal measure. He’s the son of the legendary detective Sherlock Holmes, and the grandson of gentleman criminal A. J. Raffles. No wonder he’s so conflicted between the desire to solve crimes and the urge to make sure the rich get their deserved comeuppance. Yet there is one ambition that is consistent in both sides of Holmes: making money. What’s the easiest way for him to make that cash? Selling the stories of his exploits, of course. And what tales they are! Holmes is as smooth an operator as his grandfather, and he finds himself the culprit of cases nearly as often as he is the detective. Whether burglarizing for the greater good, fighting a desire to steal priceless jewelry, or playing the part of a bandit in order to save someone, Holmes is a rakish hero worthy of his name.

It was a blistering night in August. All day long the mercury in the thermometer had been flirting with the figures at the top of the tube, and the promised shower at night which a mendacious Weather Bureau had been prophesying as a slight mitigation of our sufferings was conspicuous wholly by its absence. I had but one comfort in the sweltering hours of the day, afternoon and evening, and that was that my family were away in the mountains, and there was no law against my sitting around all day clad only in my pajamas, and otherwise concealed from possibly intruding eyes by the wreaths of smoke that I extracted from the nineteen or twenty cigars which, when there is no protesting eye to suggest otherwise, form my daily allowance. I had tried every method known to the resourceful flat-dweller of modern times to get cool and to stay so, but alas, it was impossible.

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