A Question of Ownership

Mr Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic Dwarf, pale, dishevelled and palpitating, burst into the room. He stood there panting, his portly frame heaving under the silver chain across his stomach, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.
"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes", he cried. "You mustn't blame me. I am Thorin Curthose, the rightful owner of the Arkenstone that the newspapers inform me you have recovered."
"Have a cigarette, Mr Curthose", said Holmes, smiling in a friendly manner and pushing his case across. "I am sure I am happy to meet you. However, there is one little impediment to my handing over the Arkenstone to you."
Curthose straightened up as was much as it was possible for a Dwarf to do.
"And what, pray, sir, is that?" he demanded.
Holmes arose and opened the door to his bedroom. "This is what stands between you and your desire", said he, as another Dwarf stepped out and halted, regarding our visitor with a baleful glare. "Allow me to introduce your ancestor, called Thorin Churthose just like you, and, since he is still alive, the rightful owner of the Arkenstone."
Our visitor stiffened in outrage. "Thief!" he screamed at the other dwarf.
"Impostor!" shrilled the older Dwarf and tugged at its scraggly, sparse old beard. "You cannot be my descendant! You are ME morphing in a very duplicitous manner."
"Really?" said the younger Curthose, swelling with rage. "Well, let me tell you, you feeble attempt at a Dwarf, that I would *never* accept anyone with a worn out dish-brush instead of a beard as an ancestor of mine. It is obvious that you are just a TROLL!"
Holmes held out his hands and was about to speak when yet another person entered the room from the stair. It was Lestrade, out of breath but with a smug, supercilious look on his face.
"Ah, Mr Holmes, I see you are up to your usual game", he said. "Well, this time I do believe I have the better of you, sir."
"How so?" asked Holmes and raised his eyebrows while a faint smile flickered on his lips.
Lestrade rubbed his hands and uttered a small, whining noise of satisfaction.
"Is it not the case, Mr Holmes, that you are trying to ascertain who is the rightful owner of the Arkenstone?"
"Not at all", was the cool response. "I am quite aware of the fact that it belongs to the older Mr Curthose over here."
"Really?" breathed Lestrade and fixed his pale, lamp-like eyes on the moth-eaten figure by the threshold to Holmes' bedroom. "Then, please, answer this for me: What does it have in its pocketses?"
Suddenly thunderstruck, Holmes stared at the man from Scotland Yard. With his gaze fixed on Lestrade, who still rubbed his hands and whimpered with glee, he backed towards the older Mr Curthose and suddenly, before the latter could jump backwards, thrust his hand into his pocket. What he found there made him wince and utter a word unworthy to be enunciated by any gentleman. His face was white, rigid and drawn with shock as he held up his find for all to see. It was a ring.
"The Ring! The Ring!" he croaked.
"YES!" thundered Lestrade and pointed with his finger at the suddenly cowering figure behind Holmes. "And that is Baggins, the infamous Thief!"
The pretended Dwarf had hidden his face in his hands. Now he looked up and shrugged his shoulders in a half-humorous, half-deprecating manner.
"It's a fair cop, Mr Lestrade", he said, as he tore off his false, and really very pathetic, beard in a manner that indicated relief. "I should have known that I couldn't fool *you*, guv'nor, no matter how easy it was to bamboozle that insufferable, smug Know-it-all, Mr Holmes."

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		Holmes
Sherlock