SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (10 page)

The vehicle started with a jerk that dumped Lafferty
back into his seat but did not stay his tirade.
"—of Sherlock Holmes
then?
" That was the last we heard of him as the carriage
trundled off and was lost to view. I did not dare to
look at Holmes' face in that moment. I had seen him tried sorely, but never humiliated to his face without
the possibility of defending himself. As I followed
him up the broad flight of marble stairs off the lobby
to our room, I found myself fuming at the Inspector's
savage attack.

"The scoundrel!" I muttered. "How dare he?"

Holmes' voice was soft and emotionless. "Now do you understand what I meant when I spoke of being
manipulated?
Now
do you fully appreciate the art, the
genius, of this Napoleon of crime?"

"What Napoleon are you talking about?" I fear that
my mind was battered by the succession of bomb
shells exploded against it that evening, and for a mo
ment the meaning of my friend's not very difficult
metaphor eluded me. "Oh! Well, he's had his Auster
litz and Marengo, but I dare say Moscow and
Waterloo are—"

Holmes slapped his right fist in the open palm of
his left hand.
"He
knew
those mutilated tickets would bring me
to New York—and contrived, by the Devil's luck or
shrewd intelligence work, to travel on the very same
ship! He
knew
I
would be at the theater tonight, and
that the announcement of Irene Adler's 'indisposition'
would make me rush to her home, so that he could
deliver that note to me!"

Outside our room, numbered 215, although it was
on the first story above the lobby—Americans, I be
lieve, count the ground floors of their buildings as the
first, which makes little sense—Holmes drew a key
from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. Before
turning it, he addressed me yet again.

"He
knew
that Inspector Lafferty would be waiting for me here at the hotel, would enlist my aid in the
recovery of the gold—and that, because of Scott Adler, I would be forced to refuse to offer it."

Inside the room, after having tossed aside his hat
and shrugged out of his opera cloak, he sank deject
edly into a chair and continued his monologue.

"Every single thing Moriarty promised that night
in London has come true! The crime of the century
has
been committed. And I
am
helpless to do anything about it!"

I carefully folded my cloak and placed it in the
wardrobe, draped the tailcoat over a chair, as the
hotel valet would need to sponge and press it in the morning, undid my carefully knotted tie, and let out a
sigh of relaxation as I removed my front collar stud,
allowing the collar's two crimped ends to spring apart
like the tips of an unstrung bow and the two halves of
my starched shirt bosom to part company. I had been
too keyed up to be aware of it, but full evening dress
is not the most comfortable of uniforms for such activ
ity as Holmes and I had undertaken that night.

"Then you think," said I, "that Moriarty made off
with all that gold?"

"And with Scott Adler, I'm convinced of it!"
I was willing to credit the Professor with the will
to undertake any kind of villainy, but was not yet
convinced of all points in this case. For one thing,
moving that amount of gold seemed to me more a job
for a firm of carters than for a master criminal; for
another
. . .

"What the deuce can he
do
with all that bullion?"
I asked Holmes.

"You heard McGraw. He can bring the nations of
the world to the brink of a war that would engulf the
planet."

"Well, but what good's a world war to Moriarty?"

"None to him, or anyone, of course—it's the
pre
vention
of it! With mankind poised over the abyss of
unimaginable devastation, Professor Moriarty will
come forward, reveal that the gold is in his posses
sion, and that the world's bankrupt nations are in
his power! Moriarty, ruler of the world! The crime of
all centuries to come? Indeed it is, Watson, indeed it
is! And I?"

Eyes glaring like those of a trapped eagle, he
snatched the note from his pocket and held it up in a clenched hand. Its pallid hue seemed to infuse the air
with the menace of Professor Moriarty's evil pres
ence.

Holmes' voice was almost cracking with fury and
self-contempt as he cried, "I am powerless to circum
vent it!"

He crumpled the note and dashed it to the floor,
then rushed from the sitting-room into the bedroom.
I stooped to retrieve the wad of paper, smoothed it,
and placed it on a table. It was evidence, after all, and it made no sense to destroy it. I sighed, grieved at
my friend's trouble—and concerned for the dreadful
repercussions that Moriarty's audacious enterprise
might bring about—and set to work on removing the
last of the studs from my shirt. I have always, in taking studs from a dress-shirt, tried to leave the
stiffly starched surface unmarred; a legacy, I suppose,
from my student days, when laundry charges loomed
very large in a limited budget, and a stiff-bosomed
shirt spared for a second wearing meant a distinct sav
ings. That is not a consideration now, but I take a
modest pride in maintaining my skill. I was, there
fore, somewhat vexed when a discordant noise from
the bedroom startled me as I was easing the stud out, and caused me to wrench it loose, crumpling and dis
torting the stiffened fabric around the button-hole.
Sherlock Holmes was at his blessed violin again,
not drawing from it the gay, smooth sounds that had
enlivened the ship's concert, but those harsh scrap
ings, growlings, whines, and eerie drones that he made
it produce when improvising to fit his mood. As
always, something in the sound jangled deep in my being, making me first uneasy, then distinctly edgy,
and finally positively short-tempered.

I rose and passed by the open bedroom door, clear
ing my throat ostentatiously, in the hope that Holmes
would take the hint and desist. He paid no attention,
and the noise continued. He was hunched over the
instrument, sawing away with an abstracted glare in
his eyes, and a flood of impatience with the whole
business—Moriarty, Irene Adler, the wretched bricks of gold, Holmes' moods—welled up in me.

I stood in the bedroom doorway and said sternly,
"Holmes!"

He looked up, his eyebrows raised in an expression
of surprise, said, "Yes?"—and, thank goodness,
ceased playing.

"Forgive me for saying so, Holmes," I ventured, letting the words come in a rush, "but if you're prepared to—to sit there and . . .
fiddle
while the world
goes up in smoke, well, then, your precious Professor
Moriarty
deserves
to sit on his mountain of gold
and—and—tell the rest of us to go jump!"

I was aware, as I strode away from the bedroom, that I had not been totally coherent or reasoned, but
at least I had, for once, let Mr. Sherlock Holmes know pretty clearly how I felt! However, when I heard him
enter the sitting-room behind me, and turned to face
him, I confess that I felt rather abashed at my show
of pique.

Holmes, holding his violin and bow loosely, looked
at me with what appeared to be respectful interest. If
he was, perhaps, amused at my outburst, at least he
no longer wore the tragic expression that had been his
for so many hours.

"Well," said I. "Well . . . I've never made any bones
about what that infernal fiddle does to my nerves!"

"It's quite all right," said Sherlock Holmes. "You've no need to apologize, Watson. Indeed, it is I— Hello!"

He had stiffened, and was looking out the window
that gave on to the street, nostrils flared and eyes
ablaze, his whole form possessing that eager tension
which resembles that of a hunting dog at the point.

"What . . . have
. . .
we
. . .
here?" he enunciated
slowly.

I crossed to stand beside him, my long experience
with him and his work prompting me to stand to one
side of the window, and peered into the street. On the
opposite side, the sandwich-man for the chop-house
whom I had taken note of twice during the evening
was leaning against a wall. Though he was at some
distance, the lurid eye on the sign was unmistakable.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.

"That man down there is watching this room. I
saw him twice this evening, marching up and down
with his signboards."

"I saw him, too. But—watching us, is he? I wonder
what he's up to?"

"I can tell you that, Watson!" cried Holmes, an
almost feverish touch of color staining his pale cheeks.
"He's wondering what
we're
up to!" He turned away
from the window. "My dear friend, I owe you a profound debt of gratitude!"

"Come now, Holmes," said I, feeling quite ill at
ease.

"I do, Watson, I do! Had you not reprimanded me
as you did, I should have gone on doing exactly what
you accused me of doing: fiddling while the world
burned! Moriarty would, indeed, have won the day.
But you broke the spell, my friend, and washed my
mind clear as a sparkling brook!"

He was truly out of the dumps now, pacing the
room from end to end, fairly crackling with energy and
enthusiasm.

"
Why
are we being watched, Watson? Ask yourself
that question!"

"Well, there's no need to. You just asked it."

"And I'll answer it. If Moriarty's plan is so perfect
—if I am thought to be helpless, destroyed, unable to
fight him—as indeed I thought myself until a moment
ago—then
why is it necessary to have me watched?
"

There was triumph, not inquiry, in his voice as he
flung out the sentence like a challenge—a challenge to mortal struggle offered to someone not present in that
room.

Though I was beginning to see the direction of Sher
lock Holmes' reasoning, I was reluctant to make the
same leap to a conclusion.

"Holmes, that's not an answer. It's another ques
tion," said I.

"And the answer is: because the plan's not perfect!
It has got one single flaw in it, and that man down
there has to be there so Moriarty will know at once if
I've discovered that flaw!"

"Well, and have you?"

Holmes looked almost gleeful.
"Yes, but he's not going to find that out! Watson,
what is it that prevents my assisting the police?"

"Why, the lad's safety, of course."

"Of course! So long as Scott Adler remains Moriarty's captive, my hands are tied! His life hangs upon
my inactivity. But, Watson—what if the lad were
snatched from Moriarty's claws, and set free?"

It was clear that that would indeed alter matters,
but raised a pertinent question, which I put.

"By whom?"

"By
us!
And in such a way that Moriarty still thinks
him held prisoner! If that can be achieved, the manacles fall from my wrists and I am free to turn my
attention to the theft of the gold!"

I gave a doubtful grunt.

"Easier said than done, I should say."

Holmes' dry manner was precisely that of his old
self now.
"Yes, Watson, it's what you
would
say, and indeed
what you
have
said."

He turned and went into the bedroom again, and
I wandered over to the window for another cautious
look at our watcher. In most circumstances, such a spy would be cause for alarm, but so turned-about
was this case that his sinister pretence was in fact the
first sign of hope!

I observed him for a moment, and called to the
next room, "Chap's still out there. Damp night, too—
the pavement's getting slick. He'll have a nice touch of
rheumatism by morning, and I wish him joy of it!
Holmes, you're not going to start up on that wretched
fiddle again, are you—? Oh!"

For I turned to see Sherlock Holmes coming into
the sitting-room clad in his purple dressing-gown,
holding his massive pipe and the bulging tobacco
pouch he carried with him on his journeys, the knife-
transfixed Persian slipper which usually served that purpose being traditionally unremovable from Baker
Street and, in any case, not practical for traveling.

"We're in for one of those sessions, are we?" said I.

"Precisely."

Holmes gathered a number of cushions from the
chairs in the sitting-room and placed them in a pile
on the sofa. Seating himself cross-legged on this heap,
he opened the pouch and poured out a conical pile of
tobacco on to the low table in front of him, then set
about methodically tamping pinches of it into the
bowl of the pipe.

"Don't let me detain you, Watson," he said. "I
expect this is a four-pipe problem, at the very least."

The pipe filled to his satisfaction, he struck a
match on the polished surface of the table, leaving a
scar—I calculated that would add a shilling or so, or
"bits" as I believe the local term is, to our bill at the
end or our stay—and sucked the flame hungrily down
into the packed tobacco. As the first smoke trickled
into his mouth, his face assumed the tranquil, im
mobile look of one in a trance, a look which, I knew of
old, signaled absolute concentration on the matter at
hand.

"Yes, well . . . take care you don't set the uphol
stery afire the way you did that night in Ashby-de-la-
Zouche," I cautioned him.

I knew full well that he did not hear me; nor did I
much care. To see Holmes himself again, and bringing
the diamond-sharp point of that great intellect to bear
on the problem before us, was worth any amount of
scorch marks on the Algonquin's furniture.

Pausing at the bedroom door, I looked back at
Holmes, already wreathed in a nimbus of blue smoke.
He bore a not undignified resemblance to the Cater
pillar, perched on his mushroom and puffing away at his hookah, portrayed in the illustrations to
Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland
.