SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (12 page)

———«»——————«»——————«»———

In addition to her imposture, Miss Adler contributed
a useful bit of stagecraft to our exit, suggesting that an
air of confused urgency be created to excite and alarm
our watcher, and blocking out the parts to be played
by Holmes, myself, her butler, and herself.

Thus, the man in the checkered suit first saw Heller
run outside and down the steps, bawling for a cab and
waving his arms energetically; then saw the summoned
vehicle, its driver infected with the butler's agitation,
hasten to respond; then heard Sherlock Holmes, just inside the doorway, call impatiently, "Right along,
Watson!
Right along!
"
then saw the unmistakable
Inverness-and-deerstalker-clad figure of Holmes, with
myself panting beside him, dash down the steps and
into the cab, which immediately set off at a smart pace.

Peering through the back window of our carriage, I
saw the watcher gesturing violently; and, just as we
turned a corner and passed from his sight, a closed
carriage drew up beside him, into which he bounded.

I relaxed and sat back next to Irene Adler. The
plan was for us to go to the Algonquin, which she
would enter, still in her character of Holmes, and leave
a few moments later in her own. We would then, at
intervals, make our separate ways back to her house
and await the detective's report. I was not happy at
being thus removed from the fray, yet I knew that this
was one of those occasions on which my friend must
be free to exercise his solitary genius in his own way. In any case, I was off duty for the moment, and might
as well enjoy it.

I glanced at Irene Adler, recalling Dr. Johnson's
comment about the bliss of riding in a post-chaise with
a pretty woman. Well, Irene Adler was as pretty a
woman as one could reasonably expect to encounter
anywhere; and we were certainly riding, probably
more comfortably than in a post-chaise of a century
and more ago. Yet I wondered: how would Johnson
have felt had his fair lady been wrapped from neck
to ankle in an Inverness cape, half her face concealed
by a deerstalker cap?

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Once more I am removed from the stage to play
my necessary but undemanding part, and must rely on later knowledge, mainly from his own account, to set down the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for the remainder of that eventful day.

A smile of satisfaction crossed Sherlock Holmes' hawk-
like face as he watched the man in the checkered suit
spring into the carriage and set off after the departing
cab. Moriarty's hounds would follow the scent laid for
them to the Algonquin Hotel.

"And I," he murmured, "will be free to set the cat among his pigeons. Dear me! There's a mixed meta
phor Watson would scarcely countenance."

Heller entered the drawing-room and reported that,
as instructed, he had scanned the rear area-way, and
had indeed observed someone lounging in a position
which allowed him to oversee the back door to the
house.

"Excellent, Heller! It is what I predicted, and therefore means that I have divined our adversary's plans
correctly. Now, then, I want you to improvise a bit of
stage business at the rear of the house: shaking out a
dinner-cloth on the back steps, setting out the dustbins
—I leave the details to you—so that our watcher's
attention will be riveted upon you whilst I make my
exit from the front door."

"I shall be glad to do it, sir," said Heller. "Though,
strictly speaking, the tasks you describe are not my
place. The kitchen maid—"

Holmes glared at him.

"Heller, I doubt that a hired thug is aware of the
social distinctions that obtain below-stairs! This is a
matter of great moment to your mistress, not one of
housekeeping!"

"Of course, sir."
Heller bowed and left.

In a moment, Holmes let himself out the front door,
and strolled casually to the north end of Gramercy
Park and thence to the next street. As he walked, he
sorted rapidly through his thoughts until they were ar
ranged in an orderly sequence, and his next steps were clear in his mind. At one point, his meditations were
interrupted by a frantic clangor, and he looked up to
find himself in the middle of a major street, with an
electric tramcar bearing down on him.

A broad-jump which would have done him credit
during his Cambridge days took him to the opposite
pavement, where a street loafer jeered at him: "Say,
bo, was you waitin' fer de motorman t' send you a telegram dat he was comin' t'rough and would yiz be kind
enough to git out o' de way? Dat stuff don't go, I'll tell
you!"

Holmes looked at his mocker and snapped his fin
gers. The jibe had supplied the last—the obvious—
missing element!

"Thank you, my good fellow," he said, and pressed
a coin into the man's grimy paw.

"Chee," the loafer replied, looking at it with respect.
"If I gets dat fer talkin' wise wid you, what's it wort'
if I curses you out some?"

"One black eye, possibly two," answered Holmes,
and strode up the street, mentally putting the finishing
touches to his plan.

This was no more than the matter of a few moments,
and, the task accomplished, he slowed his pace and
allowed himself to become aware of his surroundings.

He was now at the edge of a large park surrounded
by commercial buildings and hotels on three sides. One
building, at the far edge, in what he took to be Fifth
Avenue, rose dizzyingly high, and was built in a cu
rious wedge shape, the sharp end pointing north—
doubtless the aptly named Flatiron. The park was
bordered to the east by a dazzling structure whose
stone shone with a warm, golden hue. An impressive
colonnade fronted on the park, and, above it, fanciful
towers topped the building. This would be the famous
Madison Square Garden, then. His gaze traveled up
wards, and was caught by a glint of gold: the statue
of a gracefully unadorned woman, poised on one toe,
as if about to spring into the sky—Saint-Gaudens' Diana. She was the embodiment of the feminine and
of the unreachable, and a muscle in Holmes' jaw
twitched as he contemplated her. Unreachable . . .
Whatever his successes, there was much that was, that
always would be, unreachable. . . .

He shrugged away the brief reverie, and raised his
hand to beckon to an approaching hansom.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Leaning on the scarred counter, Sherlock Holmes
finished composing a message on the blank form, and
passed it over to the manager of the office. The steady
clatter of a battery of telegraph instruments in the rear
filled the room, vying with the sounds of traffic on Broadway that came through the open door.

The manager scanned the message form and blinked at the address written on it.

"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but the opera house is
just across the street. Wouldn't you rather—?"

"Thank you so much, but I prefer to have it de
livered."

The manager scratched his head in perplexity, and
said, "Well, yeah. But
. . .
I mean, we send telegrams by telegraph, don't you see—from one office to another, to the one that's nearest to the person you're
sending it to. And
this
is already the nearest office to
the Met. I don't see's we could send a telegram to
ourselves, somehow."

Holmes said patiently, "Could you not merely have
the message printed on one of your blanks,
without
sending it back and forth? I particularly want this to
be received as a telegram—far more impressive to a
lady than a note, don't you know?"

Holmes allowed one eye to droop meaningfully as
he looked at the manager.

"Well, say, I guess we can do that," the man said.
"But I'll have to charge you the full rate, same's if it
was sent from another office." He rapidly ran his pencil over the message, counting. "That'll be seventeen
cents, sir. Fifteen for the first ten, then a cent a word
after that. I'll have it done up right away, and the
boy'll rush it over."

The message dispatched, Holmes took a place on
the wooden bench that ran along one wall, and looked
out at the bustling street through the plate-glass win
dow fronting the office. The day had become brighter,
and the sun glanced off the burnished wood and
leather of cabs and private carriages, made more vivid
the signs painted on the sides of drays and trucks, and sparkled metallically on the few automobiles which
threaded their way among the horse-drawn vehicles which predominated. He was aware, as he had never
been in London, of a torrent of vitality—crude, per
haps, but driving forward in some direction yet to be
determined, harnessing the energy of machines and
men in a partnership that would shape the new century.

A little oppressed by the scene outside, Holmes let
his eyes rove around the telegraph office. They stopped
at an advertising poster fastened to one wall, displaying the attraction to be found at the Hippodrome The
ater. He gave a soundless whistle as he scanned one
item:

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Direct from the Palladium (in London):

The World-Famous

TWICKENHAM TOFFS

IN

BREATHTAKING ACROBATICS!

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Sherlock Holmes' eyes gleamed. Another piece of
the puzzle falling into place, and without any effort on
his part!

"The Twickenham Toffs," he murmured. "Well,
well, what a mysterious, fascinating, and
tiny
world
we live in, indeed!"

The boy who had departed five minutes before with
Holmes' telegram came in through the street door and
approached him, holding it.

"Sorry, Mister, the person's not there."

"How very odd," said Holmes cheerfully. "But, look here—it's marked urgent!"

"Yes, sir," the boy answered. "That's why they've
given me the address of her boarding-house, so's I
can deliver it there."

He displayed a penciled scrawl on the telegram's
envelope.

"Splendid, splendid, my dear chap!" said Holmes.
"I'll see to that myself, eh? Here you are!" He handed
the youth a twenty-five-cent piece. As he turned to
leave, he paused and added, "Now, you look like a
lad who knows his way around this town. Where can I
find a first-rate theatrical costumer?"

The messenger thought for a moment, and gave him
an address only a few blocks distant. When their
strange customer had left, the manager and the mes
senger looked at each other curiously.

"Full rates for a telegram that was never sent, and
a big tip for
not
delivering it—there's a way to do
business, Sully!" said the manager. "D'you suppose
he's escaped from some asylum?"

The boy shrugged, and jingled his quarter against
the few other coins in his pocket.

"An Englishman. You can't figure 'em out, no way!"

———«»——————«»——————«»———

It was no more than an hour later that a closed
four-wheeler with a battered trunk lashed to its top
drew up in front of the Haymarket Hotel, an estab
lishment in Forty-third Street, very much nearer to the
North River than to Broadway, for all that its peeling sign announced that it catered to the theatrical profes
sion.

The vehicle's lone passenger was just adjusting the
last details of his appearance by fitting a spiky black
wig to his head and capping it with a battered top hat,
as the hack came to a halt.

The occupant, a tall, stout man clad in black and sporting a remarkable stand of mutton-chop whiskers and eyebrows, emerged from the carriage and pointed
to the trunk atop it.

"'Ey,
signor carrozza!
" he called to the driver. "You
bring-a in da
baule
, ha? And-a you handle wit' care,
si?
She's-a
molto
value,
capisc'?
"

The driver, who had taken many fares to the Hay
market in his time, and knew pretty accurately the
kind of tip he could expect from actors, and from
foreigners, and, most discouraging of all, from foreign
actors, nodded gloomily and began undoing the secur
ing ropes.

The passenger strode into the shabby lobby and up to the front desk, behind which a depressed-looking
man stood peering down at some papers.

The newcomer struck an impressive attitude and
fairly trumpeted, "
Buon giorno!
"

The man behind the counter started, and looked up.

"We presenting," said the apparition before him,
"
Il
Grande
Bandini! Direct-a from-a da Victoria Pal
ace!"

"Victoria Palace, is it?" said the man. "I played
there myself in years gone by, before I lost my wits
and bought this place. What's your act, mate?"

"I
. . .
escape!"

"You escape?"

"
Si!
From-a da trunk, from-a da tank she's fill with
water, from-a chains, from-a da locked-up cage—"

"But not from hotel bills, I hope," said the proprie
tor, not quite joking.

Bandini laughed uproariously.

The cab driver dropped the trunk—a massive one,
at least five feet long—next to the desk, and said
glumly, "That's a buck and a half, plus two bits for
carting." If foreigners didn't see the point in tipping,
a fellow might as well charge them something extra on
the fare.

"'Ere you are, my fine-a fellow," said the Great
Bandini, counting out the precise amount mentioned into the outstretched hand. "And-a come to da
Orpheum tomorrow night-a to watch-a me preform!"

The cab driver went out, something in his expres
sion indicating that, on any visit to a performance of
Bandini's, he would be well provided with a supply of
elderly eggs.

"Playing the Orpheum, are you?" the proprietor
asked. "How'd you hear about the Haymarket?"

"It was-a recommend me by a knife thrower I meet in Marseilles. A man-a, his name it was Nicholas
Romaine."

"Don't seem to remember him. But we've got a
Miss
Romaine staying here now—her and her little boy."
He gave a slight shrug. The "miss" might be a stage title, or it might not. The Haymarket was not the sort
of place to ask to see marriage licenses. "Maybe
they're related to your friend. I'll ask her when she
comes in."

He glanced behind him at the honeycomb of room
keys affixed to the wall.
"I can let you have a nice room on the third floor, number thirty-two." Hearing no objection, he took the
key, opened the registration book and turned it toward Bandini. "If you'd care to register?" said he.

"Da room, she's-a clean? The Great Bandini, he
don' share-a his bed-a with bugs!"

"Cleanest spot in town," said the proprietor flatly.
"Ask anyone who lives here.
Front!
"