Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

“Sneaking around?” Harry asked. “How do you mean?”

“Nipping off to the back alley. Like he was looking for something, or meeting someone, but didn’t want you to know. I never believed that business about his sick mother, not me.”

“That’s not what you said at the time, Emma,” said Nigel Kendricks, setting his “Wild Man of Borneo” wig and mask on an empty stool. “You were willing to give him a week’s pay, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, he was a charmer, I’ll grant you that,” said Miss Henderson. “He certainly charmed you, didn’t he, Mathilda? Quite the rogue, that one.”

Miss Horn looked away, her face flushing scarlet. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Emma,” she said.

Miss Henderson snorted. “I’ve seen the way you looked at him, dear. A blind man couldn’t have missed it.”

I leaned forward and patted Miss Horn’s arm. “There, now. One never knows what the future holds. There’s always another trolley coming along, they say.” I gave her what I hoped was a charming, even roguish smile.

Miss Horn glanced at me as though I were some simple-minded relation with whom she was obliged to make small talk. “Perhaps so,” she said, “but I find I prefer to walk.” She stood and brushed at the folds of the green cloak she wore for the frog boy routine. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for the three o’clock.” She turned and drifted toward the platform, with Miss Hendricks trailing behind her. I stood watching them with my hands in my pockets.

“Strange how that woman manages to resist your charms, Dash,” said Harry, sidling up behind me. “You of all people, with your experience of women that spreads over three separate boroughs.”

“I’m just being sociable,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be too sociable,” said Bess, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I believe Mr. Patrell has designs on Miss Horn.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“She missed a day and a half of work and he didn’t fire her,” said Bess. “For Gideon Patrell, that’s something akin to a proposal of marriage.”

“I’m sure Mr. Patrell is only concerned with the best interests of the show,” I said. “I feel the same way.” I pulled the Navy Colt from its holster and made a show of examining it.

“Perhaps,” said Harry. “Still, it might be best for all concerned if you-that’s very odd.”

He was staring at me. “What is it?” I asked

He took the pistol from my hands. “You say this is Addison Tate’s gun? The one he dropped after he shot Mr. Patrell?”

“The very one. Mr. Patrell gave it to me when I took over the sharp-shooter act.”

Harry examined it cautiously and gave the barrel a tentative sniff. “This pistol has been fired, Dash.”

“Of course it’s been fired, Harry. I’ve been firing it eight times a day for the past two weeks. Ten times on Saturday.”

“But you’ve been using blank cartridges, Dash.”

“Blank cartridges still leave a heavy odor of gunpowder. That’s what you smell.”

“Indeed?” Harry waved a hand as though the remark was beneath his notice. He turned the gun over in his hands several times. “You’ve been rather careless with this firearm, Dash.”

“How so? I’m shooting blanks. It’s not as if I’m going to hurt anyone.”

“The handle. You told me it was genuine ivory, did you not?”

I nodded.

He fingered a series of scores and ridges along the bottom of the ivory grips. “You told me that Tate was unusually careful with this gun. He even had Mr. Patrell lock it up in the strongbox each night. Now it looks as if it has been chewed by a dog.”

I took the pistol and examined the scarred grip. “Huh. I hadn’t noticed that. It must have happened when Tate dropped it.”

“Perhaps. It is but a trifle, of course, but there is nothing so important as trifles.”

“Harry, why do you insist on making a mystery out of it? Next you’ll be telling me that it’s a three-pipe problem.”

He sighed. “That’s exactly what it is, Dash. What a shame that I don’t use tobacco.”

“Harry, face it. You’re not going to get to the bottom of this one. Addison Tate shot Mr. Patrell and now he’s on the run. With the money he took he could be anywhere. We may never know where he went.”

“You’re wrong, Dash; I will solve it. I’m simply looking at things the wrong way. I must shake things up-turn them upside down. And I know just how to do it.” Harry smiled mysteriously. “Indeed, I have already taken the necessary measures.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll say no more. I must be discreet.”

“What is he going on about now?” I asked Bess.

She slipped her arm through Harry’s and led him toward the stage. “Hasn’t he told you? He’s written a letter to-”

“Shhh!” cried Harry, pulling us off to the side. “The others will hear!”

“Hear what?” I asked.

Harry looked around to make sure that no one else was listening before he continued. “Very well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I shall confide in you. As the solution has thus far eluded me, I took the liberty of laying my case before an expert. I have written a letter to the world’s foremost consulting detective.”

“The world’s foremost consulting detective?”

“Exactly.”

“You wrote a letter to-”

“Sherlock Holmes. That is correct. I gathered the facts into a most interesting narrative, with certain literary flourishes that I hope will appeal to Dr. Watson.”

“But… Sherlock Holmes. Harry, isn’t Sherlock Holmes a-well, isn’t he-”

“Dead? You are referring to the unfortunate happenings at the Reichenbach Falls? You know my views on that matter, Dash. Sherlock Holmes is not dead. He has simply withdrawn from public life for reasons that he is not at liberty to divulge. I feel confident, however, that when he hears the particulars of this case, he will make an exception.”

“An exception?”

“Yes.”

“An exception to being dead?”

“Yes, if you insist on phrasing it thus. He has undoubtedly heard of the exploits of the great Harry Houdini. I am the only escapologist in the world, just as he is the only professional consulting detective. He and I are two originals, charting a bold new course and bringing comfort to the downtrodden.”

“Comfort to the downtrodden?”

He continued as if he had not heard. “It is a singular honor, but also a burden. He and I share this unique bond, like brothers. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Like brothers,” I repeated, as we climbed the platform for the next performance. “No, I guess I wouldn’t understand.”

The following weeks passed quickly and we began to lose track of time, as one often does when caught up in the grind of a Ten-in-One. As the days melted away, the name of Addison Tate was heard less frequently among the performers, and even Mr. Patrell seemed eager to put the episode behind him. For my part I enjoyed the routine thoroughly, but for one detail. Though I persisted in pressing my attentions upon Miss Horn, she continued to resist me with polite but firm resolve. Each day at the end of the final show, she would hurtle through the door as if propelled from a cannon, vanishing from sight before I had a chance to offer to escort her on the walk home.

One morning in early December, as I arrived at my mother’s flat to collect Harry and Bess, I found my brother slumped over the breakfast table looking thoroughly despondent.

“What is it?” I asked, glancing at my mother. “Is anyone-”

“His letter has come back from Baker Street,” said Bess.

“Come back?”

“Unopened. See for yourself.” A thick envelope lay on the breakfast table, addressed to “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.” in Harry’s blocky script. The surface was covered with postal markings and transfer stamps, and as I picked it up for a closer look, I could see a line of instructions printed along the bottom edge in a firm, slanting hand. It read: “Mr. Holmes no longer resides at this address. Return to writer.” An arrow scrawled in the corner directed attention to the reverse side of the envelope, where Harry’s name and address were carefully printed on the flap.