Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

“Harry,” I said, setting the envelope back on the table. “I’m sorry. You must be very disappointed.”

“Extremely.” His voice was heavy and listless. “I feel so terribly foolish.”

“Still, you couldn’t have really thought-I mean, you couldn’t actually have believed-”

“That Sherlock Holmes would assist me in solving the case? Of course I believed it.”

Bess reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Let’s put all this foolishness behind us and concentrate on the business at hand. Dash, we’ve been working for Mr. Patrell for nearly two months now. Don’t you think it’s time we-Dash? Dash?”

“Sorry? Were you speaking to me?”

“What is it? You have the strangest look on your face!”

“I-well-I’m not sure, but I think-I think-”

“What?”

I picked up Harry’s letter and turned it over in my hands. “I think Sherlock Holmes just solved the case.”

“It’s bad enough that I have to spend eight straight hours standing on the platform. Now I have to remain afterwards?” Emma Henderson tore off her bearded chin piece. “And why does it have to be in Mr. Patrell’s office? We’d all be more comfortable in the back room.”

This was certainly true. Harry and I had asked all of the performers to gather in the relatively cramped confines of Patrell’s office, which left most of us standing and others leaning awkwardly against the rear wall. It was a necessary measure. In answer to Miss Henderson’s question, however, I merely shrugged.

“Be patient, Emma,” said Mathilda Horn, gazing up at me with an unfamiliar expression of warmth and affection. “Dash has his reasons.”

“Does he now?” asked Miss Henderson. “When did you two get so friendly?”

“You hadn’t noticed?” asked Benjamin Zalor, settling his undersized frame on the edge of an unused packing crate. “They’ve spent half the day whispering at the back door.”

Gideon Patrell took his usual seat behind his desk. “Are there any more of those pastries your mother sent, Dash?” he asked. “What did you call them again?”

“Kifli,” I said. “And I’m afraid Mr. Grader has eaten the last one.”

“Grader! I’ve never seen a living skeleton with such a sweet tooth,” said Patrell.

“Sorry, boss,” he said, patting his concave stomach.

“So, what’s this all about?” asked Patrell, cracking a walnut with a juggling club. “Where is your brother, by the way?”

“Right here,” said Harry, entering the room with the “Wild Man of Borneo” in tow. “Sorry for the delay. Mr. Kendricks and I needed to make preparations for this evening’s performance.”

“Performance?” asked Patrell. “We’ve done our eight turns today, Houdini. It’s time to go home.”

“Please indulge me for just a few moments longer,” said Harry. “I’ve planned an encore, never before seen on any stage. Tonight, my brother and I intend to recreate the dreadful crime that took place in this office.”

“Recreate the crime?” Patrell stared at him. “For what possible reason?”

“You have indicated that you would like to find Mr. Tate and recover your money.”

“Yes, but he’s long gone by now. And our money with him.”

“Perhaps not.” Harry straightened his tie. “Indeed, I believe the solution is closer than you think. Mr. Patrell, for purposes of our demonstration you will remain just as you are, behind the desk. Dash, you will be playing the role of Addison Tate in this evening’s drama.”

I stepped forward.

“Now,” my brother continued, turning to the others, “Mr. Patrell has stated that Addison Tate returned to the office to demand the money after the rest of you departed. Dash-demand the money.”

I shrugged. “Give me the money,” I said.

“No, no,” said Harry, stepping forward. “It is essential that you are believable in the part. Take out your gun! Threaten him!”

I pulled out the Navy Colt. “Give me the money,” I repeated, somewhat apologetically.

“You’re hopeless, Dash,” said Harry, snatching the Colt from my hands. “Here’s how it’s done.” He turned to Patrell and snarled at him across the desk, waving the gun menacingly. “See here, you low-down, four-flushing, no-account, miserable, rotten, lousy, cheap, dishonest-”

“I think we get the point, Houdini,” said Patrell.

“Quite so,” Harry agreed, in a much brighter tone. He set the gun down and turned away, twirling a juggling club carelessly at the tips of his fingers. “And then, when you refused to surrender the money, he shot you and stole away under cover of darkness.”

Ben Zalor squirmed uncomfortably atop his packing crate. “We know all this, Houdini,” he said.

“Indeed,” said my brother, clearing his throat, “but later that same evening, something even more remarkable occurred. I believe that Addison Tate had no sooner fled into the night than he realized that he could not leave Mr. Patrell alive to tell what he knew. Tate would never be able to show his face again for fear of being arrested. The charge would be attempted murder.”

Emma Henderson gave a horrified gasp. “You’re saying that Tate came back here to finish Mr. Patrell off?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, my dear lady. But Tate found himself in a terrible quandary. He knew that he had wounded his victim, but he could not enter the office and confront him directly. Patrell had likely summoned help by this time. What’s more, Tate had dropped his gun earlier. He was unarmed. So what did he do? Ah, here was the genius of the thing. Creeping stealthily into the back room, Tate noticed a ventilator duct that communicated directly with Mr. Patrell’s office.”

“Ventilator duct?” asked Grader, scratching his skull-like head.

“Yes, for the circulation of fresh air. Essential in a property that had once been a fish market. Tate noticed a faint light glowing through the opening, which told him that Mr. Patrell was still in his office. The absence of noise confirmed that his victim was alone, possibly even unconscious from the gunshot. Tate seized this opportunity without hesitation. Reaching into the folds of his cloak, he withdrew a small but deadly swamp adder, the deadliest snake in India, which he had secured during his dealings with-”

“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Houdini,” cried Miss Henderson. “This is the most absurd yarn I’ve ever heard!”

“It’s preposterous,” said Patrell, reaching for another walnut. “And by the way, aren’t you describing the plot of a Sherlock Holmes adventure? The Speckled Band , wasn’t it?”

Harry waved the objections aside. “Perhaps that put the idea into Tate’s head. In any event, the problem now remained of inducing the deadly snake to travel through the ventilator passage into Mr. Patrell’s office. How could this be achieved? Searching through the back room, Tate chanced upon-” Harry broke off at the sound of a walnut cracking. An enormous smile broke across his face. “You see it, Dash?” he cried, springing forward. “You see it?”

“I see it, Harry.”

“See what, Dash?” asked Ben Zalor. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you see what Mr. Patrell is holding in his hands?” I asked.

Zalor turned to the desk. “Your gun. What of it?”

“Do you see what he’s doing with it?”

“He cracked a walnut. So what?”

“He cracked a walnut with the butt of an ivory-handled Navy pistol. We know he’s done it more than once because there are markings on the handle that weren’t there when Addison Tate cared for the gun.”

“But what does it matter?” asked Miss Hendricks.

“Addison Tate didn’t shoot Mr. Patrell,” I told them. “Patrell shot himself. Again and again, we’ve seen that Mr. Patrell has a fondness for walnuts, and a tendency to crack the shells with whatever implement is at hand-a table knife, a rock, a juggling club. Tonight, Harry set the gun down on his desk and walked away with the juggling club. When Patrell had his next impulse to crack a walnut, he grabbed for the closest heavy object.”