Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

A few feet beyond the far end of the billiards table was a table with an oil lamp on it, but actual lighting at night would be provided by the four large, upward-opening gas lamps suspended low over the table on a four-spoke brass chandelier. Beyond both the billiards table and writing table was a door opening out to one of the balconies; sunlight poured in through the fan light over that door, through the tall lights on either side of it, and through smaller square windows low to the floor.

There was no door on the wall to James’s left as he entered, but the tall, fan-light-topped windows there were of stained glass with its central design showing crossed pool cues, a smoldering cigar between the cues, and a foam-topped glass mug of beer above the center of the crossed cues.

“My family crest,” said Clemens, who had already lighted a fresh cigar and was pacing back and forth between the fireplace and the billiards table, a cue stick in his hand. “Shakespeare’s family crest boasted only a sort of sickly looking pen against what Ben Jonson called a mustardy background. Mine is better, I think.”

James noticed that the theme of crossed cue sticks was also repeated on the painted ceiling. In the far left corner, in front of one of the low, square windows, was a smaller table with the typewriter and what looked to be some lead typesetting slugs on it. Holmes was already there.

“May I put this machine on that table and try it out?” asked Holmes.

Clemens just flicked a fast glance to his left. “By all means.” He removed the cigar and stared at Howells and James. “Now, Mr. James, would you join me in a fast game of pocket billiards to decide who is the Anglo-American Literary Billiards Champion of the World?”

“Alas,” demurred James, “I do not play. Have never played. I would never risk vandalizing that perfect field of green baize by attempting to learn to play today.”

“No?” said Clemens, audibly disappointed. “Are you sure, sir? In all of its many versions, billiards is most amusing and satisfactory you see, and when I play badly and lose my temper it shall almost certainly amuse you. Unless, of course, you are one of those blue-light Methodist preacher sorts who find oaths, epithets, blasphemies, and inventive obscenities objectionable.”

James held his hand up, palm out, and seemed to underline his rejection by taking a step backward. He noticed the mismatched furniture in the room: a few more small tables, wicker chairs, rocking chairs, and a couple of what he thought of as Wild West Saloon Chairs. He chose one of the few upholstered chairs to his left and sat.

“Very well,” exhaled Clemens with a cloud of smoke. “Howells, old foe, dear friend, fine foil, it is just you and me . . . again.”

Howells went around to choose a cue stick from where they were propped against the wall to the left of the fireplace.

“Please observe,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that the blank, white card I am placing in the typewriter is identical in size, texture, and cotton content to the one received by Henry Adams, the Hays, and Clarence King every December on the anniversary of Clover Adams’s death. Ned Hooper also received one each year before his untimely death this last December.”

“How do you know it’s the same cotton content and all that?” asked Clemens.

“I took the liberty of analyzing the card under my microscope and with some portable chemical apparatus I’d brought to Washington with me,” said the detective.

Holmes centered the card and typed a few words. For a moment, everyone gathered behind him.

She was murdered.

The detective had set out six of the cards received by the Hays and one on loan from Clarence King and now he set the new card flush below each of the old ones.

“You see,” said Holmes, “this chip in the ‘a’, this tendency in each card for the ‘r’ to be above the bottom alignment, the shape and increasing murkiness within the closed loop of the ‘d’, and the common opacity within the angles of the ‘w’.”

No one said anything. Now that his attention had been brought to the small imperfections, James could see them as a product of this machine. He also noticed that each small problem was more distinct on the card Holmes had just typed.

Holmes seemed to read his mind. “Use has somewhat exaggerated these nicks and alignment problems,” said the detective. “Since the original seven cards we have here look exactly the same, I would deduce that they were all typed at the same time, necessarily at least seven years ago since the Hays, King, and presumably Mr. Adams all received their first card on six December eighteen eighty-six.”

Clemens thrust out his fists, wrists close together as if awaiting hand manacles. “I confess. I will go peacefully.”

Holmes twitched an impatient shadow of a smile. “I presume, Mr. Clemens, that it would not have been difficult, say during the daytime, for one of your house guests to come into your billiards room and spend a few minutes typing a few dozen cards?”

“Certainly it’s possible,” said Clemens, putting the cigar between his teeth and striding back to the billiards table. “Even at night, no one save for me would have noticed the sound of typing and been curious.”

James cleared his throat. “You had no need for your typewriting machine while you have been in England and Europe the last few years?” he asked.

“Obviously not,” said Clemens, leaning forward over the edge of the table and positioning his cue in that odd but graceful sprawl of arms and elbows. “The last few years in Europe, I have written longhand once again and—in the few instances I wanted a typed version of any of my manuscripts—I hired a stenographer who provided the machine along with his or her note-taking skills.”

“Could I impose upon you, Mr. Clemens,” said Holmes, “to provide me with the names and last-known addresses of all the servants who worked for you here in eighteen eighty-six?”

“The list will be somewhere here in the house,” grumbled Clemens. “I shall find it for you before we leave today. May we resume our game now?”

“By all means,” said Holmes.

Clemens smashed the white ball into a random cluster of waiting balls. Three of those he’d struck with his ball or which had been struck in ricochet went into three of the pockets. Clemens straightened up and put chalk on the end of his cue as Howells frowned and leaned over the table.

“In billiards, that’s called nigger luck,” said Clemens.

“Did you keep a guest book from eighteen eighty-five until you began your travels?” asked Holmes.

“Yes,” said Clemens. “I don’t believe we packed them away and John and Alice Day keep their own guest book. There’s a drawer in that table at which you’re sitting, Mr. Holmes—yes, just lift up that tablecloth a bit . . .”

Holmes removed four leather-bound 8 x 12 journals or ledgers.

“May I . . .” began the detective.

Clemens nodded.

Howells struck the white ball and it caromed off two other balls and two of the side cushions before being the only ball to go in a pocket. “Heck and spit and damnation,” muttered the former editor.

“I’ll rack them up properly and we’ll start again,” Clemens said to Howells. “I don’t know why I’ve come to enjoy pocket billiards more than the carom billiards that stole so much of my youthful time, energy, and fortune. Most of the tables in England and Europe don’t even have pockets.”

While Clemens retrieved the white ball and shoved the others toward the point on the table where a wooden triangle waited, Holmes said, “Mr. Clemens, you and your family had many hundreds of visitors . . . per year it looks like.”

“Yes, well . . . .” said Clemens and just trailed off in whatever he was going to say. “I have nothing to hide, Mr. Holmes. I am serene in knowing that I have stealthily excised the pages on which Madame Lafarge and Her Writhing Pack of Belly-Dancing Virgins have written their names and left their comments on the visit.”