Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

“You like the hammerless lemon squeezers then, sir? You a bicyclist by any chance?”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “Wouldn’t do to snag a hammer and have the pistol go off in my trouser pocket, now would it?”

“No, sir. We get lots of cyclists buying lemon squeezers. Most popular. These pistols are guaranteed not to fire if one takes a fall while cycling.” The clerk paused and cleared his throat. “Are you a bicycle fanatic then, sir?”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Absolutely mad about it.”

“Not too many customers from England, though . . . not to be overly personal or anything, sir.” The clerk’s cheeks reddened as he realized he’d overstepped his bounds with a gentleman.

“Not at all,” said Holmes with a smile. “One needs a pistol here to keep up on the target shooting with one’s American friends, what?”

“Of course, sir.”

“The absence of a hammer feels strange,” said Holmes. “Does the weapon jam or misfire very often?”

“No, sir. Not the Smith and Wesson brand. As reliable a double action as they make. Looks strange, I agree, but it’s the best weapon you can carry concealed when you don’t have large pockets. And even then, hammers and the larger sights can snag on cloth in pockets and such, can’t they?”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “How much for this pistol?”

“Five dollars, sir.”

“That seems a bit steep.”

“I throw in two boxes of cartridges with the lemon squeezer, sir.”

“Done,” said Holmes.

“Shall I box it and wrap it up, sir?”

“No,” Holmes had said. “I’ll carry it on me.”

And Holmes was carrying the seemingly hammerless S&W, loaded save for one empty chamber, in one oversized outer pocket of his tweed suit and the two boxes of cartridges in the opposite oversized pocket, a short time later when he called on John Hay. The former diplomat was just sitting down to breakfast when Holmes was shown in and the detective assured him that his visit wouldn’t take more than two minutes and he’d be happy to have some coffee while Hay ate.

As succinctly as possible—and never mentioning the previous night’s adventure in Rock Creek Cemetery or the ominous figure smoking his cigarettes in the dark—Holmes explained that he was moving out of Mrs. Stevens’s boarding house, a necessity, alas, and that he was concerned for Mr. James’s safety.

“Certainly James has no enemies in Washington!” cried Hays.

“I would doubt that Mr. James has enemies anywhere,” said Holmes. “But I have enemies. And it has come to my attention that they may know of my presence in Washington . . . even my current address at Mrs. Stevens’s establishment.”

Hay looked concerned and dabbed a linen napkin at his sharp beard and perfectly trimmed mustache. “But certainly they wouldn’t . . . an innocent such as Harry . . .”

“It is a long shot, as you Americans say,” said Holmes. “A remote possibility. But these particular people are beyond all laws of reason and decency. I would not sleep well imagining them showing up at Mrs. Stevens’s home and coming across Mr. James . . .”

Hay looked sharply at the detective. “Would my family be in danger if Harry stayed here?”

“Not in the least.”

“How can you be so sure, sir?” Hay’s pleasant demeanor had disappeared for a moment into the sharp cross-examining tones of a prosecutor.

“These . . . people . . . may not recognize the extent of Henry James’s literary fame,” said Holmes, “but I am certain that they know your reputation, Mr. Hay, and would do nothing associated with you or your family . . . or your guest . . . that would bring publicity down on their heads.”

“Then I’ll ask Harry to drop by today and insist . . . insist , I tell you . . . that he stay with us again,” said Hay. Holmes loved the tone of a man who could make up his mind in a few seconds.

“Could you ask him to drop by at about five-fifteen?” said Holmes.

“Yes, if you wish.” Hay squinted slightly at the detective. “Is there a special reason for that time?”

“Just that I don’t wish to bump into Mr. James once I’ve moved out of Mrs. Stevens’s pleasant home and I may be in this area earlier in the day.”

“I shall specify five-fifteen,” said Hay and started to rise as Holmes stood.

“No, please, don’t get up, and thank you for this favor,” said Holmes.

“If I need to get in touch with you . . .” began Hay.

Holmes handed him one of his cards with the cigar store address handwritten on the back. “This establishment is open around the clock for some inexplicable reason,” he said. “And they promise to get any message to me as quickly as they can.”

Holmes and Hay had shaken hands and then the detective hurried down the street to catch Henry James before he had his breakfast brought to his room.

Holmes knocked on Henry Adams’s front door at five p.m., precisely the time he’d suggested in his early-morning note and to which Adams had agreed in his return note that morning.

The door was opened at once and Holmes was confronted with the dour face of an elderly butler; he now knew all of the Hays’ family servants by face and name, but he hadn’t been formally introduced to Henry Adams’s home or staff.

The butler said nothing, closed the door behind the detective, nodded his head to indicate that Holmes should follow, and led him directly up a staircase Holmes had seen only in the darkness of his burgling night. At the upstairs study, the grim-faced butler waited only for Adams to nod from his place behind a full but not cluttered desk before he closed the door behind Holmes. There had been no announcement, no greeting, not even a “Please follow me, sir” from the side-whiskered old retainer, but perhaps Adams had directed his man not to speak to Holmes. At any rate, Holmes did not feel slighted. He looked around the book-lined study with some interest. It was a scholar’s study and illuminated not only by desk and table lamps but by large windows, some leaded with ornate stained glass, others clear. Through the clear windows, Holmes looked directly across the street at the president’s Executive Mansion.

Adams neither rose nor spoke, so Holmes took the initiative of walking across the room to the desk, setting his top hat, gloves, and walking stick on one chair, and sitting on the other one that was opposite Adams across the desk.

“You have put me in an impossible position, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the bald scholar said softly—but not so softly that Holmes missed the substrate of anger and frustration in Adams’s tone.

Rather than disagree or comment in any way, Holmes merely nodded.

“I made my . . . mystery . . . far too simple, didn’t I?” said Adams. “Too many clues.”

“Actually, just enough clues,” said Holmes. “And not all of them deliberate.”

“Your note this morning said only that you had solved the mystery and looked out at the world from a mourner’s eyes. I presume that means you . . .”

“Went in the monument?” finished Holmes. “Yes.”

Henry Adams looked down at the papers on his desk and for a moment the man’s face—even the flesh of his mostly bare scalp—went so terribly pale that Holmes was concerned that the older man was having a heart attack or stroke. But then Adams looked up, sat up straighter.

“Well, then,” Adams said in an only slightly shaky voice, “you know the greatest secret in my life, Mr. Holmes. I was foolish enough and overconfident enough to give a man . . . like you . . . far too simple clues to the secret and now you know.” Adams’s body twitched suddenly as if he’d been jolted by an electric current. “You didn’t tell James, did you?”