The Stalwart Companions

by H. Paul Jeffers

  As a habitual writer of unsolicited letters to persons I found fascinating, I quite naturally decided to write a letter to the author of a very interesting monograph which I came across in my independent readings in the library at Harvard. The work was titled: Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos: An Enumeration of 140 Forms of Cigar, Cigarette and Pipe Tobacco, with Coloured Plates Illustrating the Difference in the Ash. Its author was listed as Mr Sherlock Holmes. The address of the publisher was in London, England, and it was to that address that I sent a brief note expressing my admiration for the author’s science. The response from Mr Holmes was astounding in that its author presumed on the basis of my very brief note to provide an amazingly accurate biographical sketch of myself.

  “My studies of science,” wrote Mr Holmes, “have gone into areas that have never been fully realised, especially in the realm of deducing facts by observation. For example, I know from your letter that you have had considerable trouble with your eyes in the past, that you are an outdoorsman, your father has some wealth, that he has been very indulgent of your rebelliousness in terms of choosing a life’s work, and that at the time you wrote to me you were seated with the late afternoon sun to your back and that you were wearing a blue jacket and were penning your letter at the university library.” Anticipating my amazement, Holmes went on to explain these startling statements. “Your eye trouble is evident in the very careful penmanship which is produced by someone who has learned to write by bending very close to the paper – a habit developed at a time of troubled vision which has, I assume, been corrected, though the habit of bending over so far persists along with the careful writing. The business of being an outdoorsman I deduce from both your stated interest in natural science and the fact that your penmanship is hurried, indicating restlessness at being cooped up in a room. That your family has some wealth is obvious enough, inasmuch as you are a student at Harvard, which I know to be an institution of some distinction and some cost to its students. Because you are a native New Yorker, you would have chosen a school closer to home if expenses had been a problem. I surmise that your father’s wealth comes from business interests which you do not share, given your stated interest in natural science; ergo, your father must be a very tolerant man to permit you to pursue science when he would probably prefer you to follow him in his business. That you chose not to indicates rebelliousness. As for your blue suit, a strand of fiber was adhered to the writing paper. On the location of the sun to your back and that it was a late afternoon sun, I make these deductions on the basis of a slight blotting of the paper by your hand, unnoticed because of a waning light as you wrote. That you did your penmanship in the library I deduce from the fact that the nib of your pen was quite worn–the type found in library ink stands – and that you wrote regarding my monograph on tobaccos which you had read at the library in question. All quite elementary, you see.”

  It may seem superfluous to state that I could not resist continuing to correspond with a young man of such unusual and amazing talents. In my next letter to him I went on at some length in praise of his abilities, to which he responded, “The science of deduction and analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, yet, from a drop of water a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. All of life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. By a man’s fingernails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-cuffs – by each of these things a man’s calling is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable. To illustrate some of this, I am taking the liberty of sending you further writings on the study of footprints and the dating of documents. If you are interested, I have other writings which I would be happy to send to you. In your latest letter you seem to have implied that my deductions in your case were little more than a clever trick, but I assure you, Mr Roosevelt, that I am in earnest. In fact, I am beginning to earn my living with these skills as a consulting detective. I believe I am the only one in the world.”

  Thus began a regular exchange of letters between myself at Harvard and Mr Holmes, who was residing in lodgings on Montague Street in London. The letters revealed a remarkable mind and a great talent for the career which he had chosen to pursue. They also revealed a man of surprises, the greatest of which was his announcement that he had undertaken the study of acting, theatrical makeup, and costuming because, as he put it, “I have need of these skills in my work.” He wrote of a decision to go on the stage for a time as a member of a troupe of Shakespearean players under Mr Michael Sasanoff. “I have quite a flair for this acting business,” he wrote. Subsequently, he added that the Sasanoff troupe would be touring America and that he would be appearing in New York beginning in January 1880. “I trust you will come to see me,” he said. Still later, in a note from a hotel in Union Square, Manhattan, he wrote, “Your latest letter indicates you will pass through New York on your way West after your graduation. I hope you will come to see my Malvolio in Twelfth Night. I am arranging for a pair of tickets for you for the evening performance, Friday, July 2. By the way, my stage name is William Escott, a private joke which I will explain when, at last, we meet. Holmes.”

  An evening at the theatre was something that I infrequently appreciated, but I looked forward to the production of Twelfth Night with the anticipation of seeing Mr Holmes as a performer prior to meeting him, at last, in person. My eagerness was increased when I decided to make a test of Mr Holmes’s abilities as a detective by the device of inviting a young acquaintance of mine to attend the theatre with me.

  I chose as my companion Mr Wilson Hargreave, himself a detective with the New York Police Department.

  Just as I gave Holmes no clue that my companion would be a detective, neither did I let Hargreave know the real identity or the real profession of the man we were to greet backstage.

  It would be, I expected, a delightful evening of discovery for all.

  ___

  Author's notes on this chapter

  Two

  Detective Wilson Hargreave was an exception among the men of the New York Police Department, which was caught up in one of the worst scandals of its existence, the awful allegations of corruption, brutality, and malfeasance reaching to the highest echelons of Mulberry Street. I do not allege that every member of the police force was corrupt, but the malaise was widespread and the daily newspapers were filled with the scandal, the notoriety of which was having its effect on the good and honest men of the force who were simply trying to do their jobs. This was the situation facing Will Hargreave, and I assumed it was the severity of the strain which was evident upon his face as I welcomed him to the Roosevelt house on Fifty-seventh Street, just around the corner from Fifth Avenue.

  Though his handsome features were clouded by all the conditions which I have described, he made an effort to be cheerful. “Good evening, Teddy,” he smiled, taking my hand firmly as I opened the door. “It’s good to have you back in New York.”

  “It’s good to see you, Will,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come in. We have a few minutes to renew our friendship before we head downtown to the theatre.”

  Will Hargreave and I had known each other since adolescence, though our first meeting had found us on less than friendly terms. I came to know him because his father had begun a business relationship with my father. The boy had come with his father on an occasion to our house on Twentieth Street. He evinced what appeared to be a dislike of me based solely on my physical appearance. “You wear eyeglasses,” he noted.

  “I do,” I replied firmly, studying him through my thick lenses and noting the strong resemblance to his father – a youth of English stock, slender but sturdy, a straight nose, slightly cleft chin, firm mouth, unflinching grey-green eyes. He was my age but slightly tall
er and considerably more muscular. “Have you never seen anyone who wears eyeglasses?” I inquired.

  “Of course I have. Girls and sissies,” he chuckled.

  Could he, I wondered, with regret, be a bully-boy of the type I had known in school? If so, I surmised, I would have to set him straight. “While our fathers are conducting their business,” I suggested, “perhaps you would like to see something of my favourite hobby?”

  “Hobby?” he smirked. “What would it be? Butterflies? A rock collection?”

  “Come along and you will see,” I said, beckoning him to follow me to the second-floor porch which my father had outfitted as a gymnasium. Promptly I found two pairs of boxing mitts. The gymnasium was fully equipped. It was as complete as any in the city for me to use in building up my physique after those childhood illnesses. “You do box?” I asked, pushing a pair of mitts toward him.

  “I do,” he grinned, “and very well, I warn you.”

  Pulling on my gloves, I replied, “Bully!”

  Having removed his jacket, he concerned himself with donning his gloves while watching me amusedly. “Ought you not remove your eyeglasses?” he asked.

  “No need. You shan’t lay a glove upon me.”

  He laughed at this and came toward me, a rather poor example of the proper way for a youth to posture himself when wearing boxing mitts. Confidently, I permitted him the first blow, which I parried easily, leaving him open to my rather wicked right. I felt his nose give under my blow, and he went down immediately, bleeding from the nostrils. His spirit was not broken, but when I refused to continue, however, he did not insist that we go on. “I’ll make no more wiseacre remarks about your glasses,” he announced.

  “Excellent,” I said, helping him to his feet.

  “You really meant business,” he smiled.

  “Certainly. I take very seriously some advice my father gave me concerning fisticuffs. He has always advised not to get into a fight if you can possibly avoid it. If you do get in, see it through. But never hit soft, and if you must hit a man, put him to sleep.”

  “You have a wise father.”

  “Yes, I do, thanks be to God.”

  I never had cause to hit Hargreave again because we became fast friends.

  “Harvard has had an effect upon you, Teddy.”

  “In what way? I’m the same as I was before I went to Massachusetts.”

  “I refer to your rather surprising invitation to attend the theatre. I never knew you were a playgoing sort.”

  “An apt observation. Plays make me fidgety, but–”

  “Something about this play is unique.”

  “I would venture to say that Shakespeare is always unique.”

  “You know what I’m getting at,” Hargreave smiled.

  “No, I don’t, Will.”

  “Of all the friends you have in New York society, friends who would welcome an evening with Shakespeare, you called upon me to accompany you. I have accepted because I am intrigued to know why.”

  “Oh, Will, you cut me to the quick. It’s your companionship I sought. I have no ulterior motives.”

  “Teddy, your whole life has been built upon ulterior motives.”

  “And you, Will, have the soul of a policeman. Do you ever accept anything for what it seems on the surface?”

  “That, to a policeman, would be a perilous flaw.”

  “I assure you, Will, I have in mind only an evening at the theater and, afterward, supper with a fellow by the name of William Escott.”

  “A classmate?”

  “In fact, Mr Escott is one of the actors in the play we shall see.”

  “So, your interest in the theatre goes beyond merely attending plays. You have now taken up the company of players. Shall we be off, then?”

  “Ah, a cab right outside the door,” I said as we ventured onto the rainy stoop.

  “I’ve booked it for the night, given the inclement weather,” said Hargreave, opening the door for me.

  “But why a four-wheeler?” I asked, settling comfortably in the carriage as Hargreave climbed in, sitting opposite me.

  “Merely to avoid being cramped into one of those infamous small hacks,” he grinned. “Lucky for us that I booked a larger one inasmuch as we are going to be joined by this actor-friend of yours.”

  We set off at a good pace down Fifth Avenue, snug against the wet and unusual chill for the second day of July. Before long, Hargreave was peeking at his timepiece. “You are quite concerned with the time,” I remarked.

  “He’s due at the ferry slip at this hour.”

  “Who is due at the ferry slip?”

  “President Hayes.”

  “The President? I had no idea the Chief Executive was in the city.”

  “It’s a private visit. He is dining with the German Consul General on a vessel of the North German Lloyds Steamship Company at their pier in Hoboken. He goes over by ferry at about this time.”

  “Are you concerned for his safety?”

  “The New York Police Department is always concerned about the safety of the Chief Executive when he is in the city.”

  “But you seem especially concerned.”

  “I don’t mean to give that impression. It’s just that I am on call. Not only in the case of the President, but for anything unusual that may occur.”

  “Has it anything to do with the recent rumour concerning the President?”

  “You heard about that rumour even at Harvard?”

  “It was in the newspapers that a story had gone around that Mr. Hayes had died mysteriously. That was a few weeks ago.”

  “It was a rumour, nothing more.”

  “The reports were vague about the possible source of that scurrilous tale,” I noted.

  “There were other reports that were suppressed from the newspapers,” said the young detective gravely.

  “Those rumours account for the extra concern by the police about Mr Hayes’ visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he in danger?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll rest more easily when he has departed the city.”

  “A policeman always rests more easily when his beat has returned to its accustomed routines. A policeman on patrol is happiest when he has nothing untoward to report at the end of his duty. A detective has his most successful day when he does not have to venture from the station house on a case.”

  “I suspect the worst your police officers will have to handle is a few citizens who imbibe a bit too much in celebration of the Fourth of July.”

  “You have more faith in the common man than I, but you are not a policeman.”

  “It is not the common man who does the most damage to a society, Will. A man of great wealth who does not use that wealth decently is a menace to the community. I do not fear the common man. I fear the man with enough money to afford to finance corruption.”

  “That sounds like a political speech. Are you running for something?”

  “Perhaps I will, one day.”

  “Excellent, Teddy. I’ll vote for you.”

  ___

  Author's notes on this chapter

  Three

  I had always enjoyed returning to New York City, and on this occasion, marking yet another celebration of the birth of our nation, the residents seemed determined to enjoy themselves as never before. They were, perhaps, encouraged in their private celebrations by the peculiar lack of an official demonstration for Independence Day – there being no parade.

  As we proceeded toward Union Square, I was somewhat unpleasantly surprised to find that the ‘Rialto’ section of theatres, eating establishments, and other types of commerce connected with nightlife was marching steadily northward from its customary environs so that all of Broadway between Union Square and Forty-second Street was awash with New Yorkers seeking the pleasures of an often boisterous nightlife.

  Coming into Union Square, our carriage slowed in order not to run over pedestrians who showed a decided lack of concern f
or themselves and others by dashing in a most dangerous way into the streets in their fever for divertissements. Union Square was as garish as ever, except for the staid presence of Tiffany’s and Brentano’s, those conservative establishments appearing not at all embarrassed by the brashness of the city’s theatrical district, even in its off season. Directly ahead of us on the south side of a pleasant park of greenery and public monuments that stood amidst a swirl of commerce loomed the Union Square Theatre, its billboards proudly announcing the performances of the heralded Sasanoff troupe.

  In the misty distance, the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge, still under construction after so many years of labour, rose above the rooftops of the lower east side of Manhattan. I remarked upon the impressive evidence of this new link between Manhattan and Brooklyn to Hargreave, who responded with a nod. He had been lost in thought during the entire journey downtown and was barely more interested in the recognising greeting – a salute – offered by a member of the police department’s Broadway Squad, a team of especially fine-looking men whose gentlemanly appearances masked well-trained physiques especially suited for handling any of the untoward occurrences that might come about in an area of the city vulnerable to thieves, pickpockets, and other thugs who might choose to prey upon happy theatregoers.

  “If you are not in the mood for the theatre,” I remarked as we stepped from our carriage, “I will be most understanding.”

  With a quick, reassuring smile, Hargreave touched my sleeve and replied, “I’m sorry, Teddy. I have been very inhospitable.”