The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “Think nothing of it, madame. Now then, you two must stay on with me for the next show.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I would like to see it rather than be a part of it just once…”

  “By the way, Holmes,” I asked, “how did you learn the juggling and stilt-walking and such?”

  “Simply a matter of balance, coordination, and concentration, if one is physically fit. As a young lad I was always fascinated with clowns, so I learned the basics of the craft, thinking I might one day become a circus performer. It seems I’ve managed to do just that. I was able to learn the intricacies of the skills once I arrived. The routines themselves haven’t changed much since I saw the circus as a boy, so I was familiar with them already. So, what do you say? Will you see the next show with me?”

  “Mary and I would be delighted to spend an entertaining evening with my closest friend and companion. Can you, by any chance, deduce who that might be, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Watson. I haven’t a clue.”

  The Adventure of Zolnay, the Aerialist

  RICK BOYER

  THE FIRST NOVEL by Richard Lewis Boyer (1943– ) was The Giant Rat of Sumatra (1976), a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, because, the author claimed, he wanted to learn from the best. He then went on to write a series about Charlie “Doc” Adams, an oral surgeon with a practice in New England.

  Boyer is a native of Evanston, Illinois. He majored in English at Denison University and earned an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Iowa, studying under renowned science fiction writer Kurt Vonnegut. Boyer worked as a sales representative for the publisher Little, Brown, has been a high school teacher, and taught English at Western Carolina University.

  The first “Doc” Adams mystery was Billingsgate Shoal (1982), for which he won an Edgar for the best novel of the year. Adams is an unexciting figure, an ordinary man to whom people bring their problems, with which he tries to help. In an interview, Boyer stated that “Adams is me in more extraordinary circumstances….I was pretending to be somebody else….I tried to combine the unexceptional guy, basically a suburbanite, who runs into extraordinary circumstances.”

  In addition to nine “Doc” Adams novels, Boyer has written the bizarre Mzungu Mjina: Swahili for “Crazy White Man” (2004) and Buck Gentry (2005). The Giant Rat of Sumatra was reissued in A Sherlockian Quartet (1998), to which he added three new short stories.

  “The Adventure of Zolnay, the Aerialist” was originally published in A Sherlockian Quartet (Alexander, North Carolina, Alexander Books, 1998).

  THE ADVENTURE OF ZOLNAY, THE AERIALIST

  Rick Boyer

  “WHOEVER OUR MYSTERIOUS visitor is, he is certainly an impressive physical specimen,” observed Sherlock Holmes as he doffed his overcoat.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I asked. It was a blustery spring afternoon in mid May. Holmes and I had just returned from a brisk walk in Regent’s Park; our cheeks were flushed from the fresh air. His comment had taken me entirely off guard.

  “Come now, Watson, don’t you see that new pair of gloves he left behind on the sofa cushion? Here they are, now let me show you something…”

  So saying, he took the right one and plunged his hand into it in a twinkling. Then he clenched and unclenched his fist inside the garment, twirling his thin fingers about.

  “Loose fit, eh? Quite, I’d say. But my hands are extraordinarily thin. So let’s try one of yours. There, try it on for size.”

  I did as instructed, and was amazed to discover how easily my hand slid in. Once inside, there was still half an inch of finger room left.

  “Hmmmm! Amazing, Watson. You are a perfect mesomorph in the prime of life, yet you now resemble a child trying on his father’s glove, correct?”

  “Yes, it certainly is large. The man must be a giant.”

  “Let’s see what else he is. Grab the mate, will you, and bring them over to the window—let us see what these mis-laid items will reveal about the man who came calling while we were away.”

  He examined them for some time, checking the label sewn inside, and finally turned them both inside out. Upon seeing faint red blotches along the upper extremity of the palm of the right glove, a cry of satisfaction broke from his lips.

  “Hah! You see that, Watson? Surely these stains tell us quite a bit about our absent friend.”

  “Is it blood? I don’t see how—”

  “Let us start at the beginning. First, as you can see, the gloves are new—probably not more than a few days old. I can tell by the odour and texture of the flannel that they have not been cleaned, for the sizing is still present. But they show no signs of dirt: therefore they are quite new. There is, however, a trace of wax along the index finger of the left glove, so we can assume our man wears a moustache. Observe also the label: E.J. Stanhope, Ltd. It’s one of Bond Street’s most exclusive shops—far too posh for the likes of us, eh? Therefore the man is rich, or well off anyway. It is here that a curious anomaly emerges…”

  “What anomaly? So far all your observations make sense, Holmes; it appears you’re putting together quite a portrait of the fellow.”

  “The quirk is this: he is well-off financially and well-dressed, yet he is not a gentleman. In fact, it appears he makes his living by performing physical feats of the most prodigious sort…”

  “A labourer?”

  “No. Remember he is wealthy, or relatively so. I draw your attention once more to the faint bloodstains on the inside of the right glove. Obviously they are the result of extreme trauma to the palm of the hand just below the fingers. You know that this is the spot on the hand most subject to abrasion or callouses—”

  “Which again would suggest the man is a labourer who swings a hammer or plies a shovel.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty. Would a workingman earn the money to buy gloves like these? Certainly not. Furthermore, as I showed in the case of the apprentice Smythe, a workingman’s hand soon becomes coated with callouses that are thick and shiny, and very hard. Yet these bloodstains show us that the skin has been ripped off by extreme trauma, a force so great as to destroy even hardened callouses. What sort of activity would cause this kind of terrific strain to the hand? And while you’re pondering that question, let us consider another possibility: that the man does not ordinarily wear gloves—at least not dress gloves of fine grey flannel like these.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I do not know it, I infer it as a probability. First, he left the gloves behind. Now he could be extremely agitated, yet a gentleman who is in the habit of wearing dress gloves regularly would not forget them, and this fellow has. Also, the fact that they are new is suggestive. Perhaps he has bought these fine gloves for a special occasion, or as a result…”

  He pondered the facts and possibilities before him for a few minutes, then fetched the morning’s newspapers and retired to the sofa with a pipe. I had settled myself comfortably with a cigar and the most recent issue of Lancet, when there came a series of heavy bounds upon the staircase, followed by a robust knocking upon our door. Holmes, putting aside the paper with a gleam in his eye, rose and went to the door. But before he opened it, he turned to me and proclaimed in a loud voice: “Ah, Watson, I see Mr. Gregor Zolnay has returned. Come in, Mr. Zolnay, and welcome!”

  With this he threw open the door, and revealed a personage with the most awesome physique I have ever seen. He was a full head taller than either of us, with broad shoulders, a piercing face set off by green eyes and a giant brown moustache. All in all, his appearance was striking in the extreme; he seemed to exude strength and vitality. And when he spoke, it was with a booming baritone voice, modulated somewhat by halting speech and a thick accent.

  “Mr. Holmes, yes?” he enquired, stepping into the parlour and extending a huge hand wrapped in bandages.

  “Yes, Mr. Zolnay, and this is my friend Dr. John Watson. Tell me, what brings you back from the circus grounds so soon?”

  Our vis
itor was so stunned he nearly reeled into my armchair with amazement. I must confess that, accustomed as I was to Holmes’s feats of observation and deduction, my wonder almost equalled that of our caller.

  “Mr. Holmes, you are mizand, eh…eh…”

  “A sorcerer?”

  “Yes! You are magic, Mr. Holmes! You have been to the Chipperfield’s? No? Then how do you know me? I leave no card; I speak with no one! Gregor Zolnay comes and goes, and pffffft! Sherlock Holmes knows who I am even before he sees me—mizand!”

  “Come now, my dear sir, it wasn’t really all that difficult, eh, Watson?” said my companion, filling his pipe.

  I mumbled an assent, but for the life of me was at a loss as to Holmes’s thinking processes.

  “You see, Mr. Zolnay, you forgot your gloves earlier this afternoon, and they served very well as your calling card.”

  “Yes, I leave them. I forget. Zolnay does not wear gloves except in wintertime…”

  “Or except to hide his injured hand,” continued Holmes, winking in my direction.

  The giant bounded back, drawing the hand under his coat.

  “Zolnay is not injured!” he cried, and then added thoughtfully, “It is only to myself I am injured, not to others.”

  “I think we understand, don’t we, Watson? You have a reputation to uphold. But guessing your identity was not hard. Watson and I were discussing the possible occupations of the man who owned these gloves. We concluded the man was well-paid, yet evidently possessed great strength, and used it too, as we saw by these bloodstains. Now what sort of job would it be that pays a nice salary for physical exertion? There is only one: a performer of some sort. Focusing my efforts along this line, I seemed to recall a notice for the circus in this morning’s Telegram. Finding it, I scanned the advertisement for a lead. Certainly the performer was either a strongman or an acrobat, but odds favored the acrobats, especially a trapeze artist who would undoubtedly subject his hands to incredible abrasion. You see, Mr. Zolnay, I do a bit of boxing in my spare time at Sullivan’s gymnasium, and so am familiar with the torn hands of the gymnasts who train there—”

  The huge man stared dumbstruck at Holmes, glowing with admiration and wonder.

  “Prominently featured in the advertisement was a reference to ‘Gregor the Great—Aerialist Supreme,’ alias Gregor Zolnay.”

  “But how did you know it was Zolnay behind the closed door?” I asked.

  “Ah yes, Herr Doctor,” joined Zolnay, wagging a huge finger in Holmes’s direction, “you have magic eyes too, eh?”

  “There are seventeen steps leading to our flat,” returned Holmes. “You bounded up in four leaps plus a step. Would an ordinary man be able to ascend a staircase four at a time? No. Could an acrobat? With ease, as you have proven. Now, sir, what is it I can do for you?”

  Recollecting his reason for seeking assistance, Gregor Zolnay’s strong face assumed a forlorn expression. He sank wearily into my armchair and sighed deeply.

  “Mr. Holmes, Herr Doctor…I have much sadness in my heart. My dear Anna is crippled, she—”

  Here the man, so outwardly strong, buried his head in his hands and rocked to and fro in grief. Holmes, after waiting some time for the man to continue, began to ask him questions.

  “Is her condition the result of illness or injury?”

  “She fell. It was two nights ago, during the time we rehearse. We were doing the triple pirouette. It is very difficult, and dangerous, and demands much attention. Also, Mr. Holmes, the net was down, as it must be during the performance.”

  “I take it the stunt miscarried, and as a result she fell to the ground—”

  “Yes, forty feet down into the ring. When I saw her fall I grabbed a cable and slid down after her. So this,” and he held up his bandaged hand.

  “I see, that would be the natural thing to do. Anna is your wife then?”

  “No, we are to be married—that is we had planned to be married. She may never walk again. She can barely talk. It is very sad.”

  “You mean she is unconscious?” I asked.

  “Sometimes she wakes, sometimes she sleeps—mostly she sleeps—”

  “Is she hospitalized?”

  “Yes, Herr Doctor, at the London Hospital. When she wakes she talks nonsense. Always it is the same thing she says. She grabs my head and whispers in my ear: ‘Gregor, the elephant man, it is the elephant man!’ ”

  Holmes and I exchanged bewildered glances. I assumed Zolnay’s rather cryptic phrase was due to his heavy accent and marginal command of English.

  “Surely,” said Holmes, “Anna was referring to the man who cares for the elephants: their keeper. Is this not the case?”

  The giant shook his head dumbfoundedly.

  “No, Mr. Holmes. I ask her this. Is it Panelli who feeds the animals? No, she says. I don’t know what she is trying to say, gentlemen. Until this morning I think she is mad with fever and talking nonsense. But then this morning I remember something odd, and come to see you.”

  Holmes leaned forward eagerly.

  “I am remembering that just before she fell, she said too: the elephant man. I think too she screamed a little just before—”

  “—just before the accident?”

  “Yes, Herr Doctor. Let me explain please. I am catcher who hangs on centre bar—”

  “On the trapeze?”

  “Yes, I hang head downwards by my legs, swinging. Anna leaps from platform holding onto her bar. She releases, pirouettes three times—quick like this—then extends her wrists for me.”

  “Then you grab them.”

  “Yes, and after one, maybe two swings, she releases to grab again the bar held by Vayenko. Then she swings to other platform.”

  “Who is Vayenko?”

  “Vayenko is third man in team. A Russian, from Kiev. He is long time with Chipperfield’s. He is now too old for much performing—he holds bar for Anna. When we are in correct place on the swing, he releases it from far platform so it will be there for Anna to catch. We are not friends. He loved Anna before I joined Chipperfield’s in Buda-Pesth three years ago.”

  Holmes shot a keen glance in my direction.

  “Naturally, he was disappointed, and angered, that Anna should abandon him for you,” I pursued.

  Zolnay remained silent for a short while before replying. He looked down at his hands, assuming almost a guilty look.

  “He does not talk of his feelings, Herr Doctor. But I think they are as you say. He proposed to Anna after we met, and she refused him.”

  “Can you relate the details of the accident?” asked Holmes, changing the subject.

  “It is as I say: Anna on the platform, I am in the middle, hanging upside down on the bar, Vayenko is on the far platform holding the other bar…”

  “Yes,” I said, recounting, “and Anna leaps from her platform, releasing the bar at the height of her swing—”

  “Yes, then turning like this you see—”

  At this point the huge man jumped from the chair and turned around three times with amazing quickness and grace.

  “—then she was to extend to me her arms so—then I to grab her wrists, but she did not do this gentlemen. She went into a ball and fell.”

  “And you remember her crying out?”

  “Yes, she cried out something about the elephant man…I think she said the word horrible, or horrid…but I am not sure now because then I am watching her fall—going fast down away from me and I cannot think—”

  Here the aerialist winced with the memory of the tragedy.

  “And Vayenko never left his place on the far platform?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. He never moved, from the time we start the rehearsal until Anna is falling…and afterwards he is at my side as I am leaning over her.”

  Holmes pondered what had been said for some time before responding.

  “And you have come to me solely because of Anna’s strange talk about the elephant man?”

  “It is not much perhaps, Mr. Holm
es. But Anna is a great flyer. She would not miss the triple like that—bent over, like a baby who sleeps in a little ball. It was something…something horrible that frightened her so that she could not think of the triple.”

  “And there was nothing unusual in the ring, or tent? Nothing strange about the grounds?”

  Zolnay shook his head.

  “No. In fact, Vayenko fastened the tent so that no one could enter during the rehearsal—so there would be no interference.”

  “And I take it that was the usual procedure.”

  “No. Only then was the tent fastened.”

  “That is interesting…decidedly so. Feel like taking in the circus, Watson? Shall we shed our middle-age stuffiness and become boys again?”

  He fetched his coat and flung mine across the armchair.

  “Come on, man! Can’t you hear the steam whistle blowing? You’re encamped on the fairgrounds at Wimbledon I suppose, eh, Mr. Zolnay? Good, then let’s have a look around the grounds before going to visit poor Anna at London Hospital.”

  Inside of an hour’s time, we were standing at the edge of the tober (as Zolnay called it) or field at Wimbledon. In its centre rose the immense tent, an elliptical mountain of cloth over a hundred yards in length. Pennants fluttered gaily from its summit while, as predicted by Holmes, the robust tones of the steam piano could be heard from afar. Long queues of anxious people streamed to the centre tent, while throngs of curious onlookers packed into the “sideshows” that ringed the circus grounds. Encircling the show, so as to form a crude fence round it, were scores of wagons and caravans, all painted red with “CHIPPERFIELD’S” painted in huge silver letters on their sides. Drawing closer, the heavy odour of animals and the smell of hay reached us, and a wave of nostalgia passed over me.

  Soon we were inside the ring of wagons, and our famous companion was besieged by countless admirers. Zolnay informed us that this area was the “back yard” where the performers congregated between acts, and where the properties and wardrobes were kept. Many people came to offer their condolences and best wishes for Anna’s recovery. Among the interesting people we met were Bruno Baldi, the strongman who could lift a horse. “Black Jack” Houlihan could swallow a scimitar, bending the trunk of his body to accommodate the curved blade. Several clowns approached and offered their best wishes too, and it seemed strange to hear normal, sober voices emerge from the grotesque faces. Zolnay hailed one fellow, a slight little man with a twisted body who limped along the sawdust like an urchin.