“That is a long story, my friend,” the waiter replied, and I immediately regretted giving in to my curiosity. “A minor member of the peerage offered me a position as head butler, in charge of his entire household. It seemed like the ideal situation; my duties were not overly difficult, and the accommodations were excellent.”
With the street partially blocked by the crowd, several drivers set to honking their car horns. A fireman brushed me on the shoulder, and I leaped out of the way of the writhing hose he was dragging behind him. “Ah, yes,” I said. “That’s interesting, but—”
“I was not there for long, however, before I began to see that the other servants were jealous of a newcomer being placed in authority over them. When a few pieces of jewelry came up missing, I was of course the logical suspect, having been only recently employed. Any attempt to suggest that I was being framed meant accusing one of the other servants, all of whom the baron had known for years. So it was that I soon found myself out of a job and blackballed from my profession.”
I looked around. The crowd had thinned out, and the firemen stood by holding the nozzles of limp hoses. Apparently the blaze that followed the explosion had been small and quickly contained. I was losing my opportunity to get to the heart of this story.
“A terrible shame I am sure, but about the explosion—”
“I had hoped a trip across the ocean would solve my employment problem,” Meridan continued, “but it seems the wealthy have a secret grapevine for these sorts of things. In fact, my job-hunting experiences in the New World were even more humiliating; not only was I passed over for positions, but some of these rude Americans even had the gall to tell me why. And since the story had traveled far, it had grown some in the telling. Why, I hardly recognized myself in the narrative!”
That was how Basil Meridan, the impeccable gentleman’s gentleman, had found himself waiting on tables in a speakeasy in the Germantown section of Philadelphia.
I was appalled, though not surprised, by his story, and the humble way he related his problems confirmed his innocence. My father had rubbed shoulders with the wealthy and prominent, and he had related many such stories of maligned and mistreated household servants. Even those employers who doubted the truth of such rumors were hesitant to hire a disgraced butler. After all, there was the reputation of the family to consider! Though I found the rude egalitarianism of America a bit trying at times, it did lack the unbounded capacity of British society to torment those who fell out of its favor.
“So, tell me about your work at the speakeasy.” Perhaps this would bring him around to the explosion.
“Well, it was quite a transition for me, to be serving patrons who were better known for their misdeeds than their bloodline,” Meridan replied. “My employer, Harry Ragan, works—or, I suppose I should say, worked—with Boo-Boo Hoff. You’ve heard of him?”
“Yes. He’s a boxing promoter, isn’t he?”
Meridan chuckled. “That’s his public persona. Privately, he’s known as Philadelphia’s ‘king of the bootleggers.’ Mr. Ragan is by no means that influential, but some of the patrons at his club are the most notorious mobsters in the city.”
Meridan, I noticed, couldn’t help lapsing into the present tense when referring to his deceased employer. The poor man was still trying to come to terms with the events of the past half-hour.
“So Ragan was caught in the explosion?”
“Yes, he and the other players in his regular Monday-night card game.” The butler-turned-waiter looked over his shoulder at the row of bodies neatly lined up in the alleyway, ready for the meat wagon. What the cops lacked in ability to preserve a crime scene, they certainly made up in efficiency. “You know, Mr. Ragan had a reputation as a hard man, but he treated me quite well, though once in a while he would tease me about the jewelry incident.”
I chuckled. “You mean—”
“Yes, even the owner of a gin joint had heard the story. I hate to admit it, but my tarnished reputation probably got me the job. Mr. Ragan appeared to appreciate my professional manner, however, and he always insisted that I be the one to wait on him and his friends at their weekly card game.”
“Very interesting,” I said, trying to focus on the event at hand. “But now, if you could tell me about the explosion—”
“Sorry, Watson,” a voice behind me cut in, “but you’ll have to wait your turn.”
I turned to find Officer Feeney, the neighborhood cop, crowding me. Feeney was about the only member of the police force who would give me the time of day and might be a potentially valuable acquaintance—if I ever received a hard news assignment.
Without introduction, Feeney started his interrogation of the Englishman. “The bartender identified you as one of the waiters. Said you were serving the back room when the explosion happened. Name?”
“Basil Meridan.”
“How come you’re not injured, Meridan?”
“In the kitchen. Explosion happened after I served the back room—or tried to.”
“What do you mean, ‘tried to’?” I asked. I received a scowl from Feeney, who resented my interference.
“I filled a pitcher of . . . er, liquid refreshment,” Meridan explained, casting a sideways look at Feeney. “I carried it down the hall to the door of the room. When I knocked, there was no answer, so I peeked through the keyhole. And that’s when I saw him.” Meridan closed his eyes and, though I wouldn’t have imagined it possible, became a shade paler.
“Who? Who did you see?” demanded Feeney.
“Mr. Ragan. He had a look of—well, rage is the only word I can think of. The pitcher spilled and . . . and I must have gone back to the kitchen for something to clean it up with.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘must have’?” Feeney demanded. “Either you did or you didn’t!”
“It happened so fast,” the waiter reached out his hand for emphasis, then hurriedly gripped the back of the barstool as it wobbled on the pavement. “Next thing I know, I’m in the kitchen, my backside on the floor, with a loud ringing in my ears.”
Feeney unbuttoned his sleeves and rubbed his hairy arms. “You’re holding something back, Meridan,” he said. “What did you see in that room? We know about the jewelry fiasco in England, and we’ve got you for serving alcoholic beverages. You better talk now.”
Terror filled Meridan’s eyes for a moment before he buried his face in his hands.
I drew Feeney aside. “C’mon, Flatfoot, can’t you see he’s on the level? Give the guy a break,” I said, employing all the American slang I could think of. I knew that he respected anyone who could talk like he did.
“Listen, Watson, don’t call me a flatfoot, and don’t tell me how to do my job! Your dad and Sherlock Holmes may have been chums, but that doesn’t mean you inherited his skill for solving crimes.”
“No, but I think I can recognize when someone is telling the truth. The man narrowly survived an explosion. Of course he is going to be a wee bit fuzzy-headed.”
Placing one hand on his hip and massaging the back of his neck with the other, Feeney paused to stretch his back and cast a glance at the building. The smoke had long since cleared, most of the money had been spirited away by bystanders, and the firemen were rolling up their hoses. “I don’t like it. His account doesn’t jibe with me. Found himself back in the kitchen … pretty flimsy explanation, if you ask me.”
“Exactly! If he were lying, he could have invented any number of plausible reasons to return to the kitchen. Next you’ll be telling me that you doubt his story about the look of rage on Ragan’s face.”
“Well, it does seem pretty weird,” Feeney said defensively.
“Sure,” I said, warming up to the subject. “It is a totally bizarre detail—that’s why it rings so true. Don’t you see? If you doubt his story, you are alternately accusing him of having too little imagination and too much.”
&nbs
p; Feeney scratched his chin. Obviously, he could tell I was making a logical point, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Finally he sighed, set his jaw firmly, and said to me, “Scram. You’re in the way.”
So much for subtle reasoning; maybe intimidation would work. “Listen, Feeney! I have every right to be here as a member of the press. And besides, I’m a witness as well. Why aren’t you interrogating me?”
“You musta come after the fact. If you knew anything worth telling, you wouldn’t have to interview this waiter. See, I can use logic too, Watson. Now leave before I have you arrested for obstructing an investigation.”
He turned to the waiter. “I need you to go over your story once more—without interference.” Feeney looked at me, still standing there, and swung his nightstick decisively in my direction. Then he turned back to the waiter and said, “After that, you’re free to go. But don’t leave town.”
Meridan stood and said, “I’m not going anywhere, officer. I rent a room upstairs here.”
“Not any more you don’t. This is a crime scene.”
Meridan spread his hands in a gesture of despair. “You mean I am out of a job and out of a place to live? Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?”
“Perhaps I can help,” I said, elbowing around Feeney’s sizeable bulk and ignoring his angry growl. “I guess I never told you my name—Thomas Watson. My place is just a few blocks from here.” I quickly scratched out my address and a rough map, then handed the sheet of paper to him. “No doubt you’ll be needing a cup of tea after this, and you’re welcome to spend the night, if you don’t mind sleeping on my couch. Stop over as soon as you’re done with Officer Feeney, and we can talk.”
“Why, thank you for extending your hospitality, sir. Certainly, I’ll be glad to stop by.”
Flushed with excitement over the prospect of an exclusive news story, I ran several blocks to my apartment building, climbed three flights of stairs, and inserted the key into my front door. Standing in the hallway, I was out of breath, and my thoughts remained fixed on the waiter and the explosion at the speakeasy. Still, I was not too distracted to notice that there was no resistance against the key. The door was unlocked, though I was sure I had locked it.
My stomach muscles tensed as I recalled hearing about a series of break-ins just blocks from here. I reminded myself those burglaries had occurred late at night, not early evening, and the victims lived in a more well-to-do neighborhood. I didn’t have much for burglars to steal anyway.
I began to relax again. But wait! What was that noise? The sound of a creaking chair and heavy breathing was coming from inside!
At times like these a man wishes he carried a revolver—or at least a good old-fashioned walking stick. But I had neither. I couldn’t wait out in the hall indefinitely. With a trembling hand, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
CHAPTER 3
I was as much amazed to see Mycroft Holmes, brother of the great Sherlock Holmes, pacing about my apartment as I would have been to see the Queen of England dusting my mantel.
He was certainly much feebler than I remembered him, and surprisingly somewhat thinner, but his still-enormous bulk and the air of authority he had developed while in His Majesty’s service still hung about him. He stood next to my desk, a secretary style with a hinged writing surface. Though I had shut it, there were still a few papers sticking out around the edges, and I suspect from Mycroft’s awkward stance that I had caught him in the act of reading some of the errant documents. Obviously his innate curiosity remained intact as well.
“Why, good evening, Uncle Mycroft,” I said hesitantly, addressing him with the title I had used as a boy. “What are you doing here?”
His burning eyes peered out from beneath a downcast brow. “Here now, none of that ‘Uncle’ rot between you and me,” he said. “When will you realize that your father and my brother urged you to call me that because they knew it would vex me?”
He settled shakily into my reading chair, and his face softened. “Their form of a practical joke on me, I suppose,” he whispered. He inspected the ceiling for a moment as the corner of his mouth began to turn up in a wry smile, but he suddenly snapped his head in my direction, and his habitual scowl returned. “Now you’re a grown man and can call me Holmes, or Mycroft, if you prefer. Since we’ll be living in such close quarters”—his eyes quickly surveyed the room—“I suppose Mycroft would be best, eh?”
“Certainly, Uncle—I mean, Mycroft,” I stammered. “But whatever are you talking about?” A visit from an old man who I thought was across the ocean, on the heels of writing my own father’s obituary and encountering what could easily be the greatest news story of my career—all this was too much for one day. I needed to sit down before my legs buckled under me.
“I apologize,” I said as I slumped into a chair opposite him. “Things have been happening too fast. And I suppose I still have the reading of the will to endure.”
Mycroft’s bushy eyebrows shot up in an expression of surprise. “Gad, man, is that what you have been waiting for? Didn’t anyone inform you of the legal process involved here? No, I imagine not. If I were you, the first thing I would do is look for a new attorney.”
Before I had a chance to tell him that I didn’t have an attorney, Mycroft continued. “The reading of a will in the presence of the beneficiaries is not a legal requirement for its proper execution,” he said, taking on the tone of a lecturer. “Such dramatic scenes as that are reserved for dime novels. All that is necessary is that each beneficiary receive a copy of the will. It is the executor’s responsibility to deliver the copies and, if needed, to explain the provisions of the document.”
“Very well, then, I have to endure the visit of the executor.”
Mycroft gave a half-smile. “My boy, I am the executor. I do hope I have not been too taxing on your nerves so far.”
I wanted to tell him that, yes, his visit had been quite taxing so far, but instead I shrugged my shoulders and gave him a noncommittal stare. Mycroft apparently took it as permission to continue.
“I have attempted to contact your attorney concerning these matters, and he has been singularly non-responsive. Communicating across continents can be a decidedly awkward situation in any case, but your attorney has made it even more difficult by his rude silence.”
I figured it was time to bring the conversation back to reality. “Who are you talking about, Mycroft? I don’t have an attorney.”
“Why, I am talking about the legal counsel for the Philadelphia Herald, Thomas. Surely they handle legal issues for their employees.”
“Their executives, perhaps, but not their reporters. No wonder you never heard from him.”
Ignoring my comment, he said, “As I had already planned to travel to the States, I decided to deliver your copy personally and to briefly delineate your inheritance to you.” The elder brother of the great detective raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Surely you were familiar with the provisions of the will.”
“Yes, but that was some years ago.” Vaguely, I remembered the day my father had called me into his office to explain the details of his will. Seated in a red leather chair, my feet dangling inches from the floor, my eyes had scanned his medical books, lined up like soldiers on the dark wood shelves, as I tried desperately to pay attention. “As my only child, of course, you will be the principal beneficiary,” he had said with a proud smile. Seeing my puzzled twelve-year-old expression, he had hastily explained. “That means you’ll receive the bulk of my property and savings, son. Think of it! This grand old house will one day be yours!” Father had strutted across the room as I tried to look pleased.
“Then you are not aware of the most recent revision,” muttered Mycroft, jarring me back to the present. “It seems that, in addition to inheriting your father’s estate, you’ve also inherited his liabilities.” His jaw clenched. “Namely, myself.”
It took some time
to explain it to me in my muddled condition, but the gist of the amendment was a request by my father that I take care of Mycroft in his declining years. It seemed that certain poor investments, in addition to high medical expenses, had left Mycroft virtually penniless. My father had long since sold the house, and with his death Mycroft was unable on his own to afford their rented flat.
“The British Foreign Office had given me a small errand to take care of in Washington, so I had already booked passage to the States when your father passed away. I persuaded your father’s solicitors to advance me the additional funds to come to Philadelphia,” Mycroft concluded. “I am sorry to be spending your money like this, my boy, but I thought it best to discuss this face to face.” The room began to swim. I involuntarily clutched at the arms of the ragged wingback chair in which I was sitting. Mycroft sensed my confusion and chuckled.
“Well, young man? Aren’t you even going to ask how much you’ve inherited?” He obviously had something dramatic to share and could not wait to continue.
“Your father’s death has sparked a revival of interest in his writings. His publisher will be sending you further details on the anticipated royalties, but I can assure you it promises to be a handsome sum. You shouldn’t expect to give up working for a living, but with the experience you’ve gained here, I am sure you can land an editorial position with one of the London dailies.”
“Stop right there! I’ve no intention of leaving Philadelphia. I’ll make my own plans, if you don’t mind.” What I didn’t want to admit was that my “experience” in journalism was dismal at best, and my chances for a job in another city were just about nil. It had taken me months to find the job at the Philadelphia Herald, hardly what you’d call a prestigious publication, and my position was a lowly one. I don’t want to sound like a complainer, but it irks me that I’m at the bottom rung of my profession, and at the same time almost the only one on the paper’s staff with a college degree.
The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy Page 2