The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  His plan was simple, and, based upon subsequent events, so malevolently coincidental, that I believe there were forces of nature at play that I will not even begin to divine. The fear for me, even at this late passage of time, is still palpable. You will learn why, presently.

  Holmes’ reasoning was thus: he would remain deceased so that he had no fear of any further attempts at assassination. Then, free of that fear, he could begin to lay plans to safely return to London, discover the true identities of those responsible for this death, and wreak his revenge.

  But, perhaps, the most disquieting part of his plan was to assume the identity of his complete opposite, John Clay. Yes, John Clay.

  Having almost been assassinated at the hands of those who should have been his shield, I don’t know if Holmes had become unhinged. He was always fragile, that fine line between genius and madness on which we ruminate.

  It had become his firm belief that since he could no longer trust those he thought he could previously trust, he would turn to those who opposed them; strong criminal elements whose affiliations might merge with those of Clay. He was following the dictum, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  Of course, he had no idea that Clay was searching for him.

  He would find strong allies he absolutely knew had nothing to do with his government’s perfidy; allies he may need to call upon for what lay ahead. Quite frankly, allies more ruthless and seemingly unconcerned by their ruthlessness, than anyone in Holmes’ memory; the emerging American gangsters.

  Since Holmes considered himself to be the intellectual pinnacle of whichever world he chose to inhabit at any particular moment, he would aim for the top man. His circumspect inquiries led him to the man they called “The Brain”, “Mr. Big”, “The Big Bankroll” and “The Fixer”. In fact, the man who had recently fixed the largest sporting event in America, the 1919 World Series, generating the infamous “Black Sox” scandal.

  This was the man who controlled much of the burgeoning underworld; especially illegal gambling. This was the man who Holmes learned was a distant business associate of Clay’s, but who had never met him personally. Indeed, he was the man who Holmes regarded as the American Clay. This was the man who Holmes chose to become his ally.

  His name was Arnold Rothstein.

  Holmes learned that because of the coming of Prohibition in America, of which I will speak more of later in in this narrative, Rothstein and Clay had been formulating a deal for his Scottish distilleries to supply spirits to Rothstein.

  Holmes grudgingly admired their international business influence. He thought it would have been sporting to thwart them had not his “death” forced him in a decidedly divergent direction.

  Holmes believed no one in New York knew what Clay looked like so he would impersonate Clay to the hilt; and though some may have known of Holmes, a simple disguise would solve that problem. It had to be real, though, so he grew a mustache, full beard and colored all his hair a cross between russet and brown.

  But as Reilly relayed, it was more than a disguise, for when they met for the first time, Holmes seemed to have changed physically. Not just with age, but his whole persona seemed to have darkened. Those were Reilly’s words precisely, “His whole persona seemed to have darkened.” Chilling words. Chilling.

  From what Reilly recounted further, Holmes, though further on in age, had now become enmeshed in the social and literary nightlife of New York. As Clay, a supposed master British criminal with a rapier intellect, he lent an air of danger to pampered literati and feted Broadway celebrities.

  Of course he would do nothing to overtly draw attention from the authorities, but it was his belief that any new acquaintance made at this level of public fascination, might be of future help in his overarching search for retribution.

  He became a regular of Manhattan’s famed Algonquin Roundtable and could be seen in battles of verbal barbs with the intellectually glittering likes of Alexander Woollcott, George S. Kaufman, Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker. They called themselves “The Vicious Circle” and all would defer to Holmes for a mortal, terminating retort.

  Yet it was not only these titans of the literary set who would attend the festivities. Holmes struck up friendships with the great American baseball behemoth Babe Ruth, the legendary thespian Tallulah Bankhead, and the World’s Heavyweight Boxing Champion, Jack Dempsey. To all, Holmes was Clay. And to Holmes, all were pieces of a puzzle that were to fall into a particular place when needed.

  Holmes gleefully reported tweaking Ruth’s nose, only to find that Ruth “hit one out of the park” at him:

  “Mr. Ruth, I understand that you are the king of your sport; something akin to cricket.”

  “Hey, ‘keed’,” to Ruth everyone was ‘keed’, “I swing a bat, not bugs.”

  That garnered an incredible laugh from all around the table, not the least of whom was Holmes who rarely was bested verbally or otherwise.

  Holmes spoke of Dempsey and he playfully jabbing at each other while members of The Vicious Circle, and joyful onlookers, rooted uproariously for one or the other to connect with a decisive punch. After all, Holmes reminded Reilly, he had been a singular amateur boxer in his youth.

  Above all, there was the American underworld. The men who were part of that sinister brotherhood were already organizing to take advantage of the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment to the American Constitution, better known as Prohibition.

  This bizarre law which would ban the creation, sale and distribution of alcoholic beverages had been ratified by the American congress on January 16, 1919. It was to go into formal effect quite soon, on January 17, 1920.

  Through particular intermediaries, pieces of the puzzle now used, a meeting was set with Holmes to meet Rothstein at his office suite at Manhattan’s Park Central Hotel, on Seventh Avenue and 55th Street, slightly north of the Great White Way.

  What happened at that meeting harkens back to my previous mention of a malevolent coincidence.

  As Holmes approached the Park Central Hotel, he noticed three young men by the entranceway. By their dress, these men were not hotel employees. They wore camel-hair or mohair overcoats against the November chill. Their wide-brimmed fedoras were expensive and color-matched to their overcoats. Holmes noticed razor-creases in the trousers showing below the elongated overcoats and exquisitely polished lizard-clad shoes below the trousers.

  Holmes wondered how three such young men would have the funds to expend on such finery. His answer came swiftly.

  The men noticed this stranger approaching and, in unison, turned towards Holmes, all thrusting their hands into their overcoats, and taking one step towards him. But one took two.

  “Who you?” Curt question asked, this man’s hand stayed firmly in his overcoat and his body rocked to-and-fro ominously towards Holmes; as would a king cobra in front of its charmer.

  This man was the youngest of the group, looking no more than in his late teens, muscular and tall. But it was his ice-blue eyes that truly caught Holmes’ attention. They were, perhaps, the eyes of a nascent psychopath. They were held menacingly wide open and even without the “Who you?” were demanding an answer.

  “My name is John Clay. I have an appointment with Mr. Rothstein at ten.”

  “Ya talk funny, Johnny. Where ya from, Philly?”

  “Why, no, London.”

  “Ya mean like in England?”

  “Yes, as in England.”

  With his head tilted slightly backward towards the other men, “Hey, we got a guy here from England. He says he got an appointment with Mr. Rothstein.” The men said nothing and stood with their hands as before, inside their overcoats and apparently clutching pistols.

  “You know the King?” this man asked.

  “No, we’ve never met,” Holmes answered.

  “Well, I ain’t met the president,
neither, so I guess we’re even. Here, lift yer arms, I gotta frisk ya.” With that, Holmes raised his arms, the young man patted him from armpit to foot, then stood upright again.

  “He’s clean,” he said to the men in back, with that same head-tilt, never taking those iceberg eyes off Holmes.

  “Let him by. Mr. Rothstein is expecting him, remember?” This came from the man in the longest camel-hair overcoat. The one Holmes now knew to be the leader of this curious Yankee troika. And he now knew from where these young men drew their funds.

  “Oh, yeah,” said ice-eyes. “Damn, Johnny boy, I thought I could dust ya, now I gotta make nice to ya. Screwy world, huh?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Ya still talk funny.”

  “Here, come up here”. The long camel hair overcoat gestured Holmes to follow him. The third man followed in back of Holmes. This man was quite short, only about five-foot-four, but when Holmes had a quick look at his face, he saw steel.

  As Holmes followed the leader, ice-eyes called out, “Yeah, and give my love to the King and Queen if you see ‘em, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  The leader took the group through the hotel lobby, nothing fancy, then to the elevator. As they walked, Holmes noticed the way in which others in the lobby would part to facilitate the trio’s progress.

  “Mr. Rothstein told me you’d be here. We’re goin’ up to his suite. You just follow me and Meyer will just follow you. Benny’s staying down here.”

  “Of course. Whatever procedure might be best.”

  “Yeah.” This man looked to be in his mid-twenties, but carried himself as the leader he already knew he was. The short one, the one now in back of Holmes, looked to be a bit younger.

  As they got into the elevator, they both faced Holmes and he was able to finally a good luck at both of the men, who had now doffed their fedoras.

  The leader was about five-foot-ten, lean, with a hard, pock-marked face and wavy black hair. His dark eyes stared straight at Holmes with neither menace nor contempt, nor with any discernable expression, for that matter. Holmes realized that to this man, he was nothing. Just a parcel to be delivered, un-damaged, to his master, Arnold Rothstein.

  The small man was a different story. His eyes kept studying Homes from head to toe and back again, never stopping in the few scant minutes it took to arrive on the ninth floor, where Rothstein had his suite. But to Holmes, those few minutes told insightful tales.

  When the elevator doors opened, they turned right and right again around a corner and there Holmes saw another young man, also in his twenties, about the same height as the leader, a bit corpulent, and with a rather nasty scar along the left side of his face. He noticed us and became rigid.

  “Relax, Al. This guy’s here to see Mr. Rothstein.”

  “Okay.” He opened the door but stayed outside as Holmes and his two escorts went in.

  They all stood in the middle of what appeared to be a sparse foyer. Then the only door leading further inside opened. Arnold Rothstein walked out. He was of medium height, slight of build, slicked back black hair, much younger than Holmes had imagined, in this late thirties, and dressed in what Americans might consider a gentleman’s attire; an artfully tailored suit, complete with waistcoat.

  “Mr. Rothstein, Benny said this guy’s here to see you.”

  “Mr. Rothstein,” Holmes said.

  “Mr. Clay. Please come in. It’s nice to finally meet you after our transatlantic courtship. I hope we can make this ‘shittach’ happen.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry, John, That was Yiddish for ‘marriage’. Sometimes I forget that not everyone speaks Yiddish.”

  Though Rothstein was being charming, Holmes was well aware of Rothstein’s nefarious acumen, and now, able to look into Rothstein’s eyes, he was finally able to gauge the wheels upon wheels and tumbling gears behind them. Perhaps Rothstein was more calculator than corporeal being.

  “Please call me Arnold,” Rothstein said.

  “Very well, then, Arnold.”

  A big smile crossed Rothstein’s face, as if he had just completed his first move of successful seduction.

  “So I guess I can call you John?”

  “I don’t surmise it would hurt.”

  Another smile from Rothstein.

  As Holmes followed Rothstein into his office, he was surprised at the minimum of extrannea; essentials and nothing more. Which mirrored Rothstein, himself.

  “So, John, what’s on your mind? What do we have to do to shake hands?”

  “I believe you’re already aware of that. Someone with your intellect, interest and incisive disposition has already decided that this meeting would, indeed, bring our hoped-for endeavor to a mutually beneficial conclusion or there would have been no meeting.”

  Rothstein laughed again. Louder, this time, with an inflection intimating his appreciation of the kindred intelligence of the man before him.

  “Right-O, John. You hit the nail on the head. You have the distilleries in Scotland and I have a whole damn country filled with yokels who want to drink the stuff. You have supply, I have demand, we have a deal?” He extended his hand.

  Now it was Holmes’ turn to laugh. Not only at the presumption of Rothstein but at his witty encapsulation of the state of the United States.

  “I’ve appreciate how quickly you Americans come to the point, but, I believe, you may be putting the cart before the horse?”

  “How come?” His hand was withdrawn with a slight frown.

  “Well before one can agree on a deal, one must have a clear appreciation of what, precisely, that deal might be.”

  That laugh again.

  “Yeah, yeah,’course, ‘course. You were supposed to come up with a price per crate of the scotch, delivered by your ships offshore to where I tell you and if it sounded good, we shake hands, have a drink on it and we have a deal.”

  “And if we cannot agree on a price?”

  At this, his facial disposition hardened.

  “Well then, John, if you’re not selling to me, you might decide to sell to one my, shall we say ‘competitors’, and that just wouldn’t do.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  The presumption, once again, on Rothstein’s part, that the hint of a threat might unnerve him, gave Holmes further insight into Rothstein’s egomania or complete and matter-of-fact acceptance of his power.

  “John, you met some of my boys outside.”

  “Oh, yes, interesting young men.”

  “Well, those interesting young men are more interesting than you could know. Let me clue you in.

  “Charlie Luciano, the one you can spot as the leader of those guys, is a Sicilian, but he thinks like us.

  “Benny Siegel, the guy you left in front of the hotel, may be just a kid, but he’s already killed three guys. That we know of.

  “And Meyer Lansky, the little man. Imagine me at his age and that’s Meyer. Yeah, he’s short, but let me tell ya, he and Benny were runnin’ a real tough gang before they came to work for me. It was called ‘the Bugs and Meyer Mob’.”

  “Bugs?” Holmes asked.

  “Yeah. Benny is a little, shall we say, nuts. So some guys started in calling him Bugsy, a nickname. He didn’t like it. They didn’t call him that anymore. So never, ever, call him Bugsy. His name is Ben or Benny or Benjamin; but never Bugsy.”

  “Thank you. Benjamin will suit. As in Disraeli.”

  Rothstein continued. “Disraeli. Very good. And that’s just the tip. I got guys all over the country. I got that kid outside the door, from Brooklyn, Al Capone, going up to Chicago to work for a friend of mine, Johnny Torrio. Johnny runs Chicago. Like Browning said: ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven fo
r?’ Right?”

  “In that case...” But before Holmes could speak, Rothstein cut him short. He was tiring of his cat and mouse.

  “Nah, don’t waste your time. The game has gone on long enough. John Clay, I very much would like you to meet someone.”

  “And whom might that be?” asked Holmes.

  “John Clay.”

  Reilly Leaves For London

  After tending to Yrjö’s wound and satisfied there would be no lasting ill effect, Reilly and Yrjö finally fell into a fitful sleep.

  There would be no more intrusion to mar that night, nor any the next day as Reilly was ready to board The Merenneito.

  “Well, my Finnish friend, we seemed to have had a bit of an adventure.”

  “My arm says so,” Yrjö said. “But, Roland, you are now on your own. I won’t be there to take any more bullets for you.”

  “Now that’s a comforting thought.”

  “I wish you luck with what you must do, and to find the peace you deserve once you have done it,” Yrjö said.

  “That’s practically poetic,” Reilly said.

  “I guess you never read Kalevala.” Yrjö said.

  “Yrjö, before I leave, I want to ask a question. Personal courtesy. Do you know who I am?”

  “Personal courtesy?” Yrjö made a show of rubbing his chin as one does when in deep thought. “Roland, we have no such thing as personal courtesy in what we do.”

  Reilly shrugged, and after a gentle handshake so as not to disturb Yrjö’s wounded arm, he went up onto the deck. He turned to see Yrjö with a very broad smile and waving slowly, with his good arm, of course.

  “You see, Sidney, what good friends we Finns can be?” he shouted as Merenneito carefully left the dock.