The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  Holmes And Fairbanks And Pickford

  All was now at the ready. It was the fourteenth of November and Holmes was taking leave of his rather unsavory associates in New York.

  He had booked first class passage on RMS Aquitania and Luciano, Lansky and Siegel had personally brought Holmes down to Aquitania for his voyage back to London. Upon their arrival, all were amused to literally encounter not one, but two brass bands and a multitude of people so densely packed together on the dock that Holmes’ sardonic thought was that of sardines.

  “What the hell?”Siegel asked. “This for us?”

  Lansky, Luciano and Holmes had no idea why such an enraptured throng should be dockside until Holmes spied numerous signs with various sayings, such as “WE LOVE YOU MARY!”, “WE LOVE YOU DOUG!”, “CONGRATULATIONS!”, “HAPPY HONEYMOON!”, “COME BACK SOON!”

  It seems that Holmes had booked passage on the very liner carrying the international motion picture stars from Hollywood, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, on their honeymoon voyage to Europe.

  As Pickford and Fairbanks made royal progress up the gangway, Siegel said, “Holy mackerel, wouldya get a load of those two. Holy cow! Hey, Johnny, that’s our royalty,” he laughed.

  It was now time for Luciano, Lansky and Siegel to each give Holmes a personal goodbye.

  Siegel said, “Take care, Johnny. We got a lot ridin’ on ya. I forgot to ask all this time, they got Jews in England?”

  “Yes, Ben, quite a few.”

  “Good. Hey, I just thought a somethin’ funny, now get this: Eng-lish, Jew-ish. We’re related by ishes.” He laughed as he shook Holmes’ hand and gave him a hug. “And don’t hit no icebergs. Greenbergs, okay, though.” He continued to laugh.

  Lansky was next. “It was real interesting thinking with you, Johnny. I know you’ll be keepin’ tabs. And I know that you know that we’ll be keepin’ tabs, too. Gay mit mazel.” Yiddish for “good luck.” He, too, shook Holmes’ hand and gave him a hug.

  Luciano was last. “You done good helpin’ us here. Now the big help comes. You gotta keep that booze comin’, Johnny. We know you been makin’ those arrangements with your guys in England. A couple more months and Prohibition kicks in. We’re countin’ on ya.”

  “No fear, Charlie. I need you as much as you need me. The first shipment of scotch will be delivered as planned to your boats off Long Island and then I’ll wait for further instructions on when and where the next shall go.”

  “Right,” Luciano paused, then leaned close to Holmes’ ear and said, “Johnny, all that happened since Mr. Rothstein got bumped off, we owe it t’ you. You planned everythin’. I don’t know if we ever coulda done it without you.

  “Buonafortuna, Johnny. I hope we can meet again.” Then he took Holmes hand.

  “I, as well, Charlie, I, as well.” With that, Holmes turned and went up the gangway, turning one last time to wave down to the three men who were waving up.

  Once settled into his stateroom, Holmes grasped that with Pickford and Fairbanks aboard, and with such lavish attention surely to be paid such Hollywood royalty, he could remain even more incognito. And so he would have been if not for an unfortunate event on the first night out.

  It seems that while Holmes patrolled the deck in the silent morning hours, when all to attend one’s ears were the sounds of the sea being pushed aside by the liner lithely slicing the waves, unable to sleep and pondering his actions when back in London, a door suddenly thrust open and a very inebriated, tiny woman came rushing out, quite unsteadily; and had not Holmes been there to come between her and the railing, the woman would have most certainly gone overboard.

  As she tangled in Holmes’ overcoat, a man came running out and instantly uncoupled her from Holmes, while trying to hold her up. It was Fairbanks and Pickford.

  “I am so sorry to cause you this trouble,” said Fairbanks, “unfortunately, Mary likes her spirits perhaps a bit too much for her own good.” He hadn’t even looked up at Holmes, just speaking while he tried to hold his wife upright as she went limp.

  “No trouble, at all, I can assure you. It’s a good thing I was here, however, or your wife would’ve become one with Neptune.”

  Fairbanks laughed. “Yes, that’s a good one. Listen, pal, I know you’ve already done me a great favor just saving my wife’s life, but do you think I could ask for another one?”

  “What is it?” asked Holmes.

  “I’d really appreciate it if you kept this under your hat. There’s no need for anyone other than us to know what just happened; you get it? If the papers ever got wind of this, boy, oh, boy would they go haywire.”

  “Yes, I can easily see that. Of course, I’ll keep silent. There’s no reason for me tell anyone. “

  “Hey, that’s really great of you. I’ll owe you big time.” He was still holding Pickford in his arms as if she were nothing more than a doll, so small was she and so strong was he. “Say, pal, what’s your name, anyway?” All this as he inched his way back to the door from which Ms. Pickford had so recently burst.

  “Clay, John Clay.”

  “Well, John, I’ll ask the captain to seat you at our table. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, please no; that’s totally unnecessary.”

  “That may be,” as he opened the door to go back inside, “but I always pay a debt. I just hope I don’t bump into anyone on the way back to our stateroom. Our table isn’t that big.” With that, he laughed, the door closed and they were gone.

  Holmes shrugged and continued his patrol of the deck.

  The very next day as promised, a brief, personal invitation was slipped under his stateroom door.

  “The captain requests the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight at this personal table. Dinner will be at eight precisely. Formal dress required.”

  “Oh, blast,” thought Holmes, “I should have let her go over the side.”

  However, he attended and pretended.

  He and the loving couple were the only guests of the captain on this particular night. Miss Pickford continued her unrelenting quest to quench her thirst, and Mr. Fairbanks made jokes, performed some sleight of hand to make playing cards disappear, and Holmes thought that Fairbanks would much rather have done the trick using his wife.

  The captain was effusive in his praise and his toasts to his celebrated guests and Pickford seemed especially pleased with each toast. Not the words, but the implied invitation to raise one’s glass again.

  Fairbanks, having obviously seen this act before, and before Pickford could spoil the act, graciously suggested that they retire to their stateroom because he felt a tad under the weather.

  “You go, Dougie,” she said to her grimacing husband, literally pushing him at his chest, “I’m gonna stay here with the captain and Mr. Clay.” She was slurring her words and sloshing her drink. The captain had now also realized the situation and very cleverly stated, “Oh, I hate to be one to stifle a party, but I’ve just received word that I’m urgently needed on the bridge.”

  “You got a bridge on this thing?” she asked. “Any trolls underneath?” It was now vibrantly evident that she was seriously snookered.

  “Unfortunately, yes. You will excuse me.” With that the captain left us as Fairbanks looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Now what?”

  “Ah, well,” Holmes said, winking to Fairbanks, “I believe I heard that there’s an amazing party being held in stateroom number 180 and from what I hear, the champagne is flowing free and cold like the Atlantic outside.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” she said; and though she rose unsteadily and even with Fairbanks’ aid walked awkwardly, they made it out of the dining hall, and Holmes supposed, back to their stateroom where, no doubt, Pickford would pass out and, hopefully, would remain in that state until morning.

 
As they left the table, Fairbanks held up his fingers indicated the number “two”, as in “That makes two I owe you.” However, Holmes felt he needed no more debts be repaid. He therefore devised a simple stratagem to avoid such repayment: as Fairbanks had been trying to do with the playing cards, he would disappear.

  What this meant was that he would no longer appear for meals in the first-class dining room, he would, instead, frequent the second-class dining room and accommodations and keep to their deck, as well.

  He would have succeeded in this newest transformation from Holmes to Clay to invisible man, except for the fact that on the fourth day, returning to his cabin after another brisk walk on the second-class deck, he found Fairbanks waiting for him.

  “Hey, John, there you are!”

  “Yes, indeed. Here I am.”

  “Where have you been, pal? I’ve been looking for you for days. I finally had to get the purser to give me your stateroom number so I could find you. Funny, I just got here and then you showed up. Talk about perfect timing.”

  “Or imperfect.”

  “Huh? Well, look. I owe you and I owe you big. So don’t worry.” He took out a paper and handed it to Holmes.

  “I was gonna leave this for you when you showed up. It’s very hush-hush, but I know you can keep a secret. It’s where Mary and I will be in London. We’re staying at the swankiest place in town, the Savoy. That musical fella, built it. You know, whatshizname, Coylie Dart or something like that?”

  “You mean D’Oyly Carte?”

  “Yeah, that’s it! It’s supposed to be the bees’ knees! We have the bridal suite, of course, and I can’t wait to see the joint.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be suitably impressed. As will they.”

  “Yeah, and our ambassador is trying to get us in to see the King. He said the King’s a big fan of ours. But then ain’t everyone?”

  “I have certainly not missed one of your epics.”

  “Yeah? Which one did you like the best?”

  “The one where you rescued the girl.” Of course, Holmes, to my knowledge, had never seen one of Fairbanks’ motion pictures; but to Holmes, probably all had the swashbuckler rescuing some damsel devilishly imperiled.

  “Yeah, that’s swell. And here’s our private phone number at Pickfair in Hollywood if you ever come over. You don’t need an address, just jump in a cab. Everyone knows where Pickfair is. Hey, we might bump into Rudy if he’s there, or Charlie. He’s a Brit, too, so you two should have a lot to talk about.”

  He was speaking of Rudolph Valentino and Charlie Chaplin, of course. But to Fairbanks, though those two men were at the summit of international stardom and anyone other than Holmes would have immediately made arrangements to show up at the Pickfair doorstep, to Fairbanks, the names were toss-aways; simply friends and business associates.

  “Thank you. I promise to contact you should I find myself in Hollywood,” Holmes said.

  “Great, great! And don’t forget that we’ll be in London for a few weeks before we head off to Paris, then we’re off to do one of those Grand Tours all over Europe and we won’t be back in London till after the new year some time. But keep that to yourself, too, okay?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Great, great. Maybe we can even get together in London. Okay, hope to see you soon.” And he was gone with that peripatetic pace for which Fairbanks was universally known and admired.

  Once inside his stateroom, Holmes put the paper aside, sank into a chair and began to gather his thoughts, for he would be docking in London the next day. And his life as John Clay was about to begin in earnest.

  Idyll In Eleuthera

  After all the turmoil of Russia, the mayhem in Helsinki, the visit with Watson and hearing his disturbing story, this idyll in Eleuthera seemed so fragile, so ephemeral, as mere vapor which would dissipate in an instant.

  Reilly had known no true surcease in his lifetime, and now he was truly sampling its mythic, unrelenting joy. His wife was more beautiful and loving than he even remembered and his son was the sun, itself.

  Baby Sidney, at seven months, had the black hair of his mother, the silly disposition of his Aunt Anastasia, the playfulness of his Uncle Alexei, and the strength and stubbornness of his father.

  There was the simple joy of experiencing family; though the Tsarina was still living in her own secluded world and growing more detached with each day.

  Other than that one ever-expanding shadow, Reilly could not want for more. Every day he felt ancient tensions released from not only his body, but his mind. A life of duplicity and deceit and mistrust and murder was evaporating at his baby’s tiny touch.

  Tatiana knew better than to ask what had happened when he left them in Russia; at least for the moment. And the rest of the family was cautioned by her to just enjoy his presence and, as yet, not to seek answers to all the questions they so anxiously wanted to ask.

  Finally, after two weeks of seamless tranquility, Reilly turned to Tatiana as they sat with baby Sidney on that big, beautiful white blanket in the soothing Eleutheran sun.

  “Tatiana, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me just be and not poking and prodding and pestering me about where I was, who I was with, what happened; the usual answers a wife would demand from a gallivanting husband gone for over a year.”

  Rather than laughing, Tatiana took his face in her hands.

  “I know how deeply you mean that, Sidney; though even now you must wrap your truest emotions in a jest. Someday I’ll ask you about all that, but not now, not now. It’s not important. What’s important is that you’re here with our son, with me. That we have each other to love again in every sense of the word. That the time flown between us didn’t matter. It didn’t lessen our love or keep us from each other’s thoughts every moment of every day. “

  Reilly simply reached over to pull Tatiana to him and they embraced as baby Sidney lay at their feet, happily asleep.

  But Reilly knew that the time had come to give permission to the family to ask those certain questions. Tatiana had told him of the relationship that had blossomed between Marie and Yardley before he left with Holmes and that it might be best if he spoke to her privately before dinner that night; which he did.

  He told Marie that as far as he knew, William Yardley had perished with Holmes. He felt it more beneficial for her to believe him dead than to recount what Holmes had told him in New York, that Yardley might have tried to murder Holmes.

  At dinner that night, Reilly suddenly put down his knife and fork loudly, which interrupted a lively conversation between Anastasia and Alexei, turned his head slowly around the table and said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Alexei immediately knew what he meant, gave out with a yelp and then the Grand Duchesses and the Tsar understood, too. It was Alexei who spoke first, or, rather, let loose such a torrent of interrogation which would make magistrates of Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice blush in admiration.

  “So what happened when you left us? Did you kill any Bolshies? How did you kill them? How did you get here? Did King George send you on a big battleship?”

  Reilly, laughing, and everyone else by now, as well, held up both his hands in abject surrender.

  “I give up. Please, Alexei, no more. You overpower me with your questions.”

  “But you said I could ask.”

  “That’s not precisely accurate. I simply indicated that I was ready to recount my grisly adventures.” He stressed the word “grisly” with a menacing glee that had everyone laughing.

  “You see. I was right. So tell us. How grisly?” Alexei asked.

  “Oh, monsterously grisly. Tremendously grisly.” Reilly was rising up from his chair and making threatening motions with his arms, waving them around wildly. Then he summarily slumped b
ack into his chair and whispered to all, “Hideously grisly.”

  The Romanovs were all laughing but Reilly knew he would now have to invent a story to make them all happy. Grisly and not so grisly. So he began his fanciful fiction.

  But one serious note before he began, he cautioned them all to never repeat one word of what he was about to divulge. This would make it seem that the fairy tale he was about to spin would be taken as gospel fact.

  Outside, concealed in the lush vegetation and by the night, a man watched the standing Reilly gesticulating madly and saw a group of people he recognised, but could not believing he was actually seeing.

  Introducing Mr. Stash

  Holmes’ feet touched English soil for the first time since June 1918.It was now November 19, 1919.

  Involuntarily, he stood transfixed for a moment, akin to Antaeus in Greek mythology, who maintained his prodigious power by keeping his feet on the Earth; because Gaia, the mother of Earth was also his mother.

  There were more brass bands and banners there to greet the honeymoon couple, but Holmes skirted them all. His belongings followed closely in two large steamer trunks, hauled by two specially engaged deckhands, and were deposited into the boot of a cab.

  “I wish to go to the corner of Vallance Road and Lomas Street.” Holmes said.

  The driver turned around, looked Holmes up and down and said, “But that’s in Shoreditch, in Whitechapel. It’s full o’ Fagins.”

  “I know where it is. I did not ask for a geography lesson. I asked to be taken there. Now.”

  “All right, guv’, you’re the boss, all right,” and off they went.

  As you are most certainly aware, this particular destination was not in the most desirable area of London. In fact, Whitechapel had spawned Jack the Ripper. And even at this time, few of proper means or personage would desire to dwell or do commerce within its environs.

  The corner building, 13 Lomas Street, was a bestial building surrounded by other bestial buildings, in turn surrounded by more.