Sherlock Holmes In America

by Martin H. Greenberg

  The headwaiter showed both men to a table with an unobstructed view of the entire dining room, and not too far from the entrance, permitting them to see everyone who came and went. Holmes took in the table’s location and nodded.

  “‘When constabulary duty’s to be done,’” he smiled at his host, “‘a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’ You said you were off duty. Are you not permitted to eat in peace?”

  “The Pirates of Penzance.” Battle smiled in turn. “Strange you should quote from that. I was at the very first performance of Pirates on New Year’s Eve in ’79, here in New York, at the Fifth Avenue Theater. Sullivan himself was at the podium. It ran for three months in New York before it ever even opened in London,” he said, with no small local pride, as he unfurled his napkin and laid it across his lap. “As for eating in peace, I prefer to be aware of what’s happening around me. I must be able to observe my surroundings. Call it habit, if you will.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I agree entirely. We appear to have much in common, except that I trust I am correct in saying that you once served on the police force, Mr. Battle.”

  “What gives me away?” Battle laughed.

  “Your manner of looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A good detective focuses on what will aid his investigation, but a policeman must be Argus-eyed and aware of what’s behind him, as well as in front, to stop any mayhem before it begins. You have been on the streets.”

  Battle grunted. “For fifteen years, before I left the department. Worked my way up to captain.”

  “Yet you left?” Holmes raised a mollifying hand at the sudden tensing of the other man’s jaw. “Forgive me, please. I meant no offense in asking, I was merely surprised.”

  After a moment of silence, Battle said, “I am largely ignorant of the inner workings of Scotland Yard, Mr. Greaves, but there are things in New York . . . politics and whatnot. Suffice it to say that much of what would put ordinary men behind bars is routinely practiced by the police here, and after a while I had had enough.”

  Holmes said nothing, and after a few moments Battle smiled again. “But I have hopes,” he said, signaling the waiter. “Reform is in the air. And now, Mr. Greaves, what would you care to drink? I myself take no alcohol, as it does not agree with me. But please don’t feel constrained on my account. The wine cellar here is quite excellent, and they have a bourbon—I don’t know if you’re familiar with bourbon—which I have heard roundly praised.”

  Holmes, though a man who generally loathed all forms of society, could be exceedingly charming at will, and was an excellent conversationalist; and in Battle he had found a rare kindred spirit. Throughout the course of a long and enjoyable dinner, the two men regaled each other with numerous “war stories,” as Battle called them, of criminals with whom they had dealt, and as the coffee arrived Holmes was feeling unusually expansive.

  “An aficionado of Gilbert and Sullivan such as you might, perhaps, enjoy other forms of music. Are you an opera lover as well?”

  “I am, indeed,” Battle replied.

  “Do you enjoy Wagner?”

  “Very much.”

  “Excellent! I was hoping to take in a performance of Die Meistersinger on Monday evening, and as I know no one in this city I was fully prepared to go alone. But if you are not working that night, Mr. Battle, and have no other encumbrances, perhaps you would care to join me? I can think of no more congenial a companion. And should you need any further inducement, Eames and de Reszke are singing that night.”

  Holmes spent the intervening days, and one or two nights, on the icy streets of New York City, disguised as an Irish laborer in shabby overalls, peacoat, and grimy cloth cap. The cold was severe enough that he needed no artifice to redden his nose and rime his brows, but the three-day growth of beard that appeared magically each morning had somehow vanished by evening as he sat down to dinner among the well-to-do of New York City.

  “Admirable,” Robert Battle chuckled, as he caught Holmes sauntering from the hotel one morning through one of the tradesmen’s doors. “Did I not know who you were, Mr. Greaves, I’d have stopped you and asked you to turn out your pockets.”

  Holmes merely touched a finger to his cap and vanished into the raw January mist. His destination each day was different, and suggested to him by Battle, who knew New York as well as Holmes knew London. Within a few days Holmes had at least a nodding acquaintance with areas that were as foul as anything in Limehouse or Whitechapel.

  “Remember, Watson,” he told me later, “that London had been a great midden of humanity for more than a thousand years before the white man ever set foot on Manhattan Island, and then think of the depths of wickedness, cruelty, and despair that could create such squalor in such a brief period of time.”

  And as with London, so were the contrasts between the high and the low in the much younger city. On the following Monday night, Holmes and Battle passed through the bland, yellow-brick façade of the new Metropolitan Opera House and into a blaze of splendor wholly unimaginable to the denizens of airless tenements and filth-strewn streets. Battle had retained some of the friendships made during his years on the police force, and through connections had been able to obtain places for that evening in an unoccupied box in the first ring.

  The two men settled themselves into their seats with time to spare, and Holmes took in the gorgeous scene around him. Present were many of the names that had made New York a byword for both riches and rapacity, and the wives and daughters who accompanied them glittered with gems. Battle quietly pointed out to Holmes the various well-dressed men, detectives all, stationed in key positions around the house to prevent anything that would interfere with the evening’s enjoyment.

  As the house lights dimmed, there was a flurry in the box opposite. Holmes, his eyes upon the unobtrusive detectives, felt Battle stiffen beside him, and saw his jaw clench. Following Battle’s gaze, he saw two older men and a very young woman just taking their seats.

  Dainty and exquisitely dressed, with pearls at her throat and in her dark hair, the young woman held fast to the arm of one of the men, her gloved fingers tightening on his sleeve, and shrank from the gaze of the audience below as they, and the occupants of the all other boxes, turned to look at her. A murmur arose throughout the house as her escort, silver-haired and straight-backed, settled her into a seat placed back from the rail of the box, where she would be less visible, then took his own seat.

  But it was the second man at whom Battle stared, his fists closed into hard knots.

  “You know him?” said Holmes.

  “I know him,” Battle replied, his eyes never wavering.

  “An interesting trio,” Holmes remarked. “May I ask who they are, and why the girl is of such inordinate interest?” The whispering of the crowd had not abated, and many eyes, although not those of Battle, were still turned to her as the conductor stepped to the podium.

  “The taller man is Henry Ogden Slade. He is one of our leading citizens, rich as Croesus, and a great philanthropist.” Battle’s voice was quiet, and revealed nothing of the emotions that clearly gripped him. “The girl is his ward. She is, or so the received wisdom would have it, the daughter of a Jew banker with whom Slade has done business. He took her in several years ago, although no one knows why, and therein lies the mystery. There appears to be nothing whatever improper in their relations, although many would love to believe otherwise.” Battle fell silent.

  “And the other?” Holmes said. The object of Battle’s relentless gaze was a portly, many-chinned man, shorter than Slade by a head. His spectacles and his small, perpetual smile gave him a pleasant, avuncular look.

  “The other is Thaddeus Chadwick. He is Slade’s attorney, and also his closest friend. Each is rarely seen without the other.”

  The first notes of the overture brought the conversation to a close. Holmes, with his keen ability to compartmentalize his mind, leaned back in his chair and became utterly absorbed in the music, his long fingers waving in accompan
iment, but nevertheless remained aware of the fact that his companion was utterly insensible to what was occurring on the stage.

  Wagner, as the world knows, is not succinct in his composition, and by the time the curtain came down on the first act, Holmes was grateful for a chance to stretch his legs. By common, wordless consent, he and Battle left the box and headed downstairs. Holmes waited until they were off to the side of the main vestibule, where the crowd was thinner, before he raised the subject of Thaddeus Chadwick again.

  “I could not help but notice that his appearance was distracting to you. Please tell me if it is overstepping the bounds of our brief acquaintance if I ask you why?”

  Battle set his jaw and answered. “Mr. Chadwick was the reason I left the police force. Or, rather, the reason I was thrown off it. I would rather not have told you this, Mr. Greaves, lest you think ill of me, for I have come to enjoy our acquaintance, but you will soon be returning to England, and your opinion of me will be of little matter.

  “How could I judge you before I have heard the evidence?” Holmes said.

  “How, indeed? But many have, and many who were once dear to me are strangers to me now.” He took a deep breath and began.

  “Mr. Chadwick’s reputation as an attorney is above reproach, of course, and he has, in addition to Mr. Slade, many clients in the highest reaches of the city. But Mr. Chadwick is also known to the police. Threads leading back to him have been found in many unsavory schemes; and his name, through the names of those who front for him, is linked to some of the worst places, and some of the most ghastly conditions, to be found anywhere in the city.”

  Battle looked squarely at Holmes. “I will be brief. I said that Chadwick is known to the police, but not necessarily as an adversary. Many of the places you’ve seen these last few days sit on land owned by Mr. Chadwick, and although he takes no part in their actual business he still makes a great deal of money from them, and his hands are stained with their filth. I was investigating some of them, some houses where children, boys and girls as young as six . . . I will say no more, Mr. Greaves, for you know that places such as these exist. But I could have wiped at least some of them, and those who profit from them, off the face of the earth, and I was close, very close, to having my case airtight.

  “But as I said, there are things in New York . . . Chadwick is openhanded to those who can help him, and many in the upper levels of the police . . . ” He swallowed hard and wiped his face; his hands were shaking. “I was told to drop the case. I said I would not. I was told that if I did not drop it voluntarily, I would be made to do so. And still I refused.

  “I took what precautions I could, but it was not enough, and those I had asked to guard me were paid to turn a blind eye. The night before I was supposed to present my evidence in court, a half-dozen men burst into my home. They overpowered me, held a chloroform-soaked cloth over my face, and dragged me out. I awoke hours later, in a room in one of the houses that I had investigated—alone, thank God—but reeking of alcohol, as though someone had emptied a bottle over me, and as I staggered to my feet I could hear whistles and screams. It was a police raid, and I was caught, just as surely as if I had been a patron there for years.”

  Battle sagged and leaned against a gilded pillar. His words were quiet now and matter-of-fact. “Instead of being in court that morning, giving evidence, I was in jail, and all the evidence had been destroyed. I had hidden it under some floorboards, but they didn’t even bother to search for it . . . they took the quickest way, and just burned my house down, and the evidence with it. The fire was laid at my door, too . . . I was charged with knocking over a lamp, in my drunken state, as I left for the establishment where they found me. I’ve thanked God every day since then that no one died in the blaze, for I would have been accused of that as well.

  “But the worst . . . I had no identification on me, you see, and to verify that I was who I said I was—even though the men who arrested me knew me—they brought my fiancée and her father down to the police station to identify me. Oh, yes, Mr. Greaves, I was engaged to be married. And there I stood, unshaven and stinking, in handcuffs and leg irons, still unsteady on my feet, and having been pulled out of that . . . that hell . . . with my beautiful Frances staring at me. And the look in her eyes . . . ”

  Holmes guided the man to an unoccupied bench against an adjacent wall and forced him to sit. The crowds were streaming back to their seats, and the vestibule was emptying quickly.

  “Promise me that you will stay here,” he said. “I will only be gone a moment.”

  Battle nodded, head bowed. Holmes returned in a few minutes with a glass of water, which he held to the man’s pale lips.

  “There is some whiskey in there,” he said, as the man grimaced at the taste and started to push it away. “Not enough to harm you; just enough to bring the blood back to your face.”

  Battle drank again, then stood up shakily. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

  “Strangers are sometimes better confidants than friends one has known for years. But possibly you are being too hard upon your Frances. Would she not still believe in you, despite appearances?”

  “I could not approach her again. Not until my name is cleared, which it never will be. How could I even dream of tying an innocent young woman to a man known as a sot and a debauchee?”

  Holmes smiled. “Certainly, women are not my forte, Battle. But has she married anyone else since that night?”

  “No. I have heard, through acquaintances, that she is still living with her father.”

  “Then she is probably stronger in her faith in you than you have given her credit for, and perhaps you should have more faith in her. And now,” he said, as Battle set his glass on a nearby table, “the second act is well under way. Shall we return to our seats, or would you rather leave?”

  “I would not cut your evening short. You wished to see the opera.”

  “That is of no consequence.”

  “No, I am well enough now. If you don’t mind being seen with me, now that you know, then let us go back. . . . ”

  “Well, well, Battle,” said the dry voice behind them. “I thought it was you, but I could not believe my eyes, so I came to see for myself. I really must ask the shareholders what they are thinking, allowing known degenerates in here.”

  Battle jerked about so quickly that he nearly fell, and Holmes put a light hand on his arm, to steady him. Chadwick gazed at them mildly. Now face to face with the man, Holmes could see behind his spectacles. His small, eternal smile never reached his eyes, which looked Battle up and down with utter contempt.

  “Still drinking, I see,” he said. He turned to Holmes. “I don’t know who you are, sir,” he said, “but I must warn you against associating with this man. His reputation is unsavory, to say the least.”

  Holmes tightened his grip on Battle’s arm. “I thank you for your concern, Mr. Chadwick, but your warning is unnecessary.”

  “Ah, an Englishman. A visitor, perhaps, to our great city,” Chadwick said. “Well, forewarned is forearmed, as they say. And since you appear to know my name, sir, although we have never met, may I know yours?”

  “Simon Greaves.”

  “Then, Mr. Greaves, I will leave you and your friend now.” He turned to go, snapped his gloved fingers as though he had forgotten something, then turned back.

  “Oh, yes . . . some rumors have reached me, Battle, that you have secured employment at one of our better small hotels. I do not know what the management could have been thinking, or to whom they applied for references, but I will speak to them personally in the morning, and see to it that they have a true accounting of your history. No establishment can afford to risk its patrons with someone like you beneath its roof.

  “What a shame,” he said, “that you had to be here tonight. I had almost forgotten your existence. I am not likely to forget it again. Good night to you both.”

  They watched him bob across the vestibule on thin legs incongruous to t
he bulk of his upper body.

  “A dangerous man,” murmured Holmes.

  “I will kill him.” Battle was shaking.

  “No, I think not. You would be an immediate suspect, for one thing, although I can well imagine that there are many besides you who would like Mr. Chadwick dead. No, you must leave that task to another, Battle.

  “Besides . . . ” Holmes said, continuing the conversation as the two men, having lost their taste for the opera, walked back to their hotel. An icy wind pushed them south down Broadway. “You do not want him dead before your name can be cleared and your reputation restored.”

  Battle stopped still on the pavement. “By all that’s holy, Greaves, you heard him! What he’s done to me so far isn’t enough, he’s out to crush me utterly! Do you think he would ever be a party to my reclamation?”

  Holmes only smiled and pulled Battle along. “Let’s discuss this over a hot supper when we get indoors. It’s beginning to snow, which will benefit us greatly. It is just possible that we may bring Mr. Chadwick around.”

  The chimes of Trinity Church sounded half past nine on the following morning, as the card of Mr. Simon Greaves was handed in to Mr. Thaddeus Chadwick, Esq. Chadwick was a man of rigid habits, and the heavy snow that had fallen overnight had had no appreciable effect on his regular nine o’clock arrival, although the usual thunder of ironbound wheels and horses’ hooves outside his office on lower Broadway had been replaced by the pretty jingle of sleigh bells and harness in an otherwise silent world.

  Chadwick’s office was large and comfortable, and a welcome fire crackled in the grate across from his desk. He kept his visitor standing before him for more than a full minute before deigning to look up from the brief he was reading.

  “Well, Mr. Greaves,” he said, tossing the papers aside and folding his thick fingers on the desk before him. “Who would have thought that we would meet again so soon?” He gestured languidly to a chair. “Do sit down, and tell me the reason for this unexpected pleasure.”