“Then we must fall back upon Lestrade’s admonition by default. Now that we’ve thrown the dogs off the scent, will we double back to Poplar and warn Miss Venucci?”
“We’ll wire Lestrade and press him to put a man on her door. That’s a precaution only. If Mr. Billiards and Mr. Ten-Pin are associated with the Mafia, they must have followed her to your door, and received instructions to direct their attentions to us. Knowing or suspecting what she’s about, they could have slain her any time prior, believing that dead women are no more likely to bear tales than dead men. The fact that she survived long enough to consult me suggests they’d rather avoid desperate measures until they’re unavoidable. Now that she’s spread her intelligence to us, she’s relatively safe.”
He got his pipe going, broke the match, and flipped it out the open window. “Now comes the test. Holmes and Watson are on the scent, raising the bar. Shall it be bribery, intimidation, or the simple act of murder?” He blew smoke into the locomotive exhaust streaming past the window and exposed his excellent teeth. “Observe, Watson; are not all your senses acutely alive at this moment? The smell of burning coal, the stations whirling past in a blaze of colour, the sound of your heart keeping time with the drive-rod? How I’ve missed it, the clear razor-edge between Mrs. Life and Mistress Death. When I think that cocaine could serve in its place”—he sat back, shaking his head and drawing smoke—“O, that I had the pen of a poet, that I may make others feel as I do at this moment!”
“The Journals of Lewis and Clark,” I muttered.
“Elucidate.”
“They were excerpted in Harper’s Weekly, the American journal. You know how much I enjoy stories of adventure.”
“In lieu of the real thing, yes.”
“The explorers filled page after page with gleeful anticipation of their first encounter with a grizzly bear, about which they’d heard many fantastic stories.”
“I sympathize.”
“Weeks later, after a string of near-fatal encounters with that hellish creature, Clark wrote—I paraphrase—‘We find that our curiosity has been satisfied as to the nature of this beast.’ I fear, Holmes, that our own curiosity will be satisfied in short order.”
This put him in a reflective humour. At length he rapped his pipe against the sill, emptying the dottle into the slipstream.
“A grizzly is not a man,” said he, “but as there is an excellent specimen of Ursus horribilis in the British Museum, stuffed and mounted in threateningly erect position, but no less dead for it, I daresay I must make space in our dear old sitting-room for a specimen of Mafiosus scaribilis.”
“Your Latin is execrable,” I grumbled, “as is your healthy sense of caution.”
“I muddle on nonetheless. The finest tenor of our time is performing Pagliacci tonight at Albert Hall. Be a good fellow and see if you can get us decent seats. I find that Doctor is nearly as effective in such circumstances as Minister of the Exchequer; probably more so, as everyone has some notion of just what services are performed by a physician.”
CHAPTER V.
THE CLOWN FAILS TO LAUGH
At the time of our conversation aboard the Underground, I thought Holmes was playing the dilettante once again, diverting its serious course towards the trivial. I was to learn differently, when we made the personal acquaintance of the greatest tenor of his or any other generation.
I confess I am no fan of Grand Opera. When I prize myself into a stiff shirt and cummerbund, wedge a tile onto my head, and distribute gratuities from the overdressed doorman down to the fellow who directs me to my seat—which is clearly numbered and easily claimed without help—I’d sooner anticipate an audience with the king than suffer through hour upon hour of human hippopotami singing at the top of their lungs with a rapier transfixing their livers; but that may be the medical specialist in me, obstructing the necessary suspension of disbelief. It was worth all the bother to see Holmes in complete repose, dreamily weaving his slender fingers with the music as if he could feel the very notes with the tips. Apart from his hellish decades-long flirtation with the demon cocaine—relegated, I prayed, to the dead past—I never saw him so completely offered up on the altar of bliss.
The star player, I must admit, was superb. Even my limited knowledge of Italian could not obstruct the pathos of his clown who laughed outwardly while grieving inside. His tenor was as clear and clean as a silver bell ringing on a cloudless dawn. I say without shame that I cried during his aria, which brought to the surface all the pain I’d sought to inter with my dear wife Mary.
Holmes affected not to notice; and when we joined the house in rising to our feet at the curtain call, he leaned close and whispered in my ear: “The great man has agreed to meet us in his dressing-room. I spared his favourite prompter from a prison sentence in a matter too trivial to recount, and he hasn’t forgotten the favor. When you’ve performed the same role a hundred times, it’s useful to have a fellow who will prevent you from jumping from Act One to Act Three because some fool of a librettist repeated a cue. Surely you know the danger, Watson; most often it’s the experienced swimmer who drowns, and the celebrated surgeon who stitches an overlooked pair of forceps inside an appendectomy patient. Familiarity breeds carelessness, if not precisely contempt.”
I made no remark, even to question the invitation. My friend, who had refused an audience with an emperor, was scarcely the type to meet with an entertainer, even one he admired. How often had I heard him say, “The gifted are invariably disappointing upon acquaintance. They leave everything on the canvas, the stage, and the leaf. Why shatter the illusion by learning they perspire and belch like the rest of us?”
Working our way through the maestro’s admirers reminded me of Afghanistan, and the press of bodies in retreat from the field of disaster, where my patients awaited aid. In this case, they were all in full charge; dowagers, stage-door Johnnies, critics from the provinces, and that class of female that attaches itself like a pilot fish to the latest and shiniest of shark and dolphin, pressed together in a humid horde. I was all for giving the thing up when the man at the door, a hulking presence in a suit of clothes that could have been made only to his measure—and that staked out as for a tent—broke into a wreath of smiles at sight of my companion.
“Mister Holmes! I heard you was killed.”
“They were right every time,” said my friend. “Is Himself in a position to receive visitors?”
“If he ain’t, he can go looking for another’n to look after his best interests. I’ll be with you directly.”
Contemplating this freshly closed door, I said, “Is there anyone in this city you don’t know?”
“None of social consequence, I must own. The gentry have bred themselves out of everything useful to my practice.”
Presently the fellow opened the door. “He will see you for five minutes.”
“Tell him he’ll see me for as long as it takes or not at all.”
The big man smiled. “I told him you’d say something like that.” He swung the door all the way and stepped aside.
“Greasepaint!” said Holmes, breathing in the atmosphere. “Hold your breath, Watson, I implore you. It’s a thousand times worse than lotus.”
He hadn’t exaggerated; although there was nothing in that heavy air to make me trade my stethoscope for a cap and bells. It was larded with turpentine, perspiration, and that combination of terror and exhilaration that accompanied every theatrical endeavour since Aristophanes. My friend, consummate amateur player that he was, was more affected. I’d always held that the theatre lost a Booth when criminal science gained a Holmes.
We followed the doorman through a narrow aromatic hall to a door upon which hung a gold-painted star. One rap, and we were in the presence of a short barrel of a man, wearing a paper bib over his white clown’s tunic, scrubbing the makeup off his face with cold cream. Seated before a three-sided mirror, he was shorter than he’d appeared on stage, and a good deal fatter; but I was heartened to note that his sp
eaking voice was as cultured as the one with which he sang on stage; indeed, every phrase fell as if it had been written by a composer and delivered for the benefit of the last row.
“Mamma mia! I have a stone in my stomach! Is there not a chef in England who can make a decent lasagna?”
“There is an excellent one in Deptford,” said Holmes. “His establishment seats only five, and reservations must be made months in advance, but I’ve a hunch he’ll make an exception in your case, if you’ll pose with him for a photograph.”
“Leave the name with Bruno at the door. You are the detective, yes?” He was watching our reflections in the mirror.
“And you are Enrico Caruso, the greatest singer in the world.”
“Sí.”
“Take note, Watson. As you know, I regard false modesty as no better than an idle boast. I am here, signor, to discuss your experience with Il Mano Negro.”
The tenor stopped his movements abruptly. The bare spots on his face were nearly as white as the makeup that remained. “Dio mio,” he whispered, crossing himself. “Do not say that name so loud. I have paid them in Rome, in Naples, in Paris, and in New York City. I thought perhaps here I would be safe.”
“Have they approached you in London?”
“Yes.”
“What are the terms?”
“The amount varies; in New York it was nearly twice as much as in Rome, which was the highest. If I fail to pay—Splash! Acid in my face. These devils, they know one’s greatest weakness. The face, it is the mask through which the notes are pushed. It would be the same as if my throat were slit.”
“Have you been to the authorities?”
“I was warned against it. But what purpose would it serve? The police cannot be with me every hour of every day. Even were such a thing possible, it takes but a second to carry out the threat and flee. No one can be prepared for that. So I pay.” He resumed sponging his face. “I wasn’t aware that my predicament had been published.”
“Nor am I, but very little of a criminal nature takes place anywhere without coming to my attention. I’ve come to you, signor, for any details you may provide.”
“I’m at sea, Holmes,” said I. “I thought we came to discuss the Mafia. What is Il Mano Negro?”
“Forgive me, Watson. Like many major concerns, the society has several branches. The one that specializes in extortion translates as the Black Hand.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE BLACK HAND
“Not very subtle, these fellows,” said Caruso. “The warning is always the same; someone bumps against me in a crowd, i guardare! I discover in a pocket a square of paper upon which someone has traced his own hand, filled it in with black ink, and written, ‘Pagar o morir.’”
“‘Pay or die.’ What they lack in finesse they make up for in brevity. No mention of acid?”
“That comes later, in the form of a telephone call to my home or hotel, the voice disguised as a whisper. I have changed my number six times, but they always seem to find it somehow. Is it any wonder I take the threat seriously?”
“Have you ever seen any of these men?”
“Sí, here. I had barely alighted from the ship in Southampton. The fellow who jostled me asked my pardon and vanished into the crowd, beside a companion. He spoke in a whisper. I thought nothing of it until I saw the note.”
“Would you know them again?”
“But of course. The man who spoke was a squat, swarthy fellow, roughly dressed. His friend was tall and wore a striped suit.”
“Have you paid on this occasion?”
“Not yet. I expect a call anytime with instructions. In the past, we have arranged for me to leave the money in a parcel at some public place. I am enjoined not to linger, and I have obeyed, as to see who retrieved it would surely mean my life, as that might lead to their apprehension and prosecution.” He shrugged. “One cannot, after all, press charges against someone for bumping into one in a crowd.”
“Signor Caruso,” said Holmes, “I would be grateful if, when you have received that call, you would wire me the particulars at this address.” He produced a card.
“I could not do that. I don’t fear for myself, capisce? My conscience would not bear the result if you were to meet with disaster.”
“We are old acquaintances, disaster and myself. And yet here I stand. Pray, fear not for me, as at any moment I might encounter an enemy from one of a hundred venues. I must insist,” he pressed, when our host began to protest. “By this action, you may spare another soul anguish.”
Caruso agreed, albeit reluctantly, and we took our leave, with thanks for his cooperation; but not before he gave us words of advice: “I entreat you, signores; if you ever receive a communication such as I have described, obey.”
Holmes invited me to the quarters we once shared in Baker Street, where I made myself comfortable in my old armchair, whisky-and-soda in hand. He stood by the bow-window, smoking his clay.
“Progress, of a sort,” said he. “We know our two-man entourage are with the Mafia, and that they’ve emigrated to England.”
“What if Caruso reneges upon his promise? He was anything but certain.”
He smiled at the window. “Finding them won’t take much detecting skill. I’m looking at one of them right now.”
I began to rise; but he made a slashing movement with one hand, blocking the gesture with his body. “Let us not give him a reason to repeat his vanishing act. Like a good pigeon, I’ve returned to my roost, where no doubt they came after losing our trail. Or at least one has; our friend the billiards player seems to be absent.”
“Shall we give chase?”
“That would compound our chances of discovery by one hundred percent. Make yourself at home until I return, and please be good enough to get up from time to time and walk past the window. I’m recruiting you to take the place of the ingenious wax bust that led to Colonel Sebastian Moran’s current circumstances. Mind you, Watson,” he said gravely, “at all times present a moving target. We know not whether these gentlemen be messengers or angels of death.”
He changed quickly from his boulevardier attire to a homely one of ear-flapped cap and inverness, his uniform of choice whenever he wished to blend into the cosmopolitan crowd of our sprawling metropolis, armed with his stout leaded Penang lawyer—and, doubtless, his trusty Eley revolver in its custom-reinforced pocket—and left without another word.
Holmes was gone three-quarters of an hour, and I should not look forward to another such interval. As advised, I left my seat from time to time, ostensibly to recharge my glass from the siphon, conquering the urge to look through the window. For a time, lighting a cigar, I attempted to involve myself in the day’s edition of the Times, but I could not have provided a phrase of what I read, and finished my vigil in contemplation of the events of the day. But I’d learnt from bitter experience not to try to ape my friend’s powers of deduction, as I could make neither head nor tail of precisely what they signified or where they would lead.
The Lestrade business had unsettled me. Journeyman detective that he was, unhindered by genius or imagination, he had never until now advised inaction in a criminal matter. What were our chances, mere dilettantes, when officialdom throws in its hand?
When I heard Holmes’s characteristic tread upon the stair—taking the steps two at a bound, as if the laws regarding time and geography were a personal affront—I rose in time to see him burst through the door. His eyes were as bright as a bird’s and his cheeks were in high colour.
“Whisky, Watson! It can hardly impair these faulty faculties. The devil must be part Cassandra, for no sooner had I sought shelter in a doorway from which I could observe his movements than he quit his post, and proceeded double-time towards the Baker Street Station, where he lost me in the crush. Several trains left in close succession, and I’ll be bound if I knew which one he took, or if he scorned them all and departed by way of a pedestrian exit. It serves me well for underestimating him based upon his oafish att
ire. They’re well trained, this lot; George Gordon might have drilled them before overstepping himself in Khartoum.”
“Worse luck!” said I.
“Luck is the refuge of the incompetent. I’m less concerned with how he eluded me than with what became of his companion. For all I know he was shadowing me, even as I was shadowing the pin-setter. Such is the state into which this business has plunged me, to question my own skills in detecting whether I am pursuer or quarry.” He flung himself into his basket-chair without pausing to doff his outerwear, and drank deeply from his glass.
“We still have Caruso. If indeed we have him.”
“We must perforce hope. Mrs. Hudson met me at the door with Lestrade’s reply to my telegram. I have at least his word that Miss Venucci will be under the protection of London’s Finest. Say what you like about the turtle-like workings of a constable’s mind, he’s a regiment of fusiliers when it comes to protecting the innocent. In any case, I believe her to be safe from assault, if only because the Mafia’s attentions have been redirected from her to us.”
“Justice has one thing in its favor,” I said, “apart from the diligence of the policeman on the pavement. It has Sherlock Holmes.”
He smiled without mirth.
“And John H. Watson, let us not forget. I should not have asked anyone else in the universe to spend the hour you have just now.” He fingered his glass. “What did you think of Pagliacci? I saw the maestro perform in Rome and Milan, and thought him a gift from Olympus; but I never saw a British audience so borne away by an artist as I saw tonight.”
“It was diverting, though I prefer my clowns to be surrounded by a circus, with trained elephants, lion tamers, and a high-wire act.”
“Patience, dear fellow. We may know all three before this account is closed.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE DROP
I accepted Holmes’s invitation to spend the night, and was heartened to learn that my old room had not been touched, except to provide a fresh razor, soap, and a dressing-gown that still bore the imprimatur of the finest tailor in Piccadilly. I slept well, having expended my reservations about our current endeavor during those forty-five minutes alone in the sitting-room; we’d retired late, and it was nearly eleven when I turned out. After a wash-up and shave, I was privileged to sit down to one of Mrs. Hudson’s homely but hearty breakfasts, accompanied by the strongest coffee this side of Turkey. Holmes, as was his wont, had risen after only a few hours’ rest and dined already. He slammed shut the hefty volume he’d been studying as I finished my kippers.
Sons of Moriarty and More Stories of Sherlock Holmes Page 15