by Braven
Heller entered the drawing-room and reported that, as instructed, he had scanned the rear area-way, and had indeed observed someone lounging in a position which allowed him to oversee the back door to the house.
"Excellent, Heller! It is what I predicted, and therefore means that I have divined our adversary's plans correctly. Now, then, I want you to improvise a bit of stage business at the rear of the house: shaking out a dinner-cloth on the back steps, setting out the dustbins—I leave the details to you—so that our watcher's attention will be riveted upon you whilst I make my exit from the front door."
"I shall be glad to do it, sir," said Heller. "Though, strictly speaking, the tasks you describe are not my place. The kitchen maid—"
Holmes glared at him.
"Heller, I doubt that a hired thug is aware of the social distinctions that obtain below-stairs! This is a matter of great moment to your mistress, not one of housekeeping!"
"Of course, sir." Heller bowed and left.
In a moment, Holmes let himself out the front door, and strolled casually to the north end of Gramercy Park and thence to the next street. As he walked, he sorted rapidly through his thoughts until they were arranged in an orderly sequence, and his next steps were clear in his mind. At one point, his meditations were interrupted by a frantic clangor, and he looked up to find himself in the middle of a major street, with an electric tramcar bearing down on him.
A broad-jump which would have done him credit during his Cambridge days took him to the opposite pavement, where a street loafer jeered at him: "Say, bo, was you waitin' fer de motorman t' send you a telegram dat he was comin' t'rough and would yiz be kind enough to git out o' de way? Dat stuff don't go, I'll tell you!"
Holmes looked at his mocker and snapped his fingers. The jibe had supplied the last—the obvious—missing element!
"Thank you, my good fellow," he said, and pressed a coin into the man's grimy paw.
"Chee," the loafer replied, looking at it with respect. "If I gets dat fer talkin' wise wid you, what's it wort' if I curses you out some?"
"One black eye, possibly two," answered Holmes, and strode up the street, mentally putting the finishing touches to his plan.
This was no more than the matter of a few moments, and, the task accomplished, he slowed his pace and allowed himself to become aware of his surroundings.
He was now at the edge of a large park surrounded by commercial buildings and hotels on three sides. One building, at the far edge, in what he took to be Fifth Avenue, rose dizzyingly high, and was built in a curious wedge shape, the sharp end pointing north—doubtless the aptly named Flatiron. The park was bordered to the east by a dazzling structure whose stone shone with a warm, golden hue. An impressive colonnade fronted on the park, and, above it, fanciful towers topped the building. This would be the famous Madison Square Garden, then. His gaze traveled upwards, and was caught by a glint of gold: the statue of a gracefully unadorned woman, poised on one toe, as if about to spring into the sky—Saint-Gaudens' Diana. She was the embodiment of the feminine and of the unreachable, and a muscle in Holmes' jaw twitched as he contemplated her. Unreachable . . . Whatever his successes, there was much that was, that always would be, unreachable. . . .
He shrugged away the brief reverie, and raised his hand to beckon to an approaching hansom.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Leaning on the scarred counter, Sherlock Holmes finished composing a message on the blank form, and passed it over to the manager of the office. The steady clatter of a battery of telegraph instruments in the rear filled the room, vying with the sounds of traffic on Broadway that came through the open door.
The manager scanned the message form and blinked at the address written on it.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but the opera house is just across the street. Wouldn't you rather—?"
"Thank you so much, but I prefer to have it delivered."
The manager scratched his head in perplexity, and said, "Well, yeah. But . . . I mean, we send telegrams by telegraph, don't you see—from one office to another, to the one that's nearest to the person you're sending it to. And this is already the nearest office to the Met. I don't see's we could send a telegram to ourselves, somehow."
Holmes said patiently, "Could you not merely have the message printed on one of your blanks, without sending it back and forth? I particularly want this to be received as a telegram—far more impressive to a lady than a note, don't you know?"
Holmes allowed one eye to droop meaningfully as he looked at the manager.
"Well, say, I guess we can do that," the man said. "But I'll have to charge you the full rate, same's if it was sent from another office." He rapidly ran his pencil over the message, counting. "That'll be seventeen cents, sir. Fifteen for the first ten, then a cent a word after that. I'll have it done up right away, and the boy'll rush it over."
The message dispatched, Holmes took a place on the wooden bench that ran along one wall, and looked out at the bustling street through the plate-glass window fronting the office. The day had become brighter, and the sun glanced off the burnished wood and leather of cabs and private carriages, made more vivid the signs painted on the sides of drays and trucks, and sparkled metallically on the few automobiles which threaded their way among the horse-drawn vehicles which predominated. He was aware, as he had never been in London, of a torrent of vitality—crude, perhaps, but driving forward in some direction yet to be determined, harnessing the energy of machines and men in a partnership that would shape the new century.
A little oppressed by the scene outside, Holmes let his eyes rove around the telegraph office. They stopped at an advertising poster fastened to one wall, displaying the attraction to be found at the Hippodrome Theater. He gave a soundless whistle as he scanned one item:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Direct from the Palladium (in London):
The World-Famous
TWICKENHAM TOFFS
IN
BREATHTAKING ACROBATICS!
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sherlock Holmes' eyes gleamed. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place, and without any effort on his part!
"The Twickenham Toffs," he murmured. "Well, well, what a mysterious, fascinating, and tiny world we live in, indeed!"
The boy who had departed five minutes before with Holmes' telegram came in through the street door and approached him, holding it.
"Sorry, Mister, the person's not there."
"How very odd," said Holmes cheerfully. "But, look here—it's marked urgent!"
"Yes, sir," the boy answered. "That's why they've given me the address of her boarding-house, so's I can deliver it there."
He displayed a penciled scrawl on the telegram's envelope.
"Splendid, splendid, my dear chap!" said Holmes. "I'll see to that myself, eh? Here you are!" He handed the youth a twenty-five-cent piece. As he turned to leave, he paused and added, "Now, you look like a lad who knows his way around this town. Where can I find a first-rate theatrical costumer?"
The messenger thought for a moment, and gave him an address only a few blocks distant. When their strange customer had left, the manager and the messenger looked at each other curiously.
"Full rates for a telegram that was never sent, and a big tip for not delivering it—there's a way to do business, Sully!" said the manager. "D'you suppose he's escaped from some asylum?"
The boy shrugged, and jingled his quarter against the few other coins in his pocket.
"An Englishman. You can't figure 'em out, no way!"
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It was no more than an hour later that a closed four-wheeler with a battered trunk lashed to its top drew up in front of the Haymarket Hotel, an establishment in Forty-third Street, very much nearer to the North River than to Broadway, for all that its pe
eling sign announced that it catered to the theatrical profession.
The vehicle's lone passenger was just adjusting the last details of his appearance by fitting a spiky black wig to his head and capping it with a battered top hat, as the hack came to a halt.
The occupant, a tall, stout man clad in black and sporting a remarkable stand of mutton-chop whiskers and eyebrows, emerged from the carriage and pointed to the trunk atop it.
"'Ey, signor carrozza!" he called to the driver. "You bring-a in da baule, ha? And-a you handle wit' care, si? She's-a molto value, capisc'?"
The driver, who had taken many fares to the Haymarket in his time, and knew pretty accurately the kind of tip he could expect from actors, and from foreigners, and, most discouraging of all, from foreign actors, nodded gloomily and began undoing the securing ropes.
The passenger strode into the shabby lobby and up to the front desk, behind which a depressed-looking man stood peering down at some papers.
The newcomer struck an impressive attitude and fairly trumpeted, "Buon giorno!"
The man behind the counter started, and looked up.
"We presenting," said the apparition before him, "Il Grande Bandini! Direct-a from-a da Victoria Palace!"
"Victoria Palace, is it?" said the man. "I played there myself in years gone by, before I lost my wits and bought this place. What's your act, mate?"
"I . . . escape!"
"You escape?"
"Si! From-a da trunk, from-a da tank she's fill with water, from-a chains, from-a da locked-up cage—"
"But not from hotel bills, I hope," said the proprietor, not quite joking.
Bandini laughed uproariously.
The cab driver dropped the trunk—a massive one, at least five feet long—next to the desk, and said glumly, "That's a buck and a half, plus two bits for carting." If foreigners didn't see the point in tipping, a fellow might as well charge them something extra on the fare.
"'Ere you are, my fine-a fellow," said the Great Bandini, counting out the precise amount mentioned into the outstretched hand. "And-a come to da Orpheum tomorrow night-a to watch-a me preform!"
The cab driver went out, something in his expression indicating that, on any visit to a performance of Bandini's, he would be well provided with a supply of elderly eggs.
"Playing the Orpheum, are you?" the proprietor asked. "How'd you hear about the Haymarket?"
"It was-a recommend me by a knife thrower I meet in Marseilles. A man-a, his name it was Nicholas Romaine."
"Don't seem to remember him. But we've got a Miss Romaine staying here now—her and her little boy." He gave a slight shrug. The "miss" might be a stage title, or it might not. The Haymarket was not the sort of place to ask to see marriage licenses. "Maybe they're related to your friend. I'll ask her when she comes in."
He glanced behind him at the honeycomb of room keys affixed to the wall. "I can let you have a nice room on the third floor, number thirty-two." Hearing no objection, he took the key, opened the registration book and turned it toward Bandini. "If you'd care to register?" said he.
"Da room, she's-a clean? The Great Bandini, he don' share-a his bed-a with bugs!"
"Cleanest spot in town," said the proprietor flatly. "Ask anyone who lives here. Front!"
He gestured to a pair of bellboys to come over and take charge of the escape artist's trunk.
The Great Bandini signed the register with a flourish that sent a spray of ink drops on to the counter, and strode off to his room. The proprietor sighed, and dabbed at the spatter of tiny blots. Hardly any theater folks weren't strange in some way, he reflected, but this Bandini looked like being a real prize in the oddity line!
By about a half-hour after sunset, the proprietor felt confirmed in his opinion of his new guest. Instead of exploring the fleshpots of New York, resting in his room, or exchanging boastful stories with some of the other residents in the hotel's seedy bar, Bandini was in and out of the lobby constantly, appearing and disappearing like a jack-in-the-box. Finally, by early evening, he seemed to have settled into a chair in the corner, where he sat, apparently absorbed in a newspaper.
The proprietor looked up as the street door opened and a lithe young woman entered, carrying a string bag of groceries. He groaned a little at the sight of it. It was not that he really minded his guests doing a little clandestine cooking in their rooms—theater salaries didn't allow for much in the way of eating out—but there was a house rule, and her carrying the stuff in like that, out in the open, made it all the harder for him to crack down on the others when he wanted to. All the same, she was one of his favorites, and her youthful beauty brightened the dingy lobby.
"Ah, Miss Romaine!" he said, reaching for her key. He saw Bandini toss down his paper and start to rise from his chair. "By the way," he said, nodding to her, "over there's a gentleman who might be knowing a relation of yours."
Nicole Romaine swung around quickly, her eyes widening with fear. Bandini bounded across the room to her, seized her hand, and bent low over it.
"Signorina!" he bellowed. "I have had the onore of appearing on-a the same-a bill as you' illustrioso papa!" In softer tones, pitched to carry to her ears only, he said rapidly, "My name is Sherlock Holmes and if you value your life and your freedom, you will invite me to your room!"
Nicole Romaine's face was white and still as death for a moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Once inside the girl's shabby room, Holmes wasted no time in preliminaries.
"Where is the boy? Show him to me at once!" said he, his crisp tones contrasting oddly with his florid disguise.
"How did you know?" the girl gasped, still clearly in the grip of utmost dread.
"Mademoiselle, there is no time for that! Where is he?"
Holmes did not wait for her reply, but reached for the feebly burning gas jet protruding from the wall, and turned the handle sharply for a brighter flame. In the increased illumination, he immediately saw a moth-eaten couch in a corner of the room, and on it a form wrapped in a blanket.
Hurrying over to the couch, he kneeled beside it, drawing back the frayed fabric. The sleeping face he saw was unmistakably that in the photograph in Irene Adler's room. The stillness of that face, and the slow breathing, registered on his mind. He rose to face Nicole Romaine with a grimly accusing expression.
"He's drugged!"
The girl shrank back from his blazing stare. "Only—only a few grains of laudanum, that's all, monsieur, and only when I must go out. I would not harm the boy!"
"You have assuredly harmed his mother! What brought you—his friend!—to take part in this outrage?"
The dancer sank into a rickety wooden chair and stared hopelessly at the worn carpeting. "I had no choice. A man came to me three days ago . . . Charles Nickers, a tumbler with the Twickenham Toffs."
"Ah," said Holmes. "Yes, I had the distinct pleasure of arresting his brother, Bill, in London about two weeks ago. The Twickenham Toffs have long been part of Professor Moriarty's organization—but that's no matter to you, Miss Romaine. Now, what did this tumbler want of you?"
"He said . . . unless I did as I was bidden, my brother, Anatole, in Paris would be murdered!"
"I see. And what were your orders—in addition to persuading Scott Adler to take part in a prank directed at his governess?"
"To bring him here and engage a room facing the street. Originally, my room was in the rear. I was to say to the opera that I was ill. Then . . . twice a day I must inform Mr. Nickers that the boy is here and that no one had inquired after him."
"Inform him? By what means?"
"Each day, at eleven and again at six, he watches across the street. I open the curtain and nod. That is all."
Sherlock Holmes looked at his watch.
"Then it's almost time for him to be at his post," he murmured. He turned to the girl. "Mademoiselle, you have received Moriarty's instructions. Now you shall hear mine! When your Charles Nickers arrives, you will give the proper signal, just as you've been told to
do. And you will continue to give that signal twice a day until I relieve you of the responsibility. Do as I say, and you will emerge from this dismal matter unharmed, as will your brother. Fail me in any respect, Miss Nicole Romaine, and you will be held accountable for the death of Scott Adler!"
The girl shrank back appalled.
"Mon dieu!" she cried.
"Yes, I should have said exactly the same thing in your place, if I were French." Holmes nodded toward the window. "Is he out there?"
Nicole Romaine went to the window, drew the curtain, and looked into the street.
"If so," said Holmes, "give the signal."
The girl gave a simple slow inclination of her head, looked intently outwards for a moment, then stepped back and closed the curtain once again.
"He has gone."
"Good!" said Holmes. "Now . . ."
He eased the door to the room open and peered into the hallway, then pulled his own room key from his jacket pocket and handed it to the girl.
"I am in room thirty-two. Take the key. It is three doors along from you, on the opposite side of the corridor. Go and unlock the door. When the way is clear, signal to me. Now!"
Holmes opened the door wide enough for the girl to leave, and she slipped through it and hurried down the corridor. He kept watch on her as she came to the door of room 32, quickly opened it, and stepped inside. In a moment she emerged again, glanced in both directions, and gave him an urgent wave.
Sherlock Holmes turned to the sleeping boy on the couch, swept him up in his arms, and ran from the ballet dancer's room, covering the few yards' distance down the corridor in no more than two seconds.
Inside his own room, still holding the blanket-wrapped form of Scott Adler, Holmes faced Nicole Romaine and spoke urgently.
"Back to your room, mademoiselle, and remember, to do exactly as I say. This boy's life depends upon that!"
The girl clasped her hands in front of her and spoke fervently. "Yes, yes! I will obey you utterly!"
"Do so!"