“Did Phillips say anything to you?” Holmes asked.
For the first time in the narrative, it was Davis who spoke. “I’ll never forget that afternoon: ‘For God’s sake,’ Phillips cried, ‘get me into a building. Get a doctor!”
“Then,” James continued, “I rather foolishly pointed at Goldsborough’s body and asked Phillips if he knew him.”
“And?” Holmes asked. His voice was hushed.
“He just said, ‘I don’t know.’ Then we helped Jacoby carry him into the first-floor entrance of the Club and got one of the bellboys to call for an ambulance. They stretched him out on a settee in the foyer where, I’m sorry to say, a lot of other chaps stood around and gawked.”
“Did you do nothing for him?” I asked.
“Of course we did, Dr. Watson. Someone tried to stop the bleeding.”
Davis, who seemed to be the repository of Phillips’s words, added, “Phillips himself cried out, ‘I’ve been shot. I am suffering. Can’t you do something? Have you sent for an ambulance?”
“He complained of pain in his left arm and in his stomach,” James continued.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” I said, “a man who’d been shot six times.”
“Then he asked us to call his personal physician, Dr. Fuller, over on Lexington Avenue. In fact, Fuller arrived at the same time as the ambulance and rode in it to the hospital. That about covers it, I think.”
“Nothing else?” Holmes asked.
Davis and James exchanged glances. Davis shook his head.
“Then I have one more point to ask you about, gentlemen,” Holmes said, “after which we’ll take up no more of your time. Did you get a close view of that automatic revolver?”
“The six-shooter problem, eh, Mr. Holmes?” James asked. His smile suggested he enjoyed divining the point of the question. “Alas, no. I am only aware of what the police have said—that the gun could fire up to ten bullets, but I believe I speak for Mr. Davis as well when I say that neither one of us could identify the specific weapon.”
Davis nodded his agreement, and, concluding we could gain no additional information from the pair, we offered our thanks and walked out into Twenty-first Street.
“Come with me, Watson,” Holmes ordered, and I proceeded to walk beside him as he crossed the road, travelling west along the northern fencing of the park. Since this path was clearly not in the direction of the motor car, I wondered where we might be heading. Suddenly, some ten yards before we arrived at the turning, he stopped and pointed his stick at a makeshift, green-canvas tent that had been erected against the park railing as it turned south at the end of the grounds. Surrounding the tent as well as being enclosed by it were bright bursts of spring flowers arrayed in various bouquets to attract the eye of passers-by. A sweet fragrance hung in the air.
“Surely, Holmes,” I said, “this is not the time to be buying nosegays.”
“Behold, Watson—the establishment of Mr. Jacob Jacoby, florist,” Holmes said in reply. “At the moment of the shooting, he happened to be near enough to Phillips to catch him as he fell against the fence.”
“But how could you be so certain of the location of this stall?” I asked. “It was most decidedly not here on our previous tour of the park.”
“Once again, Watson, you have seen but failed to observe.”
Stung by Holmes’s objurgation, however mild, I did now recall his cursory glances at the pavement when we stood at this same spot with Mrs. Frevert. What is more, Holmes knew that I recollected the incident.
“Yes, Watson,” he said, “I observed the remnants of the flower stall when we visited the scene Sunday last. Gardenias—and their petals—are not to be found growing wild at this time of year.”
As usual, it all seemed so obvious when the explanation was before me; but I had no more time to consider the matter, for we were now approaching the flower vendor himself.
Mr. Jacoby greeted us by removing the small, flat cap from his head. He was a short, egg-shaped man of middle age. Despite his threadbare black coat, his beard was neatly trimmed, and he presented us with so broad a grin that his eyes seemed to disappear behind his red cheeks.
“Gentlemen,” he said amiably while replacing the cap on his head, “chrysanthemums for your lapels, or, maybe, roses for your ladies?” He spoke in the guttural tones of what I assumed to be an Eastern European accent.
“We’ll each take a white chrysanthemum,” my friend said; but as Jacoby was handing them to us, Holmes added, “perhaps like the ones you used to sell to David Graham Phillips, Mr. Jacoby.”
The utterance of Phillips’s name caused the smile to drop from the flower vendor’s face.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “My name, I see, you know already. How?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Jacoby, and I have read the official police files. I know that you were right next to Phillips when he was shot. I now want to know what you witnessed and what you can tell me about the gun you must have seen Goldsborough holding.”
Jacoby removed his cap again and ran stubby fingers through his thin strands of brown hair. Apparently confronting some inner dilemma, he hesitated a moment or two. Then he began slowly. “Mr. Phillips—” he was able to say, but was immediately interrupted by a metallic clacking.
Glancing up the sidewalk, we all saw a muscular policeman in a tight-fitting, dark uniform running his cudgel horizontally against the rails of the fence as he slowly advanced towards us some twenty feet away.
“Come, sir, surely—” Holmes encouraged, but whatever Jacoby had been about to say, the little man now straightened up and spoke as if repeating a text he had memorised well in advance.
“I have been advised,” he announced, “both by the police and by the District Attorney to remain silent.”
I do not know if the officer was merely making his daily rounds or if he had been watching the flower stall or whether the police had been keeping an eye on Holmes and me, but it was clear from Mr. Jacoby’s rigid stare and shaking fingers that the wretched man believed that it was for him the policeman had been sent.
“I have nothing to say to you!” he shrieked at us. “Now go!”
“Let me at least pay for the flowers,” Holmes said.
“No, take them!” he pleaded. “Please.”
Observing the agitated state of the little flower vendor and that people around us were beginning to stare, Holmes nodded in my direction; and after he dropped a few coins onto the counter, we walked off down the pavement, smiling first at the policeman, and then making our way back to Rollins at the other end of the park.
“What do you think of our witnesses?” I asked Sherlock Holmes as we entered the Waldorf-Astoria. “A pair of identical twins and one man too frightened to talk.”
“In point of fact, Watson, none of them said anything they had not already told the reporter from The New York Times.”
“At least we still have Van den Acker to interview,” I reminded him.
“Yes,” he mused, “Van den Acker.”
We stopped at the front desk to enquire after messages, but a ginger-haired hall porter whom we had not seen before failed to turn round at our arrival. Only after Holmes rapped smartly on the counter with his walking stick did the pale young man jump to attention. Checking our pigeonhole, he found two pieces of correspondence. To me, he handed a folded sheet of notepaper with my name on the front, but when he read what was printed on the cover of the envelope addressed to Holmes, he faced my friend with a wide grin.
“You’re Sherlock Holmes, sir?” he asked.
Here in America, Holmes seemed particularly surprised by references to his fame. He merely nodded in response.
The hall porter gaped at my companion. “The real Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “From England?”
Holmes nodded again. “It is I,” he confessed, extending his hand to receive the correspondence.
Before Holmes could take possession of the envelope, however, the young man looked both
ways as if to avoid detection and then brought from beneath the counter a small leather-bound book that appeared to be always at the ready. After handing my friend a pen, he opened the book to a blank page. “Could I please have your signature, Mr. Gillette? I saw your performance as Sherlock Holmes right here in New York a couple of years ago.”
“I’m afraid—” said Holmes.
“Please,” he importuned, holding the book under Holmes’s nose while his own fair cheeks and forehead turned a self-conscious pink. “Address it, if you would be so kind, to Miles Kennedy. That’s me.”
Fearing the envelope might be held hostage, Holmes agreed and signed the blank page. Young Mr. Kennedy scrutinised the autograph for a few moments and then said, “You really remain in character, Mr. Gillette. Even the name you sign is ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”
Message secured, Holmes ushered me away from the desk.
“My friend Gillette again,” he whispered, “the actor who sent me the calabash. His portrayal of me on the stage must have been quite convincing. Fancy that! I thought that being depicted in the cinematograph was tiresome enough, but now I see that I shall have to contend with stage actors as well. I am afraid, Watson, that all this is but the logical outgrowth of your melodramatic accounts of some rather mundane cases.”*
“Really, Holmes,” I said, “there are others who might be flattered to have so faithful a biographer.” I then proceeded to unfold the paper addressed to me. To my surprise, it was from William Randolph Hearst, a reminder that, if I so desired, he was still prepared to make me a handsome offer to write for his newspaper—a very handsome offer indeed. Wondering how this proposition compared to the one with which Hearst had convinced Phillips to write The Treason of the Senate, I said, “You see, Holmes—”
But Sherlock Holmes was no longer at my side. He had stopped a few paces behind me to read the message he himself had received.
“It’s from Senator Van den Acker,” he explained. “He wants to talk with me as soon as possible.”
“What? Now?”
“It would appear so, Watson. He says he lives alone and has given the servants the night off to ensure our privacy. ‘It can’t wait till tomorrow,’ Holmes read. “He refers to a message sent to him from someone we talked with in Washington.”
“But who, Holmes?”
“That’s what we must find out from Mr. Van den Acker. What’s more, Watson, one does not need Scotland Yard to detect that this envelope containing the message has been opened and amateurishly resealed. Just look at how easily the flap came up. It is obvious that someone else knows where we will be going tonight. Take along your pistol, old friend. I have the feeling that our presence here has finally set in motion such activities as will lead to a break in this case.”
Mr. Hearst’s inducement remained attractive, and I could well understand how the publisher had lured Phillips himself away from writing fiction to take on the Senate. But tonight—like so many nights in years gone by—the game was afoot, and no pecuniary offer of any size could make me vacate my position in the hunt alongside the tenacious figure of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It was indeed like old times.
________
* Author’s note: By the end of 1911, at least nine silent films concerning the adventures of Sherlock Holmes had been produced. For further information on Holmes and the cinema, see David Stuart Davies, Holmes of the Movies: The Screen Career of Sherlock Holmes (New York: Bramhall House, 1978).
Nine
A VISIT TO VAN DEN ACKER’S
“A great financier ... must build up a system—he must find lieutenants with the necessary coolness, courage and cunning ... to efface completely the trail between him and them, whether or not they succeed in covering the roundabout and faint trail between themselves and the tools that nominally commit the crime.”
—David Graham Phillips, The Deluge
The address in the message from Van den Acker led us thirty miles to the west into historic and fashionable Morristown. New Jersey is another state, to be sure, but the trip was a manageable if tedious journey first by ferry across the Hudson, then by railway through the countryside, and finally by cab to the former senator’s imposing residence. By the time we reached our destination on that cool spring night, complete darkness had descended. Only one lone light cast its glow through a window onto the flagstone footpath winding round the left side of the building. Holmes strode quickly up the brick walkway leading to the front door and twice lifted the knocker, a large brass American eagle, letting it fall each time with a resounding clang.
There was no response.
Holmes tried twisting the doorknob, but it would not turn, and the door itself would not open when he pushed.
“Come on, Watson,” he said. “Around to the side where the light is shining. And keep your pistol ready.”
Patting my coat pocket to see that my revolver was still there, I had no time at all in which to think. I followed Holmes, who surprised me with his agility by fairly bounding over a small hedge, an obstacle that I could get past only by pushing through a break in its clutching branches. Once on the other side, however, I immediately found myself on the flags that led in the direction of the light we had seen earlier.
When I caught up with him, Holmes was transferring his walking stick from his right hand to his left and withdrawing his pistol from within the folds of his inverness; I did likewise, pointing my Eley’s No. 2 upwards as I inched along behind him. With our backs pressed against the outer wall just before the window, we sidled towards the single source of illumination like a pair of cracksmen. Holmes peered cautiously round the edge of the double-hung sash window and then, moving to his left, bade me join him. We both looked in at the brightly lit room as if we were viewing a stage set under the blaze of spotlights.
As much as I should like to expunge it from my memory, I shall forever recall the grisly sight that greeted us that March night. At first glance, the study, for it was that chamber into which we were staring, seemed undisturbed. Countless leather-bound tomes stood at attention in the shelves that surrounded most of the room, and embers from a recent fire glowed red hot in the grate. Opposite the brick hearth stood a cherrywood desk upon which lay a single open book, its pages fluttering gently in a semi-circular arc.
After witnessing the spectacle at the centre of the room, however, one could not for a moment longer regard the scene as placid; for seated in a tall, black chair of cracked leather, his upper body folded over the top of the desk, his bloodied head glistening red like a sparkling ruby that reflected the light from the hearth, were the remains of him who must have been in life Senator Peter Van den Acker. A small bullet hole was apparent in his right temple; the left side of his head was a gaping hole of bone and tissue, much of the matter being thrown on the rear wall to his left. What appeared to be a six-chambered revolver lay on the floor just inches from where his right hand hung down.
“Follow me,” Holmes said, proceeding to push upwards the bottom window sash, which was open now but half an inch.
With not a little difficulty, we created enough of a crawl space to enable us to help each other scramble through the window, experiencing, if the truth be told, much less ease than we used to enjoy in our younger days. Once inside, it didn’t require my many years of knowledge as a doctor to recognise that the man before us was dead. Nonetheless, I felt for the pulse.
Unable to find one, I shook my head. “Suicide,” I concluded aloud.
“Apparently,” Holmes said, “yet ... “
We both replaced our pistols, and then Holmes immediately began that ritual of pacing, peering, studying a death scene from every conceivable angle. In addition to the corpse and the desk, neither of which he actually touched, he scrutinised with the aid of his lens the mahogany table that stood behind the desk. Blood had spattered most of the area to the rear of the body’s left side, including the wall, which was covered in light blue-and-ivory patterned paper, and two large-framed oil paintings depicting what appeared to be
outdated frigates in full sail.
I knew enough not to distract Holmes in such intense activity, but when, by looking up, he signalled he was finished, I suggested that we should ring the police. There was a telephone next to the corpse.
“Yes,” he said abstractedly. Then he added, “But first, Watson, observe the book.” Not handling directly the slim, claret-coloured volume that was lying open on the desk, he employed the tapered end of the ebony walking stick to flip its pages. In spite of the book’s proximity to the dead man, it appeared remarkably free of blood. Its title, The House of the Vampire, stood out ominously in bold, black letters.
“The book Goldsborough had read,” I remembered.
“The book we were to believe he had read, Watson,” Holmes corrected. After riffling through the opening pages with the aid of his stick, he turned back to the flyleaf. “Note the inscription,” he directed.
I leaned closer to my friend to read the finely penned handwriting on the inside cover. “Dear Senator,” it read. “Herein are more chills for your collection.” It was signed by the author, George Sylvestre Viereck.
“Holmes!” I cried, pointing at the deceased. “The case is settled then. We see before us what’s left of the mastermind of the Phillips assasination.”
“Really, Watson?”
“Of course,” I said. “Van den Acker wanted to confess, summoned you, then became frightened and took his own life. After all, each of the senators we met in Washington linked him to a conspiracy.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but I wonder if ...”
Whatever Holmes had in mind, to me he seemed to be complicating the issue.
“Holmes,” I said impatiently, “postpone your idle speculation; let us ring the police.”
“A moment, Watson,” he murmured. “Why did you say suicide?”
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