by David Marcum
We watched her vanish around a corner just as a little popinjay of a man in a brown suit came down the hallway. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Visitors are not allowed here. You must leave at once!”
“I think not,” Holmes replied coolly. “We have business here. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson.”
The man’s manner instantly changed from threatening to obsequious. “Oh yes, yes. My humblest apologies. I forgot for a moment that Mrs. Snyder said you would be coming tonight. It is an honor, sir, a genuine honor, to meet the great Sherlock Holmes. And of course, Dr. Watson as well. I am Peter Moore, the stage manager. I would be most pleased to assist you in any way I can.”
“Yes, I imagine you would,” Holmes said. “You may begin by showing us to your office.”
Moore’s office turned out to be not much bigger than a closet. It held a cluttered rolltop desk, a chair, and a few shelves. There was hardly room for three people inside, so we stood outside the door while Holmes questioned Moore about the missing flute.
“Tell us, if you would, Mr. Moore, when you first discovered that the flute had been taken.”
“It was before last night’s performance. I sent one of the stagehands down to fetch it from the storeroom, and he came back to tell me it was gone. Stagehands can hardly be relied upon, as I’m sure you know. I thought the fool simply hadn’t bothered to look for it in the right place, so I went down myself. But the flute was gone all right. Well, we were in a bit of a panic then. Had to borrow a flute from one of the musicians to use for the performance.”
“I see. And I take it you are certain the flute was in fact placed in the storeroom after Thursday night’s performance?”
The little stage manager looked nervously at Holmes. “Well, I didn’t put it there myself, if that’s what you mean. Not my job. But I assume it was put there. That’s the usual procedure.”
“Ah, Mr. Moore, I have found during my long tenure as a detective that assumptions are, as often as not, merely a form of hope. But let me, for the moment, endorse your assumption that the flute was indeed returned to its proper place on Thursday night, and that the storeroom was locked thereafter. I am then led to consider the matter of the key to the storeroom. Do you carry it on your person at all times, or is it kept in some other place?”
A brief flash of alarm appeared in Moore’s unpleasant, bulging eyes. “Well now, Mr. Holmes, in a theater as large as this one is, a great many keys are needed, and it would be very difficult for any man to keep them all on his person. I’m sure you can understand-”
“I understand only that you have not answered my question, Mr. Moore,” Holmes said. Without another word, he stepped into the stage manager’s office and gave it a quick but thorough inspection. Then he stepped back outside and said, “I imagine, Mr. Moore, that you keep the key in your office, on one of the small wall hooks above your desk. Which means, I take it, that anyone who works backstage would have access to it. Is that correct?”
“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Moore replied. “Everyone here knows that they are not to enter my office unless I am present.”
A slight smile creased Holmes’s lips. “My dear Mr. Moore, if people always did as they were told, I should have no work.”
It required but a few more questions for Holmes to establish several other essential facts. Moore’s office was not locked during performances. On the night of the theft, fifteen stagehands were in the theater, as were a like number of the opera’s cast. Virtually all of the stagehands routinely used the key to retrieve or return props. Moore himself had never noticed that the key was missing. Nor could he identify any suspects among the stage crew or cast.
“I will tell you that it is a complete mystery to me, Mr. Holmes. I am at a loss to explain-”
Holmes put one finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. “I have heard quite enough, Mr. Moore. Kindly give me the key, and Dr. Watson and I shall examine the storeroom.”
Located in the subbasement, the storeroom was, as expected, an unkempt gathering of theatrical paraphernalia, arranged on shelves, atop tables, and in miscellaneous piles rising from the floor. This clutter yielded no obvious clues. Before we left, Holmes bent down to examine the lock on the room’s only door. He was soon shaking his head. “Well, Watson, this room is hardly well secured, as Mrs. Snyder suggested to us. The lock is of the flimsiest sort. I should think a reasonably dexterous child with a hairpin could open it with little effort.”
“So I take it you are saying the thief may not even have needed to steal the key.”
“Precisely. And I fear, Watson, that we are now in what the Americans like to call a ‘pickle.’ We have a theft that no one witnessed, a theft which could easily have been accomplished by any of thirty or more people, a theft which occurred at an unknown time, and a theft for which there is no obvious motive. Bah, I have been a fool, Watson, a fool to become involved in this matter!”
“Then perhaps we should simply tell Mrs. Snyder that the case is beyond any immediate hope of a solution,” I suggested. “I am sure she would understand.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Holmes said in a quiet voice. I noticed now that same look of melancholy I had seen on his face earlier in the day.
“Then let us return to our hotel,” I said. “You could use some rest, Holmes. We will have a long journey tomorrow.”
Holmes consulted his pocket watch. “No, Watson, since we are here we might as well enjoy the consolations of Mozart. The performance will begin shortly.”
We climbed out of the subbasement and reached the back of the stage, where there was a welter of last-minute activity. Someone shouted “five minutes,” and we stepped off to the side, waiting for the curtain to rise.
To my utter surprise, I found the opera quite delightful. Although it was sung in German, a language with which I have little acquaintance, I was able follow the plot as Pamina pined and Tamino acted heroically, Papageno searched for true love with Papagena, and the Queen of Night sent her voice into the realm of the angels. Holmes, meanwhile, stood silently beside me, completely absorbed in the spectacle, and his melancholy gave way to a look of profound pleasure.
As the opera neared its end, however, there was a peculiar incident. The mighty chorus sang its last notes, the orchestra raced to its conclusion, and then - nothing! The curtain inexplicably failed to drop. After a period of awkward silence, the heavyset basso playing the role of Sarastro looked backstage and began bobbing his head in dramatic fashion to indicate that the curtain should come down.
Moore, who was standing near us, raced over and grabbed the curtain ropes from a stagehand who seemed unable to move.
“For God’s sake, Harold, what’s the matter with you?” Moore hissed. “Pull man, pull.”
The stagehand came out of his trance and helped bring down the curtain at last.
Moore was furious. “Harold, that’s the second time this week you’ve turned into a damn statue. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry,” the stagehand said, still appearing quite distracted. “I just get caught up listening, that’s all. I can’t help myself, I guess. It won’t let it happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” Moore said. “You’re done here, you idiot. Go on, get out.”
“Mr. Moore, I-”
“Out,” Moore repeated. “I don’t want to ever see you again.”
The stagehand slunk away, tears welling in his eyes. Holmes, I noticed, watched the scene with great interest. He went over to Moore, who seemed proud of himself for banishing the stagehand.
“Who is that man you just dismissed?” Holmes asked.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s just an idiot who doesn’t know how to do his job.”
Holmes repeated his question, only this time with such force in his voice that Moore looked as though he had just been struck
by a powerful gust of wind.
“Skimpton,” he blurted out. “Harold Skimpton.”
“I should like to talk with him immediately. Where can I find him?”
A small circle of stagehands began to gather around us, presumably awaiting orders from Moore, who was becoming exasperated by Holmes’s ceaseless inquisition. “Now, how in blazes would I know where to find him?” Moore asked irritably. “He’s gone, and good riddance to him. I have work to do, if you don’t mind. Besides, you’re the great Sherlock Holmes. Go find him yourself.”
For a moment, I thought Holmes might thrash the petulant little man, but instead he turned away and said to me, “We are wasting precious moments. Let us see if we can get our hands on Mr. Skimpton before he leaves the theater.”
It was not to be. Skimpton, we learned from a guard stationed at the stage door, had left immediately after his painful public dismissal.
The guard, a lanky man with a pronounced Nordic accent, (“Swedish,” Holmes later informed me, “and undoubtedly from the Småland region of that nation.”) proved to be in possession of one other valuable piece of information: he knew where Skimpton lived.
“Oh, ja, he told me once he was in that old rooming house on Eleventh, right next to the church there on Robert Street. You can’t miss it.”
“How far away is this rooming house?” Holmes asked.
“Not far. You could walk there in fifteen minutes, I’d say.”
Holmes thanked the guard and gave him a silver dollar for his trouble.
“I suppose you intend to talk with this Skimpton fellow,” I said as we stepped out into the frigid night. “Do you believe he is the man who stole the flute?”
“I have no doubt of that,” Holmes said. “What I wish to know is why he did it.”
It was quarter to eleven by the time we reached Skimpton’s rooming house, which stood in a decrepit part of the city as far removed from the wondrous world of The Magic Flute as any place could be. The house, an irregular pile of dark bricks crowned by a pair of steep gables, was from the previous century, when it had doubtlessly been built by one of St. Paul’s many merchant princes. Its grandeur, however, had long since faded, and it looked gloomy and forlorn in the wintry darkness. I had begun to shiver, for the wind was an icy dagger against which even our heavy fur coats offered no sure protection.
We went up to the front porch, where rows of wooden balusters had rotted away like bad teeth, and knocked on the door. A plump middle-aged woman dressed in a ragged housecoat eventually came to the door. She looked at us warily, as though we might be robbers, or worse.
“Visiting hours are over,” she said.
“We are indeed sorry, madam, to disturb you at such a late hour,” Holmes said. “However, it is imperative that we see one of your residents, Mr. Skimpton.”
“And what would you be wanting of him at almost eleven o’clock at night? He never has visitors anyway.”
Holmes responded by fishing two silver dollars out of his coat pocket and pressing them into the woman’s hand. “I am sure he will want to talk with us. As I said, it is a most urgent matter. Now, please show us to his room.”
“Come in then,” the woman said, quickly slipping the coins into her coat pocket. “Just don’t disturb the other residents. I run a respectable house, you know.”
We followed her up a broad staircase to the second floor, and then up a much narrower set of steps to the attic, where a single gas jet struggled to illuminate a long hallway. “He’s in number ten,” she said, “way in the back.”
Skimpton was still wearing his work clothes from the theater when he responded to our knock. “My God,” he said, clearly stunned. “What are you doing here?”
He was, I guessed, in his early forties, tall and bony, with patches of thin hair gone largely to silver clinging to his head. His sad brown eyes were set in a face so narrow that it looked to have been shaped by a vise.
“I see there is no need for introductions,” Holmes replied as he stepped uninvited into the apartment. I followed. “You know why we are here, Mr. Skimpton. It is about the missing flute.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Skimpton said, a slight quaver in his voice. “You had better leave.”
“No, I think we will shall stay for a while,” Holmes replied, his voracious eyes taking in every detail of Skimpton’s quarters.
The stagehand’s room was dim, threadbare, and cold. A paint-flaked radiator in one corner hissed at the chill. Above it hideous patterned wallpaper had started to peel away from patches of bare, water-stained plaster. The furnishings - a table, a few chairs, a sagging bed, a battered steamer trunk - were meager. There could be no doubt Skimpton was a poor man, alone and without prospects.
Holmes and I took seats at the table and persuaded Skimpton to join us. Propped up on the table was a large photograph showing Skimpton with a woman in a gingham dress. The woman’s face was gaunt, yet she managed a broad smile. Skimpton looked equally happy.
“This photograph must be of great importance to you,” Holmes said. “Your wife perhaps?”
Skimpton nodded. “Dead,” he said in a monotone. “Last September. Consumption. She was my life. But what do you care? What does anyone care? All I ask is that you leave me alone.”
“I understand,” Holmes said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. I noticed as well that he had begun to look strangely uncomfortable, and was breathing heavily. “You may be assured that Dr. Watson and I have no wish to cause you any great difficulties,” he now told Skimpton. “Yet, as you must know, Mrs. Snyder wishes to have the flute returned to the opera. May I ask why you took it? I have been informed it has little value.”
Holmes, I knew, had no real evidence that Skimpton was the thief. Indeed, his certainty in the matter, as far as I could determine, was based solely on the fact that Skimpton, in a moment of distraction, had failed to pull down the stage curtain. But as I studied Skimpton’s cheerless eyes, I could not help but think Holmes was right.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Skimpton announced.
“Very well,” Holmes said. Then he abruptly stood up, went over to the large steamer trunk that appeared to be the room’s only hidden place of storage, and began to open it.
“No, don’t do that,” Skimpton cried out, and started toward Holmes. I immediately blocked his way.
Moments later, Holmes had the flute in his hand. It was, as Mrs. Snyder had readily admitted, not much to look at, just a battered old instrument covered in cheap gold paint.
Skimpton slumped back into his chair, looking as desolate as any man I have ever seen. When Holmes returned to the table, he said, “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Skimpton. Why did you take the flute?”
Tears welled up in the stagehand’s eyes. The words that followed came in a whisper. “Don’t you see, Mr. Holmes, I felt I could not live anymore, and I had to have it. It’s all there is now for me and all there ever will be.”
He put his head down before breaking out in loud sobs of the most anguished kind. It was a heart-wrenching scene, yet I was at loss to explain how or why Skimpton had become so deeply attached to a stage prop. Holmes, meanwhile, appeared to be growing agitated, as though some unseen force was acting upon him. To my surprise, he reached across the table and patted Skimpton on the shoulder. “It will be all right,” he said. “I assure you, Mr. Skimpton, it will be all right.”
Holmes rose from his chair and said, “Come along, Watson. I must leave this room. It has become too much for me. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Skimpton.”
The stagehand had by now regained his composure. He said to Holmes, “I suppose you will have to tell the police.”
“The police? What would I have to tell them?’”
Skimpton was puzzled. “You know, about the flute.”
“I know nothing
about a flute, Mr. Skimpton.” Holmes turned to me. “Watson, do you know anything about a flute?”
There was nothing I could say except, “No.”
As we walked back to our hotel in the deep chill of the night, I pressed Holmes to explain his curious behavior in Skimpton’s room. At first, he brushed aside all of my questions. But when we reached our suite at the Ryan and found there the welcome gifts of warmth and light, Holmes became more talkative. While we thawed our stiff hands by the fireplace, I again asked Holmes why he had left the flute with Skimpton.
He turned to me, and in those probing gray eyes, so alive with the vital force of life, I saw a kind of resignation. “Have you never felt it, Watson, that old dark tide which creeps in upon a man in the depths of the night? It was there, in Skimpton’s miserable little room, and it was so powerful that it all but took the air from my lungs.”
“Holmes, whatever are you talking about? I felt no unusual sensations in that room.”
“Ah, my dear Watson, you are indeed the most fortunate of men, for you never lose sight of the light of the world.” Holmes rose and walked over to the window. Gazing out into the darkness, he said, “I did not tell you that when I retrieved the flute from Skimpton’s trunk, it was resting upon a short length of rope with a noose tied at one end.”
“Do you mean to say he was intending to do away with himself?”
“I know of no other way to interpret the evidence. Skimpton placed the flute atop the noose so as to remind himself that there are wondrous and beautiful things in the world. Had he not stolen the flute, I believe he would be dead by now. And that is why I could not take it from him. He has far greater need of it than Mrs. Snyder does.”
“My God, Holmes, you have saved a man’s life tonight!”
“Perhaps. But I do not know how long the flute will work its magic for poor Skimpton. He has fallen far into a chasm as gloomy as that of the Reichenbach, and in the end there may be no escape for him.”
Holmes turned away from the window and said, “The hour is growing late, Watson, and I suggest you retire for the night. We shall have a long day of travel tomorrow.”