Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (22 page)

The paper in which I had placed the advertisement had been at the newsstands and book stalls for just a few hours when there was a knock upon the front door of the Players Club. I was in the grill room having a late lunch, and as the doorman was also taking a late lunch, I sent Hector to answer it.

The Players Club is a three-story brownstone on Gramercy Park South. I had purchased and remodeled the building to serve as a meeting place for prominent men of the theatre, as well as other outstanding professionals. The first two floors included a pool room and a small theatre, as well as a grill room and bar; I occupied the third floor when I was in New York.

I have an actor’s instinct for character, and as a theatre manager and director, I am used to sizing up people quickly. When Hector ushered our visitor into the grill room, I knew at once that here was a singular and extraordinary man.

His eyes were dark—so dark that they appeared black in the dim light, reminding me of the Indians I had known in my youthful days in California. He was taller than average; I would have guessed well over six feet—but then many men appear tall to me, as I am only five foot seven in my stocking feet. The Booth family may have had its share of talent, but it did not breed giants.

His face and figure were long and lean; I was reminded of Cassius in
Julius Caesar
(which we were doing in repertory with
Hamlet
), whom Shakespeare describes as having “a lean and hungry look.” (Sadly, our current Cassius, Geoff Simmons, was overly fond of sausages and porter, and was anything but lean—in his green toga, he rather suggested a fat garden slug wrapped in a leaf.)

My visitor did not wear a hungry look but rather one of keen interest and curiosity. I had the impression that nothing much
escaped those deep-set eyes; he seemed to take in everything around him at a glance. He wore a simple but expensive frock coat and vest, with perfectly pressed trousers and shining black boots.

“How do you do, Mr. Booth?” he said in a decidedly British accent. “I have arrived in answer to your advertisement.”

“But the advertisement gave no address—only a post office box.”

He waved away my objections as if they were an annoying insect. “A mere formality—I assure you it was not difficult to discover who you were.”

I stared at him. “How on earth did you—”

“That you were well off was evident from the suggestion of considerable monetary reward.”

As a child, I had suffered from a stutter, which I had conquered years ago. To my surprise, I felt it beginning to return now.

“Yes, b-but—”

“That you were well known was evident from the phrase regarding discretion.”

“But how d-did you know it was
me
—this city is full of well-known people!”

“It was a simple matter to follow this gentleman from the post office,” he said, indicating Hector, who had just brought me half a dozen letters on a silver tray. “I had my eye on Box Twenty-Eight and when he looked inside for the replies, I knew he would lead me to you. I had only to follow him here.”

I felt the tension of the past twenty-four hours begin to drain away from my shoulders.

“Oh, so it was a bit of detective work after all! All you had to do was wait patiently at the post office for him to turn up, and
then follow him. So all those deductions about my being well-known and wealthy were just—”

“Oh, no—I had already deduced those facts before seeing your servant.”

“I see.”

“So when I followed him here, I was quite certain I had the right man.”

I looked around the grill room. The bartender was busily polishing glasses, and several actors were congregated in the back of the room, laughing and talking among themselves. They did not pay particular attention to my visitor; however, I thought privacy was called for, so I summoned Hector, who stepped soundlessly into the room.

“Hector, would you show my visitor up to the second floor lounge?” I said. “And bring us up a bottle of brandy and two glasses, please.”

The lounge was a small room on the east side of the building, mostly used for playing cards, and was unlikely to be occupied in the middle of the afternoon.

I settled my tab in the grill room and headed up the stairs after them. When I entered the lounge, my visitor had folded his long body comfortably into a leather burgundy armchair.

“I am perhaps not what you expected,” he commented as I took the chair opposite him.

“I must admit I was expecting a somewhat . . . rougher type of man.”

“Rest assured that I am the man you seek,” he replied smoothly. “My name is Holmes—Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes, is it? What a curious thing indeed.”

“What is curious?”

“My dear first wife Mary’s maternal family name was Holmes.”

“Her mother, then, was a Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“It is not an uncommon name.”

“True . . . this will sound hopelessly superstitious, but we actors are superstitious folk, so forgive me. But it feels almost as if your coming here was an act of providence—as if my dear Mary were somehow looking after me from beyond the grave . . .”

“I am very sorry to hear that your wife has passed away.”

“Thank you.”

“And yet you are remarried,” he commented, indicating the ring on my left hand.

“Yes . . . my current wife’s name is Mary also. She suffers from brain seizures and now lives with her parents. She hardly knows who I am—or who anyone is, for that matter.” I sighed deeply. “But on to the matter at hand,” I said, doing my best to shake off my black mood.

“Yes indeed,” he replied. “Now, then, what can I do for you?”

I realized at that moment
he
had been interviewing
me
, rather than the other way around, and was now operating under the assumption that the job was his. I felt a bit put out by this, and wanted to protest, but something in me silenced the words.

Instead, I blurted out, “I’m afraid someone is trying to kill me.”

He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by this. “I see. In that case, I may be of some assistance.”

“You have experience in these matters, then, Mr. Holmes?”

“I can provide references, should you require them.”

“Somehow I don’t think that will be necessary,” I replied.

“Good. Now then, please tell me everything, being careful to omit no detail.”

He was the kind of man who immediately inspires confidence; the mere fact of his presence was mysteriously calming.

“Well, the first incident seemed innocent enough at the time: a hanging flat in the theatre swung down during a performance, and I ducked—just in time to prevent being decapitated.”

“I see. Was the cause of the accident ever determined?”

“It seems someone had forgotten to tie up the rope holding it in place—or tied it so loosely that it came undone. No one came forward to confess to having tied the rope badly.”

Holmes nodded gravely. “And the second incident?”

“A trap door on the stage collapsed during rehearsal. When I stepped on it, it gave way and I nearly fell twenty feet into the building’s basement.”

“And did you ascertain the reason for this odd occurrence?”

“The bolts holding the hinges on had been removed, so that when I stepped on it, the entire thing gave way. Fortunately, an alert stagehand who happened to be standing next to me grabbed my arm and prevented me from falling. I am not an alarmist, Mr. Holmes, but it quite unnerved me.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his long fingers together.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Well, everyone saw the incidents take place, so my entire company, I suppose.”

“Was any innocent explanation for this possible?”

“It just so happened that some workmen had been installing
some new floorboards the day before, so everyone blamed them. I felt differently, of course.”

“Have you told anyone else about your suspicions?”

“No. I kept them to myself—except for the anonymous advertisement in the paper which you answered.”

He smiled grimly. “That is good—that is very good. Be certain that you continue to keep your own counsel. It is essential that we preserve as much secrecy as possible.”

“I agree.”

“Good.” He leaned forward to sip his coffee, the lamplight shining on his thick black hair, which he wore combed back from his high forehead. “And the third incident?”

“You’re quite right, Mr. Holmes—there
was
a third incident.” I paused and took a sip of brandy, which burned my throat with a comforting familiarity. “A few days ago someone tried to shoot me.”

Holmes raised a single eyebrow. “I assume you failed to get a look at your assailant?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid I didn’t see him at all. It was dark, and—”

He waved a long hand impatiently. “Tell me what happened. Omit no details, no matter how trifling.”

“I had just finished a rehearsal, and I was leaving the theatre after lingering to talk to the stage manager about the following day’s rehearsal. As I turned the corner out into the street from the alley leading to the stage door, I heard the report of a gun.”

“You are quite certain that it was a gunshot?”

I took a deep breath; I was not pleased to dwell on the sound of gunshots in theaters. “Yes, quite certain. I immediately heard a
whistling in my ear, then felt a burning sensation on the side of my neck.”

I opened my collar and showed him the thin red slash across my neck. Holmes examined it, frowning, then leaned back in his chair. “That is indeed a bullet crease. You didn’t by any chance recover the bullet in question?”

I shook my head. “I was too shaken to even think to look for it. That corner is very dark late at night. The lights in front of the theatre had long since been turned off.”

“I see. Were there any other people about?”

“No; as I said, it was quite late by then. The street looked deserted.”

“I’m sorry to say that your fears seem to be quite justified, Mr. Booth. Not only is someone trying to kill you, but I am very much afraid it may be someone known to you—perhaps even a member of your company.”

He now accepted my offer of a glass of brandy, and I poured myself some more as well, my hand shaking a little as I grasped the crystal decanter. Alcohol is my only true vice, as it was my father’s before me. I have struggled all my life to control my drinking, but now I felt that I might be forgiven for indulging in a glass of brandy.

“What do you propose I do?” I asked Holmes. “I cannot simply refuse to go out in public—I am an actor, for God’s sake!”

“What about using an understudy? Surely you must—”

Now it was my turn to dismiss him impatiently. I rose and began to pace the room distractedly. “If I put on an understudy in my place, people will demand their money back. I say this in all
humility, Mr. Holmes: people come to the theatre to see
me
as Hamlet, as Brutus, as Iago. They do not come to see an understudy.”

“I quite understand. But is not disappointing your public worth paying for with your life?”

“It is not that simple, Mr. Holmes. Scores of people depend upon me for their livelihood. I can’t cancel performances indefinitely—the theatre and its employees would lose hundreds of dollars every night.”

I gazed out of the window, where cold gusts were whipping the tree branches along Gramercy Park. It was May, but a chill wind had overtaken the city in the last few days. People passing by drew their cloaks close around them as dried leaves scattered by the gusts circled them like miniature tornados; the wind seemed to be bent on knocking them from their feet. I looked back at Holmes, who sat still as a sphinx, his profile sharp in the dim light.

An idea suddenly seized me. “Have you done any acting, Mr. Holmes?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“I
knew
it! You can always tell a man who has been upon the stage—the way he uses his voice, the way he holds himself. I have recently lost my Horatio. I was about to hold auditions for the role, but now it occurs to me . . . have you ever done Shakespeare?”

“I confess I have—a little.”

“Would you be so kind as to take over the role?”

He paused for a moment. “I think I perceive where you are headed with this. Being a member of the cast would give me unparalleled access to the people who surround you professionally.”

“Exactly! Well—what do you say? I’ll pay you a salary of twenty dollars a week—in addition to your fee, of course.”

He smiled, softening the angular planes of his long face, like the sun breaking through the clouds on a gloomy day.

“Why not? I don’t see what we have to lose, and we may have much to gain.”

“Capital! I shall introduce you to our stage manager tonight at rehearsal. Where are you staying while in New York?”

“At the Hotel Washington.”

“You must stay here as my guest—there is a spare bedroom on the third floor, just down the hall from my own. I will see that Hector lays out all the necessary items for your comfort.”

“Thank you. That will enable me to watch out for your safety more effectively.”

“And now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall perhaps try to catch a few hours’ sleep, as it promises to be a long evening.”

“Certainly.”

I went upstairs and lay down in my bed, but I could not sleep. Why would someone in my own company want to kill me? Including stagehands, actors, and theatre staff, the list of suspects numbered well over sixty—just for our current production alone. Eventually I must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because I dreamed that my father was standing in the corner of my room, his face sad and mournful. I tried to speak to him, but no words would come. He raised an arm toward me, as though he wished to beckon me to him—or perhaps it was in warning; I couldn’t tell.

Then the chimes on the grandfather clock in the hall struck five, and a moment later Hector appeared at the door with a cup of coffee.

Dressing quickly, I went downstairs to find Holmes waiting with his overcoat on his arm. We walked briskly to the theatre, which was in Union Square, only about half a mile from the Players.