“You have the President’s welfare on your mind.”
“This being an election year, feelings are running high,” he said, “but I promise you that I will now put that from my mind and concentrate on Mr Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.”
The Sasanoff players had attracted a full house and our host – Mr Escott/Holmes – had provided us with choice seats close to the stage and in the centre. A few moments after we had made ourselves comfortable, the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.
The role of Malvolio is a minor one, so I am certain that Hargreave and I were the only members of the audience who awaited with any expectancy the appearance of the character.
There entered in the fifth scene a lean, almost gangling youth with a remarkable stage presence for one so tender in years. It was evident that something in the way the young actor moved, something in his eyes, something in his young but commanding style attracted all eyes in the audience to him as the character Olivia turned to Malvolio to ask, “How say you to that, Malvolio?”
“I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal,” he replied.
The voice was light and airy, befitting the character of Olivia’s steward. When he spoke his next line I found myself wondering if the young actor were describing himself, although speaking the line as Shakespeare wrote it: “Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy.”
In a whisper, Hargreave remarked, “This friend of yours is quite good.”
I was not accustomed to being behind the scenes at a theatre and was impressed by the machinery of the stage – the ropes, pulleys, weights, and other paraphernalia by which curtains were raised, scenery shifted and the general fantasy world of theatrics produced. An usher to whom I had given my card to be taken backstage to Mr Escott had returned to announce that Mr Escott was delightedly waiting to greet me and my companion in his dressing room. “Be careful of the stairs going down,” warned the usher.
The dressing room was located well below the level of the theatre’s auditorium in what, if the theatre had been a ship, would have been steerage. Locating a door that promised to open into Mr Sherlock Holmes’ dressing room – a slip of paper tacked to the wooden door sbore the inscription “Escott,” I rapped sharply upon it and was answered by a brusque voice. “Who is it?”
“Roosevelt,” I announced through the door.
“The door is open. Come in. Mind the clutter.”
Seated with his back toward us was Escott – that is, Holmes – a lean young man with a narrow face that was dominated by a hawklike nose and a pointed chin. His complexion appeared ruddy, but this proved to be an illusion caused by the vigorous rubbing of the skin with great gobs of cleansing cream applied with swabs of cotton as the young actor proceeded to remove the makeup that had changed that face to Malvolio’s.
“Good evening, Holmes,” I said as we entered.
“Ah, Mr Roosevelt!” he exclaimed as he saw me reflected in his mirror. Rising to greet us, he was impressively tall but shockingly thin. “I aim delighted that you came. How did you like the play?” he asked, enthusiastically shaking my hand. “And who is this?” he inquired, turning to Hargreave.
“Permit me to introduce my companion for the evening, Mr Wilson Hargreave. Will, this is–”
“Mr William Escott, I was led to believe?”
Holmes bowed. “My stage name. I am Sherlock Holmes. William Escott is a play upon my given names.”
“A clever alias, sir. I compliment you on it and your performance,” said Hargreave.
“Please be seated, gentlemen. I do not have a very large dressing room, but we shan’t be long. I need only a moment more to remove this makeup.”
“Don’t rush on our behalf,” I said cheerily.
“The art of makeup and disguise fascinates me,” said Holmes, turning again to study himself in the mirror. “I have played much older men through proper makeup and I have seen very old actors become youths with a bit of putty and a dash of color.”
“Your Malvolio was a revelation,” I replied.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, showing a fleeting smile in the mirror. Then his eyes turned to Hargreave and he stated, “You are quite a young man to be a member of the ranks of the detectives of the New York Police Department, Hargreave.”
“Holmes, you amaze me!” I gasped.
“Do I indeed?” he laughed. “Do I amaze you, Mr Hargreave?”
“I must confess that you do.”
“Nothing amazing about it, really,” Holmes shrugged. Turning back to his mirror, he dabbed at the last smudges of theatrical makeup. “Elementary deduction. I am disappointed in you, Roosevelt, however. I had thought you would have expected me to see immediately that your companion at the theatre tonight is a member of the constabulary in your fascinating city.”
“Mr Holmes has made a science of deduction,” I ventured to explain to Hargreave.
“Not a science, more of an art at this point,” insisted Holmes. “Do you know much about the art of deduction, Mr Hargreave?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“There is an article of some interest on it, in the Harper’s magazine of June. It is a review of a new book by one Noah K. Davis titled “The Theory of Thought, A Treatise on Deductive Logic.” I am intrigued by the article and am looking forward to obtaining the book. I shall send you a copy.”
“Mr Holmes uses the sci– uh, the art, of deduction in his practice. He is a consulting detective in London,” I explained.
“You are a detective?” asked Hargreave.
“I am not connected with any official police agency. I am a private consulting detective.”
“Fascinating, sir.”
“The more so because I have determined to use and to perfect as much as possible the detective’s greatest tool in the solving of crimes, his powers of deductive reasoning and objective observation.”
“By which methods you deduced that I am a detective?”
“Precisely.”
“Forgive me, but I find it more reasonable to assume that you had read my name in newspaper accounts.”
“By Jove, I have!” laughed Holmes.
“So you knew from the newspapers that Will is a detective,” I interjected, obviously showing my disappointment.
“Yes, I have read your name in the news columns, but I recalled this only because you suggested it as an explanation for my knowing your occupation. I am acutely embarrassed that I did not make the connection between the Mr Hargreave standing here in my cramped dressing room and the W. Hargreave of the newspapers. I deduced your connection with the police solely by observing and listening during the first few moments when we met.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Not to the untrained observer. To an ordinary criminal you would give no clues that you possess a policeman’s badge. You do possess one! It makes an almost imperceptible bulge in the line of your jacket, kept in a wallet in your inside breast pocket on your left side. Hardly more noticeable is the slight deviation in the line of your jacket at your right hip where you carry your revolver.”
“I shall speak to my tailor,” said Hargreave, patting his hip. “I have coats especially cut to make allowances for the weapon. He has obviously not done a very good job of it.”
“On the contrary, my compliments to him. Only a trained eye would notice it and the other bulge in your pocket where, I believe, you keep a set of those interesting devices called handcuffs which you Americans have recently improved upon.”
“Self-locking ones,” nodded Hargreave. “They snap shut immediately when placed on the wrists, thus allowing a policeman to apply the cuffs with one hand while holding on to his suspect with the other.”
“But you gave me one other clue that led me to make a very cursory examination of your appearance to see if my impression that you are a policeman would hold up.”
“Another clue?”
“I told you Escott was my stage name; you called it an alias.”
/> “Very astute, sir.”
“Astute observation and deductive reasoning will reveal the truth in any situation as surely as cold cream has revealed my true face beneath the actor’s mask. Now that I am a respectable member of society, I suggest some supper. I have numerous questions to ask Hargreave about the techniques of the New York Police Department, and Roosevelt, I am in your debt for your delightful decision to bring Hargreave along.”
“May I suggest supper at the Hoffman House?” I said.
“An excellent and famous cuisine,” nodded Hargreave.
“Yes,” winked Holmes, “and an establishment that is equally famous for its Bouguereau’s nude surrounded by satyrs that hangs above the bar.”
“You’ve come to know a good deal about New York, Mr Holmes,” observed Hargreave.
“It is a city second only to London in its potential for criminal activity. Shall we go?”
Delighted at seeing the two detectives taking so readily to one another, I followed them through the drafty wings of the theatre, out the stage door and into the rainy night.
“What about Roosevelt? Has he the makings of a detective?” asked Holmes, clapping me on the shoulder.
“I can’t say,” chuckled Hargreave, “but if you ever need a man to do some fighting – fisticuffs – Teddy’s your man.”
“Is that so, Roosevelt? You seem such a quiet fellow.”
“Teddy speaks quietly but carries a big fist,” laughed Hargreave. “Believe me, I know.”
In this light and playful mood, we headed up Broadway to Madison Square and the Hoffman House with its nude and satyrs and deliciously appointed bill of fare.
___
Author's notes on this chapter
Four
I have not had such marvellous company at a meal,” announced Sherlock Holmes, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, “since breakfast at Delmonico’s a fortnight ago. It was a farewell for Mr Edwin Booth, prior to his leaving for Europe. I had the improbable pleasure of sitting between Mr P. T. Barnum and Chief Justice Shea.”
“I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, Mr Holmes,” said Hargreave, leaning back and contentedly puffing on a cigar.
“I note from the fragrance of your smoke that you accept the new fashion of wrapping cigars in Sumatran leaf, rather than the Cuban which has heretofore been so popular in the States,” said Holmes. Choosing for his after-dinner smoke a curved briar which he deftly packed with a dark shag, he continued to speak between the puffs as he put a match to his bowl. He became a picture of alternately flaring flame and billowing clouds of smoke. “The Sumatra wrapper gives a thin and silky flavour, of course,” he added. “I know quite a bit about tobacco and have written a monograph on the subject as it relates to criminal investigations. A man’s cigar ash is as peculiar a signature as the shape of his ear or the imprinted pattern of his fingertips, but for real individuality in smoking I give you the pipe. Nothing has more individuality, except, perhaps, watches and bootlaces. For example, you have shown a considerable interest through the evening in your own timepiece, Hargreave.”
“Have I?”
“Now, you know you have, Will,” I chuckled.
“I have not peeked at my watch at all during this dinner,” my friend objected, drawing the handsome timepiece from his waistcoat pocket.
“But you made several references to it during Twelfth Night,” asserted Holmes with a satisfied puff on his briar.
“Well,” shrugged Hargreave, “apparently actors in a play watch the audience even as the audience watches them.”
“It was my curiosity to know if Roosevelt had accepted my invitation to the play which drew my attention to the pair of seats I had reserved for him,” explained Holmes, “but when I peered over the footlights to the location of your seats and found you, Hargreave, constantly looking at your watch, I began to wonder if our performance was really that tedious.”
With a laugh, I explained, “Will is on call this evening and is a bit on edge, especially in view of the President’s visit to our city.”
“I see,” nodded Holmes. “Is there reason for concern about Mr Hayes?”
“No,” said Hargreave, reassuringly shaking his head and replacing his watch in his pocket. “He’s dining as a guest of the German Consul General aboard a German steamship.”
“And you had been keeping an eye on your watch as a means of knowing how much longer it would be until the President leaves the ship for his hotel rather than as an expression of displeasure at my performance.”
“Exactly, though I am amused that you bothered to worry about me and my watch instead of your lines while you were performing on stage.”
“The stage is a marvellous podium from which to observe mankind.”
“Your clients must be constantly startled by you and your methods,” I interjected.
“I have no interest in my clients except as they are factors in a problem. Emotion is antagonistic to reasoning. I do not consider personalities in my decisions as to which problems to undertake. I generally choose to be associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution. These are usually the simpler crimes. It is in unimportant matters that one finds a field for observation, for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives charm to an investigation. The larger the crime the more obvious the motive. Give me the commonplace, for it is there where one finds the most intricate puzzles. I recently had a problem concerning one of this city’s first families. A rifled safe. A common prime. But it was the fact that the glass of the conservatory door must have been broken from the inside that led me to the family footman as the culprit.”
“I was not aware of a crime affecting one of our notable families,” frowned Hargreave.
Holmes shrugged. “The family called upon me because they did not want any publicity, you see. As for you, Hargreave, duty is about to take you from us! A very imposing fellow in a policeman’s uniform is making his way as rapidly as possible across this room in our direction. I expect you are about to be summoned to an investigation.”
The tall, burly, red-haired policeman apologised for disturbing us, then announced, “There has been a murder, Mr Hargreave.”
“Where?” asked the detective.
“At Gramercy Park, sir.”
“Well, it’s a fashionable murder,” asserted Holmes.
Hargreave flashed a smile. “You do know our city, Mr Holmes.”
“I am familiar with Gramercy Park merely because I chance to have rooms at number 39 East Twenty-second Street, which is a short walk from Gramercy Park.”
“I am sorry about being called away like this,” said Hargreave, rising from his chair and carefully placing his napkin on the tablecloth.
“We’ll have dinner again,” I announced emphatically.
“Hargreave,” said Holmes softly, “I am not certain of the protocol, if there might be a violation of regulations but–”
Hargreave gave a quick, delighted laugh. “Of course! Come along. You, too, Teddy.”
“What?” I gasped.
“This will not take very long, I’m sure,” said Hargreave. “Then we can resume our conversation elsewhere.”
“That’s a bully idea,” I said, thumping a hand on the table.
“I’m sure this is a routine, common street crime,” Hargreave continued.
“Ah, but there is nothing as uncommon as a common crime, Hargreave,” stated Holmes, his narrowed eyes flashing cold as steel. “Shall we be off then?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hargreave.
“Come on, Teddy,” said Holmes enthusiastically. “The game’s afoot.”
The distance from the Hoffman House to Gramercy Park was not a long one, and our four-wheeler had us there in quick time. A fog shrouded the dark and nearly deserted streets. Wet pavements reflected flickering gaslamps while the same lights made darkly grotesque shapes of the trees in a small square park bounded on four sides by the elegant houses of Gramercy Park, the last neighborhood in the city where o
ne would expect a murder to be done.
On the way as we passed from Broadway onto Twentieth Street, I pointed out to Holmes the address where I had spent most of my childhood – the house where, on the second storey, I had floored Hargreave with one punch. Holmes’ response to this fascinating moment of personal history was a mere grunt, but not so much as a glance out the window of the four-wheeler. Holmes leaned forward, his arm propped on a bony knee, his pointy chin resting on his fist, lost in thought.
The carriage drew to a stop before number 15 and Holmes followed Hargreave out of the cab, bounding to the sidewalk where, beneath a policeman’s raincoat, sprawled the corpse. Holmes removed the covering and studied the body of the hapless victim, back and front. Replacing the raincoat, Holmes rose and strode away a few steps, paused by a lamppost, then returned and studied the dead man again. “Odd,” he muttered, rising again.
“What do you make of it, Mr Holmes?” asked Hargreave, who had studied the body himself.
“I should like to know if the police have an official explanation for what has happened here.”
“Of course,” said Hargreave, signalling to one of the uniformed officers. “Sergeant, what is the official surmise regarding this incident?”
The police sergeant eyed Holmes with curiosity, then proceeded to relate what had occurred. “The man was shot in the back. Robbery attempt, we believe. His name is Nigel Tebbel. We know this from papers in his wallet.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Witnesses?”
“The neighbours,” said the sergeant, waving a hand toward the surrounding houses, each aglow with light, many of whose occupants stood in doorways or porches, observing us.
“And?” said Holmes.
“And?” replied the sergeant.
“What do they testify? These neighbours?”
“They say they heard an altercation.”
“An altercation? Can you be more precise?”
“Residents heard a shout and then a shot. They saw Tebbel fall to the ground.”
“Curious,” said Holmes. “What else?”
“It appears that Tebbel was set upon from behind by a robber. They struggled. Tebbel called for help, but there was no time for that. He was shot for his trouble.”
The Stalwart Companions Page 4
