She stepped over the threshold, took in the junkyard that was our sitting-room and laughed. ‘Oh my!’ she exclaimed. But when her eyes alighted on the hanging straitjacket, the laughter caught in her throat, and she made a sudden guttural sound, like a tiger.
‘What! You liar!’ she roared, flinging the newspaper to the floor. ‘You are no scientist. No detective either. You steal our famous illusion!’ She grimaced. ‘I will kill you!’
‘Madame Ilaria Borelli,’ said Holmes cordially. ‘You are early.’
CHAPTER 5
Madame Borelli
Her face a mask of fury, the lady scanned the clutter, glancing past me as though I were something to be stepped over on the street.
Her eyes lit upon the papers mounded on the table. She rushed over to them, snatched them up and waved them at us, her face black with rage. Opening her reticule to receive them, she then thought better of it, and with a dramatic gesture stuffed the papers down the front of her dress.
She stared triumphantly at the two of us as though she had just thwarted a mad effort to stop her.
But neither of us had moved. Holmes remained seated. He smiled.
‘Forgive me if I don’t stand, Madame Borelli.’
‘You beast!’ she cried, facing Holmes. ‘You lie to me!’
Looking around, she seized upon a life-size plaster head of Goethe and hurled it at my friend, who leaped from his chair just in time to miss being concussed by the philosopher.
Goethe bounced off the chair and landed on a small Moroccan table, upending it, and sending a teacup and some books crashing to the floor to join in the general chaos there. The bust splintered into several pieces.
Given the state of disarray, this hardly worsened the room.
‘Pagan! Reprobate! Liar! Thief!’ she shouted, then lunged at him. I caught her mid-stride, grasping her by both arms. She appeared dainty but was muscled like an athlete.
‘Madame, please sit down,’ I said. ‘You are clearly distraught. Let us help you.’
‘Distraught! Help me?’ Her voice rose to a shout. ‘This man, he misrepresents himself. Says he is a scientist. But then I read in the newspaper he is famous detective. I ask Scotland Yard, one man there say amateur only.’
I laughed.
She turned to me. ‘But … what do you say? He is pastry chef? He is ironmonger? And who are you?’
‘I am Doctor John Watson, this man’s friend. Yes, he is a detective and a scientist. Please … calm down, dear lady.’
She took a deep breath and stopped struggling. I removed my hands from her arms. ‘Forgive me, Madame. May I pour you a brandy?’ I asked. ‘Please, do sit down.’
She ignored this and turned to Holmes.
‘The Great Borelli, he knows. Dario mio, he finds these pages missing, and he knows. Look!’
She undid a button at the cuff of her dress and rolled up the sleeve. A series of bruises was evident.
Holmes was instantly at her side. He gently took her arm and examined the injury. ‘Oh, Madame,’ he said. ‘I would never have – oh, not for the world—’
‘Let me have a look, would you?’ I brushed him aside. ‘I am a doctor.’
Mollified by the caring attention of two men, the woman seemed to calm herself into some semblance of normality as she let me examine her bruises.
‘It looks like someone grasped you hard enough to leave these marks,’ I said.
‘I never should give you the pages, Mr Holmes,’ said the lady.
She looked around her and took in the utter chaos that was our sitting-room. As she did so, a frown passed over her lovely features. Her skin was pale olive, her hair nearly black but burnished with red. She was indeed a fiery beauty.
‘And you lie to me,’ she said. ‘You told me you are scientist. I see no science, but only big mess.’
Her eyes fell on Holmes’s chemistry table.
‘Ah, science, yes, over there. But that is not the escape science, that is chemistry. No, it is physics. Who are you, Mr Holmes? You lied to me!’
‘By omission only, and I apologize. I shall indeed write a small monograph, Madame Borelli, but fear not, I will not reveal all,’ said Holmes. ‘Please do sit down.’ She did not. ‘Stage conjuring, and escapology in particular, has long been a topic of interest to me. Most people enjoy trickery, but it is particularly vexing that some illusions – your husband’s for example, are attributed to supernatural gifts. I wish to set the record straight.’
‘I forbid it! The illusion is the magic. It is part of the performance, Mr Holmes. Dario and I – we will not be happy if you choose to expose him. You promised me to write in such a way not do this. And to do this later, much later. But—’ She gestured angrily to the straitjacket, still hanging from the ceiling. ‘Then I see you trying to duplicate this trick. Traitor! But, of course you cannot. What you do not know is—’
She broke off, staring hard at Holmes. He seemed nonplussed, but I knew my friend well enough to recognize discomfort. She walked over to him. He stood his ground. She suddenly reached around with her right hand and punched him in the shoulder. The left shoulder. The hurting one.
He gasped. I was on her in an instant, taking her from behind with both arms. But she was not to be held back. She trod on my right instep with her sharp heel, and I cried out, releasing her.
She withdrew a tiny Beretta from her reticule, pointing it at Holmes. We both froze. She backed up so that neither of us could reach her in a single move. This was certainly a lady who could look after herself.
‘You are not the first to try this. I created this trick especially for Dario. He has – how you say? – the double joints. Over time, he developed, just like a strong man develops muscles. Which he also does. But he is special: a loose man. Bends like rubber. That is not in those pages. You cannot know this unless you are very smart, and you hurt your own shoulder trying this. Ha, ha, you lying man!’
‘Madame Borelli, one thing I am not is a performer.’
I stifled a laugh. He most certainly was, although perhaps not on the stage.
‘I am a scientist and repeating results of something another man has devised is exactly what scientists do.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘What a woman has devised. I invent this trick! Not Dario!’
‘Nevertheless, repeating the results—’
‘Are you double jointed, also?’ I asked Madame, straining to picture it.
‘Watson, good grief! Forgive us, Madame. I can see how this might be construed.’
‘No performer, you say? Then what is this?’ Madame Borelli strode to my chair and scooped up something from the floor next to it.
It took a second for me to realize what it was. The false nose. A laugh escaped me. Holmes shook his head when she turned to stare at me.
‘Madame, I can explain all that you see here,’ said Holmes.
‘Explain quickly.’ She caught me shifting my weight as I stealthily attempted to draw nearer. ‘Stop there, you. Or I will shoot Mr Holmes.’
Just then Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, brandishing a tennis racquet as a weapon. I had wondered where my racquet had gone. She stared at the three of us.
‘Mr Holmes, I heard the commotion. Put that gun away, young lady, unless you plan to shoot all three of us. And sit down, all of you.’ She glanced at the clutter. ‘If you can find a seat.’
No one moved. Mrs Hudson was full of surprises today. She advanced into the room, tennis racquet raised.
‘Sit, or I shall knock sense into all three of you!’
Madame Borelli did not seem inclined to shoot the eminently reasonable Mrs Hudson in cold blood. She wavered, then replaced the gun into her reticule and looked round for a seat. I removed a large box of what appeared to be human bones from an armchair and brushed off its dusty wool surface. Madame Borelli glanced down, gave it one more furious brush and sat.
‘Tea, then, in a few minutes. Meanwhile, behave yourselves,’ said Mrs Hudson. She gave our visitor her sternest
look. ‘This is a civilized house.’
Some minutes later, we sat facing hot tea and ginger biscuits, a veneer of respectability floating above the sea of clutter. Madame Borelli had calmed herself to some degree. The summer shower had dropped the temperature, and a tepid, damp breeze wafted into the room with salubrious effect.
‘Now, Madame Borelli, you have come here on another matter, I perceive, and not merely to retrieve the pages you so kindly lent me,’ said Holmes in the soothing manner, absent of any sarcasm, which he used at times to great effect.
‘Yes, I come. But I am not sure you are what I need. I am not sure—’
‘Tell me what is troubling you. You did not wish to open your reticule when you located your husband’s pages. And you have been keeping it close to you for your entire visit. But as you drew your gun, I glimpsed—’
‘Yes, yes. I brought something.’
My attention turned to the tapestry bag with gold fringe, on a braided golden cord which hung around the lady’s neck and was fastened with a small gold clasp to the sash of her dress. Even at this moment, one hand rested protectively upon it.
She glanced down at it nervously, then looked at Holmes from under her heavy fringe of dark eyelashes.
‘It is true. You said when we met that you … you write for science journals. But you solve crimes. Scotland Yard man says amateur. Are you any good at this?’
‘He is very good, Madame Borelli,’ I interjected. ‘Mr Holmes is the world’s first consulting detective. In fact, he invented the term. The police turn to him on cases they cannot solve. Some of the men are perhaps a little—’
‘Jealous,’ she said. ‘Yes, I see this.’
Holmes smiled. ‘What is troubling you?’
‘Well … Dario. He has a temper. What you see on my arm, it is not serious, it is him clutching my arm when he is too nervous or excited.’
‘What is he nervous and excited about?’ asked Holmes.
‘He received …’ She opened her small bag carefully and removed from underneath the Beretta a small oblong object wrapped in a handkerchief. She slowly unwrapped it. ‘This.’
It was a human finger.
PART TWO
ENTANGLEMENT
‘The moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.’
—Omar Khayyam
CHAPTER 6
Fingering the Threat
Holmes eyed the gruesome digit with interest. ‘May I?’
He took up his magnifying glass from the table next to him and held out his hand.
She gave the thing to him and he examined it carefully, saying nothing.
Holmes handed me his glass. ‘Take a look, Watson. Male, about fifty; workman from the callus, here, and dirt under the nail. Judging from the amount of blood on the handkerchief—’
‘There is no blood on the handkerchief,’ I said.
‘Precisely. And by the look of the cut edge, severed post-mortem. Tell me what you see, Doctor.’
I took up the gruesome item. The cut was neat, done with a very sharp instrument. I could add nothing other than this to Holmes’s observations and said so.
He turned to the lady. ‘Do you know who sent this?’
There was a pause.
‘Yes. It is complicated,’ she said. ‘Dario says he does not know who sent this thing. But he knows. I can see that he knows.’
Holmes stared at her sternly. ‘Fine, you both know. Who sent it? And if you know who sent it, why have you come here instead of to the police?’
She paused. ‘I see you are detective, a real one,’ said she. ‘All right. It is Santo Colangelo, another magician, who send. A great rival to Dario. But no, more than a rival. Because he lost tip of right index finger in accident. An accident for which he blames mi Dario. I would like you to … to help me fix.’
‘Fix? How do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘I do not wish to harm Santo Colangelo.’
Holmes glanced at me then turned a stern eye to the lady. ‘The man who threatens your husband?’
She paused and looked uncertain.
‘You want to keep this private,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘This Santo Colangelo, what is he, a rival in performance? In … ah, you are blushing. In romance, then?’
She looked down at her reticule, caressing the long, gold tassel. ‘Both,’ she answered finally. ‘He tries to win our bookings. Not successful.’
‘But whose finger is this?’ I interjected.
They ignored me.
‘Give me the history,’ said Holmes. ‘And then about the finger. Leave nothing out.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Madame Borelli hesitated but I nodded to her to continue.
‘Santo and I, we were once engaged to be married. He was, is, a good magician. He was looking for a pretty woman to assist him in his act. He hired me from many girls because I do more than assist. I invent, direct, improve. He quickly saw my value.’
‘How did you gain your skills, Madame?’ Holmes asked.
‘But the finger!’ I exclaimed. ‘What of this finger?’
She ignored me. ‘My father and my uncle. Both magicians in Sicily. We had a library of books, all of them I read. I improved their acts. At twelve years old.’
She had clearly captured Holmes’s interest. ‘Yes, go on,’ he urged.
‘Most men do not listen to a girl. But I did not care, and I made them hear me. I went to Rome, working as assistant to famous magician, and helping him too. My reputation grew. Then I met Santo. Together we form a great act, and he does mind-reading and also the hand magic.’
‘Hand magic?’ asked Holmes, opening one eye. ‘Do you mean close-up magic?’
‘Yes. You can stand very close and look carefully, and still you cannot see how is done. I gave him many ideas, so he is very, very good. Very fast, the hands. Coins, cards, even things on fire, he hides quickly. Dangerous. I designed all this. We were good partners.’
‘But this finger …’ I said.
Holmes gave me a sharp glance. ‘Stolen from a cadaver, most likely, Watson. A theatrical touch but not one of interest to us at this precise moment. Isn’t that right, Madame Borelli?’
The lady waved her hand dismissively, then put a finger her lips. True or not, she was not about to say.
‘You were in love with Santo, working with him and helping him with his act, then you met Dario?’ prompted Holmes.
The lady smiled. ‘Yes. Dario and me, one year ago, we were in love, even from the first seeing. The first seconds. It was instant. It was perfect. But Santo … he saw, of course.’
‘Yes, a mind reader,’ said Holmes sardonically.
‘You mean an actual mind reader?’ I asked.
Holmes sighed. ‘There are no actual mind readers, Watson. Dear God, what happened to you in Bath? This Colangelo is probably just observant. And for performances, there are devices. Spies who provide advance information. Codes to convey facts without others noticing. It is all rather simple.’ He turned to the lady. ‘In any case, Santo did not miss the attraction. Go on.’
‘Dario and I, we married a month later. Two days after wedding, Santo threatened Dario. Nothing came from this, but eight months later Santo made mistake while performing, and he lost the tip of a finger.’
Holmes leaned forward. ‘How?’
‘Yes, how do you lose a finger while mind-reading?’ I asked. The two of them had vexed me beyond all patience.
‘Another part of show: the close-up. Santo has a little guillotine. Is a device Dario sold to him. Very common trick, but I have changed it and made much more exciting. But something … something went wrong. It chopped off the end of Santo’s finger. And this for him is a tragedy. The close-up magic relies on the quick fingers.’
‘Did you examine the device after?’ asked Holmes.
‘You said Dario sold him the device, which you had improved. In what way did you make this trick more exciting?’ persisted Holmes.
‘A real human finger come out. With real blood.’
‘Ugh,’ I said.
‘The children love it!’ said Madame.
‘More fingers! And how does one manage the sheer volume required?’ I asked.
‘Purchased, Watson!’ Holmes asked. ‘As this one no doubt was!’
I wondered about the black market in body parts for stage magicians. ‘Perhaps you could patronize Madame Tussaud!’ I suggested.
‘Many tricks are dangerous,’ said the lady. ‘And complicated. They require skill and courage. Especially those of the Great Borelli. Mi Dario is the escape-artist king. He goes chained into the ocean or a big tank of water. We set fire to a big copper pot while he is tied up inside. Or in a box which falls from great height. Tricks require great skill, great courage. Otherwise, everyone would do them.’
‘Back to this finger,’ Holmes said. ‘This Santo Colangelo fellow is vengeful. He believes Dario carried out this sabotage. So just now he sent you a finger. A warning, perhaps?’
‘That is what I would like you to find out.’
Holmes did the calculation. ‘This accident that ruined Colangelo’s finger? Three months ago, then?’
‘Three months, yes.’
Holmes offered a cigarette to the lady. She declined and he lit one for himself. ‘You have been married only eleven months. And yet already you have fallen out of love with your new husband.’
She stood up abruptly. ‘You! You are a real mind reader. How you know this? How you see this?’
‘Oh, do sit down,’ said Holmes irritably.
I stood and gestured politely. This was an excitable lady. ‘Please,’ I added. I poured her another tea. At least one of us had manners. ‘Have a biscuit.’
She eyed the platter, took one, and sat down.
‘I merely observe,’ remarked Holmes. ‘You are twisting your wedding ring constantly and flicking it with your finger. Dismissive. You wish to be rid of it. You wish to be rid of Dario. Those bruises are exactly what we first surmised. Your husband is rough with you. He does not appreciate you. But aside from all that, you have come here for help.’
The Three Locks Page 3
