The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “But you’ve studied Sherlock Holmes,” I insisted. “You’ve examined his methods and turned them to your own purposes. Surely you might be able to do the same in this instance? Surely the author of such a fine detective play is not totally lacking in the powers of perception?”

  Gillette gave me an appraising look. “Appealing to my vanity, Lyndal? Very shrewd.”

  We had been arguing back and forth in this vein for some moments, though by this time—detective or no—Gillette had reluctantly agreed to give his attention to the matter of the missing brooch. Frohman had made him see that an extended disruption would place their financial interests in the hazard, and that Gillette, as head of the company, was the logical choice to take command of the situation. Toward that end, it was arranged that Gillette would question each member of the company individually, beginning with myself.

  Gillette’s stage manager, catching wind of the situation, thought it would be a jolly lark to replace the standing set of James Larrabee’s drawing room with the lodgings of Sherlock Holmes at Baker Street, so that Gillette might have an appropriate setting in which to carry out his investigation. If Gillette noticed, he gave no sign. Stretching his arm toward a side table, he took up an outsize calabash pipe and began filling the meerschaum bowl.

  “Why do you insist on smoking that ungainly thing?” I asked. “There’s no record whatsoever of Sherlock Holmes having ever touched a calabash. Dr. Watson tells us that he favors an oily black clay pipe as the companion of his deepest meditations, but is wont to replace it with his cherrywood when in a disputatious frame of mind.”

  Gillette shook his head sadly. “I am not Sherlock Holmes,” he said again. “I am an actor playing Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Still,” I insisted, “it does no harm to be as faithful to the original as possible.”

  Gillette touched a flame to the tobacco and took several long draws to be certain the bowl was properly ignited. For a moment, his eyes were unfocused and dreamy, and I could not be certain that he had heard me. His eyes were fixed upon the fly curtains when he spoke again. “Lyndal,” he said, “turn and face downstage.”

  “What?”

  “Humor me. Face downstage.”

  I rose and looked out across the forward edge of the stage.

  “What do you see?” Gillette asked.

  “Empty seats,” I said.

  “Precisely. It is my ambition to fill those seats. Now, cast your eyes to the rear of the house. I want you to look at the left-hand aisle seat in the very last row.”

  I stepped forward and narrowed my eyes. “Yes,” I said. “What of it?”

  “Can you read the number plate upon that seat?”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not.”

  “Nor can I. By the same token, the man or woman seated there will not be able to appreciate the difference between a cherrywood pipe and an oily black clay. This is theater, Lyndal. A real detective does not do his work before an audience. I do. Therefore I am obliged to make my movements, speech, and stage properties readily discernible.” He held the calabash aloft. “This pipe will be visible from the back row, my friend. An actor must consider even the smallest object from every possible angle. That is the essence of theater.”

  I considered the point. “I merely thought, inasmuch as you are attempting to inhabit the role of Sherlock Holmes, that you should wish to strive for authenticity.”

  Gillette seemed to consider the point. “Well,” he said, “let us see how far that takes us. Tell me, Lyndal. Where were you when the robbery occurred?”

  “Me? But surely you don’t think that I—”

  “You are not the estimable Dr. Watson, my friend. You are merely an actor, like myself. Since Miss Fenton had her brooch with her when she arrived at the theater this morning, we must assume that the theft occurred shortly after first call. Can you account for your movements in that time?”

  “Of course I can. You know perfectly well where I was. I was standing stage right, beside you, running through the first act.”

  “So you were. Strange, my revision of the play has given you a perfect alibi. Had the theft occurred this afternoon, after I had restored the original text of the play, you should have been high on the list of suspects. A narrow escape, my friend.” He smiled and sent up a cloud of pipe smoke. “Since we have established your innocence, however, I wonder if I might trouble you to remain through the rest of the interviews?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Perhaps I am striving for authenticity.” He turned and spotted young Henry Quinn hovering in his accustomed spot in the wings near the scenery cleats. “Quinn!” he called.

  The boy stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you ask Miss Fenton if she would be so good as to join us?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  I watched as the boy disappeared down the long corridor. “Gillette,” I said, lowering my voice, “this Baker Street set is quite comfortable in its way, but do you not think a bit of privacy might be indicated? Holmes is accustomed to conducting his interviews in confidence. Anyone might hear what passes between us here at the center of the stage.”

  Gillette smiled. “I am not Sherlock Holmes,” he repeated.

  After a moment or two Quinn stepped from the wings with Miss Fenton trailing behind him. Miss Fenton’s eyes and nose were red with weeping, and she was attended by Miss Kendall, who hovered protectively by her side. “May I remain, Mr. Gillette?” asked the older actress. “Miss Fenton is terribly upset by all of this.”

  “Of course,” said Gillette in a soothing manner. “I shall try to dispense with the questioning as quickly as possible. Please be seated.” He folded his hands and leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me, Miss Fenton, are you quite certain that the brooch was in your possession when you arrived at the theater this morning?”

  “Of course,” the actress replied. “I had no intention of letting it out of my sight. I placed the pin in my jewelry case as I changed into costume.”

  “And the jewelry case was on top of your dressing table?”

  “Yes.”

  “In plain sight?”

  “Yes, but I saw no harm in that. I was alone at the time. Besides, Miss Kendall is the only other woman in the company, and I trust her as I would my own sister.” She reached across and took the older woman’s hand.

  “No doubt,” said Gillette, “but do you mean to say that you intended to leave the gem in the dressing room during the rehearsal? Forgive me, but that seems a bit careless.”

  “That was not my intention at all, Mr. Gillette. Once in costume, I planned to pin the brooch to my stockings. I should like to have worn it in plain view, but James—that is to say, the gentleman who gave it to me—would not have approved. He does not want anyone—he does not approve of ostentation.”

  “In any case,” I said, “Alice Faulkner would hardly be likely to own such a splendid jewel.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Fenton. “Just so.”

  Gillette steepled his fingers. “How exactly did the jewel come to be stolen? It appears that it never left your sight.”

  “It was unforgivable of me,” said Miss Fenton. “I arrived late to the theater this morning. In my haste, I overturned an entire pot of facial powder. I favor a particular type, Gervaise Graham’s Satinette, and I wished to see if I could persuade someone to step out and purchase a fresh supply for me. I can only have been gone for a moment. I stepped into the hallway looking for one of the stagehands, but of course they were all in their places in anticipation of the scene three set change. When I found no one close by, I realized that I had better finish getting ready as best I could without the powder.”

  “So you returned to the dressing area?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long would you say that you were out of the room?”

  “Two or three minutes. No more.”

  “And when you returned the brooch was gone?”

  She nodded. “That was when I screamed.�
��

  “Indeed.” Gillette stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Extraordinary,” he said, pacing a short line before a scenery flat decorated to resemble a bookcase. “Miss Kendall?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has anything been stolen from you?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered. “Well, not this time.”

  Gillette raised an eyebrow. “Not this time?”

  The actress hesitated. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “From time to time I have noticed that one or two small things have gone astray. Nothing of any value. A small mirror, perhaps, or a copper or two.”

  Miss Fenton nodded. “I’ve noticed that as well. I assumed that I’d simply misplaced the items. It was never anything to trouble over.”

  Gillette frowned. “Miss Fenton, a moment ago, when the theft became known, it was clear that Miss Kendall was already aware that you had the brooch in your possession. May I ask who else among the company knew of the sapphire?”

  “No one,” the actress said. “I only received the gift yesterday, but I would have been unlikely to flash it about, in any case. I couldn’t resist showing it to Selma, however.”

  “No one else knew of it?”

  “No one.”

  Gillette turned to Miss Kendall. “Did you mention it to anyone?”

  “Certainly not, Mr. Gillette.”

  The actor resumed his pacing. “You’re quite certain? It may have been a perfectly innocent remark.”

  “Maude asked me not to say anything to anyone,” said Miss Kendall. “We women are rather good with secrets.”

  Gillette’s mouth pulled up slightly at the corners. “So I gather, Miss Kendall. So I gather.” He turned and studied the false book spines on the painted scenery flat. “Thank you for your time, ladies.”

  I watched as the two actresses departed. “Gillette,” I said after a moment, “if Miss Kendall did not mention the sapphire to anyone, who else could have known that it existed?”

  “No one,” he answered.

  “Are you suggesting—” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Are you suggesting that Miss Kendall is the thief? After all, if she was the only one who knew—”

  “No, Lyndal. I do not believe Miss Kendall is the thief.”

  “Still,” I said, “there is little reason to suppose that she kept her own counsel. A theatrical company is a hotbed of gossip and petty jealousies.” I paused as a new thought struck me. “Miss Fenton seems most concerned with protecting the identity of her gentleman admirer, although this will not be possible if the police have to be summoned. Perhaps the theft was orchestrated to expose him.” I considered the possibility for a moment. “Yes, perhaps the intended victim is really this unknown patron, whomever he might be. He is undoubtedly a man of great wealth and position. Who knows? Perhaps this sinister plot extends all the way to the—”

  “I think not,” said Gillette.

  “No?”

  “If the intention was nothing more than to expose a dalliance between a young actress and a man of position, one need not have resorted to theft. A word in the ear of certain society matrons would have the same effect, and far more swiftly.” He threw himself back down in his chair. “No, I believe that this was a crime of opportunity, rather than design. Miss Kendall and Miss Fenton both reported having noticed one or two small things missing from their dressing area on previous occasions. It seems that we have a petty thief in our midst, and that this person happened across the sapphire during those few moments when it was left unattended in the dressing room.”

  “But who could it be? Most of us were either onstage or working behind the scenes, in plain view of at least one other person at all times.”

  “So it would seem, but I’m not entirely convinced that someone couldn’t have slipped away for a moment or two without being noticed. The crew members are forever darting in and out. It would not have drawn any particular notice if one of them had slipped away for a moment or two.”

  “Then we shall have to question the suspects,” I said. “We must expose this nefarious blackguard at once.”

  Gillette regarded me over the bowl of his pipe. “Boucicault?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “That line you just quoted. I thought I recognized it from one of Mr. Boucicault’s melodramas.”

  I flushed. “No,” I said. “It was my own.”

  “Was it? How remarkably vivid.” He turned to young Henry Quinn, who was awaiting his instructions in the wings. “Quinn,” he called, “might I trouble you to run and fetch Mr. Allerford? I have a question or two I would like to put to him.”

  “Allerford,” I said, as the boy disappeared into the wings. “So your suspicions have fallen upon the infamous Professor Moriarty, have they? There’s a bit of Holmes in you, after all.”

  “Scarcely,” said Gillette with a weary sigh. “I am proceeding in alphabetical order.”

  “Ah.”

  Young Quinn returned a moment later to conduct Allerford into our presence. The actor wore a long black frock coat for his impersonation of the evil professor, and his white hair was pomaded into a billowing cloud, exaggerating the size of his head and suggesting the heat of the character’s mental processes.

  “Do sit down, Allerford,” Gillette said, as the actor stepped onto the stage, “and allow me to apologize for subjecting you to this interview. It pains me to suggest that you may in any way have—”

  The actor held up his hands to break off the apologies. “No need, Gillette. I would do the same in your position. I presume you will wish to know where I was while the rest of you were running through the first act?”

  Gillette nodded. “If you would be so kind.”

  “I’m afraid the answer is far from satisfactory. I was in the gentlemen’s dressing area.”

  “Alone?”

  “I’m afraid so. All the others were onstage or in the costume shop for their fittings.” He gathered up a handful of loose fabric from his waistcoat. “My fitting was delayed until this afternoon. So I imagine I would have to be counted as the principal suspect, Gillette.” He allowed his features to shift and harden as he assumed the character of Professor Moriarty. “You’ll never hang this on me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he hissed, as his head oscillated in a reptilian fashion. “I have an ironclad alibi! I was alone in my dressing room reading a magazine!” The actor broke character and held up his palms in a gesture of futility. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything better, Gillette.”

  “I’m sure nothing more will be required, Allerford. Again, let me apologize for this intrusion.”

  “Not at all.”

  “One more thing,” Gillette said, as Allerford rose to take his leave.

  “Yes?”

  “The magazine you were reading. It wasn’t The Strand, by any chance?”

  “Why, yes. There was a copy lying about on the table.”

  “A Sherlock Holmes adventure, was it?”

  Allerford’s expression turned sheepish. “My tastes don’t run in that direction, I’m afraid. There was an article on the sugar planters of the Yucatán. Quite intriguing, if I may say.”

  “I see.” Gillette began refilling the bowl of his pipe. “Much obliged, Allerford.”

  “Gillette!” I said in an urgent whisper, as Allerford retreated into the wings. “What was that all about? Were you trying to catch him out?”

  “What? No, I was just curious.” The actor’s expression grew unfocused as he touched a match to the tobacco. “Very curious.” He sat quietly for some moments, sending clouds of smoke up into the fly curtains.

  “Gillette,” I said after a few moments, “shouldn’t we continue? I believe Mr. Creeson is next.”

  “Creeson?”

  “Yes. If we are to proceed alphabetically.”

  “Very good. Creeson. By all means. Quinn! Ask Mr. Creeson to join us, if you would.”

  With that, Gillette sank into his chair and remained there, scarcely moving, for the better
part of two hours as a parade of actors, actresses, and stagehands passed before him. His questions and attitude were much the same as they had been with Allerford, but clearly his attention had wandered to some distant and inaccessible plateau. At times he appeared so preoccupied that I had to prod him to continue with the interviews. At one stage he drew his legs up to his chest and encircled them with his arms, looking for all the world like Sidney Paget’s illustration of Sherlock Holmes in the grip of one of his three-pipe problems. Unlike the great detective, however, Gillette soon gave way to meditations of a different sort. By the time the last of our interviews was completed, a contented snoring could be heard from the actor’s armchair.

  “Gillette,” I said, shaking him by the shoulder. “I believe we’ve spoken to everyone now.”

  “Have we? Very good.” He rose from the chair and stretched his long limbs. “Is Mr. Frohman anywhere about?”

  “Right here, Gillette,” the producer called from the first row of seats. “I must say this appears to have been a colossal waste of time. I don’t see how we can avoid going to the police now.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree,” I said. “We are no closer to resolving the matter than we were this morning.” I glanced at Gillette, who was staring blankly into the footlights. “Gillette? Are you listening?”

  “I think we may be able to keep the authorities out of the matter,” he answered. “Frohman? Might I trouble you to assemble the company?”

  “Whatever for?” I asked. “You’ve already spoken to—Say! You don’t mean to say that you know who stole Miss Fenton’s brooch?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But then why should you—?”

  He turned and held a finger to his lips. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the final act.”

  The actor would say nothing more as the members of the cast and crew appeared from their various places and arrayed themselves in the first two rows of seats. Gillette, standing at the lip of the stage, looked over them with an expression of keen interest. “My friends,” he said after a moment, “you have all been very patient during this unpleasantness. I appreciate your indulgence. I’m sure that Sherlock Holmes would have gotten to the bottom of the matter in just a few moments, but as I am not Sherlock Holmes, it has taken me rather longer.”