The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “Sidney, Sidney Larkin!” he called, and the stunted figure stopped, turned and bounded over to us. Zolnay, who had to prepare for the afternoon show, instructed him to take us to Panelli’s caravan. The man complied instantly, obviously an indication of his affection for the aerialist. He led us, with his hobbling gait, to a caravan that resembled the ones owned by Gypsies and Tinkers. It was immediately apparent that someone was home; we saw the plume of grey smoke rising from the tin stack that projected through the wagon’s roof. Drawing closer, the delicious aroma of onions and garlic frying in olive oil issued from the open window.

  Larkin lurched up the rear ladder and rapped on the door.

  “ ’Ey, Panelli,” he said under his breath, “couple of flatties out here to see you…”

  “What the devil is a ‘flattie’?” I asked Holmes.

  “I believe it’s circus parlance for ‘outsider.’ ”

  “You in a kip? Eh? Allright, mate, we’ll wait a bit.”

  Shortly afterwards the caravan’s owner appeared in the minute rear doorway, and motioned us all inside. Panelli was a short, stout man with an enormous drooping moustache and swarthy features. He wore a tattered hat, and most strange and engaging of all—had a small black monkey riding on his shoulder. The monkey too wore a tiny hat, and a bright jacket, which gave him an almost humanoid appearance. Already I was glad to have accompanied Holmes on this errand, since I had always been most curious to see the inside of a traveling caravan. We ducked in and were surprised to find not only Panelli, but his wife and five children too! How they could survive in those cramped quarters I couldn’t say, yet the place, crowded as it was, certainly had a cozy air about it. Mrs. Panelli stirred the iron pot on the stove, and offered us tea.

  Panelli, who was sprawled on a cot feeding his monkey (whose name was Jocko), was most cooperative in answering our questions. It was a curious experience sitting on a steamer trunk in the tiny traveling home, listening to the babble of the throng outside as the noise entered through the windows that were cheerfully decorated with curtains of blue gingham.

  “You will come with me please, gentlemen,” said Panelli, who bade his family goodbye and led us back down the ladder and towards a large tent.

  Lifting the flap for us to pass through, Panelli led us around a haystack. I was met with a sight that fairly took my breath away, and made me take several steps backwards.

  “Not to be afraid, gentlemen, they will not hurt you,” said the Italian, and walked calmly into the midst of a small herd of elephants that stood eating not ten feet away from us. One huge tusker caught my attention as he flicked the heavy chain which fettered him to and fro with his trunk as if it were a piece of twine. The beasts flapped their ears and swayed rhythmically as they ate. I could hear the grinding of their molars.

  “Now, Mr. Panelli, am I given to understand that when the accident occurred you were in this very tent with the elephants?”

  “Yes, it was late when they were rehearsing. I remember it was dark outside. The elephants were all as you see them now. Sidney sees me here then, also Rocco the clown. Panelli here the whole time.”

  “And all of the elephants too? None amiss?”

  “No, all here, all twelve, as you can count now—”

  At that instant the big bull, head swaying, backed up three steps and would have stepped on Holmes had he not backed off.

  “Hannibal!” shouted Panelli, and the bull resumed his original place.

  “They are easy, you see. Now, gentlemen, I go eat my lunch?”

  “Certainly. Thanks you for your help,” replied Holmes.

  We stared at the great animals for perhaps ten more minutes, but then the big bull showed signs of restlessness again so we departed the tent and resumed walking around the grounds.

  Holmes, as was his custom, walked slightly hunched over peering downwards in thought, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Well, did you observe anything remarkable either about Mr. Panelli or his elephants?”

  “I’m afraid not, Holmes. Everything seemed to be entirely above board. Besides, Panelli has several witnesses to attest to his presence in the tent.”

  “I concur. I think we can rule him out…and the beasts too.”

  “But why then Anna’s constant referral to the elephant man?”

  “Humf! That is why we must see her personally. It is good you are a physician, Watson, for it will make our visit to London Hospital much easier. Of course this means that we must miss the show. Let’s look up Zolnay and—good heavens, what’s that?”

  A piercing cry reached us over the din of the crowd. It came again, and I recognized it as the scream of an elephant. We made our way back to Panelli’s tent in time to see him scurry out of the caravan, a driving hook in his hand. Jocko the monkey rode chattering on his shoulder.

  “It is Hannibal again,” he said to us as he hurried towards the canvas flap. “He is near musth, and restless lately, as you saw. I must chain him apart from the others.”

  Having dispersed the crowd that was beginning to gather, we followed the trainer back into the tent. The animals were restless. Their rocking, swaying motion had increased, and they swung their trunks about with hollow blowing noises. The great bull Hannibal raised his head and trunk upwards and walked deliberately into the young bull tethered next to him. That animal in turn trumpeted and prepared to charge back. It was then I realized how frail indeed was the canvas tent that enclosed the animals. Panelli rushed between the huge beasts, goad upraised. I couldn’t help but admire his courage. The monkey shrieked with rage and delight. The animals backed away from each other and the massive chains straightened, then sprung into the air, thrumming like guitar strings. Holmes and I watched fascinated at the incredible strength and energy being displayed. Talking softly to the animals—whose behavior had much improved since his arrival—Panelli then crept round behind Hannibal and in a twinkling had affixed another chain to his right rear leg. This he then fastened to an enormous iron stake (its head flared like a mushroom from countless hammer blows) at the rear of the tent. After several minutes of tricky maneuvering, he had succeeded in isolating the bull between two stakes—far away from the others.

  All seemed in order, yet there occurred the next instant one of the most violent and ghastly spectacles I’ve ever witnessed. And though it involved no human life, the incident remains grimly marked in my memory for life.

  Panelli had finished drawing tight the rear chain and was walking past the animal towards us when Jocko, seeing the elephant’s tail swinging a few feet away, was overcome by temptation. Whether the huge tail resembled a rope or vine I cannot say, but the monkey sprang from the trainer’s shoulders and grasped the tail, then scrambled up along the huge back. There it pranced delightedly, turning backward somersaults and flinging about the straw that lay upon the elephant’s back. But in an instant the excited chattering was replaced by a muffled groan as the enraged beast’s trunk found the interloper and wrapped tightly round him. I heard Panelli cry out an admonition to Hannibal, but it was too late. The trunk snapped downward like a gigantic buggy-whip, and the monkey was slammed to earth. It tried to flee, and rose spastically for an instant, but was then blotted out by the descending grey foot. Before the trainer could call off the elephant, it had drawn up the small limp form again in its trunk and flung it through the tent flap.

  We all stared dumbstruck for a few seconds, so great was the shock and violence of the occurence. Then, recovering our wits, the three of us raced outside the tent to meet the gathering crowd that had formed a circle around the tiny furred carcass that lay sprawled upon the sawdust. The dead monkey lay on its back, its mouth, full of gore, opened in a horrid mocking grin which exposed the large teeth.

  “Hoodoo!” cried Rocco the clown.

  “Hoodoo!” echoed Black Jack Houlihan.

  “Oh lord! It’s the hoodoo sure enough!” responded Sidney Larkin, looking with horror on the dead monkey.

  “Holmes!
The ‘hoodoo?’ What’s the hoodoo?”

  “I take it to be an ill omen, a Jonah,” he replied.

  “Aye, sir, that it is—a Jonah! And the worst sort,” said Larkin, backing off in fear. “The worst sort of sign there can be, for if a monkey is killed, it means that three people shall die!”

  “Humph!” I exclaimed in disbelief, as we watched the elephant trainer sadly gather up his departed friend and wend his way back to the wagon. But despite my incredulity, I noticed the look of fear and wonder on the faces of the circus people, and the comment I heard more than once: “I hope it ain’t me!”

  We paused in the tent yard long enough for a pipe. At the end of that time, Holmes frankly admitted to me that the case appeared confusing. Since we’d struck a dead-end at the circus grounds for the time being, he thought it best to go to Anna’s bedside directly and have Zolnay join us there at the performance’s close.

  “Perhaps we’ll learn more at the hospital, Watson, though I must say this is not an auspicious beginning.”

  The ride to London Hospital was not a long one, and before half an hour had elapsed we were at its entrance. Sir Frederick Treves, the brilliant doctor and surgeon who was one of the hospital’s directors, was an acquaintance of mine. I therefore approached the head nurse and informed her of my relationship with Treves, and said we wished to see a patient in the hospital.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, he’s not to be seen unless so directed personally by Dr. Treves, we’ve had enough of the curious—”

  “I beg pardon, Miss,” I pursued, “but the patient we wish to see is a woman: Miss Anna Tontriva…”

  “Oh I’m sorry. I thought it was…another matter entirely. This way please.”

  I was shown into the chamber alone whilst Holmes waited outside. We had agreed that if she were in sufficient condition, he would join me in asking her questions. But upon examining the lady for only a few seconds, I uttered a sigh of despair, for I knew she would not live. I again checked her vital signs to make certain, but I had not been mistaken: the woman was in a deep coma, and running a high fever. Moreover, from examining her chart and palpitating her abdomen, I could tell that peritonitis had set in. There was nothing to be done…

  “What is it then, old fellow?” enquired my companion as I emerged, dejected. “Come on, man, raise up your head—”

  I shook my head sadly.

  “Fetch Zolnay. I’m afraid there’s much unpleasantness ahead for us. I’ll get the physician in charge, or his assistant. But believe me, Holmes, she hasn’t a chance.”

  Holmes said nothing, but his expression told me that he too was thinking of the monkey.

  “The ‘hoodoo,’ eh, Holmes?”

  “Bah! Rubbish!” he cried, and spun off to bring the acrobat.

  —

  I needn’t relate to you, dear reader, the painful events that followed. We saw the gigantic Hungarian, Gregor the Great, reduced to a weeping hulk as the body of his beloved Anna was borne away on a litter. We summoned various people from Chipperfield’s to comfort the man, and to arrange for the funeral. Leaving the hospital to continue our investigation, we passed Treves in the hallway. He was speaking to an orderly as we approached, and I heard a snatch of the conversation.

  “…so fortunate that he has quarters here now, don’t you see, for he won’t have people gaping at him all the time. Yes, women have been known to faint—oh hullo, Watson, what brings you here?”

  I briefly explained our grim mission to Treves, who extended his sincere sympathy, and we made our way back to the circus grounds. We had no trouble finding Sidney Larkin and Rocco, for they were in Rocco’s caravan, heads bowed in grief. All claimed it was the hoodoo working, and shuddered at the thought of the two additional deaths to follow. Panelli, feeling he was somehow to blame, would see no one. The show had been over for several hours and we were at liberty to examine the main tent. We entered and were immediately overwhelmed by the enormity of it. With the assistance of Larkin and Rocco, Holmes lighted several of the big carbon-arc lamps that served as spotlights. These he aimed upwards at the flying bars and platforms. Then, much to the amazement of all present, he approached the rope ladder that hung down into the centre ring and began to climb.

  “Halt!” came a voice. “What are you doing here?”

  We turned to see a powerful-looking man approach the centre ring and glare up at Holmes, who was almost to the top.

  “Vayenko, this man is Sherlock Holmes, a detective who is helping Gregor discover the cause of Anna’s fall—” began Rocco, but he was cut short.

  “Get down!” cried the Russian, shaking his fist.

  “Mr. Vayenko, I am here at the request of Mr. Gregor Zolnay. I would be most anxious for your assistance in this matter,” said Holmes coolly. “However, if you do not wish to cooperate, I would request you not interfere.”

  Holmes continued climbing toward the aerialist’s platform. He had almost reached the platform when Vayenko, with a curse, started up the ladder in pursuit with a speed that was unbelievable. In short order he had overtaken my comrade and seized him by the ankle.

  “See here!” I shouted and ran to the ladder, Larkin and the clown at my heels.

  Holmes assayed the situation calmly, and asked the acrobat to release his grip. I was appalled at the aerialist who, of all of us, should have been the most keenly aware of the danger to which he was subjecting Holmes. Yet I watched terrified as the Russian began pulling at his leg, and drew Holmes’s other foot from the rung on which it rested. My friend dangled there, forty feet up, carrying not only his own weight, but much of the other man’s as well. However, just as I thought his grip would fail, I saw his free foot snap back and the boot drive into the Russian’s hand. The man let out a howl of pain, and allowed Holmes to reach the platform.

  “What is going on here?” cried a deep voice. We saw an elegantly dressed man approach the ring and look up.

  “Vladimir, is that you? Who the devil is that up there with you?”

  The man made himself known as Lamar Chipperfield, the owner and manager of the show. Upon hearing the nature of our business, Mr. Chipperfield gladly consented, and instructed Vayenko to dismount the ladder immediately. Upon receiving this order, the man’s demeanor changed markedly; he assumed a meek and dutiful manner, and went to great pains to assure Mr. Chipperfield that he was acting only out of concern for the circus—preventing a stranger and trespasser from damaging the apparatus.

  “You know, Mr. Chipperfield, that our lives depend on the wires. To have them damaged in any way…”

  “I fully understand, Vladimir. You made an honest mistake. Kindly wait in your wagon until these gentlemen are through, for they may have questions to ask you. Goodnight.”

  The Russian moved off most humbly, even bowing slightly in my direction. But my loathing for him remained, and I felt that his servile attitude was a sham, for I saw him glare again in Holmes’s direction just before he departed the tent.

  I returned directly beneath the platform and spent the next several minutes helping to direct the spotlights in the directions Holmes indicated.

  “A little to the left and up,” he would say, peering about the tent from his lofty perch, “no, not so far—there, hold it steady for a moment…”

  Apparently tiring of this, he amazed us by drawing the middle bar over to the platform by means of a light rope. In a few seconds we saw him swinging in a wide arc over our heads. We were all afright for his situation, but he displayed that remarkable coolness which was his hallmark; he sat on the bar as if enjoying himself tremendously, gazing about and shouting directions to us.

  “Don’t be a moron, Holmes!” I cautioned. “You’ll break your neck! I say, come down at once!”

  But he stayed up another ten minutes before returning, bright-eyed, to the sawdust ring.

  “I say, Larkin, what’s that?” he enquired, pointing to a canvas canopy that emerged between tiers of wooden benches.

  “That, sir, is the run in.�
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  “The run in?”

  “Yes, sir. The animals make their entrance through it. It’s a canvas tunnel that runs out to the backyard and wagons. It’s kept sealed until showtime, for the children would sneak in through it to avoid paying.”

  The three of us examined the cloth-covered entranceway. It was about four feet in diameter. We entered the tunnel, stooping low as we walked, until we came to a wall of canvas tightly laced. Larkin undid the laces for us and we passed out into the night air. Sure enough, we were in the midst of the menagerie of wagons. The faint growling and acrid stench indicated the presence of lions.

  “And this is always kept laced?”

  “Yessir. Until the middle of showtime. As you can see, there’s nobody hereabouts most times—since the performers gather over near the front line tent for tea and a chat…”

  “I see. And not only is this area deserted, but remarkably near the outer fence too,” observed Holmes as he walked slowly about, eyes glued to the ground. “It may interest you to know, Watson, that the entranceway of the run in is visible from the platform, but not from the centre bar…”

  “You don’t say,” I replied, unable to follow his train of thought.

  “Larkin, are the flaps to the run in kept closed also?”

  “The inside ones? Yes, sir. It allows the trainers to lead their animals into the run without them being seen.”

  “And how are the flaps raised?”

  “By means of stout cords, which are held by the ringmaster—Mr. Chipperfield, the gentleman you met. After announcing the act, he gives a sharp pull to the cords, see, which raises the flaps, signaling the animals to prance into the ring. It’s a pretty sight sir, ain’t it, Rocco?”