by Val Andrews
Our return to Budapest was by a rather more roundabout route than had been taken on our arrival which had, after all, not been planned. Just outside the forest, which hid the castle, we were transferred from the car to a horse-drawn vehicle which took us to the outskirts of Budapest. There we were left and advised to get a taxi. After perhaps half an hour we were able to engage an aged prewar taxi with an extremely elderly driverellderly d.
We arrived then by cab at the hotel, wearing the clothes that we had left it in (they had been laundered for us as the splendid borrowed garments might have raised some eyebrows). The clerk at the reception desk waved a hand to attract our immediate attention. He spoke in German, which he knew that Holmes understood. 'Herr Holmes, your bedroom was broken open and we had to send for the police. They searched the room, took your baggage and that of your friend. If you want to regain these things you must go to the police station, it is just around the corner...'
It was with some uncertainty that we entered the broken-down-looking police headquarters for that section of the city. I soon realized that we had been right in our uncertainty. The bombastic police sergeant behind the desk signalled to two constables to restrain us just as soon as we had announced our business. 'So, Englishmen, explain just who you are and what your business is in the new Hungary and where are your travel papers?'
We placed our passports upon the desk but whilst he perused them it was obvious, and possibly fortunate, that our names meant little to him. He signed to the constables and said, evidently, in Hungarian, 'Search them.' The first thing he found in our pockets was Holmes's notebook. He flipped the pages and his eyes widened as he saw the drawing of the cross of the Magyar Straum. He returned the notebook and signalled his constables to release our arms. Then he returned our passports with dignity and saluted.
As we walked back to the hotel I said, 'Lucky it turned out that way? I was afraid that the drawing of the cross might have an entirely opposite effect.'
'It is, as we have heard, a right-wing reactionary group, possibly they have either frightened the police sergeant, or have him as an ally. It's as well that he found no clue to the Magyar royalists, for the government hates them as much as do the Magyar Straum! I believe, Watson, it would be as well for us to leave for Paris on the night train.'
I had not seen Paris for a number of years and found that the aftermath of the most terrible conflict in history had left its mark. The artists still exhibited their work for sale near the Madeleine but the presence of so many visiting Americans had given the scene a commercial aspect. One could no longer tell the genuine starving artist offering his work from the consummate actor playing the part and offering swiftly completed and oft-repeated subjects. Indeed I had all but agreed to purchase a genuine Lautrec from a charming young lady who seemed not to realize its value when Holmes intervened and pointed out the modernity of the paint involved, saying, 'If you tilt the painting so Watson, you will notice a certain sheen which oil paint when fully dried out does not present. The process takes at least a year and this painting is not quite that old, despite probable efforts towards artificial drying out.'
It was fortunate that the lady appeared not to understand English too well but she could see that Holmes had lost her a sale and glared at him. I managed to get Holmes to sit for a lightning artist who had sketches of Ernest Hemingway and Oscar Wilde pinned to his display board. He produced a splendid profile of my old friend to rival anything that had been produced by Paget or Elcock. The artist noticed the likeness but obviously thought it coincidental. Likewise, the photographer who offered his sitters a range of fancy dress. For a few francs he would garb one as Napoleon or Tom Mix. He rummaged in his trunk and produced a deerstalker and an Invernesnde an Invs cape. These he insisted upon draping over my friend. He even produced a vast Meerschaum to complete the picture. A crowd collected, none of them dreaming that they were looking at Sherlock Holmes in person but sure that here was the most amazing example of a doppelgänger that they had ever seen. A matron from Boston insisted on throwing an arm around my friend, saying, 'Quick, take the picture, the ladies guild will sure be fooled into thinking that I was in Baker Square!' She thrust some francs at the delighted photographer who soon had a line of people waiting to be photographed with Sherlock Holmes's double. Holmes declined to take a share of the takings and also found himself forced to refuse a lucrative offer concerning his future.
A little later as we sat over citron presse at a cafe table we discussed the incident of the photographer. I remarked to Holmes on his good fortune that public recognition seemed rare, save when he made a caricature of himself. He nodded. 'I believe you have seen me attired in a deerstalker and Inverness perhaps three times in all the years of our association? We have Paget and the actor Gillette to thank for this image of me in the mind of the public. Without such props I can go where I please, untroubled by the notoriety which they present.'
We travelled to New York on the French liner Burgundy in record time, the captain being determined to win some sort of blue ribbon. We attended only one social function, the fancy dress evening, as Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. This time I wore the deerstalker and cape, whilst Holmes wore my bowler and sported a false moustache. Although we were much ridiculed, the situation appealed to Holmes's rather bizarre sense of humour.
PART FOUR
The Filial Seance
Back in New York we discovered that Beatrice Houdini was out of town, spending some time in Atlantic City with Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle. Holmes was in no hurry to impart to her the news that could of course be for her ears alone. We passed the time pleasantly enough in what must be one of the most fascinating cities in the world. But not for Sherlock Holmes the tourist sights that alone I might have been tempted to sample. Instead we went to a violin recital and, heavily disguised, to a meeting of The Manhattan Deerstalkers. This proved to be a sort of appreciation society, devoted to the study and reinterpretation of the Strand Magazine episodes with which I had been concerned. The members - doctors, lawyers, businessmen and women — were an earnest crowd who appeared to read more into the episodes than had ever been intended. I had co-operated with Conan Doyle to produce these episodes for the entertainment and pleasure of thoughtful readers and had never expected to hear read such learned and investigative papers. One retired American army major put forward a theory that Doctor John Watson was in fact a woman, Jean Watson and an elderly cleric from New Jersey insisted that Holmes had actually been killed in the accident at the Reichenbach Falls, just as at first believed. 'The Holmes you have heard of since then is an impostor!' he expostulated.
The final event of the evening, following a break for Hudson pies and cups of Baker Street Beverage, was a lecture by an elderly woman who doubtless believed that which she proclaimed.
'Friends and fellow Deerstalkers, I want to tell you all about my visit to Great Britain and my quest to meet dear Mr Holmes and his partner the Doc Elmer and I got to Baker Street on the first foggy morning of our visit. All around us there were people talking just like John Barrymhenore in Hamlet, except for some who I heard were called Orkneys and I guess they were from Scotland. They spoke quite differently from the others, dropping their aitches and tapping their noses with their index fingers in a most amusing manner. I asked one of these where I could find the home of Mr Sherlock Holmes. He said, "Blimee Missus, doncha know he went hoff ter keep bees in Sussex?"
' "Since when?" ' I asked.
'Then he suddenly became quite rude and shouted, "Donkey's ears." Which I took to be some sort of reference to Elmer's lobes! But the cop put us right, he was all done up in a Keystone Cop outfit and he consulted with some guy in golfing knickers and they agreed that dear Mr Holmes had indeed left town some years ago. When I asked if they could point out where he had lived they both pointed in different directions. Obviously Mr Holmes had instructed them not to divulge his old address to anyone. As there is no such place as 221b Baker Street I figure that it was just part of a bum
steer from the medico!'
We stole away into the night, Holmes chuckling considerably, saying to me, 'Oh Watson what have you done? That woman was just on the point of saying that she was sure that she spotted Moriarty on the underground railway!'
On the following day Beatrice Houdini returned from Atlantic City with the Doyles in tow. All three were full of excitement regarding a certain reverend gentleman with whom they had enjoined in several seances whilst at the resort. Bess (a name I cannot resist using in this narrative yet would never have used in direct address to that lady despite invitations to do so) said to Holmes, 'This guy, the Reverend Bridger, is either genuine or the most talented hustler ever! I'm still sceptical. He claimed to get a message from Harry's mother, with a secret word that they had arranged between them. The word was "forgive" and, as far as I know, nobody save Harry, Cecelia and myself ever knew about this. Harry would never, never, have divulged it to anyone and I don't think I ever did!'
Holmes frowned. 'You say you do not think you did. Can you not be sure on this point?'
She glanced round, assuring herself that the Doyles were out of earshot. 'Well, you know me, sometimes after two or three Martinis I tend to let things slip. But as I say, I don't think I ever spoke the word to anyone. By the way, how are you getting on with the investigation, any news for me yet Mr Holmes?'
Holmes spoke quietly, as if also wishing his words to be between the three of us only. 'Dear lady, I am near to the point where I will give you a definite answer but I need another day or so.'
At this point the Doyles interrupted by moving over to be completely within earshot of the quietest of converse. They were full of excitement regarding the seances with Bridger that they had attended. Sir Arthur said, 'Watson, Holmes, I am arranging for another seance to take place tomorrow night at the Algonquin Hotel. You are both invited and I know that however sceptical you may be you will save your findings until the seance is over. There will be just my wife and I, yourselves and dear Mrs Houdini. Already Bridger has brought us in touch with the departed spirit of Houdini's mother, this time in no uncertain way as even you would have agreed had you been there. Tomorrow Bridger has promised to do his level best to attract that most elusive of all spirits, Harry Houdini himself!'
'We will oh="> 'We wf course attend and whatever our thoughts or findings we will keep them to ourselves, be assured Sir Arthur,' promised Holmes.
During the short walk back to the Hotel Brownstone I asked my friend, 'Holmes, why have you not told Mrs Houdini about our findings so that we can have done with this affair. Surely there could have been a right moment of privacy arranged?'
'Easily Watson, but I rather wish to attend the seance with the Reverend Bridger, which I feel sure we will find interesting. I do not believe that the good Beatrice will be happy with our news and would rather delay it until immediately before our departure. She is a woman of fiery temper at times I'll be bound and I am too old to endure the remonstrations.'
Holmes showed every sign of being as good as his word regarding our impending swift departure when on the following morning he booked our tickets back to Southampton at the steamship office. When we got back to the Brownstone there was a message from Bess, demanding to see us.
Holmes slipped the desk clerk a dollar. 'Should Mrs Houdini present herself in person, please inform her that we did not return here from our walk.'
The clerk winked hugely. 'Dame trouble, eh? Rely on me sport!'
We spent most of the rest of the day at Central Park Zoo, to my annoyance, having already exhausted my interest during Holmes's absence. 'Why here?'
As we sat on a bench beside a huge, elliptic sea-lion pond my friend replied, 'Can you think of anywhere in New York where we are less likely to bump into Beatrice Houdini?'
Short of a nunnery I could not. So I made the best of it all, eventually beginning to share Holmes's interest in the animal kingdom to a certain extent. His knowledge on such a vast variety of subjects has never, through the years, ceased to amaze me. For example, we were in the lion house, where two, to me identical, full-maned African lions occupied identical adjoining cages. Holmes pointed to one of them, saying, 'Newly arrived, unlike the other felis leo, who has been here for quite a long time.' I failed to see how he could possibly know this and doubted in any case that we could verify it, until a keeper arrived with some pieces of meat on a four-wheeled barrow. The keeper pitched a piece of meat into each cage and both beasts threw themselves upon their ration. As the two beasts lay devouring horse-flesh, the keeper cocked a thumb at one of them and said, Ain't been here long but he's settlin' down nicely!'
As he pushed his cart towards the leopard cages I could only say, 'How could you possibly have known, Holmes?'
'Oh come Watson, you know my methods and have always been at least a good observer of that which is in front of my eyes.'
I scanned the two cages for some clue in the form of a notice reading, 'Received 6 July 1927' or something of the kind but no such notice was there.
'What were the two beasts doing prior to the appearance of their dinner trolley?' Holmes asked.
'Why the one was pacing up and down, whilst the other was sitting quietly.'
Sherlock Holmes applauded. 'Observation excellent but translation of that observed found wanting. My dear Wa he. My detson, why was the pacing lion indulging in that pastime?'
'Well, I assumed that he was doing it because he was in despair at being caged.'
'Not so, Watson, in the wild a lion sleeps twenty hours a day and spends the other four hours hunting an antelope or zebra. The energetic lion is simply doing what his instinct tells him to, pacing for the four hours which precede the appearance of the dinner cart, which long domicile here has suggested as inevitable. This behaviour in a zoo keeps the animal in perfect condition. The other lion, now, has been recently captured and transported from his native Africa. He has already learned to enjoy the meat when it is presented to him but it will take a few days, nay even weeks more before he anticipates its time of arrival. Shortly, he too will begin an excited pacing to and fro of his cage for several hours.' As ever the answer had been simple, yet had required more effort than anticipated.
We dined, if indeed the word can be applied to that which we consumed; though on reflection I think it can be due to the name of the establishment which we patronized. It was proclaimed to be Joe's Diner and proved to be a sort of refurbished railway carriage. We sat upon revolving stools at a counter, across which leant a large red-faced man with equally fiery hair and moustache.
'What would youse guys like...how about a couples of boigers?' he enquired jovially.
As he prepared what appeared to be rissoles inside a sort of unsweetened bun, I remarked to Holmes upon the singularity of his accent.
'Irish father, Greek mother, Watson: notice the S added to many words which is typical of the Greek immigrant,' he replied.
'And the Irish?' I asked.
'The colour of his hair, his general appearance, plus the use of the expression "youse" which is prevalent in Dublin.'
'Could he not have an Irish mother and a Greek father?'
But Holmes thought this unlikely. 'The Irish in him predominates.' Holmes's smugness in these deductions, following so closely upon the episode with the lions, irked me. Was my friend becoming what the Americans call a smart alec?
I leant across and asked the man, 'Excuse me sir, might I enquire your name?'
'Joe...Joe Casey...put it there pal!'
He extended a huge red hand, which I shook. As for Holmes, he sat upon his revolving stool with an expression of triumph upon his sharp old face.
Suitably bathed, shaved and formally attired we presented ourselves at the Algonquin at the appointed time. I was happy to be with Sir Arthur and his gracious lady again, even if a trifle uncomfortable in the thought that I might have some small part to play in their disillusionment. Honest, decent and crusading people, their genuine sincerity in their beliefs concerning spiritualism
had never been in question. But there are sharks in this world of ours who cannot always be recognized as such even by shrewd and discerning minds. My long collaboration with Sir Arthur in the preparation of the adventures, exploits and experiences of my friend Sherlock Holmes had shown me how agile he was in detecting subtle deception, for example, in the rev ex, in thelations in the adventure of The Red Headed League and the seemingly supernatural events concerning that great ghostly Hound of the Baskervilles. He had appreciated these deceptions, their motives and the mechanics of them. Why, oh why did he appear to have such a blind spot when dealing with those who claimed to conjure up the spirits of the dear departed?
Beatrice Houdini introduced us to the Reverend Joshua Bridger. He was a personable young man, neatly attired in clerical dress, with a full head of beautifully groomed chestnut hair. His gold-rimmed pince-nez dangled from around his neck upon a silken cord, save when he raised them to peer through, rather like a duchess with a lorgnette. He spoke with a southern American accent, bordering on the benevolent.
