by Barry Day
Carlotta had been on the point of saying something more but thought better of it.
“It is too easy to talk as though our adversary is moving us around like pawns in a game of chess of his own devising and in which he makes all the moves. Yet the facts suggest otherwise. Fiske’s death, though made to look dramatic, was a dangerously ad hoc business and I detect a certain panic creeping into the playing. His choice of quotations, for instance, is beginning to be less considered or indeed, apt …” He indicated the paper Carlotta still held crumpled in her hand.
“The ‘almost blunted purpose’ Hamlet’s father is referring to is Hamlet’s intention to kill Claudius, his uncle and his father’s murderer. Your ‘purpose’ is supposedly to cease and desist from opening this theatre. The connection, though clear enough, is quite a tenuous one.”
“You ask me for my advice,” Holmes said, fixing the couple with a direct gaze that brooked no argument. “It is this. There is more at stake here than your personal pride—or, indeed, mine. Nothing would induce me to suggest you give best to someone who hides behind such threadbare theatrics. He has written the first two acts but we shall write the play’s finale. To do that we must encourage him to think that his tactics are working. Today is Friday. The theatre is to open next Tuesday, so we have four days. I suggest when Watson and I have left you call the cast together and tell them you are considering cancelling the opening …”
“But, Mr Holmes …!” Adler’s expression was a mixture of anger and incomprehension. “I thought you said …?”
“Bear with me. You will say that you are considering the option. They are not to worry for, whatever you decide, their salaries will be paid in full. You will invite them to join you for dinner at your hotel on Sunday evening, when you will expect to hear their various points of view and come to your decision. Mrs. Adler here will let it be known later that one possibility you are considering is to sell out to the group whose interests your son represents. None of this, needless to say,” Holmes raised a hand to forestall further interruption, “will be your true intent. However, it will both buy us time and lull our man into a sense of false security. I suggest you do this without delay, now that what remains of your cast seems to be complete.”
He indicated the group of actors, who had now been joined by Dame Ivy and Pauline French and were whispering and looking nervously in our direction.
“I’ll do as you say, Mr Holmes,” said Adler and you could see him bracing himself to resume his usual role, “but, of course, our party won’t be complete. Poor Ted …”
“Oh, I think you’ll find that Mr Allan will not only be in the land of the living but back amongst you after a good night’s rest in St. Bart’s You should certainly lay a place for him on Sunday. Watson and I will also joint you, if you will have us and one more thing …”
“What is that?”
“I should also invite Henry Tallis. Nothing could give greater credence to your story than to see the Trojan Horse within the gates by invitation.”
Adler looked as though he was about to expostulate but the pressure of Carlotta’s hand on his arm caused him to think better of it. With an abrupt nod he began to cross the stage towards the actors. With every step he seemed to fill out, until by the time he reached them he was the old Flo Adler again, throwing arms round shoulders, his voice booming with energy.
I turned back to address Mrs Adler. Her attention was totally fixed on her husband, her expression a mixture of anxiety and admiration. It was Holmes who broke the silence. “You are married to a remarkable man, Mrs Adler. He deserves to have his dream come true and, God willing, we shall make sure that it does. Now, if you’ll forgive us …”
“Of course, Mr Holmes. And I must go and see what news there is from the hospital.” Then, as he was turning to go, she plucked at his sleeve. “Mr Holmes …?” She was almost beseeching in her tone. “There is something I must discuss with you but not here. May I call on you both later?”
“We shall be delighted, dear lady, shall we not, Watson? Let us say six o’clock?” Tipping his hat, he led the way to the back of the stage. As I followed close behind, I took a last look. Carlotta stood like a tragic Wagnerian heroine leaning against one of the massive pillars, while on the far side of the stage were the rest of the cast, huddled together like the conspirators many of them had so recently played. In the centre of the stage, now dried to a muddy brown, was the pool of blood that indicated a drama more real than Shakespeare had ever intended for it.
“A penny for your thoughts, Watson?” It was Holmes waiting for me in the shadow cast by the late afternoon sunlight.
“Two things, really,” I answered, as we walked towards the entrance. “Somehow the people and the characters they’re supposed to be playing are running together in my mind, so it’s getting hard to tell who’s acting and who’s not. And then Allan’s stab wound. There was something very strange about that and I don’t mean that it was caused by a real dagger …”
“You mean that when one man strikes at another with a knife—as the conspirators did at Caesar—he strikes the blow downwards. Whereas the blow that Allan suffered was struck upwards? And to make things even more awkward, I believe that, should there have been a corpse for a pathologist to examine, he would have deduced that it was delivered by a left handed man using his right hand to further obscure the facts. Our friend Allan, I am prepared to wager, stabbed himself.”
“Yes,” I said almost stopping in my tracks. “Exactly. But that’s impossible!”
“No, old friend—merely improbable. When one cannot conceive the end result, it becomes difficult to see the connections. Here, we have no such problem. For reasons we have yet to fathom, friend Allan simply wishes to remove himself from our list of suspects.”
By this time we were emerging into the street, when a woman’s voice called out to us. Turning my head, I saw Dame Ivy hurrying towards us. “Mr Holmes, I must speak with you.”
Her tone was a far remove from the poised and icy lady we had seen hitherto and by her bearing the years seemed suddenly to have caught up with her. “It must stop, I tell you—it must stop!”
“What must stop?” said Holmes, holding out a hand to steady her. But the Dame said no more. Instead, her eyes fixed on something beyond us and in them was an expression of stark terror.
Turning to find the object of her attention, I saw an ambulance drawn up to the nearby kerb. Two uniformed attendants were in the act of loading a stretcher into the open back of it. On the stretcher, propped up on one arm, was the incongruous figure of Ted Allan, the bloodstained toga looking like nothing so much as a winding sheet.
But it was the expression on his face that rivetted my attention. The eyes turned in our direction were fixed and cold, like those of a corpse. And then I realised that Allan was only looking at one of us. “What must stop, Dame Ivy?” I heard Holmes repeat but there was no answer. When I turned, it was to see her scurrying back down the passage towards the stage.
Chapter Seven
Holmes and I were sitting on either side of the fireplace in Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had cleared away the tea things and, since there was an unseasonable chill in the air, had lit the fire. Holmes was sitting wreathed in clouds of tobacco smoke, a languid look on his face that told me he was pleased with the way the case was progressing. For the life of me I failed to see why but then I had long since ceased to be concerned by my own inadequacies in dealing with that remarkable mind.
“Come, Holmes,” I said, “we have both witnessed the same events and heard the same conversations, yet I am as much in the dark as when the whole business started. How could you be so confident with the Adlers?”
“I grant that I perhaps overdid things but in my experience actors—particularly those of the—shall we say?—more emphatic persuasion, such as Florenz Adler undoubtedly is, are happiest with broad brush strokes. Within the confines of these four walls I can confess to you, Watson, that there are many aspects of the case that still
elude me, despite the fact that I do have more information at my disposal than you.” He brandished a sheaf of telegrams. “These arrived while you were attending to your toilet after our return.”
I held up my hand when he offered them to me. “Just give me the gist.”
“Much as I trust those splendid folk at Scotland Yard, I thought it advisable to pursue my own separate enquires through my old friend, John Summers of Pinkertons. I was able to be of some small assistance to him in the Wells Fargo forgery case. Perhaps you remember it but no, I believe it was while you were off on one of your marital sabbaticals.
“In any event,” he skimmed through the papers, “he has been able to turn up some of the more recent information about certain of our cast of characters and their exploits in the United States.
“Dame Ivy we already know about, though Summers further postulates that she may well have lent Adler money during his earlier, impoverished years. Even though one imagines the money has long since been paid back and Adler has employed her consistently … the real debt can never be repaid? Woman scorned and all that, eh?” I added.
“Precisely. And obviously now susceptible to someone whose motives are strong and more immediate than her own and who has undoubtedly offered to either put money in her purse or expose her past, leaving the lady little choice …
“No, Watson, our Grande Dame is strictly a supporting player. We must look elsewhere for the leader.”
“What about this fellow Phipps? He’s mixed up in it, surely?”
“Ah yes, Phipps. Summers has something to say about him. As I prophesied, he is far from being what he purports to be. His early history is unclear but the first trace Pinkertons have of him is when he joined a touring acting troupe some two years ago, helping out in general and playing small parts. It seems the talent Adler spoke of became evident and he was soon playing leading roles. The general feeling was that he was a fine young actor but emotionally unstable, particularly when in drink. A year or so ago there was an incident in a bar in San Francisco involving a lady’s honour and a man was killed. Witnesses contradicted one another and there was insufficient evidence to hold Phipps—though he wasn’t using that name at the time. He seems to have left the country right away and soon after that, arrived back in England, where he took on the persona we see today.”
“Is he our man?” I asked. “We know he was one of the two men with Fiske that night …”
“Yes, but we also know that he was seconded late in the game and seemed ill-prepared for his part. Furthermore, his history suggests that he is someone quick to anger, rather than a careful planner and, whatever else we may deduce about our literary friend, we must grant him a degree of organisational skill. No, Watson, I fancy we shall find that Master Simon will fall into the same category as Dame Ivy. Both are victims of someone who knows something about them they have gone to great pains to cover up and live down.”
“Which leaves us with …?”
“Which leaves us with Harrison ‘Harry’ Trent and Summers has some interesting information for us about that young man. We knew his father was an old colleague of Adler’s and sometime competitor. What we didn’t know was that it was Adler who caused his death …”
“But how …?”
“Addison Trent was never more than a poor second to Adler. In the late 1880s he borrowed heavily to stage the production that was to re-establish his reputation. This England was apparently a magnificent re-staging of Shakespeare’s history plays and it was playing to capacity audiences when the lease of the theatre came up for renewal. In a bitter auction it passed to …”
“Florenz Adler?”
“The very same. Adler wanted the theatre to stage a revue starring his wife, Carlotta. As the new owner he evicted Trent, who could find no other theatre suitable for his production. He had to close it and declare himself bankrupt. After that, he was never able to raise money again. Six years ago he blew his brains out and left a note blaming Adler for his troubles. It made headlines in the New York papers but in America, unfortunately, such things seem commonplace. Today few people remember.”
“Except Harrison Trent … and, of course, Florenz. His hiring his old friend’s son is presumably his way of trying to atone. Whether young Trent sees it in the same light is, of course, open to question.”
“Which leaves us with Ted Allan …”
“And there, I’m afraid, the good Summers has drawn a temporary blank. He hopes to get back to me within the next day or so and he has never failed me yet. Tell me, Watson, does it not strike you as strange that here we have three young men—Phipps, Trent and Allan—all of an age, all of whom seem to emerge from their own personal shadows at around the same time in the same place and all of whom come together in this place, at this time, as if drawn to a magnet called Florenz Adler?”
“Not to mention Henry Tallis, Adler’s son. There’s another coincidence for you. I say, Holmes—you don’t think they could all be in this together, do you?”
“A conspiracy? All for one and one for all, like Monsieur Dumas’ musketeers? A captivating thought, Watson that would make excellent material for one of your imaginative narratives. I can see it now. We find our suspects in some enclosed environment—a country house, perhaps, or even a luxury train, like the Orient Express. It transpires that they murder the victim in concert, so that no one of them is guilty. However, somehow I find that explanation a little rich for my blood in the present situation. No, there is one mind guiding these events.”
“Just a moment, Holmes,” I interrupted, “we’ve forgotten someone …”
“Carlotta, you mean?” Holmes replied. “Not forgotten, old friend, merely a lady in waiting. We shall soon be able to hear that lady’s story ourselves.” So saying, he pulled out his watch and opened the case. “Six o’clock precisely and there is the lady’s finger on the bell.”
“I’m sure you’re right on this occasion,” I teased him, “but how can you be so infernally sure it isn’t a telegram boy or some friend of Mrs Hudson’s?”
“I have learned over the years, Watson, that our front door bell speaks a language all its own. There is the faint, almost fugitive touch of the visitor who is in two minds as to whether he should share his—or frequently her—problems with a stranger. There is the imperious ring of the outraged victim prepared to wait not a moment longer for redress at whatever cost to our bell pull. And there is the resigned ring—of which we have just heard a good example—which tells of someone who knows they have no alternative. Ah, Miss Mencken, do come in, please …”
The woman who had been in the act of entering the room froze like a statue, her hand on the door knob. She was dressed from head to foot in black and veiled. I was instantly reminded of the identical figure whose arrival had set the present events in motion—what was it?—but two short days ago. But this woman was altogether smaller in stature and more womanly than our earlier visitor, whom we now knew to have been Dame Ivy and when she lifted the veil from her face, we were looking at the stricken face of Carlotta Adler. Except why had Holmes addressed her as ‘Miss Mencken’?
“So you know everything, Mr Holmes. How could I expect to hide it from you?” Her voice was harsh and pained, very different from the tones that had pierced the hearts of thousands in concert halls all over the world. Sensing her distress, I guided her to the visitors’ chair. She sank into it gratefully and looked at us with tear-filled eyes that still retained some defiance. Carlotta Adler may not have been the woman but she was certainly a woman to be reckoned with and Holmes immediately acknowledged as much as he answered her.
“Mrs Adler, please forgive an unworthy remark on my part. I can promise you I am far from omniscient, as my friend Watson here will certainly tell you. In fact, as far as you are concerned, I know no more than these telegrams from America tell me, which is what anyone with access to public records may discover.”
I felt that Holmes was being a little economical with the truth here but I bit back the remar
k that sprang to my lips. When he determined to put a witness at their ease, there was none to match him and the old magic seemed to be working once more.
“I sometimes foresee a day when all of us will be reduced to a set of facts and figures at the mercy of some infernal machine,” Holmes continued with a smile that coaxed something like a response in kind from Carlotta Adler. Picking up his mood, I added: “And presumably that day will mark the end of the investigator? Who will need you and I when they have a machine?”
At this Holmes laughed out loud. “Watson, I do declare that subversive sense of humour of yours will be the end of me! I don’t think we need to worry that this will come to pass in our lifetime and, in any case—if I may quote myself—I can conceive of a machine mat may see but never one that observes.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” Carlotta said softly. “You, too, Doctor Watson. The last few days have been a strain, as you know all too well. But it is the things only I know that are threatening my sanity. I must share them with someone …”
“Watson and I are at your service, madam.”
“It all began in Washington after we moved there from Florida. I was an only child, spoiled beyond belief, I’m sure. And you’re quite right, Mr Holmes, the family name was Mencken. Charlotte Mencken—the girl everyone said was pretty, the girl everyone said was a talented singer who would go far. But mere I was—18, 19 and not going anywhere. Until the actors came to town …”
For a moment she said nothing more, as she seemed to gather her thoughts. Then the colour began to rise in cheeks that had no need of rouge. She continued, not quite meeting Holmes’s eye.
