“I am afraid,” I said to her, “that once we reach the pub the conversation will be dominated by your friend. So please, you must tell me how in heaven’s name you ended up with these fellows.”
She let loose with a peal of pleasant laughter and then smiled warmly at me, slipped her arm through mine and began her story.
“Well Doctor, it all began when I was five years old. One fateful afternoon my parents departed for an extended stay in Japan where daddy was to be the new ambassador, and I was left in the care of my nanny and an aging guardian. That afternoon my chauffeur was driving me to my aunt’s and he stopped beside a bar on Broadway and ran inside. It must have been to borrow some money that he then placed as a bet on a horse, and as he had nothing else to leave as his marker he left me, promising to return within the hour with the money to pay back the loan and retrieve me.”
“That,” I noted, “is a highly unusual way to secure a debt, even in America, is it not.”
She laughed again. “What is more unusual is that he never came back. To this day, I have no idea what happened to him. I can only guess that the long arm of the law was on his tail and he scampered off to St. Louis or goodness knows where. But he left me in the care of this wonderful gentleman who is walking in front of us, Mr. Archibald Jones, or Sorrowful to all who know him, and he had no idea what to do with me so he just took care of me. We had a wonderful apartment on West 49th, just off Seventh Avenue. Sorrowful became like a father, and I was mothered by all sorts of dear women who sang and danced and served tables in the nightclubs, and some who did none of those things but who had other talents for which they were well paid. Everyday Sorrowful would take me to the racetrack or the zoo or the Museum of Natural History or the Met Museum. Somedays we would picnic in Central Park. I cannot remember a single day of being unhappy. It was a dream world. At night, I would go with them to the local nightclub and they would put me up on stage and tell me to sing. So I did and they all cheered. It was a world away from the Upper East Side and I reveled in every minute of it.”
“Good heavens,” I blurted out, “Where were your parents? Your guardians? Why … you were abandoned.”
“Oh my, yes I was and could not have been happier. My nanny thought my parents must have decided at the last minute to take me to Japan, and they thought I was with my nanny and aunt, and frankly they were all too busy with their diplomatic life to even think about me. It went on like that for three whole years and might have gone longer had I not gotten terribly sick. I almost died.”
“My word, what happened?”
“Oh, I cannot remember much, but I had a terrible fever and pneumonia and goodness know what else and Sorrowful and Harry had to go into the Upper East Side and kidnap the best pediatrician in New York at gunpoint and make him come and look after me, which he did, of course as anyone would with two guns stuck into your ribs. He immediately shipped me off to the Bellevue and then all hell broke loose, as they say. The police and the courts and the doctors and the government all got excited about this poor abandoned little girl. They summoned my parents back from Japan. It was all they could do to keep it out of the press. My mom had fifty fits. Would have made such a great scandal. Don’t you think, doctor?”
“I must say, I imagine it would have.”
“So then I was back home and forced to attend P.S. 267 every day. But by then I knew my way all over Manhattan so I would walk in the front door of the school and out the back and be down at Mindy’s at Broadway and West 49th a half hour later. And the next day I would waltz into the school and hand them the most exquisitely forged note or certificate from a doctor, or a dentist, or a piano teacher explaining my absence.
“My parents sent me to Hunter College, which was absolutely a divine choice. There is a subway station right underneath it. I would jump onto the 4/5/6 line and in no time I could be on the F train and out to the Aqueduct or Belmont in an hour.”
Here Sorrowful, who had been listening to the story, turned around and spoke.
“And she turns out to be the best handicapper in all of New York City.”
I was obviously looking puzzled by that news and Miss Martha explained.
“Betting on the races is nothing but arithmetic. Sorrowful and Harry taught me how to do it and by the time I was in my junior year I was a whiz. I would read the daily form, look at the morning line and tell the fellows who to bet on and how much. And most of the time, we won, didn’t we, Sorrowful?”
“We are winners almost every time, kid. We are making so much scratch that we are now become respectable and dignified members of New York society and our Little Miss Marker is so smart that she is off to college. Isn’t that right, kid?”
“I have a scholarship to Radcliffe to study mathematics. But I demanded that I have my grand tour of Europe first. Well, mom had fifty fits and I had to throw a temper tantrum for two days before she agreed. So off I went to Europe with my guardian, who is terrible with her directions and somehow keeps getting lost for several days at a time. Where did we leave her last, Sorrowful?”
“In the big place with all those paintings across from the guy on the tower with the lions.”
“And so,” Miss Martha said, “here I am, with my dear honorary father and his fine friend, and we are on a mission to find some mysterious horse.”
By this time we were south of Marylebone and Holmes had led us a block west to one of his preferred local establishments, the Beehive Pub, a congenial place with good ale, plenteous food, and a crackling fireplace.
We sat and ordered a round of drinks. I looked at Miss Martha in unabashed admiration. She had an angelic face and was no more than eighteen years of age, but I had a sense that there was not much that this young woman had not already seen or was prepared to deal with if necessary, as long as her mother never heard about it.
The chap in the blue suit acted, as he had five years ago, as the chairman of our little assembly.
“It is a pleasure to re-acquaint ourselves with our illustrious and famous friends, Mr. Watson and Doctor Holmes.”
Before he could continue, Holmes interrupted him.
“Where’s Harry?”
“I am glad you made that thoughtful inquiry, sir. Our dear friend, Harry the Horse, is now a very hot item in all of New England. The local constabulary for reasons that we cannot comprehend are saying that a certain Brinks truck ended up swimming in the East River and they are thinking that Harry has something to do with this strange occurrence. I say we cannot comprehend their logic as we all know that Harry does not know how to swim, not even enough to get from a yacht to the shore with a bag of jewels attached to him. But because he is very hot he has found it necessary to vacate our fine city and spend some quiet time reflecting on the beauty of nature somewhere north of Maine. I am sure he would send his regards if he knew that we are visiting his friends in London. So greetings from Harry in absentia.”
He raised his glass and we toasted Harry. The chap then continued his introduction to our meeting.
“When I am departing from England after our previous visit I am thinking that never again am I coming back here nor do I think that I would ever again want to, as our last visit is not particularly a pleasant one, what with guys getting roasted and a fine racehorse getting all braised and toasted. But here we are and we are once again acting on behalf of a syndicate whose in needs we have a pecuniary interest.
“As you know, sirs, we are devoted participants in the sport of kings. Thus, it is imperative and also very important that we are cognizant of all the details about many horses else we could not be good handicappers, only lousy touts, and we would go bust. So we are every day looking at the racing newspapers from all across the great United States of America and watching to see what horses are winning and what horses are losing and what the conditions are when they win and who was their sire and this and that and so on and so forth. Almost all the names of all the horses and all the stables and all the trainers are familiar to us. However, starting
three years ago we see that a maiden three-year-old wins a race out in L A and beside his name is the name of his sire, and it says Sir Galahad. Now I do not know any sire in America by that name and it is quite understandable because beside the name of the sire in brackets it says E N G followed by a period and another bracket. This means that the sire is in England and that is sufficient and necessary cause for why I do not know his name. This is not a problem because all the time stallions and dams are being moved all over the world to breed with each other on account of because incest is not a good thing for horses any more than it is for humans. So I am not concerned that I do not know this sire.
“Then two weeks later again I see that a horse in St. Louis wins his maiden race and his sire is again Sir Galahad in England. So I can see that this English horse has some good things going for him and I make a note to be looking out for him again in the future. Well, the future comes very quickly, because a week later there he is again as daddy to a winner in Hialeah. And next he shows up at the Hawthorne in Chicago. And then he is way up there in Montreal where it is almost too cold for humans or horses, but he is sire to a winner who even has a French name.
“By the end of the season I am seeing eighteen maiden horses who are sired by Sir Galahad and are winners, and I am thinking that this must be one excellent sire. So I begin to lay a few bets on his progeny and they pay off handsomely. The next year I am watching again for Sir Galahad’s name and there he is again, not only for the four-year-olds, but now for a whole new crop of three-year-olds, and again I lay my bets on these horses and I am making very serious scratch. By the end of the year, I am now counting over forty horses across America from sea to sea who have Sir Galahad as their daddy.
“Now I know that some serious research is being called for, so I get in touch with my esteemed colleague, Sorrowful, and I ask him if I can borrow his kid for a week, by his kid I am referring to his honorary daughter who has now become a very lovely young doll and who is also very very smart, and is now gracing us with her presence at this table. I ask Little Miss Marker, who is no longer little but tall and gorgeous if she can check out all of Sir Galahad’s offspring across America, which she does. She reads all the forms from all the racetracks and she reports back to me that there are sixty racehorses scattered across racetracks that list Sir Galahad of England as their sire. But then says that there is something very curious about these horses. They are running at over thirty tracks, but they all belong only to six owners, which is very odd indeed. I try to make contact with two of these guys and I get a very cold shoulder from them. One even has me escorted out of his premises by a big galoot who is holding a Roscoe to the back of my head. The inside dope on Sir Galahad it seems is tighter than the nun’s pajamas if you know what I mean.
“So I venture again to my old buddies Patience and Fortitude who are still there guarding the corner of Fifth and Forty-First and I proceed up to Rosie’s Room and again find the pleasant lady who is a doll even if she is no longer a very young doll and whose uncle was an excellent handicapper. I tell her that I need to look through all copies of Sporting News from England for the past few years to find out about this horse, Sir Galahad. She says to me that she can do this for me on company time paid for by the City of New York because that is her job as a librarian, and all I have to do is take her out for dinner. So this I do and, since I am now, thanks to my excellent year of beneficial betting, a gentleman of sorts, I not only take her out but I take her to Delmonico’s and not to Mindy’s. We have a very nice time and some of this and that afterward and I call on her a few days later. She knocks me over when she says that no such horse as my Sir Galahad exists. She has looked through all the English papers for the past ten years and there is not a single mention of such a horse.
“Well now, gentlemen, I am facing a serious problem which if it is not resolved in my favor could lead to unhappy consequences for my well-being. This is on account of because I speak to a big-shot owner who has many horses at Belmont and I say to him that I have some inside dope on a sire whose progeny are winning many races. He listens to me not only because I am now well-dressed and have been seen in places like Delmonico’s where I am previously not welcome, but also because he is a true sportsman who loves getting inside dope. I tell him it is all hush-hush, which he likes even more, and I lay out all my cards concerning Sir Galahad and the record of the winners that he has sired. I tell him that I am an expert on sires over in England since I am over there quite recently and, more than somewhat prematurely I must admit, I tell him that for a serious amount of potatoes I can arrange for one or two of his fine mares to be transported across The Pond and serviced by Sir Galahad. He is very happy with this opportunity and gives me a serious down-payment and tells me to get busy.
“So without going into too many details, I tell the librarian doll that I am now dealing with a mystery since for sixty horses who are mostly winners to have a sire that does not exist is indeed highly mysterious. And she says to me, if I have a mystery to be solved in England the man I must get to help me is the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. And I remember that I know that name because when I am in England I get to know this Sherlock Holmes but even if he is a hotshot detective I remember that when it comes to horse racing he is a complete chump who could not tell a horse’s head from a horse’s ass with two hands and a roadmap. But the librarian doll says that I am not needing a handicapper, I am needing a detective.
“Then I meet again with Little Miss Marker here and she again says to me that I am looking at a very puzzling mystery over in England and she says that the man I must ask for help is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, because after she recovered from reading about the tragic and sad death of Black Beauty she then reads all these stories about Sherlock Holmes and how he solves mysteries especially those that are more than somewhat highly mysterious.
“But then something else even more peculiar happens. Miss Marker comes to me and tells me something that is stranger than strange and bordering on weird, which she will now relate to you on account of because I have been talking far too long and have not been able to enjoy my beer, which I shall now do.”
He took a long draft of his ale and nodded toward Miss Martha. She flashed her radiant smile, laughed and took up the story.
“Ah come on, it is not weird at all. There must be an explanation for it that we just do not yet know. It began when I came to my dear friend here and asked him how many racehorses in America were pure white in color. He told me that such a coloring is rare but not unknown and that is because it is caused by a recessive gene, and it has about the same as the percentage as redheads among dolls, which is about two percent. At a busy racetrack, you might see one every two or three days, but not likely more often. And then I told him that for all of these offspring of Sir Galahad that I had found across the country, there was a ratio of one completely white horse for every five. When I told him that, he told me about the incredible horse, Mr. Silver, who had run so beautifully in the Century Race here a few years back, and how the poor thing died in the fire the same night as his victory, and that it was possible that Mr. Silver had a brother who might be none other than our mysterious Sir Galahad.”
She smiled again and the chap in the blue suit, having drained his glass of ale and called for another, took over.
“So Mr. Sherlock Holmes, we are come to hire your detective services. We want you to find Sir Galahad.”
Chapter Ten
Into the Home Stretch
I HAVE COME TO KNOW those subtle signs that Sherlock Holmes gives that say that he is as pleased as punch with whatever prospect has just been laid before him. This was one of those times. His hands came together in front of his chest and with some difficulty, he struggled not to rub them together. His face affected a practiced smile of nonchalance. He was, to me, obviously delighted with the offer and straining not to be jumping up and down with glee.
“I suppose I could make myself available to assist you,” he said. “I believe that I
should be able to settle your affairs within a week or two. I will most likely have to call upon you for your participation and I will expect your enthusiastic support. If you are in agreement, then I suggest that we get started forthwith.”
The three Americans spent a minute looking at each other, pursing their lips and nodding. The chap in the blue suit answered on their behalf.
“Okay, Sherlock. We have a deal. So what happens next?”
“The three of you remain here at the Beehive and enjoy your supper. They have an excellent pork loin. I highly recommend it. Dr. Watson and I shall leave you and begin our work. So allow me to bid you good-day. I believe that you may be contacted care of the Metropole Hotel.”
“Yeah, that is where we are,” said Sorrowful.
Holmes and I left them sitting there and I followed him as he walked quickly back towards 221B Baker Street. There was a gleam in his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.
“Good heavens, Holmes,” I sputtered as he led me on a forced march. “You know next to nothing about horse racing. How in the world are you going to find a horse that there is no record of within a week?”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 11
