by Val Andrews
The clown nodded. ‘Come to think of it there has been a chap, rough-looking, at several performances. He did not seem terribly interested in what he saw: never laughed when I handed him my imitation red hot poker to hold, and when the acrobats were one he seemed to be looking everywhere except at the ring.’
‘He has caused no trouble, no disturbance?’
‘Oh no, sir, he just sits quiet, on the top tier opposite the ring entrance.’
We emerged back into the store itself and Holmes turned to me to say, ‘Watson, we will occupy seats in that top tier ourselves at the very next performance. We might yet avert a tragedy, for I feel that this latest threat is intended to warn of more than mere inconvenience.’
We dallied a while in the pet and livestock department during the time we had free before the second circus performance. I suppose you could have called what we experienced a glorified pet shop. But its scale was considerable with the tiger cub as the central point of interest. However, there were aviaries and aquaria with all the usual birds and fish, and white mice beloved of the schoolboy. Parrots and macaws were tethered upon stands and dozens of rabbits and guinea pigs roamed free in a large pen. Of course, a big store has a jungle drum system of communication and although we had roamed quietly around the emporium a number of times before we had never until that actual day assumed characters that might be remembered. ‘Summers and West’ were now known to be inspectors of livestock, and the manager of the pet department not only knew us but treated us with a certain amount of apprehension.
‘Everything all right, gents? You will find everything here is done for the comfort of our little guests. They may not be long with us, but I’ll wager these are the best days of their lives. I hate to sell an animal that I have got to know, and I can always tell what sort of a home they are going to. Why, the posh kid who is getting the tiger cub for Christmas will soon get sick of it, and his father will blanche at having to buy it twelve pounds of meat a day when it grows up! As for the poor fish, they will last about a week at most in those wretched little bowls that I am forced to sell. I can tell you this because I know you are not with the firm. But between ourselves, I don’t think old man Forrage gives a tinker’s cuss about the creatures, aside from the profit they bring. I went to him once, “Mr Forrage”, I said, “someone should be in the store on Sundays to feed and clean out the animals.” But he just turned to me and said, “Just do your job.” He doesn’t care I tell you . . .’
I picked up a rabbit and pretended to examine it, pronouncing it to be in splendid condition, and hoping that it was. Then I returned it to the pen and said, ‘Well done, sir, I can see that you are a humane man and an animal lover.’
We repaired to the circus again and sat just where we had determined to. Between scanning the spectators for the rough type that the clown had described, we discussed our dalliance among the pets. I asked, ‘Did you notice how he shook with suppressed rage when he spoke of Forrage?’
Holmes replied, ‘It could hardly go unobserved. Moreover, it does not sound as if Forrage is very fond of the poor man either. His name is Greenford by the way.’
‘Oh, did he tell you, I did not hear . . .’
‘No, I observed the badge pinned onto his dustcoat; you were convincing as a veterinary person, but you will never make a detective.’
Well, Holmes was always very variable in his praise or otherwise of my efforts to aid his deductions. Only a day or two earlier he had said to me, ‘We will make a detective of you yet’, but I was used to his stick-and-carrot use of praise and ridicule. I concentrated upon my task as an observer.
Dear reader, I will not bore you with a description of the scale of our scanning and the duration of it. Enough to say that we had wasted our time in attending that particular performance. However, by repeating the operation at the final performance of the day we gained some result. The man who had taken our attention had slipped in just as the lights in the audience were lowered and those illuminating the sawdusted circle were raised. But before the gloom had enveloped us we had gained time to observe the roughly-dressed individual, sporting a peaked cap and green pea-jacket. The lighting of the circus varied, being raised in the auditorium whenever the clown Bimbo made an excursion among the crowd. During one of these interludes he spotted us and rolled his eyes in the direction of the rough-looking man, as if to say, ‘That’s him!’ Then he doffed his fool’s cap and started to place it upon the heads of children and even adults in turn. I rather fancy I cut a dash in it, but it made Sherlock Holmes look ridiculous. Then as he tried to remove the rough man’s cap to replace it with the cone of white felt, the fellow waved him aside in a curt manner, accidentally jostling the person who sat between us. The jostled one decided to move his seat and left the row altogether leaving a space where he had been seated.
As it happens this proved providential.
When the final act, that of the elephant, was arrived at, I noted that the fellow seated near me changed his hunched attitude to one of alertness and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his pea-jacket. Holmes whispered to me to sidle up to the rough man and he, himself, walked along the row to the far side of him. He caused other spectators to move along the bench and he sat so that our quarry was wedged between us.
‘Mitzie, hup!’
The elephant trainer called once again for silence and the lumbering animal started to raise a tree trunk of a leg. Then suddenly I detected a rapid movement from the man sandwiched between us, and immediately Holmes was wrestling with his right arm. He hissed, ‘Watson, grab his left arm!’
I did as he bade me, but the fellow wriggled free of us, to drop through the gap near the seating footboard, seven or eight feet to the ground below. I was all for pursuit but Holmes whispered, ‘Not the right time for a disturbance, Watson!’
The great detective sat as if frozen, until the elephant had finished her traversal of the prone figure of the ele-phant trainer’s wife. Then, as she arose, smiling, arms held high and the applause broke out, he said, ‘Thank heaven there was a minimum of commotion. You see, Watson, the fellow had a pistol, but I managed to wrest it from him.’
He showed me the small, neat weapon which he now held. I gasped. ‘Great Scott! Did he mean to shoot the lady or the elephant?’
Despite the gravity of the situation, Holmes chuckled. ‘Neither, Watson. If you examine the pistol you will find that it is made entirely in order to fire blank cartridges, with which it is loaded. No, he meant to make a maximum of disturbance, enough to startle the elephant into dropping a foot upon the intrepid Maritza.’
It soon became clear that the ‘assassin’ had planned to drop to the ground, as he indeed had, to escape under cover of the tumult that he would have caused. As it was he had escaped without chase. I said, ‘A pity we did not manage to hold him.’
Holmes said, ‘The struggle was not worth the risk, and in any case he was not our man; simply a pawn in the game, I’ll wager.’
As the national anthem was played and we all stood to attention, I espied at least one figure moving within the circus. It was A.W. Forrage himself, seeking us, and as the final notes of ‘God Save the Queen’ emerged from trumpet and trombone he espied us and started to climb up the steps to the top tier.
‘There was a rough fellow who streaked out of the circus like a bat out of hell! Has the threatened tragedy occurred?’
He stood at the end of the row of plank seating, obviously very concerned with a touch of anger in that concern. But Holmes spoke softly with his inevitable incisive thrust. ‘On the contrary, my dear Forrage, a tragedy has been averted, thanks to the most part for the prompt actions performed by your hired investigators; in short our good selves.’
His irony was not lost on Forrage who became calm of manner as Holmes and I, taking turn and turn about, managed to give him an accurate account of the happenings of the past quarter of an hour. He breathed hard, for apology did not come easily to the store magnate, but apologise he did. ‘I am sorr
y. I am so used to events transpiring where there is no seeming redress that I made a wrong assumption. You have done well, Holmes, to prevent what could well have been a tragic event.’
Holmes nodded curtly and said, ‘Your apology is duly noted, and let us hope that we have at last turned the corner in our pursuit of your tormentor, and that we may soon be able to tell you that we have discovered his, or her, identity.’
Forrage started, ‘You do not mean to suggest that there is a possibility, however remote, that this evil being could be a woman?’
Holmes chuckled. ‘My dear sir, the female of the species can be deadlier than the male. We have seen only one of your ill-wisher’s minions. Whilst I have no particular reason to suspect that it is a woman, I cannot discount the possibility.’
When we had parted with Forrage, I turned to Holmes and asked, ‘Holmes, do you have any reason to suspect that our adversary is female?’
He chuckled. ‘None whatever, but my dear Watson one has to give the client a run for his money, so to speak. He will be back in his office by now, wondering why his wife, his secretary or his mother-in-law should be tormenting him.’
I remarked accusingly and not for the first time, ‘Holmes, you have a certain cruel streak of irony at times, which I might add is quite unworthy of you.’
My friend nodded with mock severity as he said, ‘You are, of course, right, but we cannot all be paragons of human virtue like yourself, my dear Watson!’
Chapter Five - The Early Riser
On the following morning I determined to rise early, aspiring even to be the first to the breakfast table. As I walked into the dining room to see our places both neatly laid and undisturbed, I felt that my determination had paid off, if the reader will forgive me for using the parlance of ‘the sport of kings’. But alas the best laid plans of mice and men . . . what?
There was the sound of the front door opening, footfalls which gave me to believe that we had an early visitor, yes, early indeed. In my mind I deduced that he was a man of some eleven stone and a half, of middle years but energetic, rather like Sherlock Holmes himself. My deductions could not have been more accurate for the door to the apartment opened and the fellow entered unannounced: which was scarcely surprising as he turned out to be Sherlock Holmes himself.
‘My dear Watson, I rose early and took the opportunity to use the newly installed telephone at the post office. Have you used it yet? It is quite an experience; rather like conversing with an Edison-Bell phonograph cylinder. But when you consider that I was speaking to someone at a distance of some four to five miles it is hardly surprising. The post master assures me that very soon one will be able to converse with someone who is at least ten miles away and within a decade every business and government department will be able to be reached by telephone. Eventually I have no doubt that the ordinary people will be able to install such an instrument in their homes. Alas, I shall not be here to see it, or rather hear it.’
This was the first time that I had heard my friend speak of himself as other than indestructible. I was concerned. I said, ‘Why, Holmes, you are scarcely middle-aged. Come, there are quite a few years left in you, always assuming that you do not resume some of your earlier bad habits!’
He chuckled, but not, I would learn, at my reference to his one-time regular use of cocaine. He said, ‘You are right, Watson, but you see I was referring to my residence in this apartment. I meant that I would not be here long enough to see a telephone installed: I did not hint at my early demise.’
I was relieved, but puzzled. ‘You have never given me the slightest hint that you intended moving house.’
‘Have I not mentioned an intention to retire to the Sussex coast to keep bees and have time to meditate upon my own thoughts, Watson?’
He had indeed vaguely mentioned such intentions from time to time, but I had assumed that he had referred to some kind of preparation for his old age. I said, ‘Yes, but an active man such as yourself does not contemplate retirement when still short of fifty years! I had assumed that you were making prediction of events for the year 1920, or thereabouts.’
I realised that he was quite serious as he replied, ‘I am still I believe, as I speak, at the very height of my mental and physical powers. But five or seven years from now I might still believe this and be a victim of self-deception. I have made a reputation and have helped a great many people, some of them at their wit’s end. They have trusted me and thankfully I have managed to justify their trust. I dare not risk in the future some poor wretch depending upon a Sherlock Holmes that is past his best without realising it. As I say, my reputation is important too. With all this in mind I may from this time take on few if any new cases. The affair at Forrage’s may well be Sherlock Holmes’s last escapade!’
Then his eyes twinkled as he added, ‘So make the most of it for the enjoyment of your readers. If I do not solve the problem for Forrage you will, of course, have no story to tell and I will have retired not a moment too soon. If I do solve it, though, I fear it will be quite a few years before you can lay the episode before your avid public.’
But I was less concerned for my literary career than I was for Holmes’s future plans. We had been friends and colleagues for a very long time, at least twenty years, and I could not imagine my life without the excitement, admiration, wonder and occasional anger that Sherlock Holmes had brought to it. I suppose this is hardly entirely true, because I had that period when I had believed him dead to suggest the mediocrity which the future might hold. But I realised that I could not dwell upon morbid thoughts and must back up my friend to the last.
‘Might one enquire who it was that you spoke to upon this telephonic marvel?’
‘I don’t think you have met an acquaintance of mine, Gregory Kline, who works for a finance company in the city? I wanted his opinion upon the situation at Forrage’s. For example, who would gain from its descent to a lower position in the world of retail fame. He could think of nobody, but he gave me quite a lot of information regarding the way the store is organised and so on. I will not bore you with the trivial, Watson, but it appears that Forrage has some very shrewd fellow stockholders of whom he needs to be ever wary. I could have called upon Kline as I have on previous occasions, but I just wanted to try out this telephone and judge its usefulness for myself. Watson, I do believe that if I did not contemplate retirement, I would move heaven and earth to get one installed here at 221B.’
This of course was typical of Sherlock Holmes; he had ever been the first to try an innovation. He had sent wires as if they were postcards and I had noted of late that he had taken to writing with a patent contraption which held its own reservoir of ink. Yet I knew that he bemoaned the inevitable passing of the hansom cab. (There were plenty of them still upon the London streets, but it was becoming obvious that the motorised taxicab would eventually drive them off the roads.) However, his lament had practicality behind it. One can ride in a hansom and preserve one’s anonymity: a taxicab attracts attention and is without curtains. The top half of the hansom provides a gloom which obscures one’s identity.
But I digress, dear reader, and must take up my story from the point where we both sat down to breakfast. Holmes eager for his refreshment through an appetite created by an early excursion, whilst I was as ever ready for my favourite meal of the day. A forkful of bacon was about to be inserted into my eager mouth when I heard the doorbell. This was followed by the faithful steps of Mrs Hudson as she descended the stairs. Then her footfalls were accompanied upon her return by those of a youthful person. I asked, ‘One of the irregulars?’
Holmes replied, ‘I doubt it, most of them are grown and dispersed, and those that remain would not be able to resist a scamper up the steps, even under Mrs Hudson’s stern gaze. This youth has the joyless step of a messenger.’
‘A boy with a wire?’
‘No, he has not those heavy official boots . . .’
The door opened and the good housekeeper announced, ‘Boy from Forrag
e’s, Mr Holmes, says he has a message. His boots are fairly clean.’
Holmes chuckled. ‘Send him in then, Mrs Hudson, as he seems to have passed your inspection.’
A downtrodden-looking youth entered, holding an envelope. He wore thick spectacles through which he squinted at us in turn.
‘One of you gents Sherlock ’Olmes? Only I was ordered to deliver this personal.’
My friend rose and took the envelope, saying, ‘I am he, the very same. Pray be seated, young man, whilst I see if a reply is required. Watson, pray pour our friend a cup of coffee and for heaven’s sake, do something about his spectacles!’
I lifted the wire-rimmed glasses from the boy’s face and examined them. The boy was docile and allowed me to do this without making a scene. Indeed he said, ‘My eyes is troubling me something terrible, it seems to be getting worse.’
As if to illustrate he picked up the milk jug in mistake for his coffee cup. I studied the spectacles and soon realised that they might not have been cleaned since they had been fashioned. I held them over the vapour from the coffee pot and then cleaned the lenses with my table napkin. Within a few seconds they were crystal clear and I returned them to the boy. He replaced them on his nose and gasped, ‘I can see . . . I can see!’
I chuckled and said, ‘It well may continue thus if you clean them, at least once each day.’
He gasped, ‘I didn’t realise that you ’ad to clean ’em.’
He was, I realised, a particularly dense youngster. In my youth we might have described him as ‘only about eightpence in the shilling’.
Holmes did not interest himself in the drama of the short-sighted youth and his occular improvement. He was busy scribbling an obviously terse note on the back of one of his visiting cards. He placed the pasteboard into a small envelope upon which he wrote the name ‘A.W. Forrage, Esquire’, handing it to the transformed youth who grinned as he peered at the name on the envelope.
