by Val Andrews
‘Well Doctor,’ Holmes snapped at me, as loudly as was possible short of disturbing the audience, ‘will you kindly explain to me the modus operandi of this enigma? I feel sure that with the advantage of having read Professor Hoffmann’s “Modern Magic’’ you must know the secret?’ But the explanation of this puzzle had (and I was forced to confess it) even eluded myself.
As for the audience, they were truly amazed, even slightly alarmed at what they had seen. They had assembled to be bamboozled by conjurers, but expected what they might see to have at least a possibility of explanation. Here however, was what appeared to be real magic, and this feeling somewhat delayed their show of appreciation.
Alas, for Cyrano, an interruption prevented that well merited round of applause from even starting. For there arose from a seat in the stalls a small, thick-set man, with a mane of wild hair and a full beard who bellowed a protest in a distinctly foreign accent:
‘Stop, do not give him your claps pliz… he is a thief! He has stolen my invention, my wonderful expanding cube… I have worked on it for years and I am still rehearsalling with it… yet even now he has it, this thief! But I, Buatier De Kolta, I will kill him!’
Holmes muttered, ‘An amazingly dramatic interruption Watson. Hear his voice as it shakes with passion. He is either a Hungarian with Parisian domicile or a Frenchman who has lived in Hungary, for his accent carries both elements.’ Two burly theatre attendants bore down upon the little man and assisted him in leaving the building. His cries of ‘That thief, I will kill him’ could still be faintly heard after the access doors had slammed shut behind him.
Cyrano had wisely retired from the stage and the curtain was down by the time the demented little man had been removed from the scene. With great enterprise the management chose this moment to drop a screen of the type used by magic-lantern showmen, from the wings of the theatre.
Despite this distraction the ‘Animated Photographs’ glued us to our seats and soon caused the audience to forget all about the angry little foreigner and his threats to kill Cyrano. They were not only amazed but truly alarmed as the Brighton to London express train rushed toward them. They twitched and flinched, but were soon beguiled by a moving depictation of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. Although the pictures jumped and flickered it was possible to make out the faces and figures of the great personalities involved. The sight of the German Kaiser was greeted by cries of ‘Willy… There’s old Willy!’ and the Prince of Wales was ‘Good old Ted!’ As for the Queen in her carriage it was a case of ‘God Save the Queen!’
‘Celebrities in the Park’, so said the lettering on the sheet, followed by a number of unrelated ‘scenes’, (as they were called in the theatre) of people, animals and events. The only thread of connection was that all were evidently photographed (or ‘cinephotographed’) in a park. There were nursemaids flirting with soldiers, famous people with their dogs, and policemen on bicycles. This theme gave way to what purported to be an actual filming of the Heavyweight Fight between Guardsman Gray and Charles McDougal, which we well knew had taken place only a week or two earlier.
‘Upon my word!’ Holmes could not contain himself, as he explained to me ‘sotto voice’ that he had attended that particular pugilistic contest, and could state quite definitely that neither of the fighters depicted were genuine. ‘Actors have recreated the contest… blow by blow. I’ll wager Maskelyne doesn’t know that he is presenting a fake!’
Having only seen a newspaper artist’s impression of either man, most of the audience were willing to accept the fight as genuine. After all, the right contestant won!
The next episode to gain our attention (although the flickering of the images upon the sheet had by now tired our eyes), was titled ‘Adventures with Sherlock Holmes’. Two actors, the one tall and slim, wearing an Inverness cape and deerstalker, the other, shorter and inclined to corpulance, were evidently intended to represent ourselves. The makers of this episode had obviously been influenced by my account of the adventure of ‘The Speckled Band’ in the Strand, for the tall actor thrashed at a very unrealistic snake descending a bell rope. The episode was mercifully short. It prompted Holmes to turn to me and say, ‘See what you have done Watson… your literary vanity has made us both into figures of fun!’
There followed a comedy ‘film’ (as I have since heard such episodes called) in which a thief attempted to creep up upon an old lady asleep in a chair outside her cottage. His intention was to steal her canary from its cage. The laughter which this merry scene occasioned was continued by the antics of a knockabout music hall pair. There was of course no speech or other sound as there would have been if they performed in a theatre, but an energetic pianist and the novelty of it compensated for this.
Then, quite suddenly and right in the middle of ‘A View from Putney Bridge of the Oxford and Cambridge University boat race’, David Devant walked out in front of the screen and signalled the pianist to cease his efforts. It took a little longer for the projectionist to cease, the momentary continuation of images giving a strange and eerie effect to Devant’s usually handsome features. At last the screen went blank and the auditorium lights were raised. In a loud, clear, but unhurried voice, Devant asked, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, is there a doctor in the house?’
Chapter Three – The Dressing Room of Death
As David Devant made his dramatic appeal, ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ I found myself raising a hand and briskly mounting the tiny flight of steps which bridged the stage and auditorium. He greeted me with an urgent warmth, saying quietly, ‘There’s been a serious accident.’ Then in a louder voice he spoke to the audience, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, due to unforeseen circumstances tonight’s performance is now concluded. We hope to see you all again…’ His words tailed off, drowned by the shrewd pianist who had commenced a spirited rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’. As the patrons filed out, muttering ‘What’s up?’ and ‘Wonder who’s hurt?’, Devant explained to me, ‘It’s Cyrano, he’s dead… or, at least that is the view of a non medical man.’ I hastily introduced my friend, and we hurried through the backstage area as Devant steered us toward the dressing room where Cyrano was lying.
The door of Cyrano’s dressing room was ajar, and as we stepped inside one glance at his inert form told me that Devant was right. I could see from his expression and protruding tongue that he was very dead indeed. Still in his evening clothes and theatrical make-up, he lay, gazing glassily up at us.
I dropped swiftly to my knees and tried to find some sign of life. Finding no pulse I put an ear to his chest but detected no heart-beat (I had no stethoscope having worn my opera-hat to the theatre). Finally I resorted to the old trick of holding a hand mirror to his mouth, but it produced no reassuring sign. I looked at the discoloura-tions at his throat and felt the back of his head. I declared, ‘Life is quite extinct. In my opinion the cause of death is strangulation, and possibly a broken neck, though a police surgeon will need to establish this exactly. This man has died in a brutal attack by someone with enormous strength, would you not agree Holmes?’
My friend, ever practical, yet mindful of the fact that I was the expert first called upon, had thus far stood back. Now he began to assume command. ‘The bruises on the throat indicate an attack by a man with very large hands and as you say Doctor, enormous strength. After all, Cyrano, or rather Mr Randolph was a strongly built man of considerable physique. Mr Devant, I suggest that you send a member of your staff to summon the police.’ Devant nodded and left us in the room with the body. As soon as he was out of earshot Holmes added, ‘Meanwhile I must learn what I can before the police trample over what little evidence there may be.’
The room was fairly typical of its kind, with a dressing table before a wide wall mirror. Holmes gave his attention first to the only egress from the room apart from the door. This proved to be a partly raised sash window of extremely narrow dimensions. I asked, ‘Do you think the killer made his escape through that window Holmes?’ He looked a little doubtful
saying, ‘Whilst we cannot entirely rule out the possibility Watson, it would have to have been a very wiry man indeed. I might manage it myself, despite my height, with a struggle, but a well built fellow such as yourself would find it impossible. Have we not established that the crime would have involved a man of great strength?’
Holmes opened a closet, to find only the conjurer’s street clothes and greatcoat hanging. The rest of the room was occupied by the impedimenta of illusion: silk scarves, tripod-tables and the mahogany boxes for the famous ring trick. On the bench lay scattered sticks of grease-paint, boxes of powder, towels that had been used to clean off make-up, and a bottle of liquid-paraffin which would have assisted this process. Also there lay there a fancy wooden box, to which Holmes gave his attention. ‘A make-up box?’ I enquired. He shook his head. ‘No Watson, it is a puzzle-box, of oriental design. I have come across these before. The owner uses them to contain his valuables and only he knows how to open it. There is no key involved.’ I asked, ‘Then how…’ But Holmes had anticipated this question and was demonstrating how the lid closure could be released by pressure upon a portion of the base, followed by pushing a portion of the lid. It was ingenius though not profound. As the lid was opened it was revealed that the box was empty save for a small length of thin red ribbon, about six inches long. I said, ‘A toy no doubt, of the kind indulged in by a man who admires the ingenius. Possibly Randolph has been to China?’ Holmes said, ‘It is possible Watson, but he bought this box in this country I imagine. You will observe the words “Made in China” stamped upon the bottom. In China the words would have been in one of the dialects of that huge country.’
Holmes worked quickly, as if his ear had already detected the distant tread of the heavy booted constabulary. Had the circumstances been less grave I would have been forced to smile at the way he urgently peered into this and opened that, rather with the air of one woman secretly inspecting the kitchen of another. The window sill and the floor in the general area of that aperture held his attention for quite a while. He said, ‘There are footprints, or, to be more exact, footmarks. But they are extremely indistinct and may not even be recent. Yet assuming that the dressing rooms receive some sort of daily cleaning, the most lax of domestics could hardly have failed to notice these wood shavings.’
He collected up some scraps of what looked to me like pencil sharpenings. Taking a used envelope from his inside pocket he deposited them within. When I enquired if they were indeed hewn from a pencil he said, ‘No, although they are cedar they have been produced not with a knife but rather with a small spokeshave. It may be that a carpenter has recently climbed out of this window.’
When the police made their appearance, in the shape of a uniformed constable and two plain clothes men I was not a little surprised to find that one of those in mufti was our old colleague, Inspector Lestrade.
‘Mr Holmes, Doctor… as soon as I heard that you were involved I made it my business to take charge of this affair.’ He glanced at the body, not entirely unaffected. ‘Grisly business eh? I’m sure that you have some of the answers by now, for it has taken us an annoyingly long time to get here from the Yard.’ Holmes said, politely, ‘I could wish, Inspector, for our reunion to have been under happier circumstances. The deceased man is, or was, Mr Cyril Randolph, a conjurer, known professionally as “Cyrano”. He was a client of mine. Doctor Watson and I were here at his invitation, to see his performance. The very last thing we expected to round off a pleasant evening was the sight of his dead body!’
Lestrade bent down and made a perfunctory examination of the body, soon enquiring of me, ‘Strangulation Doctor?’ I nodded, adding, ‘And a fractured neck I fancy, but your own man can verify that.’ He said, ‘Quite so, Doctor Simpsom will be here directly.’
Between us, Holmes and I told Lestrade the whole story of Cyril Randolph, the reason for his visit to Baker Street, and the events of the evening which had culminated in the tragedy. Lestrade made notes as we spoke, and seemed more than a little interested in our account of the bearded foreigner who had interrupted the performance. He asked, ‘You say he actually threatened to kill this Randolph, making the threat in front of hundreds of people, and all over a conjuring trick?’ I said, ‘Had you seen the illusion Inspector, you would realise that it was far from a run of the mill deception.’ He grunted, and we continued, Holmes remarking, ‘I believe the threat to have been uttered in the heat of temper, and not really to be taken literally. Why Inspector if you took seriously every wife’s threat to kill her husband you would have your work cut out’. Lestrade said, ‘Nevertheless, if their husbands turned up dead soon after they had said it, I would count them as suspects!’
With the arrival of the police surgeon we left the dressing room and entered another, larger apartment which Devant had made available to Lestrade. Those members of the cast of Maskelyne’s show who had not already left the theatre at the time of the tragedy were present, as were some members of the theatre staff. The constable and the plain clothes sergeant had arranged this.
Lestrade looked around the room and seemingly addressed everyone present, enquiring, ‘Who found the body?’
Without rising from her chair the dead conjurer’s lady assistant spoke, ‘I did Inspector. I occupy the dressing room used by several other ladies of the company. I went to Mr Cyril’s room to ask him at what o’clock he would require me on the morrow, only to find him lying there. I am not a nervous person, but I admit that I screamed, and am trembling still from the sight of poor Cyril’s face, so horribly distorted!’
Lestrade, considerate to her in his manner, asked a few pertinent questions. ‘The window was open Miss?’
‘Yes, just a little, at the bottom.’
‘And you disturbed nothing?’
‘Why, no, there was little point, for I could see from his appearance that he was dead. I backed out of the room almost at once, and then I think I screamed.’
‘Who responded first when you raised the alarm?’
She thought carefully before she replied, then said, ‘There were several persons who arrived almost at once. It is hard to say who reached me first, for I was in a dazed state. I believe the first to try and calm me was Jack, the pickpocket, I know him by no other name. There were the two clowns and Miss Glenrose, who shares my dressing room. She is the lady in the portrait which comes to life.’ Lestrade, I noticed, made no notes, but his sergeant was busily writing down everything which was said. Holmes and I were careful not to interrupt these official enquiries, but I could see that my friend was devouring every word spoken. The inspector confirmed Miss Patricia’s statement by questioning the people that she had named. As he did so, Holmes took the opportunity to use me as a sounding board for his own thoughts.
‘Consider that which we know Watson. Cyrano was very much alive and in plain view of several hundred people but ten minutes before the discovery of his body. We can eliminate the two ladies involved, Miss Patricia and Miss Glenrose, because the fatal action called for enormous strength on the part of the murderer. The pickpocket and the clowns do not appear to be robust enough either, although one cannot rule them out completely. It would take someone of Devant’s build for example to commit such an act.’ I gasped, ‘Surely you don’t think…’ But Holmes stopped me by saying, ‘No Watson, I think that unlikely, though he may well have been the last to see Cyrano alive.’ I enquired, ‘What makes you think so?’ The detective smiled enigmatically and said, ‘Watson, Devant is the manager of the whole enterprise. Cyrano’s act was interrupted and the moving pictures had to be quickly brought into play. I feel sure that Devant must have been responsible for the programme change, and may even have spoken to Cyrano in the theatre wings, aye and even in the ill-fated dressing room itself.’
From the corner of my eye I could see Lestrade in quiet but animated converse with Devant. Holmes, seemingly unobservant of this was, I knew, fully aware of the conversation. He lit a cigarette, obviously craving stronger tobacco, but unable to soot
h his craving. As he studied the burning tip of the Egyptian cigarette, Lestrade addressed him.
‘Mr Holmes, I have discovered that Mr Devant was the last person present who saw Cyrano alive, and spoke with him.’ Holmes nodded wisely, and his right eyelid dropped a fraction of an inch, for my benefit. ‘Indeed, Inspector?’ ‘Yes sir, and what is more, he is the only one here big and strong enough to have committed the crime!’
Holmes mused, ‘So you seriously consider that the world celebrated and respected illusionist, junior partner of the even more celebrated Maskelyne and Cooke, would throw away a great career in such an irresponsible manner? Not impossible I’ll grant you, but knowing you as I do Inspector, I feel sure that you have established an extremely strong motive for the crime.’
I felt a pang of sympathy for Lestrade, as he opened and closed his mouth two or three times before saying, ‘Oh I don’t actually suspect him Mr Holmes, although everyone must be considered. No, it’s this foreign fellow that I believe must be our man!’
Holmes stubbed out the cigarette with some irritation and said, ‘You mean Buatier De Kolta, the man who interrupted the performance just a mere ten minutes before the crime was committed?’
The inspector clicked his fingers to summon his sergeant, and bade him write the name ‘Buatier De Kolta’ in his book. I was amazed that Holmes could remember the name, heard but once under such conditions, which I could not have recalled myself. Lestrade, confident again, started to express his theories. ‘This, er – De Kolta, evidently stood up in the audience and loudly stated that he would kill Cyrano, and from what I have learned he is a very strongly built man, capable of the crime!’
The Baker Street freelance looked keenly at the official arm of the finest detective force in the world and said, ‘If De Kolta committed this crime, and I do not at this stage suggest that it is impossible, he must have entered the dressing room by its door.’
