Sherlock Holmes In New York Part 4

"Row E, seats one and three-"

He whirled and made for the door leading to the lobby.

"Don't bother, Holmes," I told him. "I've already questioned the fellow."

"Have you, now?" said he, stopping and facing me once more.

"Yes. Those tickets were purchased a fortnight ago-by Irene Adler."

Holmes stared at me keenly, and nodded his head slowly. "To send to me."

"Exactly."

"Then how come they to be here?"

"They were returned."

"When, Watson?"

"Earlier this afternoon."

"And by whom?"

"Some stranger to the man in the ticket office. Never saw him before, he says. Holmes, what on earth do you make of it all?"

Even in the gloom of the theater, its only light the single glaring bulb dangling from a flex over the stage where the resting-or sleeping-doorman sat, I could see that Sherlock Holmes' face was stern and troubled.

"Watson," said he, "all my apprehensions are returning. Those tickets sent to Baker Street were forgeries. These, the genuine ones, were intercepted before they could reach me."

What he said seemed to follow from the known facts, but to make no sensible pattern.

"But whatever for?" said I.

Holmes folded his length into one of the narrow seats next the aisle and slumped in it, staring unseeingly at the rows of seat-backs in front of him.

After a moment, he said softly, "A phrase continues to ring in my ears, Watson: 'The crime of the century-the past century, this one, and all centuries yet to come-is now in preparation.' Moriarty said that to me."

"You think that he's behind . . . whatever it is that's going on?"

"'. . . it will take place before your very eyes! And you will be powerless to prevent it!' It smells of greasepaint, Watson, the bl.u.s.ter of a melodrama villain-yet Professor Moriarty is not the man to boast idly! I am nine parts certain that he's in New York at this very moment, and that this business with the tickets is his doing." He glanced up at me. "There's deviltry afoot, Watson. I feel it in my very marrow!"

"Well, what do we do about it?" said I.

Sherlock Holmes held up the tickets.

"Until it chooses to reveal its nature to us," he replied, "we can do nothing but dress, dine, and attend the theater this evening. Moriarty has all the strings, it seems, and when he pulls, we needs must caper. But each move he makes, I tell you, Watson, brings us closer to finding what drama he means us to play. And when we know that, I fancy we may provide him with a different last act than that he has written!"

He fairly sprang out of his seat and strode from the theater. I followed him, pondering on the dark and twisting path that lay ahead of us. That it led through perilous territory, I was sure; but the worst of it was that the shape of those perils was unknown.

I know now that, had I chanced to glance behind me as I made my way from the Empire Theater, I might have gained some inkling as to the reach of Professor Moriarty. I did not see what I now tell, but am satisfied that it is a true account of the events.

As the doors swung to behind us, the doorman rose from his seat, pulled a cloth cap from his pocket, and ran backstage, out the stage door and into the street, where he hailed a cab. Spurred by the promise of a double fare, the driver soon dropped his pa.s.senger in a mean district on the East River waterfront, as dismal and decrepit as a certain section of the Victoria Docks that has already figured in this narrative.

Slipping into a narrow s.p.a.ce between two sagging, boarded-up buildings, the theater doorman rapped on a scarred door, which immediately opened to reveal a man in a tightly fitting, loudly checked suit.

"Is he in?" asked the doorman.

The man in the checked suit had no need to ask to whom the p.r.o.noun referred.

He gestured with his thumb, saying, "Upstairs."

The stage doorman scurried up the flight of stairs, knocked at a door, and opened it after hearing a brusque "Come in!"

Colonel Sebastian Moran, or any other of Professor Moriarty's minions now languishing in the Bow Street jail, would have paused a moment in astonishment upon entering the room. So might Sherlock Holmes. It was a replica, exact in every detail-except for its still-whole chandelier-of Moriarty's quarters in the Victoria Docks. The Professor, having found an arrangement that suited him, saw no reason not to have it available to him wherever he might be.

The doorman, being ignorant of this circ.u.mstance, took no notice of the room beyond his usual pang of envy at its richness. He did observe, with fleeting surprise, a woman's black dress and a straggling white wig tossed in a chair in the corner. He did not, even in his mind, speculate on their meaning; it didn't do to wonder about what he was up to.

"Do you have something for me, Zimmer?" said Moriarty.

The doorman held Holmes' card out to him. The banknote he had received, he decided, was not relevant to the Professor's purposes.

"He's here."

The Professor smiled broadly. "Indeed he is . . ." He looked up at Zimmer. "All right, back to your post. You know what to do."

The doorman nodded and made a sketchy gesture akin to a salute, then turned and left the room.

Professor Moriarty leaned back in his chair, his pale face aglow with a satisfied look of the sort that, in years past, would have been elicited by the final working-out of a complex equation. He opened the top drawer of the desk, and slid out a folded sheet of thick paper: a playbill for the Empire for that evening. One spatulate fingertip touched the printed name of Irene Adler, almost caressing it.

"Act One," he murmured. "And, with the cast a.s.sembled . . . the play begins!"

Chapter Six.

The walk to our hotel, unpacking and bestowing our belongings, freshening up and dressing for dinner, and dinner itself, occupied the remainder of the time until the curtain was due to rise at the Empire; and occupied it, I must confess, in spite of the apprehensions both Holmes and I entertained regarding the future, quite agreeably. Dr. Johnson is supposed to have said that life affords few greater pleasures than riding with a pretty woman in a post-chaise, but I submit that to be for the first time in a great foreign city on an early-Spring evening, venturing forth in search of the best dining the place affords, with a major theatrical opening to follow, must come close to matching Johnson's ideal.

The very next street-corner to the west of our hotel, at Fifth Avenue, afforded two restaurants, Delmonico's and Sherry's. (It struck me as distinctly odd that New Yorkers could attach the same rich a.s.sociations to their numbered thoroughfares as we do to our street names which speak of a thousand and more years of history, yet it must be so; for, to them, there is as much difference between Fifth Avenue and Ninth as we would perceive between Park Lane and Wardour Street.) I was at first attracted by the thought of Sherry's, as the name indicated that they had a civilized regard for that estimable drink, but the sign outside proclaiming that Mr. Louis Sherry had "Family and Bachelor Apartments to Rent," dissuaded me.

"After all, Holmes," said I, "if the man is concerned with providing accommodations, it follows that he has the less attention to give to the food he serves, and is in fact apt to set the sort of table one would expect at a superior lodging-house." I will defend the logic of my deduction, but must in fairness say that later experience persuaded me that Louis Sherry, in spite of taking in lodgers, deals most estimably with those who dine in his establishment.

In any case, Delmonico's proved to be an excellent choice for our first evening in New York. A white limestone building rising some six floors above the street level, and dominating its near neighbors, it had the aspect of a Renaissance palace, viewed from the outside. Once entered, it offered the alternatives of the Palm Room, a dining-room in the Louis XIV style, an oak-wainscoted cafe, and an upstairs dining-room that afforded a view down Fifth Avenue.

The airy, yellow-and-white color scheme of the Palm Room seemed the most attractive to me, and, as Holmes was, as nearly always, indifferent to his surroundings, I settled upon it. I suppose that London may provide scenes of greater elegance and luxury in its great hotels and restaurants, but the plain fact is, I was not much acquainted with them, my a.s.sociation with Sherlock Holmes tending to steer me toward a hastily downed cup of tea and a bun in an A.B.C. shop while we prowled the streets after a miscreant-a well-grilled sole at Simpson's in the Strand representing the height of our culinary adventures at home.

At Delmonico's, the bill of fare seemed half as tall as a man, and I confess that I rather let myself go in sampling it: some oysters Rockefeller to start, then a cold soup, a portion of an exotic fish known as red snapper, for the game course a nicely done piece of venison . . . A full account of that repast would both impede my narrative and, I fear, establish me as a glutton in the reader's eyes, so I shall stop near the beginning. Holmes, never one to appreciate much what he ate, so long as it was ample and fresh, contented himself with beef and potatoes.

Half an hour before curtain-time, we left the restaurant and entered on to the brightly lit avenue, even at this hour crammed with cabs, coaches, drays, and omnibuses-I was glad that at least on this one thoroughfare, the speeding trams were not in evidence. With the theater just about half a mile away, Holmes suggested that we walk to it, and I acceded enthusiastically. After doing myself so well at Delmonico's, I felt that I needed some exercise before preparing to wedge myself into a theater seat for a period of two hours or so.

As it turned out, I need not have been concerned, either about a long period spent sitting in the theater, or lack of exercise.

When we took our two fifth-row seats just off one of the aisles, it lacked five minutes to the stated curtain-time. Ten minutes later, the curtain remained down, and I had become tired of glancing around at the glittering a.s.sembly that filled the Empire, a crowd that gave far more of an impression of both opulence and raw vigor than do our London theatergoers.

I observed Sherlock Holmes take out his watch, open the case, and glance inside.

"Time they were getting on with it, eh, Holmes?" said I.

He gave me a quick look and remarked, "I hadn't noticed the time, Watson-but, yes, I do believe you're right. It's five minutes past time now, and no sign-"

He cast a worried frown toward the stage, and I was left to wonder why he might have been looking inside his watch if not to see what time it told.

As the moments pa.s.sed, a buzz rose from others in the audience who were concerned or irritated by the delay. Then the murmurs rose to a peak and were stilled as a worried-looking man in a dinner jacket entered from the wings and strode to the center of the stage, holding up both hands in a gesture beseeching silence.

"That's Furman, the producer," I heard a man in front of me mutter to his neighbor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the man on stage called, his voice quavering in evident nervousness. "I ask your indulgence, please!" Next to me, Holmes stirred uneasily. "Due to the sudden indisposition of Miss Irene Adler-"

Holmes was on his feet in an instant, fairly wrenching me out of my seat with a painful grip on my arm.

"Watson! Quick!" said he, and set off down the aisle. I followed him, and turned with him to race across the s.p.a.ce in front of the first row, seeing the astonished faces of the theater patrons flicker past me. From the stage above, I could hear Furman continuing his explanation to the audience.

"-the role of Paula will be played at this performance by Miss May Robson. Thank you."

Exclamations of surprise and disappointment were just beginning to rise from the crowd as we pushed through the exit door and pounded along a short corridor and up a flight of stairs that led us to the wings.

Furman was now standing there, watching the opening scene of the performance. Somewhat behind him, I noticed the doorman with whom Holmes had conversed that afternoon.

"I demand to be taken to Miss Adler at once! My name is Sherlock Holmes!"

I had half expected the producer to be affronted at this unceremonious and a.s.sertive introduction, but Furman's eyes widened, and he grasped the lapels of Holmes' tailcoat as a drowning man might hold to a life-preserver.

"Mr. Holmes, thank heaven you're here!" said he.

"Where is she?"

"So far as I know, at home."

"I must know exactly what has happened," said Holmes.

Furman wiped his glistening brow, and replied, "All I can tell you, sir, is that when she didn't appear after the half-hour call, I sent the call boy to her house."

"And?"

Furman produced an envelope from an inner pocket of his jacket.

"He returned with this."

"Let me see it!" Holmes demanded, although, as he twitched it from Furman's grasp as he spoke, his words were unnecessary.

He removed from it a folded sheet of paper and scanned it rapidly.

"As you see," said Furman, "all it says is that she is ill and cannot perform." His hands clenched and unclenched, as if looking for something solid to grasp. "With the house already full-and for the first time this season, darn it!-and the curtain already delayed fifteen minutes, I had no alternative but to go out front and make the announcement you just heard. Mr. Holmes, can you shed any light on such behavior? It's absolutely unlike Miss Adler!"

"I can shed some light on it, Mr. Furman," Holmes replied somberly. "This note-it was not written by a person suddenly taken ill. In such a case, there might well be signs of weakness, though the writing would be formed with all the more care to compensate for that. But this-the hasty scrawl, showing that the hand shook so that it was scarcely able to hold the pen . . . And here-here-and here-the pen has actually dropped from her hand! I have seen such missives in the past, sir, and I tell you that this letter was written by someone in the clutches of extreme terror! Mr. Furman, I must have Miss Adler's address at once!"

Furman was pale, and his eyes registered dismay and fear.

"It's number four, Gramercy Park West, but-"

"This is no time for 'buts,' Mr. Furman! Four, Gramercy Park West! Come, Watson!"

Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel and made for the stage door, with myself in hot pursuit. I was for an instant somewhat surprised not to see the stage doorman at his post, but supposed that he was mingling with the stagehands in the wings, eager to pick up gossip about what had happened.

A rattling ride in a hansom brought us to our destination in not much above five minutes. I do not know whether it was the extra money Holmes promised for speed, or the electric sense of urgency about him that galvanized our Jehu. We stepped from the cab to find ourselves on a quiet street that might have been a London square: a row of narrow houses fronting a lamp-lit park surrounded with an iron grill. Number four was a house much like its neighbors. I paid the cabby the fare Holmes had promised, while my friend bounded up the broad steps, the tails of his coat streaming behind him, and vigorously rang the bell beside the front door.

As I came up the steps behind him, the door opened, and a tall man in dark jacket and striped trousers stood in the doorway.

"Yes, sir?" said he.

"Miss Irene Adler, if you please, at once!"

The man, doubtless the butler, unless they were called something else in this country, stiffened and said, "I'm sorry, sir. Miss Adler is not at home to-"

Sherlock Holmes pushed past him; I followed, and we found ourselves in a small foyer, simply but elegantly appointed. Holmes turned to confront the indignant butler, who seemed ready to try conclusions with him.

"Not at home-to Sherlock Holmes? I must have that a.s.surance from the lips of the lady herself! Step aside, my man!"

He turned toward the interior of the house and called loudly, "Irene! Are you here?"

"I am here, Sherlock!"

We looked toward the head of a flight of stairs leading down to the foyer, and I beheld, above a peach-colored peignoir that wrapped her form, the face of Irene Adler-scarcely changed, as far as the soft lamplight in the room could let me discern, from the way she had looked on that occasion, so many years past, when she had triumphed in the dangerous game she had played with Holmes. I found myself exchanging a glance of surprise with the butler. For myself, it was a distinct shock to hear my friend addressed by his first name; I had never done so, and had never heard anyone else employ it. As far as the butler was concerned, it was a clear signal that his defensive tactics would not be needed, and he relaxed perceptibly, though with a fleeting look of disappointment.

"It's all right, h.e.l.ler," Irene Adler called. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson may come in."

"Yes, madam," the butler answered stolidly.

Very gravely, with measured pace, Holmes walked up the stairs toward where Irene Adler stood. I followed. As he reached her, she turned to face him.

"In here," she said, and walked through an archway leading into a drawing-room.

It was the first domestic interior I had seen in New York, and I surveyed it with interest-partly occasioned by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was examining every aspect of it as keenly as though it had been the scene of a crime he had been called upon to investigate.