Sherlock Holmes In America (27 page)

“What was even more interesting than his death, however, was what was discovered about Mr. Chadwick several weeks later.”

Holmes smiled, and turned to me. “Chadwick was a talented man, Watson. He dies in October, stabbed by a young woman who is residing with him, yet continues to be newsworthy in November.” He turned back to Battle. “This is proving irresistible. Pray go on!”

“The short of it, Mr. Holmes, is that after his death a safe was found built into the wall of his bedroom. You will recall, of course, the gentleman and the young lady you saw with Chadwick, the night we attended the opera? The gentleman, Henry Ogden Slade, died barely a month after we saw him, and his young ward was left nothing whatever in his will. But a much more recent will was found in the safe in Chadwick's bedroom, and it left everything to the girl, whom Slade acknowledged as his daughter.”

“The implication being that Chadwick somehow engineered his friend's death, and meant to take control of his fortune? A good friend, indeed. Well, it would not surprise me, when you remember that you and I deprived Mr. Chadwick of a very large portion of his income.”

Battle shook his head. “I had nothing whatever to do with it, Mr. Holmes, which you well know. The credit is entirely yours, and your methods, although definitely unorthodox, were completely effective. A month after you left New York, I was summoned by the chief of police himself, and told that new testimony had been provided by several people, proving that I had been framed as I had claimed all along, and that I could have my old position back, if I wanted it. By that time, of course, I had received your letter, telling me what you had done.”

Holmes laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Yes, it was an opportunity that I simply could not resist. As I think I have mentioned to you, Watson, I have often thought that I would have been a highly successful criminal, had I been so inclined. And I could not possibly indulge myself similarly in London, of course—Scotland Yard would be less than amused if I took to ‘second-story work' here—but in New York, who was to know? Besides,” he said, raising his glass in the direction of the smiling Mrs. Battle, “the cause, in this case, was extraordinarily worthy.

“And what of you, Battle?” said Holmes. “What is in store for you on the police force? Is all forgiven?”

“More than forgiven. There are changes taking place, just as I had hoped, and shortly before Frances and I were wed, I was named an assistant to the new Commissioner of Police. You have heard of Theodore Roosevelt?”

“I have, indeed. A very good man.”

“As good as they come, and as incorruptible. He is the new broom that will sweep all New York clean.”

Rising to his feet, he raised his glass once more. “Another toast to you, then, Mr. Holmes. My cup runneth over, thanks to you.”

We all rose, then. “My blushes, Watson.” Holmes smiled, after we had drunk in his honour. “And now I think that we should all adjourn to Simpson's for dinner. I can think of nothing more satisfying on a cold winter's night than enjoying some good British beef with some excellent American friends.”

Daniel Stashower

Daniel Stashower is the Edgar-winning author of
Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle
and a coeditor of
Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters
. He is also the author of
The Beautiful Cigar Girl: Mary Rogers, Edgar Allan Poe and the Invention of Murder
, as well as five mystery novels, the most recent of which is
The Houdini Specter
. His short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including
The Best American Mystery Stories
and
The World's Finest Mystery and Best American Mystery Stories
and
The World's Finest Mystery and Crime Stories.
His work has also appeared in newspapers and magazines including the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
,
Smithsonian Magazine
,
National Geographic Traveler
, and
American History
.

W
e have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage on East 69
^th
Street, but I cannot recollect anything more startling and distasteful than the sudden appearance of Mr. Gideon Patrell, the celebrated sideshow entrepreneur. It was a brisk October morning in 1898 when Mr. Patrell presented himself at my mother's kitchen table and, after submitting his mouth to a thorough examination, promptly cleared his throat and began to regurgitate a handful of walnuts, summoning them from the depths of his stomach, one by one.

Mr. Patrell arrived at this singular moment by slow degrees. A tall, rail-thin gentleman of elegant bearing and impeccable wardrobe, he had arranged to join us for breakfast so that he might discuss the possibility of engaging the services of my brother, Harry Houdini.

Harry was all of twenty-four years old at the time; I had just turned twenty-two. Professionally, my brother had hit the skids. Try as he might—and no one ever tried harder—he couldn't quite manage to break out of the small time. Whatever small reputation he had rested entirely on his value as a novelty act. He spent weeks at a stretch working various odd turns in traveling circuses and midway tents, sleeping in swinging hammocks on carnival wagons and eating campfire meals at railway sidings. It was a life we both knew all too well. Harry and I had done an act together from the time we were kids, but of course that had changed five years earlier when he married Bess. From that day forward, she became his partner onstage and off, and I handled the booking and backstage work. To speak plainly, my duties as Harry's advance man were not terribly rigorous. In later years the theatrical world would unite in a roaring clamor for his services; in those days, the call seldom rose above a dull murmur. The note I had received from Mr. Patrell, mentioning a sudden vacancy in his program, was our first prospect of employment in several weeks.

I had arrived at my mother's flat early that morning. In those days I fancied myself as something of a man about town, and kept a room at Mrs. Arthur's boardinghouse several blocks away, so as to be free to enjoy the lively and vigorous social life befitting an eligible young bachelor in New York City. In point of fact, my social life was largely confined to solitary walks in the park and reading books at the public library. I lived in hope, however.

Harry continued to live at home even after his marriage to Bess, an arrangement that appealed not only to his all-encompassing sense of devotion to our mother but also to his frugal nature. Harry and Bess were already seated at the breakfast table when I arrived. Mother stood at the stove, as always, busying herself with a pot of oatmeal.

“Sit,” she said as I came through the door. “I'll get you something to eat. You look thin.”

“Good morning, Dash,” said my sister-in-law. “Is that a new tie? It's very spruce.”

“Not exactly new, Bess,” I said. “They made me a deal at Scott's bazaar.” I fingered the wide pukka silk tie at my throat, which, if I had unbuttoned the jacket of my double-breasted windowpane suit, would have displayed a grease stain left by the previous owner. “I was hoping to make a good impression on Mr. Patrell.”

I turned to my brother. “Good morning, Harry,” I said. He scowled and did not look up from buttering a piece of brown toast.

I looked back at Bess. “What's the matter with him?”

“He's sulking,” she said. “He doesn't want to go back to the Ten-in-One.”

“It's beneath me!” Harry cried, brandishing the butter knife. “Ten different acts for a dime! Ten performers lined up along the platform, displayed like prize hogs at a county fair! Jugglers and bearded ladies and rubber men and tattooed girls and—”

“All right, Harry,” said Bess. “Calm down. It's just that there isn't much—”

“I am Harry Houdini, the justly celebrated self-liberator! The man whom the
Middletown Daily Argus
called ‘a most winning and competent entertainer.'”

“High praise indeed, Harry,” continued Bess in a soothing tone, “but even Houdini has to pay the rent. We haven't worked in nearly a month.”

Harry grunted and resumed buttering his toast.

Bess pressed her advantage. “And Mr. Patrell was good enough to come and see us here at home, rather than bring us all the way downtown.”

“Ha!” cried my brother. “Dash would have been perfectly happy to ride down to 13
^th
Street. Mr. Patrell offered to come here only because Mama gave him a slice of blackberry torte the last time.”

Harry was undoubtedly correct about this, as my mother's skills with a pastry brush and dough docker were legendary. “Look, Harry,” I said, “the important thing is that he has an opening. Nobody wants to work in the dime museums forever, but we need to keep the wolf from the door. At least let's hear what Mr. Patrell has to say, all right? If you don't like his offer, we'll find something else.”

“Very well,” said Harry. “I will listen. Apart from that, I promise nothing.”

At the appointed hour Mr. Patrell appeared at the door of the flat, greeting my mother with elaborate courtesy. His mood was buoyant, but his face looked pale and gaunt, and he wore his left arm in a heavy canvas sling. Stepping inside, he waved off our questions about his bandaged arm, assuring us that it was only a minor injury. Placing his dove-grey homburg on the sideboard, he took a seat at the breakfast table and grinned broadly as a slice of dobos torte was placed before him. Bess, meanwhile, chatted amiably with him about the potentially ruinous effects of the recent consolidation of New York's five boroughs. At length, when Patrell had submitted the misdeeds of Mayor Van Wyck to a lengthy analysis, my sister-in-law attempted to guide the conversation to business.

“Do I understand, sir,” said Bess, “that there may be an opening at Patrell's Wonder Emporium?”

“Ah!” said the proprietor brightly, waving his good arm in the air. “Allow me to demonstrate!” Pulling a linen pocket square from his coat, he dabbed at his lips and gave a discreet cough. Then, with a brief flourish, he reached into his mouth and withdrew a large, whole walnut in its shell. “My mouth is empty,” he said, turning to my brother to allow a brief examination, “and I shall take a sip of tea to demonstrate that my esophageal passages are clear. But see!” With a sweep of his hand he withdrew a second walnut, placing it beside the first on the edge of the kitchen table.

This peculiar display was repeated four more times until there was a neat row of six walnuts arrayed before him. “What do you think?” he asked, waving a hand over the harvest. “Rather good, is it not?”

I should perhaps explain that Mr. Patrell's exhibition was not without precedent. At that time the sideshows and carnivals were experiencing a modest vogue of what was called the “regurgitator act,” an outgrowth of sword-swallowing and water-spouting. The regurgitator act would take many curious forms before the fad had run its course. Some regurgitators would swallow and then reproduce small stones and rocks, while other even hardier souls turned their skills to goldfish and frogs. One inventive practitioner found a means of swallowing assorted small objects—coins, thimbles, and the like—only to reproduce them in the order called for by his audience. It must be said that regurgitators were not my favorite class of entertainer, and I disliked sharing a stage with them. The act, depending as it did upon grotesquerie, tended to put the audience in a skittish, even hostile frame of mind. Worse yet, it produced a foul odor.

My sister-in-law shared my sense of distaste. “Mr. Patrell,” said Bess, “I have always found acts of this type to be unseemly.”

“Still,” I said, eager not to offend a potential employer, “six walnuts! That's rather good.”

“I can do seven,” said Harry. “Plus a potato.”

“Can you?” asked Patrell, looking a touch crestfallen. “Well, I'm still something of a novice. My difficulty is this accursed arm sling. I can't juggle with one arm, and if I can't juggle, how am I going to get the marks to pony up their dimes?”

It was a fair question. The sight of Gideon Patrell juggling a set of Indian clubs was a familiar one in New York City. He would stand on the sidewalk outside of his Wonder Emporium before each show doing wondrous cascades and showers as a crowd gathered to watch. This was his version of the time-honored “bally,” the free act performed outside a carnival tent while the outside talker—we didn't call them “barkers” in those days—enticed the crowd to “step right up” and pay their admission. I was a competent juggler myself at that stage of my career, but Patrell was an artist. His overhand-eight pattern was a wonder to behold.

“Mr. Patrell,” said Bess, folding her hands, “I am truly sorry for your difficulty, but surely there are better options than this? Do you honestly believe that coughing up a handful of walnuts will bring in paying customers?”

Patrell's face clouded. “What am I to do?” he asked. “I need something to go along with the spiel.”

“I could do my handcuff act,” said Harry. “That will bring them running!”

“God, Harry, don't start blathering on about that handcuff act again! What do I need with a—what do you keep calling yourself? An escapitator?”

“An escapologist.”

“Whatever. Nobody's ever going to want to see a guy slip out of a pair of handcuffs, Harry. Stick with your magic act.”

Harry folded his arms.

“You'll forgive me for asking, Mr. Patrell,” I said, “but if you don't want Harry to do his escape act, why are you here?”

“I need a magician—I need a ‘King of Kards.'”

“What happened to Addison Tate?” I asked. “Only last month you were telling me that he was the best card mechanic you've ever had.”

“Tate!” Patrell's face darkened. “I took that man into my troupe when no one else would have him! Gave him two slots on the bill! And this is how he repays me!”

Harry leaned forward. “He skipped out on you?”

“Skipped out on me! No, Houdini—he shot me!”

Bess and I were too startled to speak, but Harry appeared delighted by this news.

“Ah!” he cried, bridging his fingertips. “A mystery!”

“A mystery? There's no mystery about it,” cried Patrell. “He took out a gun and shot me! And when I get my hands on him, he'll regret the day he crossed my path. Even with one arm, I'll give him a thrashing.”

“Your case fills me with interest,” said my brother. “Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important. Omit nothing. It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.”

Patrell stared. “I must say, Houdini, you're acting very strangely. What in the world are you going on about?”

The answer, of course, was Sherlock Holmes. My brother, though not a great reader, was a devoted admirer of the Great Detective, whose adventures he followed religiously in the pages of
Harper's Weekly
until the death of Mr. Holmes at the hands of Professor Moriarty, an event that left Harry despondent for several weeks. Even now, roughly five years later, Harry refused to accept that the detective's adventures had come to an end. Whenever the subject was broached, he would simply shake his head and insist that Dr. Watson's account of the events at the Reichenbach Falls must have been a deception of some kind. “The good doctor must have had his reasons,” he would say.