SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (13 page)

He gestured to a pair of bellboys to come over and take charge of the escape artist's trunk.

The Great Bandini signed the register with a
flourish that sent a spray of ink drops on to the
counter, and strode off to his room. The proprietor
sighed, and dabbed at the spatter of tiny blots. Hardly
any theater folks weren't strange in some way, he
reflected, but this Bandini looked like being a real prize in the oddity line!

By about a half-hour after sunset, the proprietor
felt confirmed in his opinion of his new guest. Instead
of exploring the fleshpots of New York, resting in his
room, or exchanging boastful stories with some of the
other residents in the hotel's seedy bar, Bandini was
in and out of the lobby constantly, appearing and dis
appearing like a jack-in-the-box. Finally, by early eve
ning, he seemed to have settled into a chair in the
corner, where he sat, apparently absorbed in a news
paper.

The proprietor looked up as the street door opened
and a lithe young woman entered, carrying a string
bag of groceries. He groaned a little at the sight of it.
It was not that he really minded his guests doing a
little clandestine cooking in their rooms—theater salaries didn't allow for much in the way of eating out—
but there
was
a house rule, and her carrying the stuff
in like that, out in the open, made it all the harder for
him to crack down on the others when he wanted to. All the same, she was one of his favorites, and her
youthful beauty brightened the dingy lobby.

"Ah, Miss Romaine!" he said, reaching for her key.
He saw Bandini toss down his paper and start to rise
from his chair. "By the way," he said, nodding to her,
"over there's a gentleman who might be knowing a
relation of yours."

Nicole Romaine swung around quickly, her eyes
widening with fear. Bandini bounded across the room
to her, seized her hand, and bent low over it.

"
Signorina!
" he bellowed. "I have had the
onore
of
appearing on-a the same-a bill as you'
illustrioso
papa!" In softer tones, pitched to carry to her ears
only, he said rapidly, "My name is Sherlock Holmes
and if you value your life and your freedom, you will invite me to your room!"

Nicole Romaine's face was white and still as death
for a moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Once inside the girl's shabby room, Holmes wasted
no time in preliminaries.

"Where is the boy? Show him to me at once!" said
he, his crisp tones contrasting oddly with his florid
disguise.

"How did you know?" the girl gasped, still clearly
in the grip of utmost dread.

"
Mademoiselle
, there is no time for that!
Where is
he?
"

Holmes did not wait for her reply, but reached for
the feebly burning gas jet protruding from the wall,
and turned the handle sharply for a brighter flame. In
the increased illumination, he immediately saw a moth-
eaten couch in a corner of the room, and on it a form
wrapped in a blanket.

Hurrying over to the couch, he kneeled beside it,
drawing back the frayed fabric. The sleeping face he
saw was unmistakably that in the photograph in Irene Adler's room. The stillness of that face, and the slow
breathing, registered on his mind. He rose to face
Nicole Romaine with a grimly accusing expression.

"He's drugged!"

The girl shrank back from his blazing stare.
"Only—only a few grains of laudanum, that's all,
monsieur
, and only when I must go out. I would not
harm the boy!"

"You have assuredly harmed his mother! What brought you—his friend!—to take part in this out
rage?"

The dancer sank into a rickety wooden chair and
stared hopelessly at the worn carpeting.
"I had no choice. A man came to me three days
ago . . . Charles Nickers, a tumbler with the Twick
enham Toffs."

"Ah," said Holmes. "Yes, I had the distinct plea
sure of arresting his brother, Bill, in London about two
weeks ago. The Twickenham Toffs have long been part
of Professor Moriarty's organization—but that's no
matter to you, Miss Romaine. Now, what did this
tumbler want of you?"

"He said . . . unless I did as I was bidden, my
brother, Anatole, in Paris would be murdered!"

"I
see. And what were your orders—in addition to
persuading Scott Adler to take part in a prank directed
at his governess?"

"To bring him here and engage a room facing the
street. Originally, my room was in the rear. I was to
say to the opera that I was ill. Then . . . twice a day I
must inform Mr. Nickers that the boy is here and that
no one had inquired after him."

"Inform him? By what means?"

"Each day, at eleven and again at six, he watches
across the street. I open the curtain and nod. That is
all."

Sherlock Holmes looked at his watch.

"Then it's almost time for him to be at his post,"
he murmured. He turned to the girl. "
Mademoiselle
, you have received Moriarty's instructions. Now you
shall hear mine! When your Charles Nickers arrives,
you will give the proper signal, just as you've been
told to do. And you will
continue
to give that signal
twice a day until I relieve you of the responsibility.
Do as I say, and you will emerge from this dismal
matter unharmed, as will your brother. Fail me in any
respect, Miss Nicole Romaine, and you will be held accountable for the death of Scott Adler!"

The girl shrank back appalled.

"
Mon dieu!
" she cried.

"Yes, I should have said exactly the same thing in your place, if I were French." Holmes nodded toward
the window. "Is he out there?"

Nicole Romaine went to the window, drew the cur
tain, and looked into the street.

"If so," said Holmes, "give the signal."

The girl gave a simple slow inclination of her head,
looked intently outwards for a moment, then stepped
back and closed the curtain once again.

"He has gone."

"Good!" said Holmes. "Now . . ."

He eased the door to the room open and peered into
the hallway, then pulled his own room key from his
jacket pocket and handed it to the girl.

"I am in room thirty-two. Take the key. It is three
doors along from you, on the opposite side of the corridor. Go and unlock the door. When the way is
clear, signal to me. Now!"

Holmes opened the door wide enough for the girl to
leave, and she slipped through it and hurried down the
corridor. He kept watch on her as she came to the
door of room 32, quickly opened it, and stepped in
side. In a moment she emerged again, glanced in both
directions, and gave him an urgent wave.

Sherlock Holmes turned to the sleeping boy on the
couch, swept him up in his arms, and ran from the
ballet dancer's room, covering the few yards' distance
down the corridor in no more than two seconds.

Inside his own room, still holding the blanket-
wrapped form of Scott Adler, Holmes faced Nicole
Romaine and spoke urgently.

"Back to your room,
mademoiselle
, and remember,
to do exactly as I say. This boy's
life
depends upon
that!"

The girl clasped her hands in front of her and
spoke fervently.
"Yes, yes! I will obey you utterly!"

"Do so!"

Sherlock Holmes gently kicked the door shut behind
her and then laid the sleeping boy down on the bed.
The large trunk which had accompanied "Bandini" to the hotel stood in the center of the floor, and Holmes
knelt by it and opened it. Inside was a network of
intertwined ropes attached to the sides and ends of the
trunk, forming a hammock, on which rested some
folded blankets and leather straps. On it Holmes now placed Scott Adler, cushioning him with the blankets and securing him in place with the straps. Taking out
his pocket-knife, he opened the awl blade it contained,
and tested the clusters of small holes unobtrusively
bored near the handles of the trunk. Satisfied that the
supply of air would be sufficient, he closed the trunk.

"You'll have a bruise or two to show for your
adventure, lad," he said softly, "but they'll soon dis
appear under your mother's kisses."

He snapped shut the two brass locks that secured
the trunk, and turned a key in both. Straightening up,
he inspected himself in the tarnished mirror that hung
over the battered chest-of-drawers, and made small
adjustments to his wig and clothing. Next, he took a
deep breath, flung the door open, and strode into the
corridor and down it to the open stairwell.

Leaning over the railing, he bellowed down to the
lobby two flights below, "
Signore!
"

In a moment, he could see the foreshortened figure
of the proprietor beneath him, staring up in surprise.

"This is not an
albergo
for actors, it is a pen-a for
pigs! Send-a up for my luggage and-a prepare my bill!"

Along the corridor in which he now stood, and on
the floors above and below him, Holmes could hear
the sound of doors being cautiously opened, and was
aware of heads poking curiously out behind him.
Good: the proprietor would be all the more concerned to be rid of the Great Bandini with no more fuss than
was already being made, and would have no time to perceive the fact that Bandini's trunk was noticeably
heavier than when it had been brought in.

He raised his voice to an enraged howl.

"I will not-a spend five-a more minutes in this-a
place!"

It was no more, in fact, than four minutes before
Holmes, the trunk carefully set on the seat facing him,
was in a cab, his hotel bill paid to the white-faced
proprietor, and on his way to the Algonquin Hotel.

Sherlock Holmes had made it clear that no results
could be expected from his efforts during the daylight
hours, and had laid no injunction upon myself or
Irene Adler save that we be at her residence from six
o'clock onwards.

The lady herself, the outward shell of Holmes with which she had gulled our watchers now being restored
to the wardrobe at the hotel, expressed no wish but to
return home.

"I am in no mood for diversion, or even company, Dr. Watson," said she. "I have often been alone and
have grown accustomed to it, but am rarely lonely. This will be a long day, and I shall wish for nothing
so much as the setting of the sun, whatever it may bring, but I do not require or wish companionship.
Cast yourself loose in this great city, and discover
what you may of what it has to offer; I, on my part,
may be cheered to think of the experiences you will
have, and shall look forward to hearing your account
of them."

I thought that a most handsome dismissal, and confess I was relieved to have it made so clear that
my company was not wanted. Miss Adler is a fine
figure of a woman, no doubt of that, but more intense
and high-powered than I find comfortable for any
extended period.

Having seen her into a cab, then, I found myself
with the better part of a spring day in New York to
spend as I would, it then being only ten o'clock.

I am afraid that, in the event, I did not make the
best use of it. In vain to ask me of the treasures of
the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the wonders of the
Natural History Museum, the magnificent view of the
city to be obtained from the torch of the Statue of
Liberty—even the more worldly delights of Koster & B
ial's "improper Vaudeville" and certain "joints" in
Thirty-third and Fifty-seventh Streets where opium
may be freely smoked, about which not a few loudly
dressed individuals I encountered in my wanderings
seemed anxious to inform me. I did, indeed, in a trip
up Fifth Avenue in an electric omnibus, the open back of which afforded an incomparable view of a mile or more of millionaires' palatial residences,
glimpse
the
famed art museum, but did not enter it. I did have a moment of disorientation when observing what ap
peared to be Cleopatra's Needle, so familiar to me in
London, poking out of the trees behind the museum,
but was informed that it was that obelisk's twin,
presented to New York by the Khedive of Egypt some
twenty-five years past.

What I did, in fact, once I had taken care of the
one task I had promised myself to complete—the pur
chase of a necktie or so, more in keeping with the tone
of the New World—was to abandon myself to the city, let myself drift about it as freely as a balloon, with not
even the directing intelligence that Mr. Santos-Dumont brings to aerial navigation. A wanderer may not see
everything that the shepherded tourist does, but he
will see other things of equal interest, and remember
them the better for having been surprised by them.

The desk clerk at the Algonquin, agreeing perhaps
too readily that I would do well to invest in some
more colorful neckwear, suggested that I try the
Windsor Arcade, which contains a number of shops of all sorts, and fronts on Fifth Avenue only a few
streets north of that in which the hotel stands. Arriv
ing there, I was agreeably surprised to find it remark
ably similar to the Burlington Arcade in Piccadilly,
though more restrained in its style of architecture.
There was indeed an excellent haberdasher's along its
central corridor, and I treated myself to a quarter-dozen
of ties, one of a positively alarming electric-blue hue
which, it seemed to me, might very nearly serve to
light my way through a London fog.

Having paid for the ties, I told the salesman I was
staying at the Algonquin Hotel.

"I am happy to hear that," he observed. "It is said
to be a swell place."

He then wrapped the ties in a neat parcel and
pushed them across the counter to me. I placed my forefinger on the parcel and pushed it back to his side
of the counter.

"It's the Algonquin," said I. "Dr. John Watson."

"I myself am Arnold Bozeman," said he, and, with his own forefinger returned the ball, as it were, to my
court.

"These are to go to the Algonquin Hotel!" I moved
the parcel yet again.

"I am sure they will be worthy of their surroundings," said the salesman—not, this time, touching the
package, but instead placing his hands behind his
back.

The meaning of his words and actions finally be
came clear to me.

"Do you mean you do not deliver purchases made here?"

"No, sir. Our customers tend to that, at least with
small parcels."

I was appalled.

"Surely . . . you don't expect me to carry a shop
package
. . .
in the
street?
"