SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (6 page)

"Yes, sir?" this fellow called.

"How do you do? Is Miss Irene Adler in the theater,
do you know?"

"Nobody's here but me."

"I must see her at once! Can you tell me where I
might reach her?"

The doorman shook his head.

"No one is to be disturbed before curtain time. Mr.
Furman's orders."

"But this is extremely urgent!"

I slowed my steps and remained in the gloom at the
back of the auditorium, feeling it best to let Holmes
handle this problem without the extraneous factor of
my presence.

"So are Mr. Furman's orders," the doorman said
complacently.

Holmes persisted.

"Do you know her address?" he inquired.

The doorman moved to the edge of the stage and
confronted Holmes.

"Look, I just finished telling you—"

"Yes, yes, quite," said Holmes testily. "Look here,
my good man, when did you last see Miss Adler?"

"This morning, at line rehearsal."

Holmes stiffened, his next words freighted with ea
gerness.
"Was she all right?"

"Letter perfect."

"
Was
she? I can't tell you how relieved I am to
hear you say so! Now, if I might prevail on you for a
further service
. . ."
I saw him take out his note-case
and pass up a bill and one of his calling-cards to the doorman. "Would you be so kind as to give Miss Adler
my card directly when she gets here, and tell her that
I am at the Algonquin Hotel and must speak to her
as soon as possible?"

The doorman's eyes widened as he inspected the
card, and he glanced sharply at Holmes.

"I guess I can do that for you, all right, Mr. Sher
lock Holmes!"

I felt a small glow of pride at the thought that my
modest chronicles of my friend's adventures had made
his name famous and respected, even here.

"You shall have earned my eternal gratitude," said
Holmes, and turned to walk up the aisle.

I moved to meet him, flourishing the theater tickets
which had so perplexed me. The doorman, evidently
not needed at his post while the theater was largely deserted, sank into a chair at the left of the stage and
appeared to fall into that somnolence which men in
tedious but inactive jobs learn to cultivate.

"I say, Holmes—" I began.

"Well, we've one bit of reassurance in any event,"
said he, as much musing to himself as sharing information with me. "As late as this morning she was ap
parently in good health. Now, Watson, what have you
been able to accomplish?"

"It's a rum go, Holmes, a deucedly rum go. Look
at these tickets—last two in the house for tonight, the
chap at the window claims."

Sherlock Holmes' expression darkened as he took
the slips of pasteboard from my hands and read the
printing thereon.

"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 trou
bled.

"Watson," said he, "all my apprehensions are returning. Those tickets sent to Baker Street were for
geries. 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 un
seeingly 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 cen
tury—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 grease
paint, Watson, the bluster 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 passenger in a mean district on the East River waterfront, as dismal and decrepit as a certain section of the Vic
toria Docks that has already figured in this narrative.

Slipping into a narrow space 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 pronoun 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 ar
rangement that suited him, saw no reason not to have
it available to him wherever he might be.

The doorman, being ignorant of this circumstance,
took no notice of the room beyond his usual pang of
envy at its richness. He did observe, with fleeting sur
prise, 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 rel
evant 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 eve
ning. One spatulate fingertip touched the printed name
of Irene Adler, almost caressing it.

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

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 open
ing to follow, must come close to matching John
son'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 associations 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 Sher
ry'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 café, 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 Lon
don may provide scenes of greater elegance and lux
ury in its great hotels and restaurants, but the plain
fact is, I was not much acquainted with them, my
association 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, con
tented 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 evi
dence. 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 pre
paring 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 assembly 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 passed, 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 wrench
ing 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 space 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 continu
ing his explanation to the audience.

"—the role of Paula will be played at this per
formance 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 cor
ridor 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 assertive 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 un
clenched, 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 de
layed 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 ac
tually dropped from her hand! I have seen such mis
sives 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 door
man 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 des
tination 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 front
ing 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 ele
gantly appointed. Holmes turned to confront the in
dignant butler, who seemed ready to try conclusions
with him.

"Not at home—to Sherlock Holmes? I must have
that
assurance 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 lead
ing 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 exchang
ing 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 tac
tics would not be needed, and he relaxed perceptibly, though with a fleeting look of disappointment.