SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (14 page)

Mr. Bozeman looked at me closely.
"I perceive you are English, sir." I admitted it. He
gave a sigh. "This store has its policy. The custom of the country is to carry off what one has bought unless
it is a considerable burden. Yesterday, J. P
.
Morgan
himself trotted out with a vest we had renewed the
white piping on, nicely wrapped up in brown paper.
Yet . . . you are English, and I have argued with Eng
lishmen on such points before. I will deliver your ties
to the hotel myself during the very short time I am al
lowed for my lunch."

I thanked him and left the store, pleased to have
encountered an example of the warmth and consideration which the American merchant brings to his busi
ness.

On Fifth Avenue, I hailed a northward-bound elec
tric omnibus, as I have said, and took my seat in one
of the eight outside places. The silent, steady ride was a novelty to me, and the dazzling variety of buildings
on both sides of the Avenue drew my attention con
stantly.

By the time we reached a point somewhat north of
the Metropolitan Museum, however, I found myself
out of sorts. For very nearly two miles, I saw no build
ing that was not the residence of a millionaire, and,
even though the title referred to fortunes reckoned in dollars rather than pounds, it was beyond me what so
many people might be doing that was worth so much. I am in general well content with the order of things,
but there are some aspects of society the conservative
man who wishes to remain so would do well to avoid.

I abandoned the omnibus and struck eastward, still
surprised at being able to see so far along any one
street. I walked for a while in the shadow of the ele
vated railway at Third Avenue, much taken with the
jumble of old houses, shops, and open land. A taint
carried in the wind told me that a slaughterhouse was
not far away, reminding me of my student days at
Bart's, cheek by jowl with the Smithfields abattoirs.

It may have been because my mind was turning
in that direction that I was struck by the name over
a pawnbroker's establishment on the avenue: A.
HANZ
Ä
HNE. Scarcely a common name, surely, yet
one I had encountered in London, and there belonging
to a pawnbroker as well, an estimable fellow in the Marylebone High Street who had often passed along
information useful to Sherlock Holmes. Might this not
be a relative, emigrated to the New World?

I entered the shop, introduced myself to the pro
prietor, and found that he was indeed first cousin to
my old acquaintance. I gave him the latest news of his
kinsman and of the old country, and we chatted most
pleasantly a moment or so.

He eventually moved away from me to attend to a
customer, a young woman of good appearance though
obviously not affluent. After the transaction, he re
turned, shaking his head.

"A sad business, Doctor," said he. "There's a young lady, a real trump, married just a year to a nice fellow. They're as much in love as you ever remember being when you were twenty—and more. But times is hard, and they've got no money. She's just pawned the last good piece of jewelry she had from her mother—been
in the family for generations—to buy her husband
something for the anniversary present. I gave her what
I could, but God knows if she can ever redeem the
piece."

Before we had got fairly started on renewing our
conversation, he was called away again, this time to
deal with a young man.

"If that don't beat all," he remarked when the busi
ness was done. "Now, that's the husband of the girl
that was just in. And wouldn't you know he's hocked
a set of gold medals he won for swimming at college—to buy his lady something for the anniversary?"

"As you said, a sad business," I commented.

He shrugged.

"Listen, maybe wanting to
give
somebody something
is better than
having
something, who's to say?"

I took my adieux, promising to give his cousin in
London word of our meeting, and went on my way.

It seemed to me best to strike back toward a less
dingy part of the city, and I was making my way in
the direction of Fifth Avenue once more, when I heard
a confused babble of cries, in which I could clearly make out the words "Help!" and "Doctor!" Through
the noise, a terrified, inhuman squealing arose. I ran
across to a crowd I saw gathering around the door of a
shop, and pushed my way through, saying as authori
tatively as I could, "I am a doctor!"

It was not, however, a human being that stood in
need of my services.

A well-fed and cared-for, but certainly mongrel dog,
was cruelly imprisoned in a strange manner. An iron
grillwork in front of the shop was secured to a metal
post by a length of chain and a padlock; and there
had evidently been just enough slack in the chain for
the animal to get its head wedged through it in such a
manner that it could not withdraw it. This may have
been the result of an injudicious leap, for the poor
brute was nearly suspended in the air, with only its
hind feet touching the pavement, and must soon perish
of slow strangulation.

The crowd was alive with suggestions and comment.
Listening to these, I soon learned that the owner of
the shop was away and could not be reached; that no
one had the key to the padlock; and that it had been
generally agreed that any attempt to break the chain
with a cold chisel would break the dog's neck before
serving its purpose. A tearful small girl standing by
and sobbing was evidently the dog's owner, and it kept
looking at her desperately as though for some last
chance of help.

The girl pulled urgently at the sleeve of a burly
man next to her.

"Help him, Brynie. You c'n do it—you know you
c'n do it! Please!"

"Nit!" said the man she addressed, looking ner
vously at a policeman who had joined the crowd. "You
know I can't do dat—not now!"

"But you
got
to. Treffs
dying
, an' there's no
body—!"

"I can't—an' shut up dat talk!"

I could see that the policeman was looking at the
man as if he knew him well.

The girl stopped her sobbing and looked up at him.
Her face was still, and very old, suddenly.
"Oh . . . yeah. He's a . . . a dog, that's all. It don't
matter, I guess."

"Oh,
hell!
"

The man darted an agonized glance at the police
man, reached for the padlock, and, with a few deft
movements of his fingers, had it open. The dog
dropped to the ground, and he and the little girl were
a sudden joyous tangle of fur and shabby skirts.

The policeman moved up to the dog's rescuer.
"Pretty clever fingers you got, Brynie," I heard him
murmur.

"Yeah, Riley." The man's shoulders slumped.

"Opened that lock as neat as the fellow that went
into Meyer's market, and the tailor shop, and opened
the safe in the back room of the Shamrock—and him
doing it all in one week," observed the officer.

"Yeah, Riley."

"Well." The policeman cocked his helmeted head
and looked at the man. "Now, that's a low class of
goings-on, isn't it," said he. "A man that'd take . . .
well, a lot of trouble to save a little girl's dog
. . .
I don't
think he'd be the kind that would do the kind of thing
I'm talking of, would you? Not considering the past so
much as what's to come, if you take my meaning."

With dawning hope, the man Brynie looked at the
officer, then nodded vigorously, and darted off.

I saw other curious and striking things during the remainder of the day, but was most struck by an inci
dent at the Central Park Zoo, where I found myself
in mid-afternoon, contemplating a polar bear and won
dering why it persisted in swinging its head back and
forth like an animated toy.

There came an outcry next to me, and, turning, I perceived a boy of perhaps ten, a sullen expression on
his fat face, kicking a man who was holding him by
the hand. I should have taken them for father and
son, except that the boy was overdressed to a degree,
in velvet knee-breeches and jacket and patent-leather shoes, and the man, who had the appearance of an
out-of-work clerk, was verging on shabbiness.

As I watched this curious drama, the man's face
brightened, in spite of the pain occasioned by the kicks
now landing regularly on his shins and ankles, and he
called out to a fashionably dressed man of about
twenty sauntering nearby, "Sir! Sir!"

The young fellow turned, and an expression of
weary distaste crossed his face. Reluctantly, he approached the odd pair.

"I saw you earlier with your brother, sir," the shabby
man said, "and when I noticed the lad wandering by
himself, I ventured to take hold of him and seek you
out."

"Decent of you," the young man responded gloomily.

"Um . . . now that I have restored him to you, as it
were
. . .
I wonder if some pecuniary recognition might
not be in order?"

The shabby man smiled ingratiatingly. The young
man looked at his brother and shuddered.

"Very well," he replied. "Tell you what. I don't
want to do you down, so how about you handing over
two dollars, and I'll take him back off your hands.
Fair?"

As I left the scene, the shabby man looked torn
between disappointed anger and a serious considera
tion of the proposition.

The sun was beginning to decline, and I thought it
best to make my way toward Gramercy Park, to be
sure of being there at the appointed time. The elevated
tram, however, which I took in a spirit of daring, and
which afforded me a remarkable new perspective on
the city, whisked me downtown far faster than I ex
pected, leaving me another half-hour or so if I wished
to use it. I had eaten little and, passing an establish
ment calling itself Viemeister's, from which came a
pleasant scent of food and good beer, I stepped inside.

Though primarily a barroom, it had much of the
atmosphere of some of our London public-houses, with
an etched glass mirror behind the long, dark bar,
and much wood paneling throughout. I did not care
to sit at the bar, and found a booth with two padded
benches in it vacant, one of a row on the wall opposite
the bar. One indication that I was in the mechanized
New World rather than the Old, was a push-button
let into the wall above the table that occupied the space
between the two benches. I pushed it, and in a mo
ment a waiter appeared to take my order for a glass
of ale and a meat sandwich of some kind.

"Whatever your cook does best, eh?" said I.

The sandwich, when it came, consisted of a prodi
gious amount of a highly spiced meat, remarkably pungent in aroma, between two slices of a dark and rather tough bread. It was all unfamiliar, but I was
footsore and hungry, and the "pastromy," as the
waiter called it, went extraordinarily well with the
rather over-chilled ale.

"'Scuse me, sir."

I looked up to see a stocky man, a few years
younger than myself, with a plump face and thinning,
curly hair, standing in the aisle next to the booth. He
was carrying a large glass of lager and a plate laden
with several different sorts of delicacy.

"Would I be imposing if I shared the booth?" he
asked in accents which retained a touch of the Ameri
can South, or possibly West, in their softness. "The
others are taken, and I
don't cotton to the bar. It's
too easy to fall off one of those stools."

I indicated, with a gesture, that he was welcome.
I had spoken to scarcely anyone that day, and, still savoring my holiday from the pressing concerns that
had brought Holmes and myself to the city, was glad
of the chance to prolong it for a few moments of casual
conversation.

"Actually," said my new companion, seating him
self, "I wanted to get a good look at a paying cus
tomer for the kitchen. Most everybody that comes in
here dives into the free lunch."