SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK (15 page)

He indicated his heaped plate.

"I wasn't aware that there was such a thing as a
free lunch," said I.

"There ain't, but it's like perpetual motion. There's
a powerful lot of people think they can find it, and
keep looking."

It was clear that I had happened upon an original
—or he upon me—and I greatly enjoyed our half-hour
of talk. My new friend had a vast fund of informa
tion and anecdote upon many topics: the Far West,
prison life, revolutions and curious customs in Central
America. But his main love seemed to be the city of
New York.

"It's the new Arabian Nights," he assured me.
"Haroun-al-Raschid and his Baghdad aren't in the
game, alongside Gotham."

"Well once you've got your Underground com
pleted, I suppose you could call it Baghdad-on-the-
Subway," said I.

"Say, so you could!" said the man opposite me.

Having regaled me so entertainingly, he now at
tempted to draw me out in exchange, and I found my
self somewhat at a loss. The delicate matter of the kidnapping of Scott Adler, to say nothing of the missing gold from Mr. McGraw's Exchange, were certainly
not to be bandied about in idle talk; and the very fact
that Sherlock Holmes and his associate and chronicler
were in the city would be bound to excite speculation of the most troublesome kind, if it became known. I
must, therefore, remain incognito. It followed that
much that I had to tell that might have interested my
companion could not be referred to. I turned the con
versation to my experiences of the day in the city,
ordinary though they had been.

He was fascinated by the story of my encounter with
the pawnbroker Hahnz
ä
hne, though it seemed to me
nothing remarkable that a man in London should
have a cousin in New York; his eyes went positively round at the business of the trapped dog; and the sad
narrative of the unnatural fellow at the zoo who
cheated his brother's rescuer out of his due reward
seemed to strike him as hugely funny.

"Say, if you were a writer," said he, "you'd have
just about paid for your trip from England with those.
Lord! I don't know when I've come across story ma
terial like that!"

"Well, I do write now and then," I ventured, for a
moment forgetting my resolve to avoid revealing my
identity. "But I don't see any possibilities in what
I've told you. I mean, they're the kind of thing that
happens in your city—every day, I'm sure—and
nothing to take notice of, unless you're a foreigner
wandering about."

He cocked his head at me and took a sip from his
mug of lager.
"A writer. What's your line?"

"Detective stories," I said, with some reluctance.

Sherlock Holmes might have spun some convincing
tale under those circumstances—and would very
likely have not got into them at all—but I found it
impossible to answer a direct question with an out
right lie.

"Hm. And, sir, your name is . . . ?"

"Watson."

"I was beginning to think it might be. Mine's Porter,
W. S.—W. for William, which I don't use, S. for Syd
ney, also retired, and Porter for Porter, which has
been scratched at the starting gate. Say, Watson,
if
that's the straight goods about your doing the 'Lo! the poor Indian' act with those pearls richer than all your
tribe you were telling me about, d'you mind if I pick
'em up and string 'em together?"

As far as I could tell from his odd mixture of slang
and literary allusion, he seemed to be requesting per
mission to make literary use of the banal anecdotes I
had recounted. I granted it gladly, and, seeing that
the sun had nearly set, rose and prepared to take my
leave.

"I shall scan the magazines with interest to see what
you have been able to make of my poor experiences, Mr. Porter," said I.

"Well, you won't get far if you run your thumb
down the index under P," said he. "I use a pen name
—and I'm here to tell you that them that lives in the
pen can live
by
the pen."

This example of American allusive humor escaped me, I confess, but Mr. Porter confided his pseudonym
in me, and I left, hastening to arrive at Irene Adler's
house in good time, pondering on what curious signif
icance he might place on it.

Henry is, of course, an honored name, our nation
having had eight kings so styled. But what was the
point of prefacing it with the single initial, reminding
one of nothing so much as the zero, of O?

It
was but a few moments' walk from the Viemeister
tavern in Eighteenth Street to number 4, Gramercy
Park West, and I was there before the last rays of the
setting sun had ceased from gilding the buildings on
the northern side of the square.

The next hour or so was one of the least comfort
able periods of my life. Though calm, Irene Adler was
keyed up to a kind of tense stillness, and was in no
mood for conversation. Her whole being seemed con
centrated on awaiting the issue of Sherlock Holmes'
efforts that day. I sat in one chair, then another;
looked at a newspaper and at a magazine; admired
a vase on the mantel and a porcelain shepherdess on
a small table; and consulted my watch each half-hour
or so, as it seemed, although the hands usually proved
to have moved no more than ten or twelve minutes
each time. Heller's appearance with a pot of tea and
some sweet biscuits cheered me up, after an hour of
this atmosphere, as much as might one of those roist
ering banquets Dickens describes so vividly.

It was close upon eight o'clock when the jangle of
the doorbell brought Irene Adler and myself to our
feet. As I descended the stairs, I saw Heller opening
the door to admit a tall fellow in chauffeur's livery
and peaked cap, sporting a giant handlebar moustache.

As though he entertained doubts of Heller's hearing, he boomed at him in a voice loud enough to carry into
the street, "Mr. Holmes' and Dr. Watson's luggage
from the hotel! Come on and give me a hand with
it!"

I descended the stairs and inquired, "Good heavens,
what's this about?"

"I said," bawled the man, "I've got Mr. Holmes'
and Dr. Watson's luggage, like you ordered, and I
need some help getting it in the house!"

Heller looked questioningly at his mistress.

"Help the man carry in the luggage, Heller," said
she, calmly.

"Yes, ma'am."

The butler joined the uniformed man on the steps
outside.

"What's our luggage being brought here for, any
way?" I wondered.

"I'm sure we'll find out very soon," said Irene Adler.

Peering outside into the street, I saw a carriage by
the curb—and, beyond it, I fancied, a light blob
against the darkness of the park trees that might well have been our checked-suited spy. Through the open
door of the carriage I observed a number of familiar
suitcases and a large trunk that had
not
, I knew,
formed part of our effects on the trip from England.
As I watched, the uniformed man pulled out two of
the suitcases and handed them to Heller, who trotted
up into the lobby with them and set them down.

I looked at the nearest.

"Mine, right enough," said I, and picked it up.
"Bless my soul—it's empty!" Now quite alarmed at
this turn of events, I turned to the uniformed man as
he entered with two more suitcases, and cried, "Look
here, my good man—"

"There's quite a large trunk in the carriage,
Watson." Sherlock Holmes' precise tones cut off my
protest. "As soon as Heller and I have it halfway
across the sidewalk so that it's blocking the view of
that chap across the street, I want you to get into that carriage as fast as you can and lie on the floor. Under
no circumstances allow yourself to be seen."

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, dropping the empty suit
case.

"Remember to do exactly as I say!"

He turned and descended the outside stairs once
more. I looked in perplexity at Irene Adler, who ap
peared, as always, calm—and now ready to play her
part, whatever it might be.

I turned to look again through the outer door.
Holmes and Heller were now removing the trunk from
the carriage.

I heard Holmes call out, "Careful now, buddy."

Irene Adler placed one hand firmly on my arm.
As they reached the bottom of the steps, she tight
ened her grip for an instant and said, urgently, "
Now
,
Dr. Watson!"

Crouching low and using the trunk as a screen, I
scuttled down the steps and flung myself into the car
riage, stretching out facedown upon the floor, where
I stayed during stirring events of the next few moments
within the house, of which I learned only later.

Once the trunk had been brought into the foyer
and the door tight closed behind it, Holmes lost no
time in unlocking and opening it.

As the lid rose, revealing the sleeping boy, Irene
Adler's eyes widened, and she gave a low cry of relief
and joy: "Scott!"

She fell to her knees beside the trunk, her head
bowed, as Holmes quickly undid the straps that had
kept the boy secure during his jolting journeys. As he
did so, Scott stirred and opened his eyes.

"Mother?" said he bewilderedly. "How'd I get
here?" He felt the metal edges of the trunk in wonder
and confusion. "What's this? Where's Nicole?"

His mother was now weeping and clasping him to
her.
"Oh, Scott, Scott, Scott!"

Holmes, still on his knees beside the trunk, regarded
them gravely for a moment, then stood up. Irene
Adler looked into his face, and seemed about to press
him for an explanation of the miracle that had be
fallen her and her son.

"Sherlock . . . ?"

"I've no time now," said Holmes. "If I'm in here
too long—" He gave a meaningful jerk of his head
in the direction of the spot where Moriarty's spy kept
his vigil. Then he patted Scott Adler on the head and
smiled. "Lad's as fit as a fiddle. But, Irene, matters
remain grave. I must ask you under no circumstances
to stir from the house or let the boy be seen, until I
give the word."

"Of course."

Sherlock Holmes turned to Heller.

"Open the door," he instructed. The butler did so,
and Holmes, standing out of any view from outside,
called, in his own voice, "Thank you, my man! Here's
something for your pains!"

He then moved smartly out on to the front steps,
replying to himself in his deliveryman's boom, "Thank
you, sir. Thank you very much!"

In a moment he had clambered up on to the driver's seat of the carriage, whipped up the horse, and driven
off. As the vehicle began to move, I eased myself
from the floor and looked cautiously out the back win
dow. I could see the man in the checked suit moving
hastily away from his post, and, opening the hatch
way at the front of the carriage, I passed this news to
Holmes.

"Naturally enough, Watson," said he. "He is even now getting word to his master that you and I have
moved, bag and baggage, into the house of Miss Irene
Adler—and it is there that his attention will be fo
cused for the next few all-important days!"

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