The Seventh Bullet (18 page)

“But you mentioned
two
reasons that you believe we are making so much progress, and you have told me only one. What is the second?” I asked.

“Only the fact that someone cares enough to have had us followed, Watson,” he explained as calmly as he could over the clatter of the train on the rails. “Your friend with the false beard has been standing at the far end of the corridor since we left Washington. I caught sight of him as we boarded in Union Station.”

“That miscreant? Here on this train?” Unable to see up the passageway from my seat near the window on the swaying carriage, I rather cumbersomely tried leaning across Holmes to view our pursuer; my friend, however, stayed me with his hand.

“He’s not there any longer, Watson. He propped himself in a distant corner, but I’ve been watching his reflection in the window opposite. As soon as we began to approach New York, he moved away. He could be anywhere on the train. And without his beard—and aided, no doubt, by a change of coats—we might never recognise him. He could even be off the train by now, in light of how slowly it has been taking these curves. But have no fear. One day we’ll catch up with him and find out what his game is.”

Since this fellow might have been the same assailant who had shot at Holmes in Gramercy Park, the fact that he had vanished
provided some comfort until the train finally rolled into the Pennsylvania Station.

Before Rollins had left with Beveridge for New York on the previous day, Holmes had asked the chauffeur to meet our train. That was how it came to pass that Rollins was waiting for us at the station when we arrived in New York. Unbeknownst to me, however, Holmes had also been busy sending telegrams while we were in Washington—probably when I had been tardy in dressing. I was unaware, therefore, that Holmes had asked the chauffeur in advance to stop at the Princeton Club after leaving the station or that Holmes had asked Newton James and Frank Davis, the two members of the Club who had rushed to the aid of the mortally stricken Phillips, to meet us there.

Although it retained much of its charm, the house that once had belonged to Stanford White had lost most of its luxuriant trappings after his murder in 1906, the same year in which
The Treason of the Senate
was published. We could see one of his massive black marble fireplaces that, Ozymandiaslike, seemed to lord over what once had been. But, we learned from the porter, just as one of the carved wooden lions that guarded the premises and the first-floor baroque ceiling had both been purchased for over three thousand dollars by the ubiquitous Mr. Hearst, so the other treasures of Stanford White had long since been sold before Princeton alumni began to occupy his celebrated home.

Two young men were waiting for us in the foyer when we arrived. One was talking animatedly while the other sat and nodded in silence. Both wore dark-blue suits of serge, both had short brown hair, and both turned out to be tall. After introducing himself to the pair, Holmes said to the talkative one, “In your own
words, Mr. James, what happened when Mr. Phillips was shot?”

“Just a moment, Holmes,” I interrupted. “We know their names from the police report, but how could you possibly distinguish the identity of one from the other?”

Holmes smiled, and I might even have detected a wink in the direction of the “twins.” “The police report quotes Mr. James extensively as do the newspaper cuttings. From Mr. Davis, we hear very little. When we encounter the young men in question and discover one to be orating and the other to be listening, it takes not too much deductive reasoning, old chap, to conclude that the speaker of the two is Mr. James.” Holmes then turned to the gentleman in question and repeated his query.

“As I told the police over a year ago, Mr. Holmes,” James said, “Frank and I ran over to Phillips as soon as we saw him wounded.”

“Start at the beginning, if you would be so kind,” Holmes said.

His eyebrows pinched together, James looked pensive for a moment, and then he began to tell his story. “Davis and I had just come out of the club where we had been lunching when the shooting took place. We saw Phillips coming in the direction of the club, as we knew was his custom about that time of day.”

“You knew it was he?”

“Oh, yes. We recognised him because of his tall, spare figure and his black alpine, rather crumpled hat. We did not pay much attention to him or to the other people in the street until suddenly we heard the quick explosions of the automatic revolver. The six shots which hit Phillips were fired so quickly that, when we looked to see what the trouble was, Phillips was swaying against the fence opposite 115 supported by Jacoby—”

“The florist?”

“Yes, that’s right. Goldsborough was standing at the edge of the kerb. As we started to run toward him, Goldsborough raised the revolver to his temple and shot himself, his body falling into the gutter, where it lay until the club servants went out and lifted it up to the sidewalk and covered it with a sheet until it could be carried to the police station on a patrol wagon.”

“Did Phillips say anything to you?” Holmes asked.

For the first time in the narrative, it was Davis who spoke. “I’ll never forget that afternoon: ‘For God’s sake,’ Phillips cried, ‘get me into a building. Get a doctor!”

“Then,” James continued, “I rather foolishly pointed at Goldsborough’s body and asked Phillips if he knew him.”

“And?” Holmes asked. His voice was hushed.

“He just said, ‘I don’t know.’ Then we helped Jacoby carry him into the first-floor entrance of the Club and got one of the bellboys to call for an ambulance. They stretched him out on a settee in the foyer where, I’m sorry to say, a lot of other chaps stood around and gawked.”

“Did you do nothing for him?” I asked.

“Of course we did, Dr. Watson. Someone tried to stop the bleeding.”

Davis, who seemed to be the repository of Phillips’s words, added, “Phillips himself cried out, ‘I’ve been shot. I am suffering. Can’t you do something? Have you sent for an ambulance?”

“He complained of pain in his left arm and in his stomach,” James continued.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” I said, “a man who’d been shot six times.”

“Then he asked us to call his personal physician, Dr. Fuller, over on Lexington Avenue. In fact, Fuller arrived at the same time
as the ambulance and rode in it to the hospital. That about covers it, I think.”

“Nothing else?” Holmes asked.

Davis and James exchanged glances. Davis shook his head.

“Then I have one more point to ask you about, gentlemen,” Holmes said, “after which we’ll take up no more of your time. Did you get a close view of that automatic revolver?”

“The six-shooter problem, eh, Mr. Holmes?” James asked. His smile suggested he enjoyed divining the point of the question. “Alas, no. I am only aware of what the police have said—that the gun could fire up to ten bullets, but I believe I speak for Mr. Davis as well when I say that neither one of us could identify the specific weapon.”

Davis nodded his agreement, and, concluding we could gain no additional information from the pair, we offered our thanks and walked out into Twenty-first Street.

“Come with me, Watson,” Holmes ordered, and I proceeded to walk beside him as he crossed the road, travelling west along the northern fencing of the park. Since this path was clearly not in the direction of the motor car, I wondered where we might be heading. Suddenly, some ten yards before we arrived at the turning, he stopped and pointed his stick at a makeshift, green-canvas tent that had been erected against the park railing as it turned south at the end of the grounds. Surrounding the tent as well as being enclosed by it were bright bursts of spring flowers arrayed in various bouquets to attract the eye of passers-by. A sweet fragrance hung in the air.

“Surely, Holmes,” I said, “this is not the time to be buying nosegays.”

“Behold, Watson—the establishment of Mr. Jacob Jacoby, florist,”
Holmes said in reply. “At the moment of the shooting, he happened to be near enough to Phillips to catch him as he fell against the fence.”

“But how could you be so certain of the location of this stall?” I asked. “It was most decidedly not here on our previous tour of the park.”

“Once again, Watson, you have seen but failed to observe.”

Stung by Holmes’s objurgation, however mild, I did now recall his cursory glances at the pavement when we stood at this same spot with Mrs. Frevert. What is more, Holmes knew that I recollected the incident.

“Yes, Watson,” he said, “I observed the remnants of the flower stall when we visited the scene Sunday last. Gardenias—and their petals—are not to be found growing wild at this time of year.”

As usual, it all seemed so obvious when the explanation was before me; but I had no more time to consider the matter, for we were now approaching the flower vendor himself.

Mr. Jacoby greeted us by removing the small, flat cap from his head. He was a short, egg-shaped man of middle age. Despite his threadbare black coat, his beard was neatly trimmed, and he presented us with so broad a grin that his eyes seemed to disappear behind his red cheeks.

“Gentlemen,” he said amiably while replacing the cap on his head, “chrysanthemums for your lapels, or, maybe, roses for your ladies?” He spoke in the guttural tones of what I assumed to be an Eastern European accent.

“We’ll each take a white chrysanthemum,” my friend said; but as Jacoby was handing them to us, Holmes added, “perhaps like the ones you used to sell to David Graham Phillips, Mr. Jacoby.”

The utterance of Phillips’s name caused the smile to drop from
the flower vendor’s face.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “My name, I see, you know already. How?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Jacoby, and I have read the official police files. I know that you were right next to Phillips when he was shot. I now want to know what you witnessed and what you can tell me about the gun you must have seen Goldsborough holding.”

Jacoby removed his cap again and ran stubby fingers through his thin strands of brown hair. Apparently confronting some inner dilemma, he hesitated a moment or two. Then he began slowly. “Mr. Phillips—” he was able to say, but was immediately interrupted by a metallic clacking.

Glancing up the sidewalk, we all saw a muscular policeman in a tight-fitting, dark uniform running his cudgel horizontally against the rails of the fence as he slowly advanced towards us some twenty feet away.

“Come, sir, surely—” Holmes encouraged, but whatever Jacoby had been about to say, the little man now straightened up and spoke as if repeating a text he had memorised well in advance.

“I have been advised,” he announced, “both by the police and by the District Attorney to remain silent.”

I do not know if the officer was merely making his daily rounds or if he had been watching the flower stall or whether the police had been keeping an eye on Holmes and me, but it was clear from Mr. Jacoby’s rigid stare and shaking fingers that the wretched man believed that it was for him the policeman had been sent.

“I have nothing to say to you!” he shrieked at us. “Now go!”

“Let me at least pay for the flowers,” Holmes said.

“No, take them!” he pleaded. “Please.”

Observing the agitated state of the little flower vendor and that people around us were beginning to stare, Holmes nodded in my direction; and after he dropped a few coins onto the counter, we walked off down the pavement, smiling first at the policeman, and then making our way back to Rollins at the other end of the park.

“What do you think of our witnesses?” I asked Sherlock Holmes as we entered the Waldorf-Astoria. “A pair of identical twins and one man too frightened to talk.”

“In point of fact, Watson, none of them said anything they had not already told the reporter from
The New York Times.”

“At least we still have Van den Acker to interview,” I reminded him.

“Yes,” he mused, “Van den Acker.”

We stopped at the front desk to enquire after messages, but a ginger-haired hall porter whom we had not seen before failed to turn round at our arrival. Only after Holmes rapped smartly on the counter with his walking stick did the pale young man jump to attention. Checking our pigeonhole, he found two pieces of correspondence. To me, he handed a folded sheet of notepaper with my name on the front, but when he read what was printed on the cover of the envelope addressed to Holmes, he faced my friend with a wide grin.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, sir?” he asked.

Here in America, Holmes seemed particularly surprised by references to his fame. He merely nodded in response.

The hall porter gaped at my companion. “The
real
Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “From England?”

Holmes nodded again. “It is I,” he confessed, extending his
hand to receive the correspondence.

Before Holmes could take possession of the envelope, however, the young man looked both ways as if to avoid detection and then brought from beneath the counter a small leather-bound book that appeared to be always at the ready. After handing my friend a pen, he opened the book to a blank page. “Could I please have your signature, Mr. Gillette? I saw your performance as Sherlock Holmes right here in New York a couple of years ago.”

“I’m afraid—” said Holmes.

“Please,” he importuned, holding the book under Holmes’s nose while his own fair cheeks and forehead turned a self-conscious pink. “Address it, if you would be so kind, to Miles Kennedy. That’s me.”

Fearing the envelope might be held hostage, Holmes agreed and signed the blank page. Young Mr. Kennedy scrutinised the autograph for a few moments and then said, “You really remain in character, Mr. Gillette. Even the name you sign is ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”

Message secured, Holmes ushered me away from the desk.

“My friend Gillette again,” he whispered, “the actor who sent me the calabash. His portrayal of me on the stage must have been quite convincing. Fancy that! I thought that being depicted in the cinematograph was tiresome enough, but now I see that I shall have to contend with stage actors as well. I am afraid, Watson, that all this is but the logical outgrowth of your melodramatic accounts of some rather mundane cases.”
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