ordered his minions, common hoodlums of the street, to begin pasting his boards-his advertising posters-over my own. Naturally, to protect myself, I retaliated by having my assistants do the same to his. But interfering with my advertisements was not enough for the man. He began denouncing me on stage, before his performance, calling me a fraud, a charlatan. He went so far as to claim, in a press interview, that I had stolen my legendary coffin escape from him. Him, a mediocre trickster who had never in his life given a coffin a second thought.”
“Only fair to point out, though,” said Lord Bob to Doyle, “that the chap does catch bullets in his teeth.”
“A trick, merely,” said the Great Man. “But no matter. What then happened, I called a press conference and I revealed the truth to the assembled reporters. That it was Chin Soo who was the fraud. That the man was a liar and an incompetent. I challenged him to appear on stage with me, bringing any restraint of his own choosing- chains, handcuffs, shackles, whatever he liked-and attempt to render me captive. I would, in turn, provide a restraint of my own choosing, for him. Whoever succeeded in escaping in the least amount of time would be considered the winner. This seemed to me utterly fair-minded.”
Doyle nodded, puffing at his pipe.
The Great Man shrugged. “But naturally, Chin Soo declined the challenge. And, naturally, as a result, he was ridiculed in the newspapers. His last performance played to an empty house. Or it nearly played, I should say. When he discovered that most of the seats were unoccupied, he stormed from the stage. Typical behavior, from such an egomaniac. He left the theater and removed all his things from his rooming house. He simply disappeared.”
The Great Man paused for a moment, letting that sink in. Then he said, “That night, as I left the Orpheum by the stage door, someone attempted to shoot me.”
“Good heavens,” said Doyle, and raised his eyebrows.
“He missed me, but by a matter of inches only. My quick reflexes enabled me to dash back to the safety of the theater. The police were notified, and when they arrived I explained the situation. They immediately suspected Chin Soo, of course. But when they attempted to locate him, they learned he had gone.”
“One moment,” said Doyle, taking his pipe from his mouth. “You said earlier that no one knew what Chin Soo actually looked like, without his stage make-up. And yet he had taken lodgings. Wouldn’t the people there-the landlord, for example-wouldn’t someone have seen him as he truly appeared?”
“No,” announced the Great Man. “Before Chin Soo arrived in a city, he retained someone to engage a room for him, and pay for it in advance. Chin Soo would arrive on the date specified, but he would be wearing his make- up. No one would ever see him without it, at least wittingly.” He sniffed dismissively. “It was something he did to make himself appear fascinating. Part of his so-called mystique.”
“And you’re quite sure,” said Doyle, “that it was make-up?”
“Oh yes. No one has ever seen Chin Soo arrive in any city in which he was performing. Not by automobile, by train, or by boat. He travels undisguised. Or perhaps disguised as someone else.”
“But how-and just when, exactly-does he transform himself into his Chin Soo identity?”
The Great Man shrugged. “If he travels by means of an automobile, perhaps he changes inside it. Perhaps he uses public lavatories. Perhaps he engages some other lodgings, from which he can come and go unseen.”
“Extraordinary,” said Doyle, and shook his head. “And you’re certain that it was Chin Soo who attempted to shoot you?”
“He himself admitted as much to me. On the day after the incident, I returned to my home in New York City, and that evening he telephoned me-on my private number-and spoke with me. He used his stage voice, and he asked me whether I would like him to give me lessons in catching bullets. I told him, of course, that I needed no lessons of any kind from him. And I suggested to him that perhaps he required some lessons himself, in marksmanship.”
Doyle smiled around the pipe stem. “Good man. Giving him his own back.” He frowned slightly. “But you say he used his stage voice?”
“On stage he speaks in a singsong Oriental manner. It was in such a voice that he spoke with me.”
“And this Oriental voice is assumed, I take it?”
“Yes. He possesses, I admit, some accomplishments as a mimic. He has telephoned me several times since then, and each time he used a different voice, a different accent. A feeble attempt at wit, I suppose. But always he has made his identity clear.”
“How did he obtain your private telephone number?”
“From someone in the telephone company, no doubt. No doubt he paid bribes. I have had the number altered several times, and each time he has somehow acquired the new one.”
“And he threatened you, you say, before you went to Philadelphia?”
“Yes. That was my first appearance after the engagement in Buffalo, and it was to be my last in the United States, before I sailed for Europe. He telephoned me two days before I left, and said that he was looking forward to seeing me in Philadelphia. At my wife’s suggestion, I discussed the matter with the Philadelphia Police Department. As I told you, they attempted to capture him, and they failed.”
Doyle nodded. “And between the time you appeared in Buffalo and the time you appeared in Philadelphia, no one has seen Chin Soo?”
“No one. He had several bookings, small theaters in insignificant cities, but he canceled them all.”
“And he made no attempt to harm you while you were in New York City?”
“No. Perhaps he is aware of the esteem in which I am held there. Or perhaps he wishes to harm me only while I am on tour. Perhaps he feels that this would be more dramatic.”
“And it was at the start of the tour that you retained Mr. Beaumont’s services?”
“Correct, yes.”
Doyle turned to me and took the pipe from his mouth. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Beaumont?”
Across the carpet, Lord Bob scowled.
“A couple of things,” I said. “First off, although Harry doesn’t agree with me, I think that maybe Chin Soo isn’t really trying to kill him.”
“We have discussed that, Phil,” said the Great Man. Suggesting that there was no point discussing it again.
“What do you mean?” Doyle asked me.
“Maybe Chin Soo is just trying to rattle Harry. Shake him up. Make him nervous, so he’ll lose his concentration on stage, botch up the performance. Bungle it.”
“Phil,” said the Great Man, “ nothing could make me lose my concentration. I have never bungled anything in my life.”
I smiled. “Like I told you, Harry, maybe Chin Soo figures there’s a first time for everything.”
Doyle said to me, “You’re basing this notion upon what? Your understanding of Chin Soo’s character?”
“Partly,” I said. “I think Chin Soo would love the idea of Harry screwing up-making a mistake. But also, Harry’s told me about this bullet-catching trick. In order to pull it off, you’ve got to know a fair amount about guns and bullets. You’ve got to be a pretty good shot yourself.”
“Just how is the trick performed?” Doyle asked me.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s Harry’s cat.” I turned to the Great Man. “He’ll have to let it out of the bag himself.”
The Great Man smiled sadly. “I regret to say, Sir Arthur, that-”
Doyle held up the palm of his hand. “I understand completely. I should never have asked.” He turned back to me, took hold of the bowl of his pipe, puffed. “You were making a point about Chin Soo’s marksmanship.”
“Yeah. He’s a good shot. But one of our ops-operatives, agents-examined that alley in Buffalo. The one where the shooting took place. Harry was standing only about fifteen feet from the spot where the gun was fired.”
Doyle nodded. “And yet Chin Soo’s bullet missed him.”
The Great Man shifted in his seat. “The alley was dark, Phil.”
“The gas lamps were lit,” I said. “Harry, you were a sitting duck, and he missed you.”
Doyle said to me, “But I understood that he did shoot a police officer in Philadelphia.”
“When the guy was trying to nab him.”
The Great Man said, “But you have no way of proving that Chin Soo wouldn’t have shot me, if I had been in the room.” He was dead set on getting shot at.
Doyle said to him, “The shot that was fired today.” He puffed at the pipe. “That missed you, as well.”
“Yes,” he said, “but it was fired from-what was it, Phil? — something like two hundred yards.”
“A hundred and fifty.”
