several people, proving that I had been framed as I had claimed all along, and that I could have my old position back, if I wanted it. By that time, of course, I had received your letter, telling me what you had done.”
Holmes laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Yes, it was an opportunity that I simply could not resist. As I think I have mentioned to you, Watson, I have often thought that I would have been a highly successful criminal, had I been so inclined. And I could not possibly indulge myself similarly in London, of course-Scotland Yard would be less than amused if I took to ‘second-story work’ here-but in New York, who was to know? Besides,” he said, raising his glass in the direction of the smiling Mrs. Battle, “the cause, in this case, was extraordinarily worthy.
“And what of you, Battle?” said Holmes. “What is in store for you on the police force? Is all forgiven?”
“More than forgiven. There are changes taking place, just as I had hoped, and shortly before Frances and I were wed, I was named an assistant to the new Commissioner of Police. You have heard of Theodore Roosevelt?”
“I have, indeed. A very good man.”
“As good as they come, and as incorruptible. He is the new broom that will sweep all New York clean.”
Rising to his feet, he raised his glass once more. “Another toast to you, then, Mr. Holmes. My cup runneth over, thanks to you.”
We all rose, then. “My blushes, Watson.” Holmes smiled, after we had drunk in his honour. “And now I think that we should all adjourn to Simpson’s for dinner. I can think of nothing more satisfying on a cold winter’s night than enjoying some good British beef with some excellent American friends.”
THE SEVEN WALNUTS by Daniel Stashower
Daniel Stashower is the Edgar-winning author of
We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage on East 69th Street, but I cannot recollect anything more startling and distasteful than the sudden appearance of Mr. Gideon Patrell, the celebrated sideshow entrepreneur. It was a brisk October morning in 1898 when Mr. Patrell presented himself at my mother’s kitchen table and, after submitting his mouth to a thorough examination, promptly cleared his throat and began to regurgitate a handful of walnuts, summoning them from the depths of his stomach, one by one.
Mr. Patrell arrived at this singular moment by slow degrees. A tall, rail-thin gentleman of elegant bearing and impeccable wardrobe, he had arranged to join us for breakfast so that he might discuss the possibility of engaging the services of my brother, Harry Houdini.
Harry was all of twenty-four years old at the time; I had just turned twenty-two. Professionally, my brother had hit the skids. Try as he might-and no one ever tried harder-he couldn’t quite manage to break out of the small time. Whatever small reputation he had rested entirely on his value as a novelty act. He spent weeks at a stretch working various odd turns in traveling circuses and midway tents, sleeping in swinging hammocks on carnival wagons and eating campfire meals at railway sidings. It was a life we both knew all too well. Harry and I had done an act together from the time we were kids, but of course that had changed five years earlier when he married Bess. From that day forward, she became his partner onstage and off, and I handled the booking and backstage work. To speak plainly, my duties as Harry’s advance man were not terribly rigorous. In later years the theatrical world would unite in a roaring clamor for his services; in those days, the call seldom rose above a dull murmur. The note I had received from Mr. Patrell, mentioning a sudden vacancy in his program, was our first prospect of employment in several weeks.
I had arrived at my mother’s flat early that morning. In those days I fancied myself as something of a man about town, and kept a room at Mrs. Arthur’s boardinghouse several blocks away, so as to be free to enjoy the lively and vigorous social life befitting an eligible young bachelor in New York City. In point of fact, my social life was largely confined to solitary walks in the park and reading books at the public library. I lived in hope, however.
Harry continued to live at home even after his marriage to Bess, an arrangement that appealed not only to his all-encompassing sense of devotion to our mother but also to his frugal nature. Harry and Bess were already seated at the breakfast table when I arrived. Mother stood at the stove, as always, busying herself with a pot of oatmeal.
“Sit,” she said as I came through the door. “I’ll get you something to eat. You look thin.”
“Good morning, Dash,” said my sister-in-law. “Is that a new tie? It’s very spruce.”
“Not exactly new, Bess,” I said. “They made me a deal at Scott’s bazaar.” I fingered the wide pukka silk tie at my throat, which, if I had unbuttoned the jacket of my double-breasted windowpane suit, would have displayed a grease stain left by the previous owner. “I was hoping to make a good impression on Mr. Patrell.”
I turned to my brother. “Good morning, Harry,” I said. He scowled and did not look up from buttering a piece of brown toast.
I looked back at Bess. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s sulking,” she said. “He doesn’t want to go back to the Ten-in-One.”
“It’s beneath me!” Harry cried, brandishing the butter knife. “Ten different acts for a dime! Ten performers lined up along the platform, displayed like prize hogs at a county fair! Jugglers and bearded ladies and rubber men and tattooed girls and-”
“All right, Harry,” said Bess. “Calm down. It’s just that there isn’t much-”
“I am Harry Houdini, the justly celebrated self-liberator! The man whom the
“High praise indeed, Harry,” continued Bess in a soothing tone, “but even Houdini has to pay the rent. We haven’t worked in nearly a month.”
Harry grunted and resumed buttering his toast.
Bess pressed her advantage. “And Mr. Patrell was good enough to come and see us here at home, rather than bring us all the way downtown.”
“Ha!” cried my brother. “Dash would have been perfectly happy to ride down to 13th Street. Mr. Patrell offered to come here only because Mama gave him a slice of blackberry torte the last time.”
Harry was undoubtedly correct about this, as my mother’s skills with a pastry brush and dough docker were legendary. “Look, Harry,” I said, “the important thing is that he has an opening. Nobody wants to work in the dime museums forever, but we need to keep the wolf from the door. At least let’s hear what Mr. Patrell has to say, all right? If you don’t like his offer, we’ll find something else.”
“Very well,” said Harry. “I will listen. Apart from that, I promise nothing.”
At the appointed hour Mr. Patrell appeared at the door of the flat, greeting my mother with elaborate courtesy. His mood was buoyant, but his face looked pale and gaunt, and he wore his left arm in a heavy canvas sling. Stepping inside, he waved off our questions about his bandaged arm, assuring us that it was only a minor injury. Placing his dove-grey homburg on the sideboard, he took a seat at the breakfast table and grinned broadly as a slice of dobos torte was placed before him. Bess, meanwhile, chatted amiably with him about the potentially ruinous effects of the recent consolidation of New York’s five boroughs. At length, when Patrell had submitted the misdeeds of Mayor Van Wyck to a lengthy analysis, my sister-in-law attempted to guide the conversation to business.
“Do I understand, sir,” said Bess, “that there may be an opening at Patrell’s Wonder Emporium?”
“Ah!” said the proprietor brightly, waving his good arm in the air. “Allow me to demonstrate!” Pulling a linen pocket square from his coat, he dabbed at his lips and gave a discreet cough. Then, with a brief flourish, he reached
