problem.”
He sighed. “That’s exactly what it is, Dash. What a shame that I don’t use tobacco.”
“Harry, face it. You’re not going to get to the bottom of this one. Addison Tate shot Mr. Patrell and now he’s on the run. With the money he took he could be anywhere. We may never know where he went.”
“You’re wrong, Dash; I will solve it. I’m simply looking at things the wrong way. I must shake things up-turn them upside down. And I know just how to do it.” Harry smiled mysteriously. “Indeed, I have already taken the necessary measures.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll say no more. I must be discreet.”
“What is he going on about now?” I asked Bess.
She slipped her arm through Harry’s and led him toward the stage. “Hasn’t he told you? He’s written a letter to-”
“Shhh!” cried Harry, pulling us off to the side. “The others will hear!”
“Hear what?” I asked.
Harry looked around to make sure that no one else was listening before he continued. “Very well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I shall confide in you. As the solution has thus far eluded me, I took the liberty of laying my case before an expert. I have written a letter to the world’s foremost consulting detective.”
“The world’s foremost consulting detective?”
“Exactly.”
“You wrote a letter to-”
“Sherlock Holmes. That is correct. I gathered the facts into a most interesting narrative, with certain literary flourishes that I hope will appeal to Dr. Watson.”
“But… Sherlock Holmes. Harry, isn’t Sherlock Holmes a-well, isn’t he-”
“Dead? You are referring to the unfortunate happenings at the Reichenbach Falls? You know my views on that matter, Dash. Sherlock Holmes is not dead. He has simply withdrawn from public life for reasons that he is not at liberty to divulge. I feel confident, however, that when he hears the particulars of this case, he will make an exception.”
“An exception?”
“Yes.”
“An exception to being dead?”
“Yes, if you insist on phrasing it thus. He has undoubtedly heard of the exploits of the great Harry Houdini. I am the only escapologist in the world, just as he is the only professional consulting detective. He and I are two originals, charting a bold new course and bringing comfort to the downtrodden.”
“Comfort to the downtrodden?”
He continued as if he had not heard. “It is a singular honor, but also a burden. He and I share this unique bond, like brothers. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Like brothers,” I repeated, as we climbed the platform for the next performance. “No, I guess I wouldn’t understand.”
The following weeks passed quickly and we began to lose track of time, as one often does when caught up in the grind of a Ten-in-One. As the days melted away, the name of Addison Tate was heard less frequently among the performers, and even Mr. Patrell seemed eager to put the episode behind him. For my part I enjoyed the routine thoroughly, but for one detail. Though I persisted in pressing my attentions upon Miss Horn, she continued to resist me with polite but firm resolve. Each day at the end of the final show, she would hurtle through the door as if propelled from a cannon, vanishing from sight before I had a chance to offer to escort her on the walk home.
One morning in early December, as I arrived at my mother’s flat to collect Harry and Bess, I found my brother slumped over the breakfast table looking thoroughly despondent.
“What is it?” I asked, glancing at my mother. “Is anyone-”
“His letter has come back from Baker Street,” said Bess.
“Come back?”
“Unopened. See for yourself.” A thick envelope lay on the breakfast table, addressed to “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.” in Harry’s blocky script. The surface was covered with postal markings and transfer stamps, and as I picked it up for a closer look, I could see a line of instructions printed along the bottom edge in a firm, slanting hand. It read: “Mr. Holmes no longer resides at this address. Return to writer.” An arrow scrawled in the corner directed attention to the reverse side of the envelope, where Harry’s name and address were carefully printed on the flap.
“Harry,” I said, setting the envelope back on the table. “I’m sorry. You must be very disappointed.”
“Extremely.” His voice was heavy and listless. “I feel so terribly foolish.”
“Still, you couldn’t have really thought-I mean, you couldn’t actually have believed-”
“That Sherlock Holmes would assist me in solving the case? Of course I believed it.”
Bess reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Let’s put all this foolishness behind us and concentrate on the business at hand. Dash, we’ve been working for Mr. Patrell for nearly two months now. Don’t you think it’s time we-Dash? Dash?”
“Sorry? Were you speaking to me?”
“What is it? You have the strangest look on your face!”
“I-well-I’m not sure, but I think-I think-”
“What?”
I picked up Harry’s letter and turned it over in my hands. “I think Sherlock Holmes just solved the case.”
“It’s bad enough that I have to spend eight straight hours standing on the platform. Now I have to remain afterwards?” Emma Henderson tore off her bearded chin piece. “And why does it have to be in Mr. Patrell’s office? We’d all be more comfortable in the back room.”
This was certainly true. Harry and I had asked all of the performers to gather in the relatively cramped confines of Patrell’s office, which left most of us standing and others leaning awkwardly against the rear wall. It was a necessary measure. In answer to Miss Henderson’s question, however, I merely shrugged.
“Be patient, Emma,” said Mathilda Horn, gazing up at me with an unfamiliar expression of warmth and affection. “Dash has his reasons.”
“Does he now?” asked Miss Henderson. “When did you two get so friendly?”
“You hadn’t noticed?” asked Benjamin Zalor, settling his undersized frame on the edge of an unused packing crate. “They’ve spent half the day whispering at the back door.”
Gideon Patrell took his usual seat behind his desk. “Are there any more of those pastries your mother sent, Dash?” he asked. “What did you call them again?”
“Kifli,” I said. “And I’m afraid Mr. Grader has eaten the last one.”
“Grader! I’ve never seen a living skeleton with such a sweet tooth,” said Patrell.
“Sorry, boss,” he said, patting his concave stomach.
“So, what’s this all about?” asked Patrell, cracking a walnut with a juggling club. “Where is your brother, by the way?”
“Right here,” said Harry, entering the room with the “Wild Man of Borneo” in tow. “Sorry for the delay. Mr. Kendricks and I needed to make preparations for this evening’s performance.”
“Performance?” asked Patrell. “We’ve done our eight turns today, Houdini. It’s time to go home.”
“Please indulge me for just a few moments longer,” said Harry. “I’ve planned an encore, never before seen on any stage. Tonight, my brother and I intend to recreate the dreadful crime that took place in this office.”
“Recreate the crime?” Patrell stared at him. “For what possible reason?”
“You have indicated that you would like to find Mr. Tate and recover your money.”
“Yes, but he’s long gone by now. And our money with him.”
“Perhaps not.” Harry straightened his tie. “Indeed, I believe the solution is closer than you think. Mr. Patrell, for purposes of our demonstration you will remain just as you are, behind the desk. Dash, you will be playing the role of Addison Tate in this evening’s drama.”
I stepped forward.
“Now,” my brother continued, turning to the others, “Mr. Patrell has stated that Addison Tate returned to the office to demand the money after the rest of you departed. Dash-demand the money.”
