The Six Messiahs

'Didn't I promise you a fine how-do-you-do in New York? Did we not do it up right for you?' said the giant, his smile exposing a piano's worth of unnaturally gleaming white teeth.

'I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,' said Doyle, uneasily eyeing the battalion of celebrities bearing sharply down on them.

'Why it's Pepperman, Mr. Conan Doyle,' said the man, doffing his hat gallantly. 'Major Rolando Pepperman. Impresario of your literary tour; at your service.'

'Major Pepperman, of course, do forgive me....'

'No, not at all. It is I who have failed you, sir, by not providing in my cables a more detailed description of my person.'

His startling blue eyes sparkled, the muscles bulging his jacket crackled with excess energy—everything about the man seemed built to an incredibly overscaled set of plans: America's exuberant essence distilled down into one gigantic prototype.

Pepperman shot an arm around Doyle's shoulder and turned him to face the crowd: 'I give you Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of the great Sherlock Holmes! Welcome to New York!'

Pepperman thrust his hat up into the air; the crowd shifted into an even higher gear of frenzy as the band dueled them for control of the audible threshold. A battery of photographers' flash powder exploded in Doyle's wide-open eyes, leaving black spots dancing in place of the faces of the New York elite as they pressed in around him.

Doyle shook fifty hands and received as many business cards; the cacophony swallowed their bearers' shouted messages but Doyle retained the impression that every one of these somebodies wanted him to either eat at their restaurant, appear in their magazine, attend their latest theatrical triumph, or reside at their deluxe hotel. The disquieting phrase 'in exchange for a commercial endorsement' often followed hard on the heels of these flattering offers.

The only desire in the crowd that remained unclear to Doyle was exactly what the spectacular show girls wanted from him, although Innes, the axis of a cluster of them orbiting nearby, interpreted their giggling avoidances of his overtures as a solid basis for indulging his eager repertoire of wishful thinking.

Pressed into Doyle's possession by a hierarchy of politicians were a scroll proclaiming an official welcome and a hefty be-ribboned brass object he guessed must represent a key to the city, but which seemed to have greater utility as a weapon. Before any further business could be conducted, or Doyle was prompted to beat back the hordes with his key, Pepperman led his author past the sawhorses to the street through the solid block of humanity and a waiting fleet of carriages.

In the event he would be called upon to deliver an impromptu response—he had been warned Americans loved nothing so much as giving and receiving speeches—Doyle tried to assemble a string of suitable thoughts to express to these people, but as he climbed up beside Pepperman on the running board of their carriage, the rank and file demonstrated no visible interest in anything other than continuing to scream their lungs out in his general direction. Doyle waved to them, then waved some more, then finally followed Pepperman's earlier example and thrust his hat into the air, apparently a signal peculiar to American audiences to behave as if they had entirely lost their minds.

Scanning the back of the crowd as the hysteria played out, Doyle spotted a solemn Lionel Stern leaving the customhouse doors. A plain coffin carrying the body of Rupert Selig was being loaded into a nearby hearse. Supervising the effort, still in priest's cassock, stood Jack Sparks.

Right, then, thought Doyle, as his carriage drove away; no reason to fret over Stern's safety for the moment; if this skirmish turns out to be typical of the treatment I can expect from the average American crowd, it's my own skin I need to worry about.

When the two dozen members of the New York Police Department left the Elbe later that day after their exhaustive search of the ship for the last fugitive came up empty-handed, no one took undue notice of a tall, blond, good-looking officer in their midst, badge number 473. No one remembered speaking to him afterward, and most of them didn't even realize badge 473 was missing until three hours after they arrived back at the precinct house.

Three more days would pass before they found the naked body of the badge's original owner, a patrolman named O'Keefe, shoved into a burlap bag in the meat locker of the Elbe's kitchen.

DENVER, COLORADO

Who is that odd-looking old man? wondered Eileen. What a sight: funny round hat, floor-length fur-trimmed black coat, a ribbon around his waist, the strange formal cut of his collar and tie. Thin as a darning needle, hardly strength enough to lift that suitcase. But what a sweet smile he's got, talking to those Negro porters, lifting his hat to thank them. They've pointed him over this way; he must have been asking directions. Can't be easy to travel at his age, poor thing; your heart goes out to him. He looks so vulnerable and out of place, everybody staring at him. Doesn't seem to mind the attention, though. Doesn't even seem to be aware of it actually. He looks like someone ... who is it? Someone really familiar. God, that's it: Abraham Lincoln, although the beard's much longer, and his hair's gone to gray. But he has the eyes, those same sad puppy-dog eyes.

'Will wonders never cease?' said Bendigo Rymer, giving her a nudge and a big nod in the direction of the approaching man. 'A Hebrew in the middle of the Denver train station.'

'He looks nice,' said Eileen, as she finished rolling a cigarette and struck a match off the bottom of the hard wooden bench. 'He looks like Abraham Lincoln.'

'By my stars,' said Rymer. 'He does at that. Imagine: Lincoln as Shylock. What a monumental miscasting.'

The man reached the section where the Penultimate Players were stretched out with their luggage, set down his suitcase with a sigh, and pulled out a long white handkerchief to mop the sweat from his forehead. The rest of the Players, those few who weren't doing penance for their excesses of the previous evening, lay on their benches and stared at this exotic creature with the idle curiosity of jaded sophisticates. The man looked around, absorbed their diffident attention, and smiled pleasantly.

Tired, yes, but in good humor. A generous face, thought Eileen, as she smiled back at him.

'There is a rumor going around,' said the man, gasping to catch his breath, 'that this could be the area to catch the train for Phoenix, Arizona.'

'Indeed, sir, you are well informed,' said Rymer. 'We are bound there ourselves, a poor company of players, but the best actors in the West, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable or poem unlimited.'

'Laying it on a bit thick,' said Eileen sideways to him as she smiled.

'To hear the words of the great Shakespeare spoken in such an unexpected place, and with such obvious skill, is not only a pleasure to the ears but a comfort to the mind,' said the man.

Rymer grinned like an idiot and blushed beet-red; compliments of any sort completely leveled him. You half expected him to roll over so the man could scratch his belly.

'Why don't you sit down, mister?' said Eileen.

'Most kind, thank you,' said the man, settling onto a bench directly across from her.

'My name is Bendigo Rymer, sir, and you are most welcome to join our assembly. We are the Penultimate Players, sir; having just completed, if I do say so, a more than modestly successful engagement in this thriving metropolis, you do find us en route to the city of Phoenix, carrying culture to the desert like water to the gardens of Babylon.'

'That's nice,' said the man. He smiled at Eileen, a twinkle in his eye just short of a wink.

There's wisdom in this man's eyes, thought Eileen, and his actions; instant recognition of what an irredeemable jackass Rymer is and kindness enough not to take offense. She hadn't seen a face this full of honest- to-goodness humanity since she left New York.

'And what clarion call beckons you, sir, to the land of the sagebrush and the redskin?'

'Nothing nearly so glamorous as. you people, I'm afraid,' said the man. 'Just a little business.'

'Ah, business,' said Rymer, as if it were a secret password. 'The wheels of