The Six Messiahs

'Sorry. Absolute devil of a morning, sir,' said the short, sturdy Larry, breathless from his upstream swim against the disembarking passengers.

'Oh?' said Doyle, cocking an eyebrow at Innes. 'How so?'

'Right; alarm goes off in the hotel at five this morning— bells in your ear, women howling in the halls, all of us mucking about in our woolies—and they won't let us back up to our bunks for nearly three hours; seems some sheik of Araby cooking a curry in his room set the curtains on fire.'

'Dreadful,' said Doyle, keeping an eye on Innes to chart the impact of Larry's woeful narrative. 'What happened then?'

'Everyone late departing the hotel as a result, resultin' in a massive migration down to the station, half an hour's wait to grab a hansom in the carriageway, and even though I precautionary engaged a driver for the day the bugger can't get his rig within a loud shout of the entrance what with the traffic and my eyes can't pick him out of the mix.'

'It's a wonder he didn't split an axle.'

'Oh, it was a scrum, all right, a regular rugby match,' said Larry, who had never once turned down an implied invitation to elaborate. 'My driver's nowhere to be spied; I'm about to abandon ship and let down the lifeboats when finally my fella squirts out of the pack, and we're no sooner clear of that fine mess in front of the Ritz when the next thing you know a beer wagon goes bum over teakettle ahead of us on the High Street and nothing can wiggle an eyelash in either direction for two solid blocks.'

'Must have taken half an hour to clear the wagon,' said Doyle, glancing sideways again at Innes.

'Half an hour easy before we're clear and we're no sooner on the go again when one of his geldings tosses a shoe in the mud and starts limpin' like a three-legged dog. Now my driver goes into a brown sulk and won't be comforted—he's a Welshman, it should come as no surprise—so I'm left with no alternative but to abandon the wretch in the middle of the street, hike the last half mile here in a driving rain and hack my way through a deranged mob of tourists outside to find another cab. It's a good thing I left an hour before your train was due or I wouldn't have been ten minutes late.'

'Thank you, Larry,' said Doyle.

Feeling his argument to Innes about the vagaries of fate emphatically settled, Doyle flashed a triumphant smile, but in that way peculiar to younger brothers Innes offered no concession of defeat, staring coolly at the horizon, as if the Great Pyramids occupied a distant hillside.

With the porter behind them, Doyle gave a dry snort and pointed them toward the exit. Strapping young Innes ran interference, plowing a path through the crowd like a cowcatcher on a locomotive.

'You can thank the fact our new driver's a fan of the Adding Machine,' said Larry, using one of their coded references to Doyle's famous fictional creation. 'Took the promise of an autograph to get him to wait.'

Before Doyle could inquire, from under his raincoat Larry produced a Strand magazine featuring a vintage Holmes story. Five years in Doyle's employ had produced an almost supernatural ability in the former Cockney burglar to anticipate his master's every need: 'Already took the liberty.'

'Good man,' said Doyle, taking a pen from his pocket. 'What's the fellow's name?'

'Roger Thornhill.'

Doyle took the magazine from his loyal secretary and scrawled an inscription—'For Roger, The Game's Afoot! Yours, Arthur Conan Doyle'—as they pushed through the station doors.

'Still plenty of time,' said Innes calmly.

'Only thing is,' said Larry, 'with my having to raise my voice above the ruckus for the drivers to hear me I'm afraid word leaked out about your arrival—'

'There he is!'

And with that cry, a crowd of fifty, many with Strand magazines in hand, closed in on Doyle as he cleared the doors, an impenetrable clamoring mob between them and their cab— driver Roger standing atop, waving his arms frantically— while in the distance, the tantalizing stacks of the Elbe, their ever-so-much-closer-to-departure destination.

'Game, set, and match,' said Doyle to Innes, before putting on his public face and wading forward to meet the onslaught, pen at the ready, with a friendly word for every comer and a determination to courteously satisfy every one of their requests, as swiftly as humanly possible.

Between signatures inscribed, greetings exchanged, anecdotes endured ('I've got an uncle in Brighton who's a bit of a detective himself....'), and offered amateur manuscripts kindly but firmly refused, half an hour flew by. A ten-minute carriage ride to the docks passed without incident, filled by their driver's monologue about his astonishing good fortune, variations on the theme: 'Wait'll me missus hears about this.'

Upon arrival at the customhouse, they jumped so smoothly over every hedge of the bureaucratic steeplechase involved in departing mother country that Doyle felt a twinge of disappointment: He had worked up a terrific head of steam for annihilating the first bureaucrat who tried to obstruct them but he had had no occasion to use it.

Something was wrong; this was too easy.

There Doyle stood, clerk before him—papers in one hand, stamp in the other—one fence away from the finish and the ship's departure still five minutes off, when out of the corner of his eye Doyle spotted and, with the unerring instincts of hunted prey, instantly recognized the lone journalist lying in wait for him, poised like a jungle cat.

'Mr. Conan Doyle!'

The man pounced; pad in hand, rumpled suit, mangled cigar stump, panama hat, and the bounce and confidence of a terrier on a scent. He was a newshound, all right; an American, the most dangerous of the breed.

Doyle glanced quickly around: Damn, Larry and Innes preoccupied with the bags. Penned in by the queue; nowhere to run.

'Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle!'

'You have my attention, sir,' said Doyle, turning to face him.

'Fantastic! Off to the States today—your first visit! Any thoughts?'

'Far too many to mention.'

'Sure! Why not? Looking forward to it? Have to be! They're gonna love you in New York—great city—huge! You can't believe it; straight up!' He gestured emphatically toward the sky with both hands. 'Look at it go!'

The man was insane, realized Doyle. Completely off his squash. Smile, Doyle; always humor a lunatic.

'So! Big plans, huh? Reading tour, fifteen cities. How 'bout that? If you aren't the second coming of old Charley Dickens!'

'One cannot aspire to follow in the immortal footsteps of Boz with anything but the deepest humility.'

The reporter's eyes glazed over, but total incomprehension seemed his natural state and troubled him not in the least.

'Sensational!'

'If you'll excuse me, I must be getting on board....'

'Which one do you like the best?'

'Which one what?'

'Holmes story; got a favorite?'

'I don't know, perhaps the one about the snake—sorry, for the life of me I can't remember the name of it....'

The man snapped his fingers and pointed at him: ' 'The Speckled Band'; fantastic stuff!'

'I don't suppose you've read any of my ... other books.'

'What other books?'

'Right. Sorry, I really must be going....'

'Okay, now tell the truth, what do you hope to find in America?'

'My hotel room and a small measure of privacy.'

'Haw! Fat chance. You're big news, Mr. Doyle: Sherlock mania. It's like a fever, friend. Get used to it. They'll be lining up to take shots at you.'

'Shots?'

'Everybody and his brother wants to know, see: Who is this guy? What makes him tick? And what kind of a