Kleefisch said nothing. He knew, of course, about the legendary dinner. He would have to take another look at the Conan Doyle diary entry about that.
“I believe that what Conan Doyle heard so affected him that he wove it — suitably fictionalized, of course — into his work, as an attempt at catharsis. I’m speaking in particular about
“Interesting,” Kleefisch said. To the best of his knowledge, this was a new line of critical thinking. If it proved promising, it might even lead to a scholarly monograph for the Irregulars. To be written by himself, of course: of late he had been searching for a new subject on which to focus. “But I confess I still don’t see how I can be of help. And I certainly don’t understand what all this has to do with the arson case you’re investigating.”
“On the latter point, I’d prefer to keep my own counsel. On the former point, I am becoming increasingly convinced that Conan Doyle knew more than he let on.”
“You mean, more than he alluded to in
“Precisely.”
Kleefisch sat up. This was more than interesting — this was downright exciting. His mind began to race. “How do you mean?”
“Just that Conan Doyle might have written more about this man-eating bear, somewhere else — perhaps in his letters or unpublished works. Which is why I’m consulting you.”
“You know, Pendergast, there might actually be something in your speculations.”
“Pray explain.”
“Late in life, Conan Doyle supposedly wrote one last Holmes story. Nothing about it is known — not its subject, not even its name. The story goes that Conan Doyle submitted it for publication, but it was returned to him because its subject was too strong for the general public. What happened to it then is unknown. Most suspect it was destroyed. Ever since, this lost Holmes story has been the stuff of legends, endlessly speculated upon by members of the Irregulars.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“To tell you the truth, Pendergast, I’d rather suspected it of being just another Holmesian tall tale. They are legion, you know. Or, perhaps, a shaggy dog story perpetuated by Ellery Queen. But given what you’ve said, I find myself wondering if the story might actually exist, after all. And if it does, that it might…” His voice trailed off.
“That it might tell the rest of the story that always haunted Conan Doyle,” Pendergast finished for him.
“Exactly.”
“Do you have any idea how one might go about searching for such a story?”
“Not off the top of my head. But as an Irregular, and a Holmes scholar, there are various resources at my disposal. This could be an extraordinary new avenue of research.” Kleefisch’s brain was working even faster now. To uncover a lost Sherlock Holmes story, after all these years…
“What’s your address in London?” Pendergast asked.
“Five-Seventy-Two, Marylebone High Street.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I call on you in the near future?”
“How near?”
“Two days, perhaps. As soon as I can break away from this arson investigation. I’ll be staying at the Connaught Hotel.”
“Excellent. It will be a pleasure to see you again. In the meantime, I’ll make some initial inquiries, and we’ll be able to—”
“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. His voice had changed abruptly; a sudden urgency had come into it. “Yes, thank you, I’ll do my best to see you then. But now, Kleefisch, I have to go; you’ll excuse me, please.”
“Is something wrong?”
“There appears to be another house on fire.” And with that, Pendergast abruptly hung up and the line went dead.
30
Even with liberal goosing of the siren and repeated yelling through the squad car’s external megaphone, Chief Morris couldn’t get closer than a block to the station, so thick was the press of cars, media, and people. And it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. With this second arson, the story had gone national — no surprise, given the identity of the victims — and the crime feeders were all there, along with the network news shows, CNN, and God only knew who else.
The chief now regretted he’d driven himself; he had no one to run interference, and his only option was to get out of the car and scrimmage his way through these jokers. They had surrounded his squad car, cameras rolling, microphones waving at him like clubs. He’d spent all night at the scene of the fire, which had started at eight in the evening, and he was now filthy, stinking of smoke, exhausted, coughing, and hardly able to think. What a state to face the cameras.
The chief’s car was jostled and rocked by the unruly crowd of reporters. They were calling out questions, hollering at him, jockeying with each other for position. He realized he’d better think of something to say.
He took a deep breath, collected himself, and forced open the door. The reaction was instant, the crowd pushing forward, the cameras and mikes swinging dangerously, one even knocking his hat off. He stood up, dusted off his hat, replaced it, and held up his hands. “All right. All right! Please. I can’t make a statement if you keep this up. Give me some room,
The crowd backed off a little. The chief looked around, acutely aware that his image was going to be broadcast on every nightly news show in the country.
“I will make a brief statement. There will be no questions afterward.” He took a breath. “I’ve just come from the crime scene. I can assure you we are doing everything humanly possible to solve these vicious crimes and bring the perpetrators to justice. We have the finest forensic and crime-scene investigators in the state on this case. All our resources and those of the surrounding communities have been brought to bear. On top of that, we have brought in as a consultant one of the FBI’s top agents specializing in serial killings and deviant psychology, as it appears we may be dealing with a serial arsonist.”
He cleared his throat. “Now to the crime itself. The scene is of course still being analyzed. Two bodies have been recovered. They have been tentatively identified as the actress Sonja Dutoit and her child. Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims, their families, and all of you who have been touched by this horrible event. This is a huge tragedy for our town and, truthfully, I can’t find the words to express the depth of my shock and sorrow…” He found himself temporarily unable to continue, but quickly mastered the constriction in his throat and wrapped things up. “We will have more information for you at a press conference later today. That is all I have to say for the moment. Thank you.”
He barreled forward, ignoring the shouted questions and the forest of microphones, and within five minutes managed to stagger into his office. There was Pendergast, sitting in the outer office, dressed in his usual impeccable style, sipping tea. The television was on.
Pendergast rose. “Allow me to congratulate you on a most effective appearance.”
“What?” Morris turned to Shirley. “I was on the tube already?”
“It was live, Chief,” she said. “And you handled it very well. You looked like a hero, with that determined voice…and those streaks of soot on your face.”
“Soot? On my face?” Damn, he should have washed up.
“A Hollywood makeup artist couldn’t have done a finer job,” said Pendergast. “That, combined with the disheveled uniform, the windswept hair, and the evident emotion, made for a singular impression.”
The chief threw himself down in a chair. “I couldn’t care less what they think. My God, I’ve never seen anything like this. Agent Pendergast, if you heard what I said on television, then you know I just elevated you to official consulting status.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“So I hope to God in heaven you will accept. I need your help more than ever. How about it?”
The man responded by removing a slim envelope from his suit and dangling it in front of Morris by his
