Ping! a sour note. My Uncle Simon is a Baker Street Irregular. One of my most burning ambitions is to have the honor some day of being a member of that fabulous Holmesian society. And Joanie had unwittingly struck at the heart of what B.S.I. stood for. Perhaps an ill portent for our future compatibility.
“Look, I don’t want to get into a hassle with you about this,” I told Joanie. “But just as a point of information it happens to be a fact that some pretty famous and distinguished people take the position that Dr. Watson and Holmes are not mere fictional characters.”
Joanie smirked and said, “All right, so my genius believes in the Easter Bunny, the Good Fairy, and Santa Claus. No harm in it.”
I found myself stating with icy calm, “Only a real dumb cluck could make such an idiotic analogy.” That did it, of course. Joanie flushed, jumped up off the bench, clipped, “Goodbye, Mr. Halper. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” And she stalked off.
I watched Joanie’s bobbing ponytail retreat along the path. A once-flourishing romance possibly dealt a fatal blow. Oh, well, I thought, c’est la vie. But now that Washington Square had melancholy associations for me, a change of scenery seemed in order. As I was about to take off, a low deep voice said, “Why not Holmes?”
Its source, I realized, was Grandpa at the other end of the bench, now peering at me with deep-sunken eyes in a yellowish, mummylike face. I sort of blinked at him and he added, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the young lady. May I ask why, given a choice, you wouldn’t rather be Holmes?”
The query, despite its busybody aspects, had certain validity. I mean, why not Holmes? So I gave it a bit of thought and said, “Well, even in make-believe, I can’t imagine myself — or anyone else — stepping into Holmes’s shoes. There was — and could be — only one Sherlock Holmes.”
Grandpa gave that a bit of thought. “A very good answer, my boy,” he said, “and one that would have amused Holmes. Even as I feel sure Holmes would have been intrigued by the gentleman brooding over a paint brush on the bench facing us.”
I checked. Yep, there was a man alone on the bench across the path. A middle-aged, skinny little guy with glasses, wearing a straw hat and seersucker suit.
“I see a citizen examining a brush,” I said to Grandpa. “What’s extraordinary about that?”
Grandpa sighed, put big gnarled hands on the head of his cane, and said, as he laboriously hoisted himself up to his feet, “Yes, dear Watson also was rather obtuse that way. No offense meant, my boy.”
Off he went, following his cane in a stiff-legged, old-man shuffle. Well! I confess to some pretty wild thoughts as my eyes trailed that tall, spare, stooped figure. Until reason intervened. Obviously, I’d had an amusing encounter with senility of an off-beat nature. Nothing to throw the Baker Street Irregulars into a hysterical tizzy.
Then I glanced again at the little guy across the path and was startled to see him now on his feet, headed straight smack toward me, brush in one hand, a paper bag in the other. Next thing I knew, he was sharing my bench and blurting out in a kind of stuttery squeak, “Excuse me, but would you be interested in earning ten dollars?”
“Doing what?” I asked warily.
“Help me get rid,” he said, “of those twelve hideous birds in my apartment.”
Oh, brother! Yet I detected no boozy breath, saw no mad glitter in the eyes blinking behind the glasses. Just a frail, gray, neatly respectable wisp of a man who looked as if he’d had the pants scared off him. Maybe by something as simple as a couple of pet crows, belonging to a neighbor, making an entry through an open window to indulge in minor thievery.
“If I understood you correctly, sir,” I said, “you need my assistance to remove some unattractive birds loose in your apartment?”
He winced and said, “No, God forbid, the creatures aren’t loose. They’re painted on one of the living-room walls.”
“Oh,” I said. “Painted by a former tenant, I presume?”
“I don’t know who painted them,” he replied in a sudden burst of squeaky virulence. “They’re just there.” He paused, gave me a sickly smile, and continued, “Sorry. Had an upsetting day, and my nerves are a bit on edge. May I introduce myself? I am Horace Plotkin and I live on Thompson Street.”
I said, “I’m Halper, Bernard W., and I live on Waverly Place. What’s the story on those birds?”
“Please forget the birds, Halper,” he said. “I’m sorry I mentioned them. No need to have mentioned them. My problem is simply this: for certain personal reasons I want to paint over a wall in my living room. Purchased, as you can see, a brush and a can of paint in this paper bag. Then I realized it’s quite a high-ceilinged room, and I happen to be afflicted with acrophobia. Am prone to dizziness even when standing on a chair. Hence I must engage someone to paint the upper section of the wall. And, well that’s about it.”
Another sickly smile as he drew a handkerchief and proceeded to mop the sweat on his face. Brother, there were all kinds of warning knells in my mind about Horace Plotkin, Esquire. Only I couldn’t pin down just what in heck could be his motive. He didn’t seem like a character who’d want to lure me to his apartment for some grisly purpose. If a criminal, his appearance suggested the nonviolent embezzler-forger-bigamist type.
The birds! Therein, I felt sure, lay the key to the mystery. I also found myself remembering Holmes’s case that Watson had titled The Five Orange Pips, where pips were used as a death-threat warning. Maybe this was another bizarre version of it. Stool-pigeons are sometimes called canaries. Horrified Plotkin sees a dozen canaries painted on his wall? Realizes its ominous significance? Has some reason why he must smear over them but is stymied by his acrophobia?
It called for a direct challenge, so I said, “Mr. Plotkin, do you want me to believe there’s something sinister in your proposition?”
He practically vibrated as he answered, “Good Lord, no!”
“Then please explain,” I went on, “precisely what there was — is — about those birds that threw you into such an acute state of agitation.”
“You insist on a full explanation?” he asked unhappily.
“Under the circumstances,” I said, “I feel I must.”
“All right,” he said. “Hear this, Halper. I am Horace Plotkin, forty-three years old. Live alone and like it. Employed as bookkeeper in a plumbing supply firm. Currently on my vacation. I spend three days in a resort hotel in Asbury Park. Weather inclement, fellow guests obnoxious. So I return to New York. At this point I must digress to get something on record.
“I want to make it perfectly clear,” Mr. Plotkin continued, “that my curtailed stay in Asbury Park, while ill-advised and ill-fated, was not nerve shattering. Actually, I was in excellent spirits as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Pleasant anticipation of watering my African violets and a personal soak in a nice warm bath. Then I unlock the door, enter the apartment, deposit my suitcase in a closet, turn — and there they are. The birds! Painted on the wall above the couch.”
“Canaries?” I interjected.
He shook his head and asked, “Now what on earth made you think they were canaries?”
“Canaries are birds,” I offered in rather weak rebuttal.
“So they are,” he said. “Please, Halper, I’ve enough on my mind without brooding on what might be on your mind. Anyway, the birds I’m talking about are tropical birds called toucans. Monstrous beaks, violent coloring. Twelve of them, Halper — I counted. Staring back at me with hostile, mean, beady little eyes. Most unnerving experience of my entire life. And don’t ask me how or why the creatures appeared on the wall — I simply don’t know. Have spent the past hour racking my brains and I still can’t even hazard a wild guess.”