We stood poised, waiting for the director’s verdict. Finally his disembodied voice boomed over the talk-back. “That’s a take, gentlemen. We’ll break for the next scene.”
Sherlock Holmes disappeared into his dressing room.
Still feeling like Dr. John Watson, I stepped to one side as our bullet-pocked wall, made famous in the stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, dollied past, followed by the equally renowned wooden mantelpiece. A moment later the coal shuttle which held Holmes’s cigars swung by in the hands of an ancient prop-man. 221B Baker Street had disappeared, replaced by a London exterior complete with billowing, dry-ice fog.
The high-pitched, garbled flutter, of rewinding audio tape preceded the sound of a hansom cab. To the accompaniment of clopping horses Sherlock Holmes — Niles Brundage, actually — exited flamboyantly from his dressing room.
“Ah, Watson,” he said, clapping me on the back. “This is turning out to be quite an adventure, isn’t it?”
Ever since Dark Shadows had taken over the late-afternoon ratings with its vampires and ghouls, Channel Three had tried game shows, old movies, and even cartoons in a futile attempt to compete. Finally, our show, The Newest Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, had brought a modicum of success. But even after eleven weeks of sleuthing, Barnabas Collins, the undying vampire hero of Shadows, seemed forever beyond the reach of Conan Doyle’s immortal detective.
“Brundage, we’re not taping,” I said, “so you can drop the Holmes-Watson bit.”
He looked at me as if I were utterly mad.
“My dear fellow,” he said with a derogatory sniff. Then, with a sudden squint, he seemed to forget my admonition. “Watson, keep an eye on Inspector Lestrade. He’s been filching my tobacco again.”
Here we go, I thought. They’d been at it ever since the show began, squabbling over tobacco from our authentic-Iooking prop humidor. The rivalry had become so intense, in fact, that each morning they raced onto the stage to see who could fill his tobacco pouch first. On this particular morning, Brundage had won. Lestrade — actor Jay Wallace — had for some reason arrived on the set quite late.
“Yesterday I caught him taking two pouchfuls,” Brundage complained. “Imagine, a Scotland Yard man acting like that. The man’s a menace!”
The director gave us a “stand-by” signal.
Side by side we waited on the cardboard curb.
“Tape is rolling,” said the stage manager, his voice already weary.
We stepped into a mock-up of a hansom cab.
“Charing Cross, my good man,” Brundage-Holmes said to a nonexistent driver.
While prop-men rocked the cab and the streets of London flashed by in rear-projection, my companion sat deep in thought, his chin sunk on his chest, just as the script called for. The camera pulled back for a scene fade-out.
A moment later the director cut to a dimly lit interior, a dingy room somewhere in London; the door opened slowly, ominously; a shadowy silhouette stalked across camera. I watched critically. Brundage fidgeted at my side, always restless when someone else held the spotlight.
The director brought up the klieg lights. The shadow became an evil, laughing face — the face of the mastermind of crime, Professor Moriarty. To emphasize his evil purpose there was a slow zoom to the box which he carried under one arm. A thunderous chord of organ music accompanied the shot.
The script called for Moriarty to set a trap for Holmes. The box, therefore, held a deadly viper — a remarkable rubber replica, I might add.
Moriarty opened the box. The camera dollied in for a close-up of the snake as the master criminal — in reality, actor Les Peters — fondled the reptile. Then Moriarty crossed to a table which held Holmes’s humidor. He opened the container and put the snake inside, and that made two. A look of complete surprise, tinged with horrified fascination, flushed across his face as the second snake curled back and struck him on the wrist. Moriarty-Peters staggered against the balsa-wood table.
“Cut!” the stage manager yelled as the actor crumpled to the floor.
Brundage and I jumped from the hansom and hurried to the fallen actor. Brundage, still immersed in the role of Sherlock Holmes, felt for a pulse, though I suspected he wouldn’t have known what to do if he had found one.
“You may as well have a look at him, Watson,” he said, “though I fear it’s already too late for your medical skills.”
I knelt on the cobblestone linoleum. “He’s still alive. Someone call an ambulance!”
“And the police,” Brundage added, eyeing Les Peters as though he were trying to steal a scene. Then Brundage stepped to the table and cautiously peered into the humidor. “The Speckled Band,” he muttered and called me over. As soon as I had a look he clapped a lid on the snake.
“How did that get in here?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
“Elementary, Watson, elementary!” He strolled over to what remained of our drawing room and fell onto his sofa. A moment later his face was half hidden in smoke from his famous clay pipe.
While Brundage watched with an amused smile, our crew gathered around the unconscious man, whose breathing began to rattle forlornly.
A pair of ancient prop-men, both years beyond heavy work, argued.
“Should we move him or wait for the ambulance?” one said.
The other, the shop steward, shook his head. “This could be a jurisdictional matter. I’m not sure which union is allowed to move bodies.”
“I don’t think he’s considered a prop,” said the first, pointing his nose at Peters.
I hoped they were joking.
An equally ancient gaffer seemed about to prod the stricken man, then thought better of it, and began to poke at the klieg lights with his long wooden rod. Our cameraman zoomed in on the crowd, then rolled between two bit-players to get a close-up of Peters’ bluish face. The boys in the control room must have been getting an eyeful in 21-inch color.
Two nurse-actresses from the Emergency Hospital set next door offered diagnoses.
I gulped a sharp-edged swallow to keep down my breakfast and went over to join Brundage on the sofa. But he stayed where he was, stretched out on his back, smoking; and I stood by stupidly, looking for a place to sit down.
“Obviously, Watson, that snake was meant for me. Yes, indeed.” He nodded slowly. “Someone wants Sherlock Holmes out of the way.”
As Dr. John Watson I nodded; as Bill Aldrich, actor, I shook my head in disbelief. “But—” I stammered. “It was Les Peters who was bitten.”
“Ah, yes, poor Moriarty. Obviously just an unfortunate mistake. Who would want to kill him when there’s more tempting game to be stalked — me?”
“Who would want to kill you, Brundage?”
“The question is, who would want to kill Sherlock Holmes, and the answer to that is absurdly commonplace. Proving it, however, may be another matter.”
“Sherlock Holmes is dead,” I said.
“Sherlock Holmes will never die,” boomed Brundage, “as long as there are great actors like me.”
My exasperation grew. “All right then, who would want to kill Sherlock Holmes?”
“When you eliminate the possible and all you have left is the impossible, then that must be the truth.” Brundage’s idea of humor was incredible.
“You mean you’ve solved the crime?”
“Bravo, Watson. Yes — just the details remain to be filled in.”
There’s an old saw about actors living their parts. But Niles Brundage carried it to the point of mania.
Like an aromatic specter, a cloud of smoke from his pipe trailed him everywhere, on and off stage. On the street, even at lunch in the studio dining room, he wore the deerstalker hat like a badge of office.