To Niles Brundage I had lost my identity. I was, “Watson, old fellow,” or “My dear Watson,” but never Bill Aldrich.
I’ve heard it said that insanity may be caused by a virus. If so, Brundage’s particular strain was extremely contagious, infecting those with the least immunity. Our studio pages, for example — the young men who seated audiences, kept order during raucous game shows, and ran errands for the stars — were most susceptible. Their jobs depended on the good will of people like Brundage. And he took advantage of that fact, forming them into what he called “my Baker Street Irregulars.” At his orders two pages followed him everywhere on the studio lot.
Brundage interrupted my thoughts. “Well, Watson, you may want to add this case to your annals.”
Suddenly I felt the need for a second opinion on my own sanity. Indeed, maybe I was Dr. Watson! I sucked in my well-rounded stomach, trying unsuccessfully to flatten a shape that was reminiscent of the English actor, Nigel Bruce, who had played Watson in so many films. In fact, it was my resemblance to him that had got me the part.
It’s been years, thank God, since I yearned to see my name in star billing. The choice had been clear cut: a life of starvation diets or happiness as a fat and sassy character actor. Anything was better than being lean and crazy like Niles Brundage.
To escape his face — which is far too handsome for Sherlock Holmes in my opinion — I pulled Hank Thatcher out of the crowd surrounding Les Peters. Thatcher, who wrote our show, was his usual half-drunk self.
“Who am I?” I asked as a pair of ambulance men rolled in a collapsible stretcher.
“Dr. Watson, I presume,” Thatcher answered.
“Dead,” announced one of the attendants. “No hurry now.”
“What am I going to do?” Thatcher complained immediately. “My God, I’ll have to write out Professor Moriarty!”
I could hardly believe it. Les Peters, alive and well this morning, dead just like that, and from a poisonous snake. It was something out of Sherlock Holmes.
I answered Thatcher mechanically, without really thinking. “If I remember correctly, Moriarty didn’t even appear in the original story of the Speckled Band.”
He smiled wanly, his arms stretched toward the heavens. Then he craned his head slowly, as if searching for the station censor, and fished a narrow silver flask from his hip pocket and swallowed furtively. As a half-hearted afterthought he offered me a snort.
“Not while I’m working.”
“That’s the only time I drink,” he said. After a long sigh he added, “I hate messing around with Sherlock Holmes. It seems like blasphemy.” The liberties he had been forced to take in the script still rankled him. Mrs. Hudson, for example, originally an elderly and faithful housekeeper, was now a young starlet with eye-filling cleavage.
I tried to console him. “It shouldn’t be so hard to edit out Moriarty.”
“There may be more editing than you think, Watson,” Brundage called to us as he approached holding the tobacco humidor at arm’s length, one hand underneath, the other clapped over the lid. “There’s murder afoot,” he said with a knowing glance at the humidor. He turned to Thatcher. “Soon we may have to strike another character from our adventures.”
Thatcher went to work on his flask again.
“An accident,” I said. “It must have been an accident.”
Brundage’s laugh began as a low flutter, quickly worked its way up the scale like an hysterical mockingbird, and ended just as abruptly. “Watson, deadly swamp adders do not come in tobacco humidors.”
I nodded. He had me there.
“Definitely murder,” Brundage said with a sage nod.
“Murder! Did I hear someone say murder?” Our own Lestrade of Scotland Yard, Jay Wallace, joined us. An English actor who had played Sherlock Holmes on the London stage, Wallace had been lured to Hollywood by the Channel Three casting department, only to lose the title role to Brundage’s greater sex appeal. Wallace looked like my idea of the famous detective, with facial features so sharp they seemed dangerous to the touch.
He immediately began to needle Brundage. “Maybe you need me to solve this crime?”
“Hardly,” Brundage answered.
Wallace’s mouth tapered to a knife-edged grin. “This is one mystery you can’t solve, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Brundage clicked his tongue. “I already have.” His fingers drummed on the humidor. “Ever the bungler, eh, Lestrade?”
As the two squared off I had the unshakable feeling they were about to fight over custody of the snake. But before they could come to blows, the police arrived and ordered everybody to remain on the lot until they had been questioned.
Brundage pivoted on his heels, showing his back to Wallace, and presented the humidor to a wary patrolman. Then, pulling me along by the arm, he stomped off the stage.
The character of Sherlock Holmes was in many ways a distinct improvement over that of Niles Brundage. I made it a rule, for example, never to eat lunch with the actor, but I would with the detective. So this time I went along with him to the executive dining room which, I fully believed, had been decorated by a sadist and featured a chef who would one day be charged with willful murder.
We joined our producer at his usual table. Much to my surprise, Brundage dropped the Holmes façade. “Where were you,” he complained to the executive, “when we needed you?”
Our producer smiled indulgently.
“How the hell could a poisonous snake get on my set?” Brundage whined. “Criminal negligence is what I call it.”
“Not at all,” our producer said, dropping his smile for the first time. “I knew all about it. The snake disappeared during the taping of Zoo Gnus this morning. You, of all people, ought to have deduced that.”
Zoo Gnus, I should explain, is Channel Three’s answer to FCC requirements for creative children’s programming. Each week the city zoo — free of charge, of course — provides various animals for discussion by a panel of youthful experts and their guest.
“I didn’t make a formal announcement about the disappearance of the coral snake,” our producer explained, “because I didn’t want to start a panic.”
“What you’ve done,” Brundage declared, his eyes taking on a glint of Sherlock Holmes, “is cause a murder — and now I know just how it was done.”
With an embarrassed grimace the producer’s eyes scanned the dining room. “You can hardly call an accident murder,” he whispered, trying to calm Brundage.
“I call it a deliberate attempt on my life. That snake was locked in a terrarium. It just didn’t crawl out for a smoke.”
Our producer took a long look at his watch. “Excuse me, I just remembered a meeting.” He hurried from the dining room as Jay Wallace entered.
Without hesitation Wallace came straight to our table and sat down.
Brundage had changed personalities again. “Ah, Lestrade, we were just talking about you.”
Wallace bowed from the waist.
“I was just explaining to Dr. Watson how the crime was committed. You might be interested.” Brundage’s tone was mocking.
“I’m always interested in bad acting,” Wallace answered.
Brundage ignored the remark and continued, “By all rights I should have been the one to stick his hand in that tobacco jar. I usually refill my pouch about now but I brought an extra package for myself today. The criminal just had bad luck.” He glared at Wallace.
“What we need around here is a real Sherlock Holmes,” announced Wallace. He pushed to his feet and with a goodbye wave signaled that his appetite had suddenly vanished. Mine wasn’t exactly hearty.