Not more than a minute later we were joined by a plainclothes detective, and I began to feel like an hors d’oeuvre at a smorgasbord for lunatics.
The detective, a small man with precise gray hair clipped down to white-sidewalls around the ears, shook hands matter-of-factly, without a flicker of recognition. “I’m Sergeant Evans. I’m in charge of this investigation.”
“You need go no further,” said Brundage, obviously miffed because the man didn’t fawn on him like a fan. “You’re an open book to me.”
The policeman gave him a quizzical look.
Brundage — though by then I felt almost compelled to call him Holmes — filled his pipe and put up a thick foul-smelling smokescreen. “I can see,” he said aggressively, “that you are recently separated from your wife and have a skin allergy contracted in the Pacific.”
The detective looked completely startled.
“Elementary,” said Brundage. “You have a button missing from your coat, indicating that your wife has not been available to sew it on.”
“Remarkable,” I said. “It seems so simple after you explain it, Holmes.”
“As to the allergy,” my companion went on, “why else would a man wear white socks with a dark suit if it were not to combat a skin reaction to chemical dyes? Most likely contracted in the Pacific during the war.”
Evans, who looked too young even for Korea, said, “I’ll question you two later,” and then left shaking his head.
Holmes and I got back to the set just as a gang of prop-men, quarrelsome as wind-blown sparrows; rolled the interior of 221B Baker Street back into place. Holmes called over a wardrobe girl and changed into his famous dressing gown. Then, to complete the illusion, he reloaded his pipe and surrounded his head with smoke.
“Watson, are you armed?”
“Of course not.”
“Ah,” he said. “There may be another attempt on my life.”
I suddenly realized I had been caught up in Brundage’s fantasy. I shook my head but merely succeeded in bringing on a headache.
Across the set, near the mock-up of our hansom cab, Sergeant Evans launched into an animated conversation with Jay Wallace. With a squint of obvious satisfaction Brundage nodded in their direction. “Observe, my good Doctor, our two Scotland Yard terriers tugging at this case like dogs over a bone. But I’m the only one who knows where the bone is buried.”
I didn’t know whose egomania I was fighting, Sherlock Holmes’s or Niles Brundage’s. One I might have coped with, but together they overwhelmed me. To escape, I muttered something about my headache and left in search of some aspirins.
“Physician, heal thyself,” he called after me.
For some reason the remark infuriated me. At that moment I wanted nothing more out of life than to solve this murder and show up the smug Mr. Sherlock Brundage.
After washing down two aspirin tablets with a double shot of Scotch, my mind cleared enough to know I needed help if I were to conduct an investigation of my own. I stepped into the narrow hall outside my dressing room and caught Jay Wallace walking by.
“Perfect,” I said. “Who could be better than Lestrade of Scotland Yard?”
“Not you too,” he sighed.
“Come in.” I hauled him bodily into my cubbyhole and closed the door.
“I’m not sure I can take all this,” Wallace said.
As reassurance I waved my bottle of Scotch under his long sharp nose. Wallace, eyes fixed on the black label, sat down with a grunt.
“I’m not that far gone yet,” I said, pouring stiff drinks into plastic tumblers decorated with tricolored threes, the emblem of our channel. “I need your help.”
He looked at me skeptically, then his deep-set eyes scanned my cluttered dressing room which doubled as the station’s wardrobe closet. On racks next to Dr. Watson hung Sheriff Bill, Space Pirate, and the blue blazers of our news team.
As he drank I realized more than ever how much Jay Wallace looked like the original Sherlock Holmes. He swallowed the Scotch effortlessly, the only sign of its passing being the movement of his razor-sharp Adam’s apple. Then, smacking his thin lips, he said, “Well, Watson, what’s on your mind?” His humorless laugh died a muffled death in the clothes-lined room. ;
“Do you mind using my real name?” I snapped. “It’s Bill Aldrich, remember?”
“Sorry, Bill.” He held out his glass for a refill.
“Look,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper, “Brundage has this crazy idea that someone is trying to murder him.”
“Well, aren’t they?”
“If it was murder — and I guess it has to be — why couldn’t Jay Peters have been the target all along?”
With a careless gesture Wallace downed his second drink.
“I’ll tell you why not,” I continued. “Because Niles Brundage has an ego that demands to be the center of attention. To him no one else is worth murdering.”
“Maybe he’s right,” Wallace said.
“You don’t really believe that.” When he didn’t answer I went on, “Here’s what I think we ought to do. We’ll question everybody on the set. If anyone from our show was here this morning when they taped Zoo Gnus, he’s our killer.”
With one sentence Wallace made my plan obsolete. “Brundage was the guest expert on Zoo Gnus this morning,” he said.
I felt light-headed when I returned to the set, converted in my absence to a London waterfront. Dry-ice fog made breathing difficult.
Niles Brundage was lounging beneath a plastic replica of a gas lamp, his flap-eared traveling cap in place, pipe clenched between his teeth. My real world disappeared in the swirling mist of television.
Sherlock Holmes said, “Ah, Watson, not a moment to be lost. Follow me.” He swept from the set, leaving a foggy wake.
I staggered after him, certain that he was the murderer.
His spacious, dressing room teemed with page boys, all in Channel Three uniform.
“Listen to this, Watson,” he said and then gave careful instructions to his “Baker Street Irregulars.”
When we were alone he said, “Well, Watson, that’s how, it’s dope — setting a trap for a murderer.”
I began to doubt my sanity again. Nevertheless, I took, a deep breath and blurted out, “Holmes, why didn’t you tell me you were on Zoo Gnus this morning? Holmes, you’re the murderer. You took the snake.”
“My dear fellow,” he began, shaking his head and stepping to my side to clap me on the shoulder. “Nonsense! Follow me and you’ll have the real killer.”
We hurried back to Baker Street. “Ah, the men from Scotland Yard. Excellent,” he said to Lestrade and Sergeant Evans.
As the prop-men began to lower a London Bridge backdrop into place, Holmes announced, “Gentlemen, I’ve called you here to unmask a killer.” He paused, head bent forward to peer first into one face and then into the other.
“What a farce,” said Lestrade-Wallace to Sergeant Evans.
Holmes smiled at Lestrade. “Inspector, may I trouble you for some tobacco?” He took the pouch and then added, “It’s probably mine anyway.” Holmes sniffed the tobacco. “Ah, just as I suspected.”
“What is it, Holmes?” I asked.
“Quite simple really. My humidor was full before we started shooting this morning. Whoever put in the snake had to take out some tobacco to make room for the viper. Lestrade, here, has a full pouch.”
“Come off it,” Lestrade said. “What does that prove?”
“I filled the humidor myself,” Holmes continued implacably. “I expected to catch a thief — you see, I was tired of your filching — but instead I caught a murderer.”
“A full pouch of tobacco doesn’t prove anything.” Lestrade looked to me and Evans for support.