I tore ass across Douglas against the light. Once safely across, I stopped in the shadowy entryway to a store that sold artificial limbs and settled in to enjoy the show.
The flames were big and bright, eclipsing the streetlights and engulfing the interior of the convertible. From the seat of the bike I watched a disbelieving Stan Gerard race out of the Royal Crown, followed by several others, including Larry Shelton; Mildred straggled out last, a little unsteady on her feet, and had to hold on to the doorframe in order to stay upright. I could hear them shouting, and people started crowding the sidewalk, pouring out of the surrounding buildings and passing cars that had stopped at the sight, all of them keeping a respectful distance from the fire. Finally Gerard, looking scared as hell, ran up to the car to get something out of it. Shelton caught up to him, though, and tackled him and pulled him back, an action that would probably have earned him an asskicking had the Duesie’s gas tank not chosen that moment to blow.
The crowd oohed and aahed at the sight of the fireball, of the car’s low-slung skeletal frame showing delicately through the flames, and I felt a certain pride of authorship. It was a shame to have to waste such a terrific piece of machinery, but I believed at that moment I had used it to create something even more beautiful, though fleeting. I’ve read about some odd birds who get a sexual thrill out of watching fires burn, but this wasn’t like that; my pleasure was purely aesthetic. This was a spectacle of light and shadow, metal and heat, underwear and gasoline.
It got old quick. When I heard the klaxons of the fire engines hauling it down Hillside I pedaled away on the bicycle, past the businesses across from the Royal Crown and toward College Hill. It felt good to be on the bike after such a long time, and before I returned to the Hudson I rode far out of my way, looking in at the houses and wondering who lived there. It wasn’t a neighborhood I’d worked, but I bet there were a dozen women just like Mildred around there, and a hundred boys just like me.
Daniel Stashower
The Adventure of the Agitated Actress
From Murder, My Dear Watson: New Tales of Sherlock Holmes
“We’ve all heard stories of your wonderful methods, Mr. Holmes,” said James Larrabee, drawing a cigarette from a silver box on the table. “There have been countless tales of your marvelous insight, your ingenuity in picking up and following clues, and the astonishing manner in which you gain information from the most trifling details. You and I have never met before today, but I dare say that in this brief moment or two you’ve discovered any number of things about me.”
Sherlock Holmes set down the newspaper he had been reading and gazed languidly at the ceiling. “Nothing of consequence, Mr. Larrabee,” he said. “I have scarcely more than asked myself why you rushed off and sent a telegram in such a frightened hurry, what possible excuse you could have had for gulping down a tumbler of raw brandy at the Lion’s Head on the way back, why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window, and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.” The detective took up the newspaper and idly turned the pages. “Beyond that,” he said, “I know nothing.”
“Holmes!” I cried. “This is uncanny! How could you have possibly deduced all of that? We arrived in this room not more than five minutes ago!”
My companion glanced at me with an air of strained abstraction, as though he had never seen me before. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, apparently wavering between competing impulses. Then he rose from his chair and crossed down to a row of blazing footlights. “I’m sorry, Frohman,” he called. “This isn’t working out as I’d hoped. We really don’t need Watson in this scene after all.”
“Gillette!” came a shout from the darkened space across the bright line of lights. “I do wish you’d make up your mind! Need I remind you that we open tomorrow night?” We heard a brief clatter of footsteps as Charles Frohman — a short, solidly built gentleman in the casual attire of a country squire — came scrambling up the side access stairs. As he crossed the forward lip of the stage, Frohman brandished a printed handbill. It read: ‘William Gillette in his Smash Play! Sherlock Holmes! Fresh from a Triumphant New York Run!”
“He throws off the balance of the scene,” Gillette was saying. “The situation doesn’t call for an admiring Watson.” He turned to me. “No offense, my dear Lyndal. You have clearly immersed yourself in the role. That gesture of yours — with your arm at the side — it suggests a man favoring an old wound. Splendid!”
I pressed my lips together and let my hand fall to my side. “Actually, Gillette,” I said, “I am endeavoring to keep my trousers from falling down.”
“Pardon?”
I opened my jacket and gathered up a fold of loose fabric around my waist. “There hasn’t been time for my final costume fitting,” I explained.
“I’m afraid I’m having the same difficulty,” said Arthur Creeson, who had been engaged to play the villainous James Larrabee. “If I’m not careful, I’ll find my trousers down at my ankles.”
Gillette gave a heavy sigh. “Quinn!” he called.
Young Henry Quinn, the boy playing the role of Billy, the Baker Street page, appeared from the wings. “Yes, Mr. Gillette?”
“Would you be so good as to fetch the wardrobe mistress? Or at least bring us some extra straight pins?” The boy nodded and darted backstage.
Charles Frohman, whose harried expression and lined forehead told of the rigors of his role as Gillette’s producer, folded the handbill and replaced it in his pocket. “I don’t see why you feel the need to tinker with the script at this late stage,” he insisted. “The play was an enormous success in New York. As far as America is concerned, you are Sherlock Holmes. Surely the London audiences will look on the play with equal favor?”
Gillette threw himself down in a chair and reached for his prompt book. “The London audience bears little relation to its American counterpart,” he said, flipping rapidly through the pages. “British tastes have been refined over centuries of Shakespeare and Marlowe. America has only lately weaned itself off of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
“Gillette,” said Frohman heavily, “you are being ridiculous.”
The actor reached for a pen and began scrawling over a page of script. “I am an American actor essaying an English part. I must take every precaution and make every possible refinement before submitting myself to the fine raking fire of the London critics. They will seize on a single false note as an excuse to send us packing.” He turned back to Arthur Creeson. “Now, then. Let us continue from the point at which Larrabee is endeavoring to cover his deception. Instead of Watson’s expression of incredulity, we shall restore Larrabee’s evasions. Do you recall the speech, Creeson?”
The actor nodded.
“Excellent. Let us resume.”
I withdrew to the wings as Gillette and Creeson took their places. A mask of impassive self-possession slipped over Gillette’s features as he stepped back into the character of Sherlock Holmes. “Why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window,” he said, picking up the dialogue in midsentence, “and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.”