She lay back and closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come, as it had come so easily throughout the day before. But morphine, which takes its name from the god of sleep, becomes a demon of wakefulness when it fades from the body: now, images chased each other like playful dogs across her brain: the lobby, that woman, the house detective, Arthur, “mutilation,” the awful Carver; that poor woman…
Erased, she thought. It isn’t right. I shall have to — to—? To what? Go to the police? What police? Did they have divisions here, as in London? Would she have to go to a division in the horrible Bowery because the murder had been discovered there?
And then a name popped into her head. A name that Arthur had mentioned: Theodore Roosevelt, whom Arthur had said something good about because he was cleansing the New York police of corruption. And he had written an admiring letter to Arthur about one of his non-Sherlock Holmes novels.
She would write to Theodore Roosevelt!
“Ethel!”
Ethel, who was sitting near by and was almost asleep, jumped up and gave a yelp.
“Ethel, pen and paper! At once! And I shall need a messenger!”
In his office at police headquarters an hour later, Terrible Teddy was striding up and down, smacking one fist into the palm of the other hand and dictating a memo titled “To All Officers of the Rank of Lieutenant and Above.”
“—the tidal wave of corrupt behavior that smashed upon the shores of this city years ago must be strangled at the very root!” He stopped, fist in palm. “No, strike that last part; it’s a mixed metaphor. Tidal wave — mm, ah — back to, where was I…?
“Tidal wave of corrupt behavior that smashed upon the shores of this city years ago must be—”
“Right. Yes. Must be, must be — ready? — must be driven back by an effort — make that concerted effort — by all members of this department with every fiber of their beings! No, make that singular — being. Every fiber of their being. Therefore — new sentence, got that? — Therefore, I am directing that every officer of the rank of lieutenant and above will make a full accounting each July first of all bank accounts, real estate, business holdings, mmm — let’s see, where else do they put money…?”
A mahogany door opened; a head appeared. “Can you be interrupted?”
“What now!”
A young man pushed through into the room and held up a piece of paper. “Interesting letter, sir!” He had an accent like Roosevelt’s, rather British in its dropped Rs, rather New England in its precision and its flat vowels, recognizable as probably Harvard, as his clothes were recognizable as certainly bespoke.
Roosevelt looked at the stenographer, another young man, but one who had a New York accent and inferior clothes. Roosevelt said, “Leave us, but stay handy.” Handy was a word he’d learned in the West. He thought it made him sound both manly and democratic.
When the stenographer was gone, Roosevelt said, “Well?”
“Chief, you remember the woman whose body was found in the Bowery? She’d been—”
“Of course I remember; don’t go into it!”
“Pree-cisely! Well, here’s a note to you on the stationery of the New Britannic Hotel from a woman who says she saw the victim in the hotel with a man on the day before the body was found.”
“Another crank.”
The young man grinned. “She’s the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Roosevelt frowned, then took off his pince-nez and stared at the young man. “The newspapers.”
“There’s that potential, Chief, but she’s appealing to you to ‘keep this poor woman from being erased.’ Her words.” He said, with the satisfaction only the young can know when they think they’re scoring on their elders, “Maybe she’s a crank even though she’s the wife of Sherlock Holmes.”
Roosevelt took the letter, replaced the pince-nez, and said as he was reading, “I’m attending a dinner for Doyle when he gets back from some tour he’s making. Why the devil isn’t she with him? Women have become so unpredictable.”
“I could find out.”
“No! ‘No fuss’—those are the words to go by. I don’t want any public fuss about poor Harding’s wife. I promised him that…” Roosevelt shook his head, then shook the letter. “This woman says she saw the victim with a ‘young man.’ I don’t think a man of Harding’s caliber need hear that sort of thing about his wife, and certainly not read it in the gutter press.” He handed the letter back. “Turn it over to the Murder Squad and have them deal with it. Tell them only that none of this is to come out and the watchword is ‘No fuss.’ He thought of what he’d said. “Watchwords. Are.”
The young man saluted. “Right, Chief.”
“And send back that stenographer.” He began to walk up and down, smacking a fist into a palm. Where was he when he had been stopped? Tidal wave — fiber — aha, listing assets…
CHAPTER 4
Telegram to Mrs. Arthur Conan Doyle, New Brittanic Hotel, NY, from Iroquois Hotel, Buffalo, NY:
MY DARLING STOP CHANGING LECTURE ENTIRELY STOP PRIVATE LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES INSTEAD STOP ERIE PENNSYLVANIA TOMORROW STOP FOOD WRETCHED SO FAR STOP THINKING OF YOU STOP ALL MY LOVE DEAR ONE STOP LEAVING FOR ERIE TEN MINUTES STOP YOUR ADORING HUSBAND
Telegram to Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle, Cattaraugus Hotel, Erie, Pennsylvania:
DEAREST ARTHUR STOP MISSING YOU EVERY MINUTE STOP OH THE FOOLS STOP FUTURE OF NOVEL WAS BRILLIANT STOP DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SHIRTS STOP DITTO UNDERSHIRTS STOP YOUR LOVING WIFE
Telegram to Mrs. Arthur Conan Doyle, New Britannic Hotel, New York, from Cattaraugus Hotel, Erie, Pennsylvania:
SWEET DOVEKINS STOP ARRIVED ERIE 1 HOUR LATE STOP MUCH VEXATION AT HOTEL OVER MISPLACED RESERVATION STOP LECTURED 50 OVERWEIGHT WOMEN STOP QUESTIONS RE HOLMES’ SHAVING SOAP, COLOR OF TOWELS, BEDLINEN STOP DITTO WATSON STOP AM GOING MAD STOP WHEN WILL YOU JOIN ME I NEED YOU STOP ARTHUR PS CLEVELAND TOMORROW 2 DAYS 3 WOMEN’S CLUBS STOP THIS IS HELL STOP MISPLACED RUBBER OVERSHOES SOMEHOW STOP SNOWING HERE STOP YOUR ARTHUR
“Mr. Doyle is unhappy,” Louisa said, waking on the third morning after her accident.
“I should think so, madame! Worried sick about you and in a strange country — it’s a wonder he can go on.”
“Well, it’s only been three days.”
“Will you get up today to go to the convenience, madame?”
“Of course I will; I did yesterday, didn’t I?”
“You spent a restless night, nurse said.”
“Oh, that nurse! Every time I did go to sleep, she woke me to ask how I was feeling. And that voice! I’ve been trying to make some of the sounds she does—‘naow’—no, that isn’t quite right; I can’t get quite far enough up into my nose. ‘Naow, Miiiz Doy-uhl, haow arrrre we.’ No, I can’t do it. Perhaps Americans have different nasal passages.”