Read Online Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs by Steve Hayes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Hayes
Ads: Link
with some of his more glamorous assistants? Miss Lane, for instance?’
‘What? Oh, really, Holmes—’
‘Come, now. You’ve had an eye for the ladies for as long as I have known you.’
‘Yes and what has it brought me? Nothing but trouble.’
Realizing that his teasing had been ill-advised in the circumstances, Holmes gave an indulgent smile. ‘Nevertheless, old friend, you are right, as ever. We
should
indeed go and wish our benefactor luck – not that I expect such a consummate professional will need it.’
As they went in search of the stage door, tall streetlamps cast a glow over the wide thoroughfare that was filled with a seemingly endless procession of cabs and coaches, while elegantly clad pedestrians crowded the pavements.
They traced the side of the theatre into a quieter crescent. They continued until they reached a ramshackle stage door beside a loading bay whose doors were now padlocked shut; the area at the back of the theatre appeared as impoverished as its entrance was opulent. They let themselves into a wide hall heated by a single wheezing radiator. A small, open hatch was built into the wall beside a flimsy, glass-panelled door. Further back, the hall led into the usual maze of corridors to be found backstage, complete with a complicated-looking network of copper pipes and cables that were pinned to the dingy ceiling.
There was chaos everywhere, with stagehands and stage managers, wardrobe staff and even members of a paint crew rushing back and forth to carry out some vital, last-minute chore before the curtain rose – with one exception. Through the hatch an elderly man in a grey woollen jumper was visible leaning against a counter, idly reading a copy of the daily
Reichspost
.
Holmes rapped on the counter to get the stage doorman’s attention. The old man peered up myopically, his wispy white hair standing up all over his head.
‘Ja?’
‘We would like to see Mr Houdini,’ Holmes said in German.
‘You would, would you?’
‘If you could get someone to announce us…?’
The doorman thumbed at the clock on the wall of his cluttered little office. ‘Herr Houdini goes on stage in twenty minutes. I can’t disturb him now.’
‘We are here as his guests,’ said Watson, ‘and we want to wish him good luck.’
‘Never!’ the stage doorman said emphatically. ‘I wouldn’t allow it! Don’t you know that it is bad luck to wish an artiste good luck in our hallowed profession?’
‘Well … can you at least pass a note along to him?’ said Watson in English. ‘He invited us to see him after the show, and if the offer still holds we should be delighted to accept.’
Before the stage doorman could respond, a smartly dressed woman came hurrying along the hallway. She brushed past one of the carpenters and a scenic artist whose smock was daubed with a positive kaleidoscope of colour; she called out anxiously, ‘Ulrich! Where is Herr Berger?’
She brushed past Holmes and Watson as if they weren’t there and peered through the hatch. They were surprised to see that it was Houdini’s assistant, Frances Lane. Watson cleared his throat, hoping to catch her attention, for Holmes had been right: he was delighted to see the tall, Titian-haired beauty again.
‘Miss Lane, I believe?’ he said, tipping his hat gallantly.
She quickly turned to him and he was disappointed to see that she did not recognize him. Then her curiously slanted green eyes moved to Holmes, and her face lost its blank expression. ‘Ah, Mr Holmes, and Dr Watson! I’m sorry. If you were hoping to see Harry, this … this isn’t the best time.’
‘So I observe,’ Holmes said.
Her mind elsewhere, she dismissed him with a wave then turned to the stage doorman, demanding, ‘Where is Herr Berger, Ulrich?’
‘Is he not in his office?’
‘No. I’ve just come from there.’
‘Then you will probably find him in the lobby,’ Ulrich said. ‘He knew the press would be coming and always likes to
‘What? Oh, really, Holmes—’
‘Come, now. You’ve had an eye for the ladies for as long as I have known you.’
‘Yes and what has it brought me? Nothing but trouble.’
Realizing that his teasing had been ill-advised in the circumstances, Holmes gave an indulgent smile. ‘Nevertheless, old friend, you are right, as ever. We
should
indeed go and wish our benefactor luck – not that I expect such a consummate professional will need it.’
As they went in search of the stage door, tall streetlamps cast a glow over the wide thoroughfare that was filled with a seemingly endless procession of cabs and coaches, while elegantly clad pedestrians crowded the pavements.
They traced the side of the theatre into a quieter crescent. They continued until they reached a ramshackle stage door beside a loading bay whose doors were now padlocked shut; the area at the back of the theatre appeared as impoverished as its entrance was opulent. They let themselves into a wide hall heated by a single wheezing radiator. A small, open hatch was built into the wall beside a flimsy, glass-panelled door. Further back, the hall led into the usual maze of corridors to be found backstage, complete with a complicated-looking network of copper pipes and cables that were pinned to the dingy ceiling.
There was chaos everywhere, with stagehands and stage managers, wardrobe staff and even members of a paint crew rushing back and forth to carry out some vital, last-minute chore before the curtain rose – with one exception. Through the hatch an elderly man in a grey woollen jumper was visible leaning against a counter, idly reading a copy of the daily
Reichspost
.
Holmes rapped on the counter to get the stage doorman’s attention. The old man peered up myopically, his wispy white hair standing up all over his head.
‘Ja?’
‘We would like to see Mr Houdini,’ Holmes said in German.
‘You would, would you?’
‘If you could get someone to announce us…?’
The doorman thumbed at the clock on the wall of his cluttered little office. ‘Herr Houdini goes on stage in twenty minutes. I can’t disturb him now.’
‘We are here as his guests,’ said Watson, ‘and we want to wish him good luck.’
‘Never!’ the stage doorman said emphatically. ‘I wouldn’t allow it! Don’t you know that it is bad luck to wish an artiste good luck in our hallowed profession?’
‘Well … can you at least pass a note along to him?’ said Watson in English. ‘He invited us to see him after the show, and if the offer still holds we should be delighted to accept.’
Before the stage doorman could respond, a smartly dressed woman came hurrying along the hallway. She brushed past one of the carpenters and a scenic artist whose smock was daubed with a positive kaleidoscope of colour; she called out anxiously, ‘Ulrich! Where is Herr Berger?’
She brushed past Holmes and Watson as if they weren’t there and peered through the hatch. They were surprised to see that it was Houdini’s assistant, Frances Lane. Watson cleared his throat, hoping to catch her attention, for Holmes had been right: he was delighted to see the tall, Titian-haired beauty again.
‘Miss Lane, I believe?’ he said, tipping his hat gallantly.
She quickly turned to him and he was disappointed to see that she did not recognize him. Then her curiously slanted green eyes moved to Holmes, and her face lost its blank expression. ‘Ah, Mr Holmes, and Dr Watson! I’m sorry. If you were hoping to see Harry, this … this isn’t the best time.’
‘So I observe,’ Holmes said.
Her mind elsewhere, she dismissed him with a wave then turned to the stage doorman, demanding, ‘Where is Herr Berger, Ulrich?’
‘Is he not in his office?’
‘No. I’ve just come from there.’
‘Then you will probably find him in the lobby,’ Ulrich said. ‘He knew the press would be coming and always likes to
Similar Books
