The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Disappearing Detective (5 page)

The man took no notice of him.

Shiner said it again.

The man looked at him suspiciously. “What d’you want?” he asked harshly.

Shiner was even more impressed: Mr Holmes could obviously disguise his voice as well as his appearance. “It’s me – Shiner.”

“Clear off!” the man snarled. “Leave me alone.”

“It’s OK,” Shiner whispered. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know who you really are.”

The man let out an angry roar, picked up his crutch and hit Shiner with it, knocking him to the ground. Lying in the gutter, Shiner watched as the matchseller made off down the street, surprisingly fast, carrying his crutch in one hand and his tray of matches in the other. The newsboys guffawed at Shiner’s plight.

“You all right, son?” the baked-potato seller asked sympathetically.

Shiner nodded.

“What’d you do?”

“I think I made a mistake.”

The potato man laughed. “You can say that again, sunshine. That’s Basher Brannigan. He’s just been in prison for robbery with violence. It don’t pay to upset Basher.”

Shiner clambered painfully to his feet. “This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “I’m goin’ home.” And he stomped off towards HQ in a thoroughly bad temper.

It was going to be a special performance at the Imperial Music Hall that night, in aid of charity. Sparrow felt a thrill of excitement as he entered the theatre through the stage door, and caught the familiar smell of greasepaint and the sight of scenery and arc lights. He knew that every artiste on the bill was a star, and that as call boy he would be looking after them – including his personal hero, Little Tich, the biggest, and smallest, star of them all. Usually, Little Tich only played at the smartest theatres in London’s West End. But this evening, for one night only, he and the other stars were gracing the stage of the Imperial, which for all its grand name was, in fact, more than a bit shabby.

“Wotcha, me little cock Sparrow,” Bert, the stage doorkeeper, greeted him warmly. “You’ll have to be on your toes tonight.”

“I will be,” Sparrow said happily.

“Can’t have nothing go wrong tonight. Not with who we’ve got coming.”

“I know. You ever see him, Bert?”

“Not in the flesh, no.”

“They say he’s no taller than me.”

“What?”

“Little Tich – he’s only about four foot tall.”

“I was talking about His Royal Highness – the guest of honour.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sparrow replied. “Him and all.”

Bert pushed his peaked uniform cap back, and shook his head indulgently. “What are we going to do with you?” he asked. “Go on, now. And just remember to be on your best behaviour, right?”

Sparrow nodded and skipped off towards the dressing rooms, where the first performers were already putting on their costumes. As top of the bill, Little Tich would be on stage last, so he would not be arriving at the theatre until after the interval. But there was plenty to keep Sparrow busy until then. He changed quickly into the jacket the manager made him wear – it was very like Billy’s uniform, with shiny brass buttons up the front – and went to see if anyone needed anything.

In the first dressing room, a trio of acrobats were limbering up, bending and stretching so far that it made Sparrow’s arms and legs ache just looking at them.

The leader called out to him, and asked him to fetch a plate of ham sandwiches from the bar. “A big plateful,” he stressed. “Got to keep our strength up in this business, you know!”

In the next room, a fat lady singer cleared her throat and trilled a few scales. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she moaned. “Don’t I sound terrible? I need a gargle.”

Sparrow secretly agreed with her, and doubted that gargling would improve things. Nevertheless, he took the shilling she gave him to buy her “a large gin and polly” from the bar. It would ease her poor throat, she told him confidentially.

A cockney comic, dressed as a pearly king with thousands of shiny pearl buttons sewn all over his suit, was passing by at that moment. “Need a spot of the old lubrication, Nellie?” he asked, with a cheeky grin. Turning away, he gave Sparrow a huge wink and added quietly, “Like putting oil on a squeaky gate, eh, son?”

Sparrow only just managed not to laugh out loud, before hurrying off to the bar through the pass door that led from backstage to the “front of house”. The orchestra was tuning up, ready to start playing. In the gilded auditorium, the faded, red plush seats were filling with people wearing evening dress. Way up above in the topmost gallery – known as “the gods” – poorer people were packing on to the hard benches, laughing and joking and leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the “nobs” below them. The whole theatre was filled with an expectant buzz. Sparrow breathed in the atmosphere, looked around at the happy faces and decided that he was in the most exciting place in the entire universe.

The first half of the programme went very well. The audience laughed at the cockney comic’s jokes, gasped at the twists and turns of the acrobats, marvelled at the skill of the jugglers, and even listened enraptured to the fat lady singer – to Sparrow’s surprise, the “lubrication” seemed to have worked wonders on her voice. As the applause died away, the theatre manager strode on to the stage to announce the final act before the interval.

“Your Royal Highness,” he proclaimed. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen! It is my proud privilege to present to you an artiste we have brought over, at
enormous
expense to the management, all the way from Milano in sunny Italy. A man who has performed for the crowned heads of Europe and the world. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the magician magnificent, escapologist extraordinaire, the one and only – the Great Gandini!”

The Great Gandini was a rather oily, middle-aged man, whose twirly, black moustache turned up at each end into sharp, waxed points. He was slim but well muscled, and wore a rather shiny dress suit, complete with white bow tie and tailcoat. He was assisted by an attractive young woman, with wavy, black hair, wearing a tight-fitting dress of scarlet satin. Because it was the interval next, and he did not have to call any more artistes, Sparrow was able to stand in the “wings” at the side of the stage and watch as the magician performed a series of tricks, each more amazing than the last. He made doves appear and rabbits disappear. He produced coins and eggs from people’s ears. He stole people’s watches and produced them in other people’s pockets. He presented a lady with a large bouquet of real flowers that he had conjured out of a small pocket handkerchief. And all the time, he kept up a continuous patter, addressing the audience in a heavy Italian accent, with almost every word seeming to end in “o” or “a”.

Sparrow was enthralled by it all. But it was the Great Gandini’s final trick that really grabbed his attention. With the help of a volunteer from the audience, the assistant fastened the magician’s wrists with handcuffs and bound his arms and legs with chains. She secured these with strong padlocks, which she asked the volunteer to check. Then a large wooden chest was wheeled on to the stage, and also checked carefully to confirm that it was solid. The assistant opened the hinged lid, the escapologist climbed inside and the lid was closed and fastened with a heavy iron bolt and another padlock, the key to which was given to the volunteer to hold. A black curtain with a silver moon and stars sewn onto it descended from the “flies” above the stage, to hide the locked chest from the audience. Standing in front of the black curtain with the volunteer, the assistant started a large clock, which ticked very loudly, and the drummer in the orchestra began playing a drum roll.

Watching, fascinated, from the wings, Sparrow heard the rattle and clank of chains from inside the chest. Then, to his amazement, the lid of the chest opened and the Great Gandini climbed out, free of chains and handcuffs. He closed the lid again, then pushed through the curtain to be greeted by wild applause. When the curtain was raised once more, the volunteer checked that the chest was still fastened. He took the key and undid the padlock, and found the chains and handcuffs lying in the empty chest.

Sparrow could hardly believe what he had seen. All day he had been puzzling over the mystery of the iron door. Could this be the answer? During the interval, when Gandini had retired to his dressing room to pack up the rest of his equipment, Sparrow crept over to the chest, which had been pushed into a corner, ready to be dismantled and taken away. Having seen how the trick had been done, he had a pretty good idea what he was looking for, and it did not take him long to find it. He was just lifting the lid when he heard an angry roar behind him.

“Hey! What d’you think you’re doin’?” Gandini was so furious his face was livid. In fact, he was so angry he had quite forgotten he was supposed to be Italian, and was speaking in a broad north-country English accent.

“I … nothin’. Nothin’. Honest,” Sparrow stammered, afraid of the angry magician and confused by his sudden change of nationality.

“You’re messing wi’ my things!”

“I’m sorry, Mr Gandini, sir. I ain’t done no harm.”

“No harm? No harm? What’s that got to do wi’ it, you little tike?”

“What’s going on here? Is this personage causing you annoyance, Signor Gandini?” It was the theatre manager, Mr Trump. He looked at Sparrow accusingly.

“He was messing wi’ my stuff,” Gandini snarled. He swung back to Sparrow. “You never, never, touch a magician’s props. Don’t you know that’s the cardinal rule of this business?”

“What’s that mean?” asked Sparrow.

“It means a rule that must be obeyed,” Mr Trump snapped.

“I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to… Only, you see…”

The manager silenced him with a wave of his hand, and spoke to Gandini again. “Pray accept my most compunctious apologies,” he grovelled.

“What sort of staff do you employ here?” Gandini demanded.

“He’s regrettably inexperienced,” the manager continued. “He doesn’t know any better.”

“Well it’s time he learnt,” Gandini spat. “I want him out of here!”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Now!”

Mr Trump turned to Sparrow again. “You’re fired!”

Sparrow was close to tears. “No. Please,” he begged. “I can explain. It’s important.”

“Well?” The manager loomed over him. “It had better be good.”

“You see, there’s this door, and…” Sparrow stopped as he realized he wasn’t supposed to say anything.

“I’m waiting.”

“Who put you up to this?” asked Gandini.

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Gandini snorted. He turned back to the manager. “The secrets are mine. And he was trying to steal them.”

“No, I weren’t. Honest. Give me another chance. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“Get out of here,” the manager growled. “And don’t come back.”

“Oh, please… Can’t I just stay and see Little Tich?”

“No. And divest yourself of that garment before you depart.”

Heartbroken, Sparrow slipped out of the call boy’s jacket and dragged himself to the door. His dreams were shattered. As he left, a hansom cab drew up outside the stage door and a figure hopped nimbly out. It was Little Tich. Sparrow watched as the tiny comedian paused to exchange greetings with Bert, before disappearing into the theatre. Then he turned away and trudged miserably home.

Back at HQ, Sparrow flung himself down on his bed, weeping miserably. The only other Boy at home was Shiner, who was still upset by his encounter with Basher Brannigan and did not want to hear Sparrow’s troubles. After a few minutes, however, his curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist asking what was the matter.

“Nothin’,” Sparrow replied, burying his face in his mattress so that Shiner wouldn’t see his tears.

“Don’t look like nothin’ to me,” Shiner said, not unkindly.

“Nothin’s the matter. I’m all right.”

“What you cryin’ for, then?”

“I ain’t,” Sparrow insisted, sniffing loudly.

“And what you doin’ here?” Shiner went on. “I thought you was s’posed to be at the theatre?”

That started Sparrow off again. “I was,” he sobbed. “I got the sack.”