The Seventh Bullet (21 page)

“May I?” he asked the butler, indicating the books he wanted to examine.

The older man shrugged his assent, and Holmes began by withdrawing the two copies of
Dracula
from their positions and opening each in turn to its title page. After riffling their pages, he replaced both of them and, rubbing his chin, proceeded to inspect the books by Polidor and Prest. Only then did he reach for the claret-coloured work by Viereck, which he examined as he had the others.

As Holmes did so, the butler observed, “That’s strange. I thought the senator had given that very book to his secretary, Mr. Altamont, just before the senator’s departure.”

So many books, I thought. How could this old fellow account for which ones were given out?

A few moments later Holmes returned the volume he was inspecting to its place on the shelf and, with a slight nod of his head, indicated to me it was time to retire.

“The Senator seems to be lacking in Poe,” Holmes observed with mock gravity. Once again, I noted that macabre American author with whom my friend had some passing if not totally appreciative familiarity.

We thanked the butler, telling him that we would convey our purchasing suggestions to Mrs. Buchanan abroad without ever revealing how we had gained access to the Senator’s library. The butler could thus rest assured that his master would have a most satisfying birthday due in great part to the perspicacity of a loyal but anonymous servant.

Sherlock Holmes said nothing as we walked back to Rollins and the Packard. In spite of my own anxieties, I could tell by my friend’s smug grin that he had got the information he had been looking for.

“But Holmes,” I said once we were seated in the security of the closed passenger compartment, “I myself observed the copy of the Viereck book on Buchanan’s shelf. It should have been missing if his was the volume we saw on Van den Acker’s desk.”

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, “the man is a collector of rare books. That is why I was checking at the front of each copy. The two
Draculas,
for example—one was a Constable and Company first edition; the other, an American first from Doubleday. The rest I looked at were also first editions.”

“Including
The House of the Vampire?”
I asked.

“That all depends on which copy you mean, Watson,” he said with a smirk.

“But surely I saw only a single volume, Holmes.”

“Back at Buchanan’s—yes, that is so, and it was not a first. But the book on Van den Acker’s desk, old fellow—don’t forget it. Remember, the butler said that Buchanan had given it to Altamont.”

“Then it
was
Altamont who was behind these murders?”

“Not
behind
them, Watson, although he played prominent roles in both. He certainly must have planted the book at Van den Acker’s, and that book, I am convinced, is the linchpin of this investigation. It was a first edition, you see, and I have no doubt that the ‘Senator’ of the inscription was
not
Van den Acker, as we were supposed to believe, but rather the culprit who ordered it left at the scene of Van den Acker’s murder—the honourable former senator from New York, Millard Pankhurst Buchanan.”

“But how can you be so certain that Altamont wasn’t acting on his own—perhaps out of some demented loyalty to his employer?”

“Because, Watson, Altamont would not have the capability to affect so many men of power and authority. He never could have
orchestrated the unanimity we witnessed in Washington among all those senators.”

“Then you think Buchanan’s our man, Holmes?”

“Yes, I believe he is, old fellow. That is why we must return to England as soon as we can to confront this deadly betrayer of the public trust.”

Holmes leaned forward to communicate with the driver. “Rollins!” he fairly shouted. “To the Waldorf! And quickly, man!”

“The much-talked-of difference between those born to wealth and power and those who rise to it from obscurity resolves itself to little more than the difference between those born mad and those who go insane.”

—David Graham Phillips,
The Price She Paid

M
uch of the next twenty-four hours remains an ambiguity. Holmes and I booked passage on the first available ship to England, the White Star Line’s
Olympic,
leaving the following day. Mrs. Frevert, whom Holmes rang only to tell that the mystery of her brother’s death was taking us back to London, insisted on seeing us off and commandeered not only Rollins and the Packard but also Beveridge himself in her efforts to facilitate our departure. And so it was that the day after our visit to Buchanan’s library, Holmes and I and our luggage, along with Mrs. Frevert and Beveridge, made our way through the crowds as quickly as we could to the vast lengths of Pier 59. Just the previous year,
Beveridge explained, the dock had been extended an additional ninety feet out into the Hudson to accommodate the large ships of the White Star Line.

“What a pity,” I lamented “that we never visited the Statue of Liberty. It’s so typically American, after all.”

“Oh,” Beveridge replied, “with your trip to Washington and your stay in New York, Doctor, I think you’ve experienced the essence of what this country is made of.”

“How true, Senator,” Holmes said, as he shook Beveridge’s hand in farewell, “how very true.”

Not long after I had positioned myself at the rail of the great ship, a veritable fleet of twelve tugboats, like courtiers round a queen, struggled for position in helping the mighty vessel ease away from port. Beneath a bright and, I hoped, prophetic sunny sky, I stood waving my good-byes to Mrs. Frevert, to Beveridge, and to the chauffeur Rollins (whom I could easily make out in the distance thanks to his proximity to the yellow motor car). As I took in for the last time that celebrated skyline of New York, I realised I was also saying farewell to America—not to mention the seductive offer of employment made to me by Hearst. What would Mrs. Watson have done if instead of returning to England, I had telegraphed her to join me in New York?

For his part, Sherlock Holmes was already fiddling away in our cabin somewhere beneath the four massive funnels of the
Olympic.

The week of travel passed slowly, especially for my companion. Like the trap that falls upon a jungle cat before the animal can spring, the confines of the ocean liner ringed Holmes in. He paced back and forth in our cabin; he played his violin in our cabin; he read more of Phillips in our cabin.

“Why pretend that I have freedom, Watson?” he said when I suggested that he stroll along the open promenade deck. “A means for ensnaring a villain is my goal, not deluding myself into thinking that, despite the tennis courts and bathing pools, I’m not aboard a ship.”

His foul temper lasted the entire seven days of the voyage. I could only breathe a sigh of comfort when I contemplated the good fortune that had prevented us from sailing together in the opposite direction. I had foolishly believed that age might temper Holmes’s easily sparked sense of frustration, but his restlessness that week proved me wrong. Indeed, before we reached my house in Queen Anne Street, I was even doubting the wisdom of having invited him to reside with me while my wife was still away.

Once we arrived in London, however, Holmes’s calmer nature prevailed, and with a week still remaining of Mrs. Watson’s stay with her aunt in the Midlands, I felt more than ready to share my abode with my old friend. Reassured that we could continue our investigation undisturbed for a while longer at our Queen Anne Street headquarters, Holmes wanted no time lost in implementing whatever strategy to lure our prey he had conjured during the past week at sea.

Our first task was locating Senator Buchanan. To that end, Holmes contacted our old friend Wiggins, one of the former young street Arabs whose acquaintance I had made in Holmes’s and my initial case together, which I called “A Study in Scarlet.” The nominal leader of the Baker Street Irregulars, for so the boys were known, Wiggins had aided Holmes on many an occasion. It was, however, Holmes’s aid to Wiggins that proved more fortunate in the long run. A number of years earlier Holmes had secured the
lad a position as bootboy for a great family, and Holmes and I beamed with pride as we watched the boy justify our faith in him, moving up to footman and then to valet through years of loyal service to his employers. Now in his early forties, the baby-faced man with the shock of black hair and toothful smile had been appointed butler to a small but influential household in Belgravia.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins said the afternoon of our return to London. “It should be no problem at all to locate this Senator Buchanan. Those who make the rounds of our finest homes are well known to us in service. A few discreet questions to the right addresses should yield results in no time at all.”

True to his word and former Baker Street reputation, Wiggins reported back to us within the hour that Buchanan and his wife were currently residing at the nearby Langham Hotel. It was an obvious choice: the grand Langham not only suited the rich (the King of Bohemia had stayed there while visiting Holmes), but seemed to appeal to Americans in particular; the establishment claimed Mark Twain as one of its most famous guests. Since the hotel was just round the corner from Queen Anne Street in Portland Place, we proceeded to undertake the brief walk that very night. Unfortunately, however, we discovered at the desk that the senator and his wife were attending a performance of
Don Giovanni
at Covent Garden, whose opera season had only just commenced, so Holmes was forced to leave a note for Buchanan, informing him of our urgent desire to meet.

“We shall return at midnight,” he announced to the sombre, moustachioed hall porter behind the desk. To me, he said with a smile, “Come, Watson, it is time to sample again the familiar taste of English cooking. I believe that roast beef at Simpson’s would
not be out of place while we await the completion of Senator Buchanan’s enviable encounter with Mozart.”

At the stroke of midnight we reappeared at the Langham. Seated in plush velvet chairs in the lobby, we awaited the appearance of Buchanan. Despite the lateness of the hour, the hotel was alive with pedestrian traffic. Visitors to London who wanted to squeeze vitality from every waking moment rushed in and out of the hotel as if the garish electric light were sunshine and it was the middle of the afternoon.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Senator Buchanan in evening dress and his wife in an elegant white-brocade gown and matching white fur entered the foyer. They were accompanied by another formally attired couple: a dark, extremely young woman and a much older man, distinguished by his thick moustaches as well as his considerable height.

“Colonel John Jacob Astor and his wife,” Holmes explained, “the owners of the New York hotel in which we so recently luxuriated. Forced by the scandal of the difference in their ages to honeymoon abroad—Egypt, I believe.”

“A beautiful young woman,” I observed, “and judging from her radiance and marital status, undoubtedly pregnant.”

“Watson, Watson”—Holmes sighed—“ever the romantic. You couple the science of medicine to the science of deduction then rely on intuition.”

I had no time to react to what I chose to accept as a compliment— although I am not certain that it was so intended—for the hall porter was just then offering the senator the note Holmes had written and nodding in our direction.

Buchanan perused the paper, excused himself to the Astors, and s
whispered something to his wife whose raised eyebrows seemed to signal a sense of alarm. Bidding them all good night, he made his way in our direction through the assemblage of hotel guests. Since I had met him before, I introduced the senator to Sherlock Holmes, and then we all adjourned to a small round table in the corner of the large hall. Only after Buchanan insisted on ordering a brandy and soda for each of us could Holmes begin.

“You know of Altamont’s death?” Holmes asked. “And Van den Acker’s?”

“Yes, poor souls,” Buchanan said. “I read about Van den Acker. And Altamont seems to have been a thief of some sort. Or so I was told by the Embassy. Was he not killed in a freakish robbery attempt?”

“That’s what the New Jersey authorities are maintaining, Senator,” Holmes said, “but I have another hypothesis.”

Buchanan leaned back in his chair, studied the drink in the cut-crystal glass, and asked, “Just what might that be, Mr. Holmes?”

“I believe, Senator, that Altamont intercepted a message from Peter Van den Acker to me about an incriminating dispatch he had received from Washington. I further believe that as a result of Van den Acker’s attempt to contact me and the suspicions he had of what really happened to David Graham Phillips, Altamont went to Van den Acker’s house and brutally killed him, attempting to make the murder appear a suicide. I also believe that Altamont planted your copy of Viereck’s
The House of the Vampire
at the scene of the crime so it would seem that Van den Acker had been the one who’d given that book to Goldsborough, the very book that helped ignite in Goldsborough’s twisted mind the desire to kill Phillips.”