The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [11]
Infuriated by Arthur's snobbery, Innes experienced no misgivings afterward about the full menu of Conan Doyle anecdotes he trotted out for Pimmel as the meal progressed—what was the harm in it? Wasn't as if the man was openly interrogating him, and he seemed every bit as engrossed by Innes's own escapades with the Royal Fusiliers as he was about anything to do with the life and times of the Great Author. And Pimmel himself proved supremely entertaining on the subject of New York, particularly his intimate and apparently inexhaustible lowdown on Broadway show girls.
Why, no, it wouldn't be any trouble at all to introduce you to some of these gals, Pimmel assured him. Say, here's an idea: Why don't the two of us go out on the town one night with a great big bunch of them? Better yet, we'll throw a party! Let them come to us! Have a little more wine, Innes!
Outstanding fellow, Pimmel.
Realizing he was expected to spend every evening of the cruise with Captain Hoffner—a stolid pillar of a man singularly preoccupied with maritime statistics, shipboard etiquette, and the tide tables, all untainted by the slightest hint of humor—Doyle rolled out the questions he'd dreamed up about the Elbe at a measured pace, hoping the Captain's replies might buy enough time to root out other areas of conversational fertility. But Hoffner's answers lacked wind; they were as precise, as streamlined, and about as riveting as an engine manual recited by a myna bird. The man had spent so much of his life at sea he had failed to acquire an opinion on any unseaworthy subject and had apparently never even cracked open a novel. Certainly none of Doyle's, at any rate.
Fellow guests at the table weren't much help, either; a congregation of beer executives from Bavaria and their well-groomed wives, off for a pleasure tour of midwestern American breweries. All in possession of modestly serviceable English that they chose for the most part not to exercise, spending the better part of the meal hanging on Doyle's every word as if each utterance contained hidden religious significance: Sherlock Holmes was Big Business in Germany.
The Famous Author syndrome usually provided sufficient inspiration to hoist Doyle into the saddle of some pet high-horse of his, but tonight every time he rolled up to the edge of a really first-rate pontification the sight of Innes huddling with Pinkus/Pimmel across the room knocked him right off his perch. He felt as dull and becalmed as the glacial Captain Hoffner. As the lapses between exchanges became longer and grimmer, the screech of cutlery grinding on china grew deafening.
"I remember reading somewhere that you have an enduring interest in the occult, Mr. Doyle," said the lone English woman at the table, who had until that moment maintained a watchful silence.
Indeed he had, replied Doyle. An interest tempered by a natural and healthy skepticism, he was quick to add.
Glum faces around the table assumed new life. The burghers' wives ganged up on Hoffner with a hard flurry of German, attempting to prod him to some unknown action involving Doyle. Hoffner held his ground during the brief, one-sided engagement before turning to Doyle with a look of deeply felt apology.
"I have been telling a story last night at dinner as we crossed the Channel," said the Captain. "It seems some of my crew are convinced we are having a ghost on board."
"The ship is haunted," said the English woman.
She roosted on the edge of her chair, small and birdlike, and throughout the meal he hadn't taken much notice of her, but now that she had set foot in her element, Doyle recognized that slightly deranged sparkle in her pale eyes: She was a True Believer.
"I am afraid that I cannot say this is true with any assurance, Mrs. Saint-John," said Captain Hoffner. Then to Doyle, again apologetically: