The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [4]
"Thank you, Larry," said Doyle.
Feeling his argument to Innes about the vagaries of fate emphatically settled, Doyle flashed a triumphant smile, but in that way peculiar to younger brothers Innes offered no concession of defeat, staring coolly at the horizon, as if the Great Pyramids occupied a distant hillside.
With the porter behind them, Doyle gave a dry snort and pointed them toward the exit. Strapping young Innes ran interference, plowing a path through the crowd like a cowcatcher on a locomotive.
"You can thank the fact our new driver's a fan of the Adding Machine," said Larry, using one of their coded references to Doyle's famous fictional creation. "Took the promise of an autograph to get him to wait."
Before Doyle could inquire, from under his raincoat Larry produced a Strand magazine featuring a vintage Holmes story. Five years in Doyle's employ had produced an almost supernatural ability in the former Cockney burglar to anticipate his master's every need: "Already took the liberty."
"Good man," said Doyle, taking a pen from his pocket. "What's the fellow's name?"
"Roger Thornhill."
Doyle took the magazine from his loyal secretary and scrawled an inscription—"For Roger, The Game's Afoot! Yours, Arthur Conan Doyle"—as they pushed through the station doors.
"Still plenty of time," said Innes calmly.
"Only thing is," said Larry, "with my having to raise my voice above the ruckus for the drivers to hear me I'm afraid word leaked out about your arrival—"
"There he is!"
And with that cry, a crowd of fifty, many with Strand magazines in hand, closed in on Doyle as he cleared the doors, an impenetrable clamoring mob between them and their cab— driver Roger standing atop, waving his arms frantically— while in the distance, the tantalizing stacks of the Elbe, their ever-so-much-closer-to-departure destination.
"Game, set, and match," said Doyle to Innes, before putting on his public face and wading forward to meet the onslaught, pen at the ready, with a friendly word for every comer and a determination to courteously satisfy every one of their requests, as swiftly as humanly possible.
Between signatures inscribed, greetings exchanged, anecdotes endured ("I've got an uncle in Brighton who's a bit of a detective himself...."), and offered amateur manuscripts kindly but firmly refused, half an hour flew by. A ten-minute carriage ride to the docks passed without incident, filled by their driver's monologue about his astonishing good fortune, variations on the theme: "Wait'll me missus hears about this."
Upon arrival at the customhouse, they jumped so smoothly over every hedge of the bureaucratic steeplechase involved in departing mother country that Doyle felt a twinge of disappointment: He had worked up a terrific head of steam for annihilating the first bureaucrat who tried to obstruct them but he had had no occasion to use it.
Something was wrong; this was too easy.
There Doyle stood, clerk before him—papers in one hand, stamp in the other—one fence away from the finish and the ship's departure still five minutes off, when out of the corner of his eye Doyle spotted and, with the unerring instincts of hunted prey, instantly recognized the lone journalist lying in wait for him, poised like a jungle cat.
"Mr. Conan Doyle!"
The man pounced; pad in hand, rumpled suit, mangled cigar stump, panama hat, and the bounce and confidence of a terrier on a scent. He was a newshound, all right; an American, the most dangerous of the breed.
Doyle glanced quickly around: Damn, Larry and Innes preoccupied