The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [5]
"Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle!"
"You have my attention, sir," said Doyle, turning to face him.
"Fantastic! Off to the States today—your first visit! Any thoughts?"
"Far too many to mention."
"Sure! Why not? Looking forward to it? Have to be! They're gonna love you in New York—great city—huge! You can't believe it; straight up!" He gestured emphatically toward the sky with both hands. "Look at it go!"
The man was insane, realized Doyle. Completely off his squash. Smile, Doyle; always humor a lunatic.
"So! Big plans, huh? Reading tour, fifteen cities. How 'bout that? If you aren't the second coming of old Charley Dickens!"
"One cannot aspire to follow in the immortal footsteps of Boz with anything but the deepest humility."
The reporter's eyes glazed over, but total incomprehension seemed his natural state and troubled him not in the least.
"Sensational!"
"If you'll excuse me, I must be getting on board...."
"Which one do you like the best?"
"Which one what?"
"Holmes story; got a favorite?"
"I don't know, perhaps the one about the snake—sorry, for the life of me I can't remember the name of it...."
The man snapped his fingers and pointed at him: " 'The Speckled Band'; fantastic stuff!"
"I don't suppose you've read any of my ... other books."
"What other books?"
"Right. Sorry, I really must be going...."
"Okay, now tell the truth, what do you hope to find in America?"
"My hotel room and a small measure of privacy."
"Haw! Fat chance. You're big news, Mr. Doyle: Sherlock mania. It's like a fever, friend. Get used to it. They'll be lining up to take shots at you."
"Shots?"
"Everybody and his brother wants to know, see: Who is this guy? What makes him tick? And what kind of a weird, twisted mind can think up stuff like this?"
"How appalling."
"Hey, why do you think the paper booked me on this ship? Get a first look at you, that's the idea."
"Booked you a passage on this ship?" Oh, no; too late to change plans.
"Okay, so here's my proposition," said the little man, sidling up confidentially. "Help me out with a few exclusives on the way over and I can make things pretty easy for you on the other side. I got connections in New York. Animal, vegetable, mineral; you name it. Sky's the limit. Silver platter."
The man winked at him. What an extraordinary creature.
The customs agent handed back Doyle's transport papers with a sheepish, gap-toothed grin. "Din't have to kill him, didja, guv?"
"We all have to go sometime," said Doyle agreeably, tucking the papers away and striding quickly toward the gate.
The reporter dogged his steps, holding a card in front of
Doyle's face. "Name's Pinkus. Ira Pinkus. New York Herald. Think about it, will you?"
"Thank you, Mr. Pinkus."
"Could I invite you to join me for dinner tonight?"
Doyle waved and smiled.
"Or how about drinks? A cocktail? What do you say?"
The guard at the gate stopped Pinkus from following. Could it be? Yes! The man hadn't cleared customs yet. The gap widened; Doyle grinned. Was any human experience more purely pleasurable than escape?
"Say, any plans on bringing Sherlock back?" shouted Pinkus. "Can't leave him buried up there in that Swiss Alp! We want more stories! Your readers are ready to riot!"
Doyle never looked back. A knot of activity ahead: Larry at the trolley, Innes paying the porter. Dock hands shouldered their bags up the gangway. Farther down the pier a row of plain wooden coffins were being loaded from a jitney directly into the ship's cargo hold; bodies going home for burial.
Odd, thought Doyle; the dead shipped home unnoticed on every transatlantic crossing but were usually loaded in the night before, out of the paying customers' sight. Must be last-minute arrivals.
Concerned officers looked down at Doyle from the quarterdeck; one consulted a watch. Two minutes to noon. Along with the corpses, it looked as though they would be the last passengers to board, save Ira Pinkus.
Or, with any luck, excluding him.
"I'm afraid there isn't time for me to see you on board," said Larry.