The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [61]
"I have read that, in their own savage way, of course— scalpings and so forth—they're really quite impressive."
"Pay no attention to it. The red man is a relic of the Stone Age and his so-called innate nobility is no match for the march of progress. History never stops turning its wheels out of pity; those unable to move from its path are crushed. This is the fate God has in store for the Indian, and their refusal to adapt to the changing world around them makes them complicit in its execution."
Unexpectedly, Roosevelt reached out and applied another crushing squeeze on Doyle's tender hand.
"Greatly enjoyed your stories," he said. "Holmes. Watson. Splendid stuff. Too bad you had to kill him off. Think of the money you could have made. Bully for you, Arthur. Enjoy your stay in America."
With a compact, commanding gesture to his waiting courtiers, Roosevelt strode off, and the entire group fell into lock-step behind him. Innes stepped into the void left by their wake.
"What was that all about?" asked Innes.
"A shocking example of the species Homo Americanus. They could stuff and mount him in the museum."
"Quite a right bunch of toffs, isn't it? Real balmy gaffer over here," said Innes, nodding toward a willowy man in a top hat, swallowtail coat, black cape, and flowing white silk scarf, engaged in conversation but regularly glancing then-way. His face was dusky, fine-featured, an East Indian cast to the eyes and an almost feminine delicacy to his lips and nose. A mane of long black hair flowed into a leonine ponytail. He appeared to be in his early thirties and carried himself with the flamboyant confidence of a lionized maestro.
"Started telling me about this concert he plans to give where every instrument in the orchestra's represented by a different smell that he pumps into the auditorium with a machine whenever they start to play...."
"Different smells?"
"You heard me correctly; rose for the strings, sandalwood for the brass, jasmine for the flute, and so on. Each scent pouring out of a different nozzle hooked up to and activated by that particular instrument."
"Good Christ."
"Says he already owns a patent. Smell-A-Rama: Symphony of Scents."
"You could knock me over with a feather."
"Only in America."
Innes moved off.
A tall, blond, good-looking man in a dinner jacket emerged from the crowd and walked steadily toward Doyle's back, a hand slipping inside his jacket. Seeing him approach, the elegant, swarthy man in the silk scarf turned and made a direct line to Doyle, took him firmly by the arm, and led him deeper into the crowd.
"Mr. Conan Doyle, the honor is entirely mine, sir," said the swarthy man, in rounded tones of upper-class Oxfordian English. "I have just enjoyed the delightful pleasure of your brother's company and thought perhaps I would seize the liberty of introducing myself to you."
And so you have, thought Doyle. Mr. Smell-A-Rama.
Behind them, the tall, blond gentleman stopped and hung back at the edge of the room.
"My name is Preston Peregrine Raipur but everyone calls me Presto. We are fellow countrymen. I am an Oxford man; Trinity, class of '84," said the dandy; then in a quiet, deadly serious tone with no corresponding change of expression: "Please continue to glance towards the gathering from time to time, if you would, sir, and smile politely as if I had said something of mild amusement to you."
"What?"
"We are being observed. It would be best if our conversation remained brief and appeared to be of an entirely superficial nature," said Presto, the frivolousness entirely gone from his voice, replaced by an earnest, intelligent sincerity.
"What is this about, sir?" said Doyle, smiling, complying with the man's request to mask the discussion's true intent.
"Another time and place is more appropriate for an elaboration.