A Three Pipe Problem Read online

  ‘Sher, I’m not going to let you go on.’ Willie’s smile was still there, but his voice was brisk. ‘One, viewing figures were falling at the end of the last series. That’s a fact, and you can’t get round it. And two, all this was settled at the planning conference.’

  He was silent. It had been put to him by the Director of Programmes almost in the form of an ultimatum, although such a word had of course not been used. Phrases had been used like the old formula getting a little worn, marvellous show but it needs new blood, Sherlock’s superlative but Sherlock alone can’t carry an hour on the box. He had argued against this, but in the end he had accepted it.

  Willie said softly, ‘Let’s remember something else too. You aren’t Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It isn’t so ridiculous. I’ve been in from the beginning, remember, I wanted you, I said you were the one who could do it. It was a plus that you knew all about Holmes and the stories. But don’t push it too far, don’t start kidding yourself.’

  From the bar came Basil’s high-pitched laughter, the clank of glasses, the persistent yapping of the manageress’s toy poodle, a rumble of altercation from a group playing darts. Everything was too noisy, it was impossible to think. And outside in the busy street, permeating the pub noise, was the whine of cars. He became aware that Sarah had spoken.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said I wish you were Sherlock, then you might be able to solve these Karate Killings, and stop the bloody police from pestering me. They seem to think that just because I’ve let Harry Claber take me around, I asked him to have old Pow knocked off. I don’t do that, not even when people say my presence is wrong.’

  ‘I said I was sorry.’

  ‘Okay, I don’t hold it against you. It would be nice if you cleared up the murders, but being questioned wasn’t so bad. The sergeant was just a clot, but the chief or Super or whatever he’s called was quite civilised. And a knockout to look at, one of the dishiest men I’ve seen for a long time. Present company excepted, of course.’ She ducked her head. Willie smiled, and looked more than usually like a pixie. There came into Sher’s mind what Conan Doyle said about Irene Adler: ‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman.’ Well, he reflected, Sheridan Haynes certainly couldn’t say that about Sarah Peters. Beautiful in her way, but for him not half as attractive as Val. ‘You’re supposed to go in for Sherlock Holmes deductions, though. All right then, deduce.’

  ‘That’s a parlour game,’ he said, although that was not quite how he regarded it. ‘If I were Sherlock I might go round examining the hands of all the suspects and see which of them looked as if they could kill somebody with a karate chop, but I’m just myself. And don’t worry, I’ll be good from now on.’

  ‘Me too.’ Her lips brushed his cheek.

  Willie stayed for an hour of rehearsal, then slipped away. After the first day, he left things to the director, reappearing at the rehearsal rooms only once, when they had been at work for a week. Then he would come to the last couple of days, when they were in the studio.

  That afternoon everything went smoothly for Richard Spain. Basil was suitably solid, gruff and bone-headed, Sheridan Haynes forgot some lines as usual but was finely Sherlockian, Sarah played her part with verve. By the end of the day another Sherlock Holmes episode was promisingly under way.

  Chapter Four The Great Man at Home

  ‘He’s here. In the showcase.’ He heard Val say this outside, and then she put her head round the door. When the programme company had created the rooms in the image of those occupied by Holmes and Watson, there were certain diversions from the canon on which both he and Val had insisted. They had replaced the spare bedroom occupied by Watson with a study which Sher used for learning parts, and Val had flatly refused to have the mock-Victorian kitchen the company wanted, complete with electric cooker made to look like an old kitchen range. In the end they had settled for re-creating the living-room, making a bow window to conform with the original, and reproducing the room that had originally been made for the Sherlock Holmes exhibit in the Festival of Britain exhibition, although they had to use smokeless fuel on the fire because of the clean air restrictions, and the room inevitably contained personal things of their own. Even so, Val often referred to it as a showcase.

  ‘I’m going out to shop. You’ll be better off on your own.’

  It was true that he did occasionally feel uneasy when talking to an interviewer in Val’s presence. She had a disconcerting air of knowing exactly what he was about to say.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘The usual.’

  Val was right, as he saw at first glimpse of the young man, who wore a shirt with fashionably long collar points, and casual clothes that still managed to look elegant. Adrian (or perhaps it would be Francis or Christopher) would be polite, even deferential, and would listen attentively, but then he would go away and write a piece which showed that he’d been laughing at you all the time. This particular interview had been arranged by the company’s Press Officer, and was guaranteed to be something different. It would be, the Press Officer had said on the telephone, a treatment in depth of the whole Sherlock Holmes phenomenon.

  So Adrian, this general Adrian, sipped a glass of sherry, and sat in a wing chair, and looked appreciatively at the Sherlockiana, the slightly bent poker and the items under glass, cigar ends, orange pips carefully mounted in a case, and the rest.

  ‘I know the poker, from The Speckled Band. I see you didn’t bend it quite straight, in spite of what Watson said. And the six orange pips. I recognise them of course. But what’s this pamphlet, Obscure Nervous Lesions, by P H Trevelyan, BSc?’

  ‘It comes from The Resident Patient.’

  The young man clicked his fingers in annoyance. ‘So it does. And the cigar ends, no doubt. I’ve read it, you see, I just wasn’t quite quick enough. And that’s as good a point as any for me to start asking questions.’ He produced a reporter’s notebook. ‘I suppose I might as well go in at the deep end.’ He smiled the engaging Adrian smile. ‘How much do you identify yourself with Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes was a character in fiction. I’m pleased to be playing him, and I admire him, but that’s all.’

  ‘That’s the orthodox answer, I know. But surely there’s a bit more to it. I mean, there’s the names. The same initials. And you’d expect Sheridan to be called Sherry for short, but you’re Sher. How did that happen?’

  ‘I told you I admire Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘But when you took the name of Sheridan–’

  ‘I didn’t take it. My name is Richard Sheridan Haynes. Richard Haynes sounded dull, so I used my second name. I’ve been called Sher for years, long before the series began.’

  ‘Somewhere in our files it says you read the Holmes stories first when you were ten or eleven years old, but when did you first start collecting?’

  ‘If you just mean books, first editions and so on, when I was about fifteen. If you mean these souvenirs, some of them came from the special Sherlock Holmes exhibition in 1951. One or two are studio props from our own shows, like the orange pips. Others I’ve had specially made.’

  Adrian wrote in his notebook, using the flying characters of genuine shorthand, not the usual abbreviations of reporters.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes must have made a lot of difference to your life.’ The young man tossed back an unruly strand of hair. ‘I mean, you were always a well-known actor, but since the series started you’ve become positively identified with one of our national heroes. And then you’ve moved from – Weybridge, isn’t it? – to this flat in Baker Street, so that in the eyes of lots of people you are Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s surprising that an admirer of Sherlock Holmes should want to live in Baker Street.’

  Adrian smiled. ‘I think it’s wonderful. Now I’m sure you’d agree that the success of the series, as half-a-dozen TV critics have said, isn’t only bec
ause you’re the perfect Sherlock. It’s also because the productions have been so faithful to the stories. How much was that your idea?’

  He had been asked the question before, although in a different form, and now he fielded it easily, with a smile that belonged to Sheridan Haynes and not to Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘I can claim a bit of credit, perhaps. I’ve always believed that it’s a mistake to try to improve on the Holmes stories by adding extra bits. Here are these wonderful characters, Holmes and Watson, fixed in a wonderful period when life was slower and quieter, and the combustion engine wasn’t threatening to defile everything agreeable in our lives. To an old-fashioned man like me it was a better world, but the point is that it’s complete and perfect. Why spoil it by introducing modern psychology and that sort of thing, when they just don’t belong in the stories? So I might claim a little credit, say ten per cent. But the other ninety goes to Willie Lowinsky, our producer. I’d worked with Willie before, on the stage and the box, and when he told me that what he had in mind was Sherlock Holmes played absolutely straight, I was delighted. So it was Willie’s idea, and Willie who sold it to the Powers That Be – which was the great achievement.’

  The young man said, not exactly asking a question, ‘I’ve been told that the pilot script was done as a send-up. I expect you’ve heard that yourself.’

  Of course he had, but he was not going to admit it. ‘What an extraordinary idea. But it isn’t for me to comment. You should ask Willie about it. I know what he’d say.’

  ‘Feeling as you do about the original, what’s your attitude to the new series? They’re not sticking faithfully to Sherlock, are they? I mean, you’ve got Irene Adler in several stories. That’s not according to Doyle.’

  ‘Again, I don’t thank it’s for me to comment. You should talk to Willie Lowinsky.’

  Adrian nodded, looked at his notes. ‘You’ve been asked this kind of thing before, I know, but it does seem that you’ve developed something like Holmes’ powers of observation. I wonder if you can tell me anything about myself?’

  Now he was pleased by Val’s absence, because he knew that she would have been watching his response to this question. As it was, he savoured the reply.

  ‘Apart from the fact that you dressed in a hurry this morning, and that you probably didn’t sleep at home, nothing. Oh yes, one thing. Your accent tells me that you went to a good public school, but I doubt if it was followed by a university.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ Adrian cried. Sher smiled.

  ‘Elementary, as the master said. Your socks are a pair, but one is inside out, something that I can’t imagine a man as careful of his dress as you obviously are doing unless he was in a hurry. And you’re wearing rather jarring orange cufflinks with your elegant blue shirt. It’s possible that they’re your taste, but possible also that you slept away from home, took a clean shirt with you, but forgot to take another set of links.’

  ‘Absolutely right. And about the university too. But how–’

  ‘You write genuine shorthand, which you must have been taught. It isn’t likely that you would have taken a shorthand course after three or four years at university.’

  ‘Thank you for the demonstration. Just one or two more questions. You say that the Holmes world was better. Would you like to get back to it?’

  He gave Adrian the Sheridan Haynes smile, wistful and a little sad, that had melted a thousand hearts on tour, although it had not gone down so well in London.

  ‘You’re talking about the impossible. But when I look round at all the noise and clutter, at our second-hand pleasures and our dependence on machines – yes, I’d like to be back with Sherlock in those London fogs. Everything now is mechanical, even police work. Sherlock Holmes solved cases by his own logical powers. Nowadays, I’m told, the police feed their information into the computer and it comes up with the answer.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They haven’t come up with an answer in the Karate Killings, have they? Do you think Sherlock’s logic might do better?’

  Sheridan Haynes leaned back and put his fingertips together. ‘In any case there must be clues, clues left by an individual which are capable of interpretation by another individual, rather than a machine.’

  He looked directly at Adrian, an incisive Sherlock look.

  'If Sherlock Holmes were here today, and allowed to apply his method of inductive logic to the Karate case, I have no doubt that he would solve it.'

  Chapter Five Something About Karate

  Investigation of the people connected with the Karate Killings continued, but with little result. Mrs Pole and Mantleman appeared to have no connection at all with Pountney Gladson. Very well, Devenish said, they would check out again all the people known to have a reason for wishing Gladson out of the way. It turned out that George and Traven, the two Americans Gladson had talked to in the Over and Under, were associated with a front organisation for the Mafia. They were indignant at being mixed up in a murder case, and convinced Devenish that they had no reason to kill Gladson. They longed to return to their native land, and he let them go. He talked to Sarah Peters, but although she did not impress him as somebody naturally truthful, he could not believe that the quarrel would have been a sufficient reason for wanting Gladson dead. But still, he was interested in anyone connected with Harry Claber. Devenish went down to see the brothers at the Youth Club they ran just off Streatham High Road.

  When he arrived Harry, who had been a middling good professional welter weight, was in the ring with a gawky youth half a head taller than himself. He easily avoided the punches telegraphed at him, and offered advice as he ducked and wove.

  ‘Left – left – use it quicker, Dave, a bleeding nursemaid wheeling a pram could get out of the way, you’re so slow. Now, one-two, get your right over, what’s happened, paralysed is it? Christ no, don’t drop your guard like that or you – see – what – will – happen.’ He beat a tattoo on the boy’s face, then peppered his ribs when he raised the guard. ‘Okay, Dave. You’ll have to sharpen up if you’re coming anything but second next week. Off you go, now.

  ‘How about it, Thumbs, you want to try a round, just one, just to show me? That’s if we can find a pair of gloves big enough.’

  Devenish shook his head, smiling. Harry Claber jumped lightly from the ring and went to the dressing-rooms. Five minutes later he was buying Devenish tea at the bar. ‘Can’t offer you a beer, strict TT.’ He waved a hand at the table tennis and billiards tables. ‘Just look at ’em enjoying themselves, keeps ’em off the streets and out of the pubs. You got anything against it?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Harry.’

  ‘But still you’re hard on me, I don’t understand it.’ Harry Claber had a broad flat face, with just the end of his nose slightly askew, the only evidence that he had been a professional boxer. The effect was to give him a slightly comical look, an effect enhanced by the jokey way he often talked, and the smile that seemed fixed permanently on his mouth. All this was deceptive. Harry would have thought no more of ordering a man to be cut than he would of calling a taxi.

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ Harry was the clever brother, Jack was not so bright. Some said he was downright simple.

  ‘Over there playing snooker.’ Harry was drinking milk. It left a rim of white round his upper lip, which he licked off. ‘No use pretending you’ve come to see the club, is it? What’s up?’

  ‘You’re good with your fists, Harry, how are you with the chopper?’ Devenish made a chopping movement. Harry stared, then laughed.

  ‘Do me a favour, will you, I’ve never been in a karate club in my life.’

  ‘You did your national service.’

  ‘Where one of the things they did not teach us was how to dispose of an enemy at a blow. I mean, what would have happened to the officers? All this because I took that girl around hither and yon, the actress. I don’t know, you’ve just got it in for us.’ He raised his voice. ‘Hey, Jack. Here’s Thumb
s Devenish come to pay us a visit.’

  Jack Claber racked his cue and came over. He was a bigger version of his brother, but his face was not illuminated by the intelligence that sparkled in Harry’s eye. His look at the Chief Superintendent was hostile. ‘What’s he here for, then? If he wants to see us, why don’t he come to the garage?’

  The Clabers owned a couple of garages in Streatham and Brixton, which like the club were run perfectly straight.

  ‘It’s okay, Jack, everything under control.’ Harry was smiling.

  ‘What’s he want to poke his nose in here for? This is our place where we help the community, ain’t that right, Harry?’

  ‘Right. Were you going to say something sarcastic, Thumbs? Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit is what they taught me at school, but then of course I never had the benefit of your education.’

  ‘I’m just a grammar school boy myself. And something else. I’ve got a handle to my name.’

  ‘I thought we were friends,’ Harry said, smiling. ‘Sorry, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘Mr Devenish will do. All I want to know is, what was your connection with Gladson, and why did he get done?’

  Jack stared with his mouth slightly open. Harry said, ‘Look, we’re British.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. With regret.’

  ‘Sarcasm, see, I knew you couldn’t resist it. Thing is, old Pow may have been a bit of a bastard, but he stood up for Britain. He wanted to send the nig nogs and the Pakis back where they belong, in the jungle. That Union Jack club and all that, he had the right ideas. We contributed to the, club, Jack and me, it was no secret. Pow appreciated that. And he used to give me a tip or two when we went racing. Not that many of them came up.’

  ‘Did he like it when he saw you going around with his girl?’