Chapter 9
“Miss! Let me help you, please. Give it here, I’ve got it!” exclaimed the young Sherlock Holmes, as if the courtyard at the Hotel Albion was a stage and the laundry basket he held in front of him was a prop.
My friend seemed so silly and theatrical in his attempt to make good with the laundress that I thought she might promptly tell him to get lost. Instead, she seemed to fall for it. She let Sherlock carry the basket to the laundry room and took the opportunity to fix her hair and apron. I followed them, pretending to be Sherlock’s sister.
When Sherlock reappeared in the middle of the steam that rose above the tubs of hot water in the laundry room, she looked him up and down and said, “Spit it out, come on! Who are you? One of those people who writes for the newspaper?”
“On my honor — no!” Sherlock said, pretending to be offended by the possibility.
“You’re too good-looking to be from around here,” the laundress continued. “You’re too well dressed to be a busboy. So, if you’re not one of the reporters from the newspaper, I simply don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
“I help ladies in distress . . . the basic duty of every gentleman!” Sherlock replied, acting surprised.
“And who do you think I am, little prince? Do I look like a lady? And a distressed one, at that?” the woman asked, giggling. “It was kind of you to carry that basket for me, so I’ll give you a tip in return. You should wear a pair of glasses on that long, pointed nose of yours . . .”
Sherlock laughed. The laundress laughed even harder and headed toward the steaming laundry tubs.
My friend followed her. “I don’t want to lie to you, Miss,” he began, passing a bucket to her. “The truth is — I live nearby, and when I read about the murder in the newspaper, well, I couldn’t resist the temptation to look around.”
“And you’ve done well, little prince,” the maid replied. “If only I didn’t have to do a darn thing all day, I should like to snoop as well!” She burst into thunderous laughter.
“Well,” Sherlock said, straightening his back. “It’s not every day a murder occurs close to your home. Not to mention one that involves a famous character.”
“Was he really so famous, that man who died?” the maid asked, rolling up her sleeves.
“So they say.”
“Psh! Those fools write like they know about things, but . . .”
Sherlock threw a sheet to her.
“But?” he prompted.
“But if they had met him in person just once they wouldn’t have written that.”
At that point, Sherlock turned and winked at me. The maid now seemed to have a great desire to talk.
“Interesting!” he said. ”What do you mean exactly?”
“Well, the assistant — Santi? — he seemed to me a poor man . . . in spirit and in wealth. Now, the older one — he’s rich and famous, indeed!”
“Are you referring to Barzini?” Sherlock asked.
“That’s him, little prince. Not to mention Merridew . . . now that’s a lady. And a classy one at that! It’s true — certain things cannot be learned. I could spend a lifetime trying, but in the end I’m sure I could not even hold a glass with as much grace as Ms. Merridew does.” She giggled, and then continued. “But regarding men . . . who knows. Maybe I’d also be interested in the grumps!”
“I’m afraid I do not understand, Miss,” Sherlock said.
“I’ll explain,” she said, “but you must promise not to go gossiping around.”
“I promise,” he said.
She clicked her tongue, amused, and shook her head. “You’re also a liar! At your age!” she chuckled.
“Not a liar, but, I repeat . . . just curious!” Sherlock protested.
“Then listen to me here, curious little prince,” the laundress whispered as she threw a sheet into the water. “The fair lady Merridew was dating that man who died. Of the three, he was the least handsome and the most ill-tempered, and now the poor man is dead, God rest his soul. But . . .”
“But?”
“Well, the man’s life must have been a nightmare! He was always nervous and in a bad mood, except when Ms. Merridew was around. Then everything changed. He would suddenly become cheerful and friendly . . . like a dog wagging his tail! But it never lasted long. As soon as she would leave the hotel to rehearse at the theater, he would become gloomy again. And he was unbearable!”
“But did he get along with Barzini at least? After all, he was his personal assistant.”
“Don’t joke, little prince! That man did not get along with anyone! Not with old Barzini, nor with the other one — the Frenchman.”
“Duvel,” I muttered, recalling the name of the composer’s other assistant, who I had seen with Santi and Barzini in the theater the night before.
“He and Santi would shoot each other glances of fire!” the laundress continued. “They looked like two lions in the same cage. You would never guess that they ate breakfast at the same table!”
“And that thief who was arrested?” Sherlock asked. “What do they say about him, here at the hotel?”
“That he was also a Frenchman,” the laundress replied promptly. “And he was apparently just a great bungler!”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, inviting the woman to explain.
“To get caught by those fool cops who wander around the Albion area . . . he must really be an amateur!” she said.
“Your observation is not very respectful of Scotland Yard, Miss,” Sherlock said, grinning. “But it is nonetheless interesting.”
“What an honor!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “The little prince said that I was ‘interesting’! Now, before I regret what I told you, either pick up a board and help me wash or get a move on!” she concluded with a final laugh.
It seemed that Sherlock wanted to gather a few more details on the matter from the laundress, but he was interrupted by a sudden noise that came from behind us.
We exchanged a quick glance and headed toward the sound. It led us to the main entrance of the hotel. There we found a large group of reporters chattering, shaking their pencils and notebooks in the air toward the road.
A luxurious black carriage had just arrived and journalists were pushing one another to get to the front of the crowd. Through the mass of arms, I saw Mr. Barzini climbing down from the carriage, followed by Duvel. Barzini wore a brilliant dark green velvet cape and a top hat, which he took off in front of the reporters, passing it to his assistant.
“Let us by! Let us by, scoundrels!” the usher of the Albion barked, pushing between Maestro Barzini and the reporters. They shouted questions at the composer.
“Maestro! What feelings are you having now?”
“Mr. Barzini! Have you met Mr. Santi’s murderer?”
“Could you ever forgive him?”
“After this tragedy, will you keep composing? Or will you also retire from the scene, like Ophelia Merridew plans to?”
“Will Mr. Duvel take the place of Mr. Santi?”
Barzini staggered through the crowd, shaking hands here and there. He had a bewildered air about him. Duvel, like a little dog, trotted behind him, holding Barzini’s top hat close to his chest like a treasure.
“I have nothing to say!” the composer yelled from the hotel entrance.
But it was obvious that, on the contrary, he did want to say something, because then he announced, “If you must write something, write that Maestro Barzini lost someone yesterday who was as dear to him as a son . . . like a son!” Then he turned away, hiding his face in his hands, and disappeared into the building.
I found myself realizing, with some horror, that people seemed more interested in snatching a few words from the famous Barzini than finding out how things really happened in that cursed room at the Hotel Albion.
I was trying to make my way toward Sherlock, trapped in the crowd of reporters, when someone behind me called out my name.
“Irene!”
I turned. Lupin was running toward me. I met him partway and grabbed his hands, hopeful for news.
“So, how was the lawyer?” I asked.
Lupin was out of breath. He must have run half the length of town without stopping for a break.
“Let’s sit over there,” I suggested, pointing to a small café on the opposite side of the road.
“They set him up!” Lupin exclaimed after a long breath, his eyes fuming. “My father says he was framed!”
At that moment, Sherlock also joined us, and he immediately looked at his friend with concern.
“Get me something to drink,” Lupin said, panting. “And I will tell you everything!”