“The press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only know how to use it.” Rathbone recited his quote from Sherlock Holmes—from The Adventure of the Six Napoleons, to be exact, and glanced at his pocket watch.
“Does that antique still keep accurate time?” Nigel Bruce asked.
“I can’t wear a modern wristwatch and break my character, now can I?” Basil replied.
“Up for more merry-making?” Nigel asked. “Press conference parties can be so boring. We already gave everyone more than enough interviews.”
Basil sighed. “Can’t quite face the brat and the wife, but another beer or two might not be such a bad idea.”
Noises from Nigel’s stomach dictated their next course of action. “Speaking of another kind of brat, I seem to crave a hearty plate of bratwurst, and that would go well with beer.”
“No bangers and mash?” Basil asked. “Where’s your loyalty to the Union Jack?”
“Right now, this Tommy Atkins, or former British soldier,” Nigel said, sotto voce, “is pledging his allegiance to his tummy.”
“I caught the patriotic reference. What about our costumes?” asked Basil. “The publicists insist we wear them to all press junkets to promote Holmes and Watson. Got to keep the photographers happy, I guess. Shouldn’t we change back into our civilian attire?”
“That’ll take too long. Besides, could you imagine if showing up in character would give us the red carpet treatment?”
“Very well,” Basil replied. “I’ll hail a cab, and I’ll answer to the scolding from our wardrobe department later.”
Nigel gave unusual instructions to their driver.
“Downtown? Are you sure?” Basil asked.
“Heard it’s a private social club. Anyone willing to spend money can get in. Recommended by some stagehands. Once in a while, Watson can make a few smart suggestions.”
By comparing the obscure address Nigel provided with others across the street, the cabbie deciphered where to drop them off. Basil inspected its nondescript exterior, marked by a single black-on-black placard. One which someone could remove at will and hard to distinguish in the dark.
“Wurst Haus?” Basil asked. “This reminds me more of a hush-house, although Prohibition is over. Let’s hope it’s not the worst restaurant you ever suggested.”
“Appears like there used to be multiple entrances,” Nigel said, “Like one of those grand movie palaces, but all of them seem to be blacked out and shuttered.”
“Except one.” Basil pointed to the only open entrance, blocked by a motley crew of rabble-rousers. “A bit of action happening tonight. Is this what you were expecting?”
Despite straying from the norm by wearing their costumes, the supper club’s goon squad paid no attention to the two actors. Basil noticed a newshound down for the count, bloodied forehead, crushed hat by the curb, and his press camera shattered. “Must be commonplace if no one gave us a second look.”
Nigel peeped over his shoulder. After the crowd shifted, he spotted a low-key, almost imperceptible, public notice: No Kikes or Coloreds Allowed. “Rather disturbing, don’t you think?”
Without further ado, Basil concealed his deerstalker inside his jacket pocket. “Promise me one thing. Don’t make waves. If you weren’t so dog hungry, I’d suggest we turn around and go elsewhere.”
The club’s high-ceilinged, combined auditorium-dining room reminded Basil of a converted dance hall—one where pathetic old men and randy sailors paid opportunistic women a dime a dance, if that much. Murals depicting quaint but kitsch German villages adorned the walls, giving a year-round Christmassy feeling. Several long tables lined up in rows at the far end, facing the stage. Smaller round tables dotted the perimeter, which left room for couples to dance in the center.
On stage, an oompah band—full blast with heavy brass. The males wore Tyrolean hats and lederhosen. Women braided their hair and dressed like typical “beer wenches” with peasant blouses and dirndl skirts with aprons.
Once seated at a vacant table, Basil pulled his signature curved pipe out of his pocket and packed it with fresh black shag tobacco.
“You came prepared,” said Nigel.
The pungent odors of cigars and sausages, lager, and sauerkraut soon overpowered his smoking pleasure. Basil didn’t see any menus. “Maybe we need to go to the bar and place our orders.”
Nigel gave the crowd a once-over. A tall, solid-built man with a butcher’s apron picked up his cue and plunked down enormous platters of food. Another server wearing a chemist’s smock slid large mugs of beer toward them. Basil smacked his lips after he sampled his lager.
Nigel gulped his too fast. “Not bad for what’s on tap. Looks like everyone’s getting bratwurst whether they like it.”
The two men did their best to tune out the band.
“Have you had time to read your script for our radio show?” Nigel asked.
“Not too worried about being unprepared. Has anyone informed you about the rest of the evening’s agenda?”
“Supposed to be a fundraiser. The proceeds will finance the Allies.” Nigel became tense. “All the same, we shouldn’t jabber about that in here.”
Basil lowered his voice. “Good point. These folks look like benefactors of the opposition party. Are you aware last April, the Warner Brothers declared their own war with Germany? Released Confessions of a Nazi Spy, starring Edward G. Robinson.”
“Created quite a furor, especially with the Führer.” Nigel chuckled, amused by his quip. “I remember the advertisement: They don’t want you to see this picture!”
“In the film, an FBI agent exposed espionage activities by the German-American Bund against U.S. military operations,” said Basil. “The studio and many actors received death threats afterward.”
Nigel looked up and off toward the stage. “The band seems to have taken a break.”
Basil picked at his plate like a finicky child. “Now, we can dine in peace, despite the crowd and company.”
His attention shifted to a group of workers, who began stacking tables and clearing the middle of the dance floor. Afterward, they erected a sturdy, fence-like barrier.
“Maybe they’re going to have a boxing match,” Nigel said.
“From my recollections, flexible ropes surround boxing rings.” Basil pointed out several musclemen who brought out weighty iron kettlebells and clamped chains onto them.
Every time the oompah band resumed playing, Basil cringed, but Nigel seemed to enjoy the voluptuous female performers, bouncing around with their accordions and flugelhorns. Between songs, officials made announcements in German mixed with broken English. Servers made their rounds with beer and pretzels.
Club members in groups of three, each holding a different colored basket, approached each table. The actors looked at each other, unsure of what was happening, except people started tossing money into them.
When the basket bearers approached Basil and Nigel, Basil shook his head and said, “Nein.”
The disappointed volunteers murmured among themselves but moved on.
“Not sure if that was the right response,” Basil said. “Guess we’ll find out if it wasn’t.”
“It would help if we understood more German,” Nigel said. “What do you think they wanted?”
“Those looked like tithe baskets used for church donations,” Basil replied. “To be honest, I suspect they are for placing bets.”
“With three contestants?” Nigel asked.
“Not sure. My deduction: maybe two for the contestants and the third for those who don’t want to gamble but want to contribute to whatever cause they’re supporting. Someone’s got to pay the rent in this place, and I’m sure the food isn’t free.”
Two human gorillas each dragged dogs on chains into the arena. Each of those chains clamped onto the restraints attached to the kettlebells. Their extended length was long enough so each dog was within reach of the other, but too short to leap the protective fence. The wretched animals looked half-starved and willing to kill—dog or man.
“I’ve heard of cockfights, but canine combat?” Nigel asked. “Those pathetic things will skin each other alive.”
Cruel reality hit them like a sucker punch. Basil’s stomach wrenched. The basket-bearers made another pass. The heathens tossed their life savings away—money for blood.
Basil sneered. Basket-bearers… More like pallbearers.
“Isn’t this illegal?” Nigel posed his question to the air.
Basil’s attention went elsewhere. He wanted to shout, to scream, to fire a pistol, even though he didn’t have one. Anything to halt this atrocity. Yet it looked like his wish would come to pass. Close to fifty demonstrators stormed the auditorium. Many carried protest signs. The unyielding beasts thrashed at their handlers as they rushed into the ring, unhooked their tethers, and ran them into an adjoining room for safety. An outspoken dissident took center stage and stole the microphone away from the referee. Das Deutscher volk fought back, shouting anti-communist and racial slurs. The rebels countered with their own version of inflammatory rhetoric. Each swore they were the ideal Americans and patriots.
Club patrons reached inside their pockets for knives, guns, and other hidden weapons, as if choreographed. Uniformed police insiders bullied the agitators. The blood-thirsty minions cheered while they made arrests.
Bile rose in Basil’s throat. He darted for the restroom, vomited in a sink, and splashed water on his face. Upon return, he passed a table he hadn’t noticed earlier covered with circulars, in German, with evocative visual clues—images of Hitler and swastikas.
He reunited with his friend and pushed his unfinished meal over to the next place setting. “Next time, remind me never to take any of your nightspot recommendations.”
“Was your food that awful?” Nigel asked. “You look green about the gills.”
Basil grimaced. “I feel gutted. Their appalling behavior made me sick to my stomach.”
Nigel looked concerned. “From the dog fighting?”
“Never theorize before you have data,” Basil recited memorized dialogue. “Invariably, you end up twisting facts to suit your theories instead of theories to suit facts.”
“Please… A Scandal in Bohemia?” Nigel faked a yawn. “You know, it makes me weary to hear you forever quoting Sherlock Holmes.”
One server removed their empty glasses and replaced them with handouts.
“You jumped to conclusions way too soon,” said Basil. “The dog fighting—revolting, to say the least. But you didn’t let me explain. I discovered deplorable fascist literature while coming back from the men’s room. Here’s another. Look at this crowd. You spotted the handwritten abomination posted out front. We’re both at fault for being so ignorant.”
“I assumed people and threats like this were just a bunch of hooey,” said Nigel.
Basil crumpled up the hateful propaganda and tossed it under their table. “I felt the same way when the First World War broke out.”
Nigel moved his dinner out of the way and confessed he also lost his appetite. “We should report this. Not sure how, since the local police are in on it.”
“We should leave, but we must be discreet,” said Basil, “So not to get caught up in a riot.”
“If I pull my cap low enough, none will be the wiser, but you? Security will be more vigilant now,” said Nigel. “You’re taller than most and too recognizable if someone spots us together.”
Basil examined the crowd with caution. “I guess your hope for celebrity privileges backfired.”
“I can’t believe I was so foolish to suggest going here, but how was I to know? My world doesn’t extend much further than the screen or the stage. I prefer it that way.”
Nigel wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin, then raised a finger. “Basil, I want your cooperation. I have an idea, and it just might work.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?” Nigel asked.
Aware of his partner’s Conan Doylean references, Basil played along. “Not in the least… These Germanic fanatics must be breaking all sorts of laws.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause,” Basil replied.
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man,” said Basil.
Nigel concluded their playacting. “I was sure that I might rely on you.”
He was also grateful Americans defied the rules of classic German cuisine and served ketchup with their bratwurst. He smeared some, along with traditional dark brown mustard, on Basil’s napkin. “Let’s hope this looks like dried blood.” With another napkin from the empty adjacent seat, he took the soiled ones, tied them together, and wrapped them around his friend’s head like a turban.
“Am I supposed to resemble a wounded soldier?” Basil asked.
“A victim from the street fight. I suppose you’ll pass.”
Unsure of their meal’s cost or if it was on the house, Basil left a gratuity on the table.
Nigel grunted and pocketed the cash. “They don’t deserve a penny, and we’ll wind up as dog meat if we’re not careful. Holmes, shall we depart?”
“Before we start a Scandal in Bavaria?” Basil said, pulling his leg.
‘Move along.” Nigel poked him from behind and prodded him toward the door. “No place for shenanigans, now. Hurry, hurry.”