11. The Men from Poughkeepsie

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” roared the prize-fighter. “God’s truth! How could I have mistook you? If instead o’ standin’ there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I’d ha’ known you without a question.”

— Dr. John H. Watson. “The Sign of Four.”

On this cold March night, Main Street’s gaslights were as yet unlit and the river fog rising. Was it the plummeting temperature or an abrupt sense of danger that prickled my skin? I wound my scarf around another time and turned my back to Washington Street, intending to continue west to Meyer’s in time to meet Marcello. At Perry Street, I stopped and packed my pipe with the local tobacco and cupped my hand over the bowl to light it in the shelter of the Pottery and Drain Pipe Factory. A red-faced giant of a man grabbed me from behind and held fast. I struck him with my stick but the grip of his enormous hands was like iron. His vice-like arms smashed my pistol into my ribs. Out of the factory’s shadow Pinto strode and knocked my stick away. I struggled for a defensive position but it was impossible. There was only one way in or out, my kicks landed yet were met with indifference.

Not an assassin! I began to laugh, loud, hearty and uncontrollable, as I was dragged back into the gloom.

“Stop laughing, you clown! Think I’m dumb? Think I don’t have friends? What are you investing in now?” Pinto’s punches aimed at my chest and abdomen, above and below the behemoth’s iron bands. He peppered each one with a curse. “Damn! Devil! Bitch! Break into my house? This is how we treat thieves in this town!”

All I could do was proclaim my presence and hope someone heard me.

Pinto pulled out his long-handled knife and slashed through my shirt, not deep enough to hurt me, yet it was first blood.

I acted my part and bellowed!

With a degree of satisfaction in his voice, “You can’t trick me and get away with it! Watch his feet, Tito!”

I heard shouts and someone running toward us. I groaned loudly. I had sagged feigning hurt, and now was able to land a solid kick at Pinto’s knee as he came at me again. He yelled. “Bastardo! I was going to let you live, but now I’ll let you die.”

Racing from Perry Street Marcello crossed Main Street to the factory. He sounded like a hero from the pocket novels Watson enjoyed and pointed his gun at Pinto’s temple. “Let him go!” He demanded, and then laughed in a vile way in a tone I had never heard from him. “I have always wanted to meet you in a dark alley with a gun in my hand and here I am, living my dream. Let him go!” He laughed again harshly. “You’re going to jail for this. How drunk are you? Fool!”

Then from Main Street, whooping it up, shooting their guns in the air appeared the barbers, Harold and Jamison. Tito dropped me. They sat him down. I gained my feet, and nodded to my rescuers, pointed at Pinto to join his associate on the ground. Professionally searched my attackers, collected their knives and billy clubs, and gave them to Harold. I whispered to Marcello to hold them while I rushed the few blocks to the Grand Hotel and alerted the police. “I will not return, don’t give me away.”

Pinto attempted to persuade Marcello. “Oscar, this is nothing to you. You get involved and you’ll be next.”

Marcello cocked his gun. “Fool, this is a hair trigger. Save it for your confession!” On Market Street, I took a cab to Vassar.

Later, Marcello informed me that the police brought them to the station, Detective MacKinnon took their statements, and let him and the two barbers go. They congratulated themselves on the adventure and Marcello cabbed to Vassar.

He knocked on my door and dashed in, just as I was putting the needle away. I laughed. “Marcello, with that gun in your hand you sounded like someone out of a dime western. Save it for your confession?” We laughed.

“Please hang up your coat and take a seat. I require some doctoring after being so painfully threatened.”

I had dropped my coat and jacket, collar and tie on the floor, festooned the college statuary with my hat, and had already assessed there was no damage to my arm.

“Marcello how can I thank you? You may have saved my life.”

I peeled off my bloody shirt, washed up and applied an antiseptic. Secured both of us a brandy, but remained shirtless, for my ministrations to dry.

“The bleeding stopped. You’re right; he is good with a knife, a light touch to start the flow of blood, a scare tactic.” I laughed, sipping my drink.

“What happened to your arm? Are you okay? He was hitting you hard.”

“The gentleman who knifed me during my recent expedition is presently standing before his God, and the result of this scuffle is nothing rest will not cure, thanks to your most welcome involvement. The first rule in boxing is to learn to take punches, Marcello.”

“You killed him?”

“He attempted to kill me. During our skirmish, he fell on the combat knife he had used on my bow arm.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I ducked out of the limelight, Marcello. A run-in with the constabulary would spotlight my whereabouts.”

“Are you hiding from the law?”

“No! I am in concealment from lawbreakers.” I held up my arm. “And I am regenerating from my last encounter.”

“Sometimes I forget your life is not an ordinary one. What are those marks on your left arm?”

I laughed. “Marcello, you are not so innocent as that? I occasionally use a 7% solution of cocaine.”

“Why would you? Isn’t that ruinous to your health?”

I lit a cigarette, offered one to Marcello. “The solution I use is safer than most. But a gentleman’s single vice is unimportant.”

“I told the police you had run away and we never got a good look at you.”

“Quick thinking, thank you, your bluffs were superb.”

“They weren’t bluffs for Mario.”

I laughed unreservedly. “Harold and Jamison running and shooting their drawn pistols in the air like cowboys!” I shook my head and howled.

“How are you feeling? If you are up for it, Sigerson, would you play your violin, from one artist to another?”

I picked up the Blanchard. Gounod’s Faust naturally built from the early low notes. Each was given its due, and then took off as my high notes flew across the Hudson.

Marcello sat spellbound and took out his sketchbook.

Eyes closed, my new violin expressed all the voices of the opera. I performed the demon’s dance with ferocity: Faust’s yearning, Mephistopheles’ lies, and Margarete’s beauty were painted accurately. The martinet soldiers and an archangel’s intervention were all awakened through my bow. The music danced with the ancient spirit of the Hudson River. Acknowledging the river’s virtuosity, my strings sang with its strong, clear winds, splashed in its deep waters filled with life and the wild beauty that defined all who lived near her majestic shores.

I opened my eyes and Marcello handed me my glass. He toasted my performance: “Bravo, Sigerson, you moved me far beyond myself.”

“Thank you I am not favoured much with the company of artists. Yet, for me, music is the most sublime way to involve the mind.”

“I wish Rachel could find that.”

“Marcello, I understand your niece’s intelligence and its associated problems. It is lonely to be in a world where you are the only one who can think this way. As an artist you understand?”

“Yes I do.”

“I would like to recommend that she skip her twelfth year and start at Vassar in the fall. It is the singular institution for her. She will thrive there.”

“Vassar? How can we swing that?”

“I have started a scholarship for her. And I feel sure President Taylor will grant her another. He met her informally at tea. But please keep this to yourself. Since I am leaving in three weeks, I would rather she looked forward to her career at Vassar, than focusing on my part in it.”

“A wonderful gift, Sigerson, thank you. You’re sure she wants this?” I nodded. “Then I’ll see what I can do. If Rita were here she’d back you up one-hundred percent. But, please join me in Manhattan, Sigerson. We will pack our freight car for the Fair, and you can view some of it.”

“Thank you, I would enjoy that. In return, I invite you to consider a London trip. You will be most welcome and I would enjoy showing Miss Marietta the sights. Has she travelled?”

“Do you mean that? My sister is not a piece of wood, she has feelings, I’ve watched you flatter her when it fits your plans and just drop it.”

“And—? Marcello, it is imperative that I return to London. Do I act on tender feelings and then abandon her?”

“She could go with you.”

“Do you think she would? I don’t see it.”

“You could give her the chance to make her own decisions.”

“Hmm, good point, but, Marcello, freeing Miss Rita, is our focus and we barely have time for that.”

“Yes, you’re right.” He looked at his watch. “It’s late.” He threw down his drink. “Thank you for your top-notch Faust, goodnight and take care of yourself.”

We shook hands as he walked out the door. “I am lucky to call you friend.”

I then sent a telegram to Harold:

“BRING YOUR GROUP’S EVIDENCE TO DETECTIVE MACKINNON. AND THANK YOU BOTH FOR YOUR RIP-ROARING RESCUE. S.”

My dear Watson,

Oscar Marcello is a remarkable young man and a talented artist. I hope to introduce him to you. I have made two, possibly three good friends and one enemy here in New York.

Americans have such directness, such an ease of being with one another. What they lack in social graces is made up by their openness and freedom of speech.

Marcello saved my life tonight, as you have done on so many occasions, my dear fellow. When I was toiling in the wastelands, one thought warmed me, knowing that if you could, you would be by my side facing death along with me, my dear partner.

As you know me to be, old man,

Very sincerely yours,

S. H.