“Where do you recommend we put up?” Holmes asked. “Mind you, we’re easily pleased. Watson is an old campaigner, and I’ve spent as much as a month in places where the landlords thought clean linen was a myth spread by the bourgeoisie.”
“Then you’ll be pleased. Constance L’Azour operates a boarding house in Greenwich Village in which I would not hesitate to place my sainted mother. She will not thank you to address her as Madame. The house was a notorious brothel in its day, and she one of the most successful managers in the city. Since finding the Lord, she’s become quite respectable. It’s convenient to this precinct, and as the denizens of the neighbourhood are artists by and large, none will think it strange that a pair of visitors from London should reside there. I shall be glad to take you there when this meeting is finished.”
“That won’t be necessary. I spent part of our voyage studying recent maps of all the boroughs. I look forward to testing my education.”
Petrosino frowned.
“It is old New Amsterdam, and laid out at random, not like our orderly blocks to the north. I have informed you of the potential dangers. I should not enjoy investigating your murders should you wander down some blind alley with death at the end.”
“We’d be of scant use to you if we spent our stay avoiding phantom hazards. We cut our teeth, as you Americans say, on Whitechapel and Spitalfields, where I daresay some of your worst element would pause to navigate without a regiment of assassins in tow.”
“As you wish. You are armed?”
“We are.”
The lieutenant unshipped a pewter watch from inside his tunic and studied the face. “You will want to rest after your journey. I shall see personally that your bags are transferred from the Brevoort, taking all necessary precautions.”
He put away the timepiece and leaned forward, lacing his blunt fingers on the desk.
“Take care, I pray you. I have dedicated myself to erase this foul stain upon my heritage, but there are others who would act as vigorously to maintain it. Wop, dago, guinea, ginzo, spaghetti-bender, greaseball; you are aware of these filthy names?”
“Tragically, yes,” said Holmes. “The Irish are similarly wronged.”
“And yet the Irish are white, and only a prime ass would object to one’s existence in principle. You have heard, perhaps, that the Eskimos in Alaska have some fifty words for ‘snow’?”
“I’ve heard there are twenty.”
“A hundred, here,” I interjected.
“Less than all of those, I should wager. But whatever the true number, I would bet as much that they are not as many as there are intolerable names for my people. Every day this scum remains at large to prey upon the innocent ensures their proliferation. Our ancestors conquered the known world, invented running water, paved roads, and the democratic system that furnishes the spine of the American Experiment. A thousand years were spent in the effort. It has been the work of but ten on the part of these furfantes to brand us as villains: lazy, shiftless, utterly unworthy of trust. I would gladly surrender my life if it meant their destruction.
“It is five o’clock,” Petrosino said. “Shall we meet here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and plot our course?”
“We shall be here upon the stroke.” Holmes stood and thrust his hand across the desk.
The lieutenant, standing, accepted it. I could see by his reaction that the detective’s grip was the equal of his own. “Dottore?” said he, disengaging and pushing his hand my direction.
I accepted it with reluctance, pushing my fingers deep into his palm to avoid further injury. Coming away, I fervently hoped that Mrs. L’Azour’s establishment provided plenty of hot water to soak out the ache.
• • •
Greenwich Village was as complex an arrangement of streets and ancient buildings as advertised, with street artists hawking their daubs on every corner and an industrious Levantine creating a remarkably faithful rendition of The Last Supper on the pavement in coloured chalk. Gaggles of immodestly dressed young women passed us, chattering about theatrical engagements and appointments to model for what I assumed were tableaus even less acceptable to Victorian eyes. It was a dizzying quarter, worse than our own Soho, but Holmes led us deftly past bewildering street signs to our destination without so much as pausing to consult one of the maps I knew he carried upon his person.
I confess that I spent that excursion with one hand gripping my old service revolver in its pocket. Joe Petrosino had impressed me as a serious man, not given to melodrama. Every suspicious passerby—and there were many, some attired inconsistently in opera capes and ladies’ picture hats, others shuffling along with eyes on the ground and hands thrust deep in the pockets of overcoats in deplorable condition, muttering to themselves; still others dressed in striped suits like our billiards-loving friend in London, straw boaters tipped at arrogant angles and swinging bamboo canes that could double easily as singlesticks—set my fingers to cramping on my weapon of self-defence.
Holmes, needless to say, traversed the whole way with bright eyes taking in the scenery, whistling some public-house tune, seemingly unawares. I, who knew him as well as anyone could make that claim, suspected he was acting the part of the staked goat. I really think he was disappointed when we arrived at the aforementioned boarding house without event.
The landlady proved to be a wiry woman not a centimetre above five feet, with her hair in a bun, a simple frock that reached to her ankles, and a man’s stout leather slippers on her rather large feet. A ponderous brass crucifix hung upon her bosom from a chain round her neck. She’d been forewarned of our arrival, and showed us immediately to what she called a “second-floor” room (first, in the British tradition of medieval castles where the ground floor was given over to livestock).
It was pleasant in appearance, bearing out the spotlessness of the foyer and staircase, with twin beds on brass steads done up in cheery quilts and goosedown pillows, a writing desk, two upholstered chairs, pictures in gilt frames, and a bright window, which overlooked a neighbourhood of bookshops, bicycle-repair emporia, and a Queen Anne house advertising piano lessons in the ground-floor window.
“Two dollars the week,” said she, chin outthrust, as if we might argue the amount. “Over St. Patrick’s my rates go to six.”
“Ah, yes; the annual bacchanal.” Holmes pressed upon her a ten-pound note. “We may keep odd hours. I hope this will compensate for the inconvenience.”
She snapped the note between her hands, held it up to the light, grunted. “Seeing’s how you’re gentlemen—I’ve an eye, sirs, it’s served me in good stead these forty years—Agreed.” Her brow creased. “You’re not—?” She waggled a hand, a gesture that brought heat to my cheeks.
“Anarchists?” finished Holmes, with a playful expression. “Rest assured, I’m a bachelor in every meaning of the term, and my friend a widower, who wears the conquests of three continents upon his belt.”
She appeared unsatisfied; but shrugged her bony shoulders. “Petrosino says you’re all right, which is good enough for now. Will you be dining downstairs? Fifty cents’ extra, the week, if you take your meals in this room.”
“Neither, I fancy. We’re pilgrims to this country, eager to sample all its wares.”
She left us. When her tread retreated upon the stairs, Holmes and I looked at each other and laughed, with the abandon of schoolchildren left suddenly alone.
“Trust a reformed sinner to see to the niceties,” he said, when we’d exhausted ourselves. “Mark you that picture. I await your judgment.”
There were two: a steelpoint engraving of Washington crossing the Delaware and a portrait of Christ wearing His crown of thorns, which when one altered his angle of view appeared to be crying animated tears. I had no doubt that this was the picture Holmes had inquired about.
“I try not to judge the devout,” said I, “but I find it disconcerting.”
“Interesting, at the least. It’s a photograph, whose model closely resembles the images in Renaissance paintings. The crying effect is quite clever. I think of—”
“Writing a monograph,” I finished. “Your oeuvre threatens to rival Dickens’s.”
“Just so. But I was about to say, ‘building a dark room.’ Think of it, Watson! A library of photographic portraits of known felons in every police station. The late Allan Pinkerton—America again—initiated the concept, but it’s been slow to catch on. That the victim of a crime might identify his assailant from an album might just render my profession obsolete; however, it’s the aim of the true scientist to make himself redundant.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “I would know more about this hiking trip across Europe. It’s out of character for a man who scorns exercise for its own sake.”
“But it was not. I accumulated a vast variety of data on the apaches of Paris, the pirates of Barcelona, and the Turkish janissaries. No student ever took out a more educational year from the university.”
He paused then to draw in a lungful of air.
“Do you not smell it, Watson?”
“Cabbage. It seems to be the Yorkshire Pudding of America, if New York is any example.”
“Philistine! I refer to the clear clean air of intrigue. The nation veritably reeks of it.”
“It reeks, I’ll give you that.” Whereupon I strode to the window and wrenched it open. At that moment, a report sounded from outside. “It will take me some time to adjust to these devilish backfires.”
“More than you may think, Watson. Step clear of the window!”
The admonition was twice effective for the pain in Holmes’s voice. I whirled from the pane, and in so doing saw him leaning against the wall opposite, gripping his left upper arm. Blood seeped between his fingers.