The Opera Thief

by Larry Millett

Now that Sherlock Holmes has made known his retirement from the active pursuit of criminal affairs, I feel free to present a case which may shed some measure of light on his fateful decision. Holmes himself has offered no public explanation as to why he retired, at so young an age, from his work as the world’s foremost consulting detective. Yet I am inclined to believe that in the end it was a deep weariness of spirit, above all else, which caused him to seek the solitude of Sussex.

Holmes, of course, has never been a stranger to the bleaker strains of existence, and over the years he occasionally succumbed to bouts of despondency. Fortunately, these episodes were always short-lived, for once he found an interesting case to chew upon, he instantly recovered his appetite for life. I cannot say exactly when Holmes began to display signs of a more pervasive melancholia, but the darkening of his mood became especially evident in the months before his sudden retirement. I remember in particular a remark he made one morning as we prepared to investigate the case (about which I have yet to write) of a missing wife and her lover in Lewisham. “But is not all life pathetic and futile?” Holmes asked me that day. “We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow - misery.”

But it was another case - in faraway Minnesota - which seemed to affect him even more deeply. Curiously, it was case which, at first glance, appeared to involve a mere trifle. Its conclusion, however, was most remarkable, and it was not long thereafter, upon our return to London, that Holmes startled the world by announcing his retirement.

The case of the opera thief, as I have chosen to call it, may fairly be said to have begun with my gallbladder. Throughout much of 1903, I had been suffering from a series of painful episodes related to a buildup of gallstones. After one particularly agonizing attack in late November, I was persuaded by my physician that only surgery could afford the possibility of lasting relief. As it so happened, I had only recently read of new techniques pioneered by two surgeons in Minnesota, Charles and William Mayo. I believed - and Holmes agreed - that my best hope for a cure would be to put myself in the capable hands of the Mayo brothers.

Of course, Holmes and I were quite familiar with Minnesota, having visited the state on several occasions in connection with investigations, beginning in 1894 with the singular case of the Red Demon. Naturally, I told Holmes that he had no need to accompany me on such a long journey, but he would not hear of my going alone. “Doctors,” he reminded me, “are well known to be the worst of all patients, and I fear you will be quite impossible unless I am at your side.” Holmes also pointed out that a trip to Minnesota would provide a welcome opportunity to see our old friend Shadwell Rafferty, a detective and saloonkeeper possessed of extraordinary skills in both lines of work.

Rafferty was in fact on hand to greet us at the Union Depot in St. Paul when we reached that city in early January of 1904. By then, my condition was growing acute, and so we had time for only a brief conversation before Holmes and I continued on to Rochester, the small town in the southern Minnesota that is home to the Mayo brothers. I will not burden readers with an account of my surgery, other than to say that it was a resounding success and that by the end of January I was all but fully recovered.

By then, Holmes had already discovered a matter to occupy his attention. It concerned Adelaide Strongwood, an extraordinary young woman whose murder trial in Minneapolis was much trumpeted in the American press. Working with Rafferty, Holmes played a decisive role in Miss Strongwood’s case, but as it does not bear upon the story of the opera thief, I will say no more about it.

Upon the conclusion of Miss Strongwood’s trial in early February, I was well enough at last to travel, and so Holmes and I made plans to return to London. The morning of Saturday, February 6, found us in a comfortable suite at the Ryan Hotel in St. Paul. The night before, we had bid farewell to Rafferty at his saloon, which is part of the hotel. He was preparing to embark on a trip to visit friends in Canada, and we had sent him off with perhaps a few too many rounds of his favorite Irish whiskey. We were about to leave St. Paul as well, as I had already secured two tickets for the Burlington Railroad’s afternoon express train to Chicago. From there, we would go New York, and then by steamer back to England.

The day was bitterly cold, as most winter days in Minnesota are, and I was content to sit before a fire that blazed in our hearth, reading the St. Paul newspapers. Holmes had already gone through all three of the city’s dailies with his usual thoroughness. Now, he stood by the tall window in our room, staring outside with the glum, anxious countenance of a lost child.

“Did you find anything of interest in the newspapers?” I inquired, hoping that some conversation might help lift Holmes from his doldrums.

“There was one small matter of not inconsiderable interest,” Holmes said, walking over and picking up the copy of the St. Paul Pioneer Press I had been reading. “Here it is, on page two.”

The story, which I had hardly looked at before, read as follows: “A curious incident has occurred at the Metropolitan Opera House, where a flute used as a prop in the Mozart opera now in performance there disappeared Thursday night. Mrs. Electa Snyder, the impresario who brought the Chicago Opera Company’s touring production of The Magic Flute to St. Paul, said the prop was stolen from a locked storage room. The thief, however, left numerous other items of greater worth undisturbed. Mrs. Snyder called the theft ‘an outrage,’ although she acknowledged that the missing object has ‘very little’ monetary value. Chief of Detectives O’Connor, not known to be an avid opera-goer, is said to be on the case.”

“My God,” I said, recalling our encounters with O’Connor during the infamous ice palace murders of 1896, “I am astonished that so corrupt and vicious a man has been allowed to remain on the police force.”

“I care not one whit about O’Connor,” Holmes replied tartly. “It is the theft itself which intrigues me. Why would someone break into an apparently well secured storeroom to steal something of such little value?”

“Well, perhaps it has some value to the thief which we do not understand.”

“Precisely,” Holmes said, “and yet-”

He was interrupted by a firm series of knocks at the door to our suite.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

“No, but our visitor is a woman and she is obviously in a hurry.”

“And just how to you know it is a woman?”

“Because I listen, Watson. You, on the other hand, are content merely to hear.”

Before I could respond to this provocation, Holmes had opened the door. A woman swept in past him with the force of a tidal surge. She was full-figured, about forty years of age, and she wore a flowing sea-green dress that all but enveloped her in an oceanic swirl of fabric. Her eyes were also sea green, and as I was soon to discover, unrelenting in their gaze.

I began to rise from my chair, but she said, in a commanding voice, “Don’t bother with silly formalities, Dr. Watson. Stay right where you are and I’ll have a seat by the fire so that we can talk. Please join us, Mr. Holmes.”

Appearing quite bemused, Holmes pulled up a chair beside our visitor. He said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Snyder.”

“Ah, so I am already the beneficiary of one of your famous deductions. I would ask you how you accomplished this feat, but-”

“I believe Mr. Holmes read the name tag pinned to your dress,” I said. “As you know, he is renowned for his powers of observation.”

Holmes gave me a withering look as Mrs. Snyder glanced down at the name tag on her bosom. She gave no evidence, however, that she found any humor in my remark. Instead, she began excavating a hole in my forehead with her piercing eyes. “Yes, I was just at a breakfast here at the hotel with the society women who support the opera. But that is of no consequence, is it?” Then she turned to Holmes and said, “I suppose you know why I have come.”

Holmes nodded. “You would like me to find your missing flute.”

“Exactly! I must say I could not believe my good fortune when I learned that you were here in St. Paul. Mr. Rafferty told me you are just the man I need.”

“How kind of him,” Holmes murmured.

“Yes, Shadwell is a dear friend. Now then, when can you start?”

I must confess that I was rather put off by the woman’s presumptuous manner, as she seemed to believe that Holmes could not help but leap at the opportunity to investigate the disappearance of an inconsequential stage prop.

“Mr. Holmes and I will be departing later today for London,” I noted, “so I do not think-”

Holmes broke in. “Dr. Watson, as you can tell, is most eager to leave St. Paul, and I doubt he gives much weight to the matter you have brought before us. I am not necessarily of the same mind. Indeed, I have always found that small crimes in their own way can be as interesting as affairs of state. However, if today’s newspapers are to be believed, the police are already investigating the theft. I am sure they are very able.”

“Ha!” said Mrs. Snyder. “Ha and ha and ha, ha, ha! The police have had a full day to investigate this brazen crime and they are already at wits’ end, which in their case could not have been a very long journey. No, Mr. Holmes, you are the man I desperately need. I don’t read detective stories myself - who has the time? - but I have heard all about you and your grand adventures. And, of course, Shadwell has often sung your praises. Naturally, I will pay you for your time. What is your fee, if I may ask?”

Holmes smiled. “There is no need to talk of money at the moment. But I am intrigued by the matter of your purloined flute. Pray tell us more about the circumstances of the theft.”

Mrs. Snyder paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on Holmes, and said, “Unfortunately, there is not a great deal I can tell you, other than that it must have been what the police call an ‘inside job.’”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“The Metropolitan Opera House is a very secure venue, Mr. Holmes, and there is a watchman on duty every night, so it is unlikely anyone could have broken in after hours. The flute and other props are kept in a locked storeroom in the basement. Only the stage manager has the key, but I have been told that he sometimes leaves it in his office during performances. I am entirely convinced, therefore, that someone from the opera company or one of the stagehands did the deed.”

“Your suspicions may be well founded, Mrs. Snyder. However, I must ask why the theft of a mere stage prop is of such great consequence to you. I take it from the newspapers that the flute has little monetary value.”

“You are correct. It’s just an ordinary flute that some prop man years ago painted gold. I doubt it would fetch fifty cents at a pawnshop. But money is not the measure of all things, Mr. Holmes. This particular flute has been used in performances of The Magic Flute around the world. It stands for the opera. It is Mozart in your hand, and it summons forth all the majesty of his music. To possess it to have a thing beyond the tawdry reach of the dollar.”

Holmes seemed curiously moved by Mrs. Snyder’s brief speech. He said, “I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Snyder. You wish me to retrieve a magic wand.”

“Yes,” she said, almost ecstatically, “that is what I wish.”

“Very well. Dr. Watson and I will investigate.”

“Surely you cannot be serious, Holmes,” I said with some asperity. “We have train tickets for today and we must be in New York by Tuesday afternoon, when the Lucania sails for Southampton. I do not see-”

“We will take the train tomorrow,” Holmes said. “One extra night in St. Paul will do us no harm. Besides, I believe there is a performance of The Magic Flute this evening. I assume you can secure tickets and backstage passes for us, Mrs. Snyder?”

“Certainly. I will also instruct all of the performers and stagehands to cooperate fully with your investigation.”

“Good. Now, I must ask if you know of any member of the cast or stage crew who might have particularly coveted the flute?”

“The tenor, Mr. Schiele, is in my opinion a most a suspicious character.”

“Most tenors are,” Holmes said. “But do you have any evidence to suggest he is indeed the thief?”

“No. Finding evidence will be your job, Mr. Holmes. By the way, have you ever seen The Magic Flute? Some consider it to be Mozart’s greatest opera.”

“Yes, I have seen it, and I agree it is quite magnificent.”

Mrs. Snyder stood up to leave. “Well, there is no more to be said then. I wish you good luck this evening, Mr. Holmes. I will await your report in the morning.”

Once she was gone, I could only sigh. Holmes had disrupted our travel plans for what I considered to be an utterly trivial matter. Even worse, I would now be forced to spend a night at the opera.

We arrived at the Metropolitan Opera House, located less than a block from our hotel, well before the scheduled performance of The Magic Flute. The opera house was a tall building of rather grim appearance, its lower walls composed of massive blocks of gray granite. Once inside, however, we found a handsome auditorium displaying all the wonders of the plasterer’s art in rich tones of ivory and gold. We immediately went backstage. There, amid a forest of sets and rigging inhabited by a busy crew of workers, we looked for the stage manager, who possessed the key to the storeroom from which the flute had been stolen.

A stagehand soon pointed us in the direction of the manager’s office, located in the basement. After negotiating a tangle of steep stairs and narrow corridors, we found ourselves in a large subterranean room outfitted with traps, lifts, counterweights, and all the other devices required to sustain the artifice of the stage. As we approached the manager’s office, a tall woman in a long black gown decorated with glittering stars intercepted us.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, I presume?” said the woman, whose large gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “I understand Mrs. Snyder has hired you to find her lost flute. How quaint! You know, of course, that it is just an old thing all painted up in gold. But how it has traveled! New York, Chicago, San Francisco, even Vienna, or so I’ve been told. I suppose it’s a lucky charm of sorts. Oh dear, I haven’t properly introduced myself. Very rude of me. I am Barbara Majors.”

“Miss Majors, it is a pleasure,” Holmes said with a slight bow. “You must be the Queen of Night this evening.”

“Ah, so you know the opera,” she said. “Yes, I am the Queen, or, more precisely, Astrofiammante. A peculiar name, really. But then what isn’t peculiar about Die Zauberflote? In fact, the whole thing is perfectly ridiculous, not to mention terribly hard on my voice. Oh, those dreadful high C’s! Mozart was the very devil as far as I’m concerned. Of course, there are people who consider it the most beautiful opera there ever was or ever will be. I have seen grown men in the audience weep over it.”

I could not imagine that her last statement was true, but Holmes, to my surprise, confirmed that he, too, had witnessed manly tears during performances of the opera. “It does indeed seem to have a strange effect,” he said, “even on the most hardened of souls. Now, Miss Majors, I wonder if you have any theories as to who might have absconded with the flute?”

Her response took me by surprise. “I think it would a sad person,” she said.

Before Holmes could react to this unexpected observation, a stagehand rushed up. “You are needed at once in your dressing room, Miss Majors. It can’t wait.”

The singer nodded. “Well, good luck to you, gentlemen,” she said. “I hope you will find the flute. I really do miss it.”

We watched her vanish around a corner just as a little popinjay of a man in a brown suit came down the hallway. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Visitors are not allowed here. You must leave at once!”

“I think not,” Holmes replied coolly. “We have business here. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson.”

The man’s manner instantly changed from threatening to obsequious. “Oh yes, yes. My humblest apologies. I forgot for a moment that Mrs. Snyder said you would be coming tonight. It is an honor, sir, a genuine honor, to meet the great Sherlock Holmes. And of course, Dr. Watson as well. I am Peter Moore, the stage manager. I would be most pleased to assist you in any way I can.”

“Yes, I imagine you would,” Holmes said. “You may begin by showing us to your office.”

Moore’s office turned out to be not much bigger than a closet. It held a cluttered rolltop desk, a chair, and a few shelves. There was hardly room for three people inside, so we stood outside the door while Holmes questioned Moore about the missing flute.

“Tell us, if you would, Mr. Moore, when you first discovered that the flute had been taken.”

“It was before last night’s performance. I sent one of the stagehands down to fetch it from the storeroom, and he came back to tell me it was gone. Stagehands can hardly be relied upon, as I’m sure you know. I thought the fool simply hadn’t bothered to look for it in the right place, so I went down myself. But the flute was gone all right. Well, we were in a bit of a panic then. Had to borrow a flute from one of the musicians to use for the performance.”

“I see. And I take it you are certain the flute was in fact placed in the storeroom after Thursday night’s performance?”

The little stage manager looked nervously at Holmes. “Well, I didn’t put it there myself, if that’s what you mean. Not my job. But I assume it was put there. That’s the usual procedure.”

“Ah, Mr. Moore, I have found during my long tenure as a detective that assumptions are, as often as not, merely a form of hope. But let me, for the moment, endorse your assumption that the flute was indeed returned to its proper place on Thursday night, and that the storeroom was locked thereafter. I am then led to consider the matter of the key to the storeroom. Do you carry it on your person at all times, or is it kept in some other place?”

A brief flash of alarm appeared in Moore’s unpleasant, bulging eyes. “Well now, Mr. Holmes, in a theater as large as this one is, a great many keys are needed, and it would be very difficult for any man to keep them all on his person. I’m sure you can understand-”

“I understand only that you have not answered my question, Mr. Moore,” Holmes said. Without another word, he stepped into the stage manager’s office and gave it a quick but thorough inspection. Then he stepped back outside and said, “I imagine, Mr. Moore, that you keep the key in your office, on one of the small wall hooks above your desk. Which means, I take it, that anyone who works backstage would have access to it. Is that correct?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Moore replied. “Everyone here knows that they are not to enter my office unless I am present.”

A slight smile creased Holmes’s lips. “My dear Mr. Moore, if people always did as they were told, I should have no work.”

It required but a few more questions for Holmes to establish several other essential facts. Moore’s office was not locked during performances. On the night of the theft, fifteen stagehands were in the theater, as were a like number of the opera’s cast. Virtually all of the stagehands routinely used the key to retrieve or return props. Moore himself had never noticed that the key was missing. Nor could he identify any suspects among the stage crew or cast.

“I will tell you that it is a complete mystery to me, Mr. Holmes. I am at a loss to explain-”

Holmes put one finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. “I have heard quite enough, Mr. Moore. Kindly give me the key, and Dr. Watson and I shall examine the storeroom.”

Located in the subbasement, the storeroom was, as expected, an unkempt gathering of theatrical paraphernalia, arranged on shelves, atop tables, and in miscellaneous piles rising from the floor. This clutter yielded no obvious clues. Before we left, Holmes bent down to examine the lock on the room’s only door. He was soon shaking his head. “Well, Watson, this room is hardly well secured, as Mrs. Snyder suggested to us. The lock is of the flimsiest sort. I should think a reasonably dexterous child with a hairpin could open it with little effort.”

“So I take it you are saying the thief may not even have needed to steal the key.”

“Precisely. And I fear, Watson, that we are now in what the Americans like to call a ‘pickle.’ We have a theft that no one witnessed, a theft which could easily have been accomplished by any of thirty or more people, a theft which occurred at an unknown time, and a theft for which there is no obvious motive. Bah, I have been a fool, Watson, a fool to become involved in this matter!”

“Then perhaps we should simply tell Mrs. Snyder that the case is beyond any immediate hope of a solution,” I suggested. “I am sure she would understand.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Holmes said in a quiet voice. I noticed now that same look of melancholy I had seen on his face earlier in the day.

“Then let us return to our hotel,” I said. “You could use some rest, Holmes. We will have a long journey tomorrow.”

Holmes consulted his pocket watch. “No, Watson, since we are here we might as well enjoy the consolations of Mozart. The performance will begin shortly.”

We climbed out of the subbasement and reached the back of the stage, where there was a welter of last-minute activity. Someone shouted “five minutes,” and we stepped off to the side, waiting for the curtain to rise.

To my utter surprise, I found the opera quite delightful. Although it was sung in German, a language with which I have little acquaintance, I was able follow the plot as Pamina pined and Tamino acted heroically, Papageno searched for true love with Papagena, and the Queen of Night sent her voice into the realm of the angels. Holmes, meanwhile, stood silently beside me, completely absorbed in the spectacle, and his melancholy gave way to a look of profound pleasure.

As the opera neared its end, however, there was a peculiar incident. The mighty chorus sang its last notes, the orchestra raced to its conclusion, and then - nothing! The curtain inexplicably failed to drop. After a period of awkward silence, the heavyset basso playing the role of Sarastro looked backstage and began bobbing his head in dramatic fashion to indicate that the curtain should come down.

Moore, who was standing near us, raced over and grabbed the curtain ropes from a stagehand who seemed unable to move.

“For God’s sake, Harold, what’s the matter with you?” Moore hissed. “Pull man, pull.”

The stagehand came out of his trance and helped bring down the curtain at last.

Moore was furious. “Harold, that’s the second time this week you’ve turned into a damn statue. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry,” the stagehand said, still appearing quite distracted. “I just get caught up listening, that’s all. I can’t help myself, I guess. It won’t let it happen again.”

“No, it won’t,” Moore said. “You’re done here, you idiot. Go on, get out.”

“Mr. Moore, I-”

“Out,” Moore repeated. “I don’t want to ever see you again.”

The stagehand slunk away, tears welling in his eyes. Holmes, I noticed, watched the scene with great interest. He went over to Moore, who seemed proud of himself for banishing the stagehand.

“Who is that man you just dismissed?” Holmes asked.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s just an idiot who doesn’t know how to do his job.”

Holmes repeated his question, only this time with such force in his voice that Moore looked as though he had just been struck by a powerful gust of wind.

“Skimpton,” he blurted out. “Harold Skimpton.”

“I should like to talk with him immediately. Where can I find him?”

A small circle of stagehands began to gather around us, presumably awaiting orders from Moore, who was becoming exasperated by Holmes’s ceaseless inquisition. “Now, how in blazes would I know where to find him?” Moore asked irritably. “He’s gone, and good riddance to him. I have work to do, if you don’t mind. Besides, you’re the great Sherlock Holmes. Go find him yourself.”

For a moment, I thought Holmes might thrash the petulant little man, but instead he turned away and said to me, “We are wasting precious moments. Let us see if we can get our hands on Mr. Skimpton before he leaves the theater.”

It was not to be. Skimpton, we learned from a guard stationed at the stage door, had left immediately after his painful public dismissal.

The guard, a lanky man with a pronounced Nordic accent, (“Swedish,” Holmes later informed me, “and undoubtedly from the Småland region of that nation.”) proved to be in possession of one other valuable piece of information: he knew where Skimpton lived.

“Oh, ja, he told me once he was in that old rooming house on Eleventh, right next to the church there on Robert Street. You can’t miss it.”

“How far away is this rooming house?” Holmes asked.

“Not far. You could walk there in fifteen minutes, I’d say.”

Holmes thanked the guard and gave him a silver dollar for his trouble.

“I suppose you intend to talk with this Skimpton fellow,” I said as we stepped out into the frigid night. “Do you believe he is the man who stole the flute?”

“I have no doubt of that,” Holmes said. “What I wish to know is why he did it.”

It was quarter to eleven by the time we reached Skimpton’s rooming house, which stood in a decrepit part of the city as far removed from the wondrous world of The Magic Flute as any place could be. The house, an irregular pile of dark bricks crowned by a pair of steep gables, was from the previous century, when it had doubtlessly been built by one of St. Paul’s many merchant princes. Its grandeur, however, had long since faded, and it looked gloomy and forlorn in the wintry darkness. I had begun to shiver, for the wind was an icy dagger against which even our heavy fur coats offered no sure protection.

We went up to the front porch, where rows of wooden balusters had rotted away like bad teeth, and knocked on the door. A plump middle-aged woman dressed in a ragged housecoat eventually came to the door. She looked at us warily, as though we might be robbers, or worse.

“Visiting hours are over,” she said.

“We are indeed sorry, madam, to disturb you at such a late hour,” Holmes said. “However, it is imperative that we see one of your residents, Mr. Skimpton.”

“And what would you be wanting of him at almost eleven o’clock at night? He never has visitors anyway.”

Holmes responded by fishing two silver dollars out of his coat pocket and pressing them into the woman’s hand. “I am sure he will want to talk with us. As I said, it is a most urgent matter. Now, please show us to his room.”

“Come in then,” the woman said, quickly slipping the coins into her coat pocket. “Just don’t disturb the other residents. I run a respectable house, you know.”

We followed her up a broad staircase to the second floor, and then up a much narrower set of steps to the attic, where a single gas jet struggled to illuminate a long hallway. “He’s in number ten,” she said, “way in the back.”

Skimpton was still wearing his work clothes from the theater when he responded to our knock. “My God,” he said, clearly stunned. “What are you doing here?”

He was, I guessed, in his early forties, tall and bony, with patches of thin hair gone largely to silver clinging to his head. His sad brown eyes were set in a face so narrow that it looked to have been shaped by a vise.

“I see there is no need for introductions,” Holmes replied as he stepped uninvited into the apartment. I followed. “You know why we are here, Mr. Skimpton. It is about the missing flute.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Skimpton said, a slight quaver in his voice. “You had better leave.”

“No, I think we will shall stay for a while,” Holmes replied, his voracious eyes taking in every detail of Skimpton’s quarters.

The stagehand’s room was dim, threadbare, and cold. A paint-flaked radiator in one corner hissed at the chill. Above it hideous patterned wallpaper had started to peel away from patches of bare, water-stained plaster. The furnishings - a table, a few chairs, a sagging bed, a battered steamer trunk - were meager. There could be no doubt Skimpton was a poor man, alone and without prospects.

Holmes and I took seats at the table and persuaded Skimpton to join us. Propped up on the table was a large photograph showing Skimpton with a woman in a gingham dress. The woman’s face was gaunt, yet she managed a broad smile. Skimpton looked equally happy.

“This photograph must be of great importance to you,” Holmes said. “Your wife perhaps?”

Skimpton nodded. “Dead,” he said in a monotone. “Last September. Consumption. She was my life. But what do you care? What does anyone care? All I ask is that you leave me alone.”

“I understand,” Holmes said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. I noticed as well that he had begun to look strangely uncomfortable, and was breathing heavily. “You may be assured that Dr. Watson and I have no wish to cause you any great difficulties,” he now told Skimpton. “Yet, as you must know, Mrs. Snyder wishes to have the flute returned to the opera. May I ask why you took it? I have been informed it has little value.”

Holmes, I knew, had no real evidence that Skimpton was the thief. Indeed, his certainty in the matter, as far as I could determine, was based solely on the fact that Skimpton, in a moment of distraction, had failed to pull down the stage curtain. But as I studied Skimpton’s cheerless eyes, I could not help but think Holmes was right.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Skimpton announced.

“Very well,” Holmes said. Then he abruptly stood up, went over to the large steamer trunk that appeared to be the room’s only hidden place of storage, and began to open it.

“No, don’t do that,” Skimpton cried out, and started toward Holmes. I immediately blocked his way.

Moments later, Holmes had the flute in his hand. It was, as Mrs. Snyder had readily admitted, not much to look at, just a battered old instrument covered in cheap gold paint.

Skimpton slumped back into his chair, looking as desolate as any man I have ever seen. When Holmes returned to the table, he said, “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Skimpton. Why did you take the flute?”

Tears welled up in the stagehand’s eyes. The words that followed came in a whisper. “Don’t you see, Mr. Holmes, I felt I could not live anymore, and I had to have it. It’s all there is now for me and all there ever will be.”

He put his head down before breaking out in loud sobs of the most anguished kind. It was a heart-wrenching scene, yet I was at loss to explain how or why Skimpton had become so deeply attached to a stage prop. Holmes, meanwhile, appeared to be growing agitated, as though some unseen force was acting upon him. To my surprise, he reached across the table and patted Skimpton on the shoulder. “It will be all right,” he said. “I assure you, Mr. Skimpton, it will be all right.”

Holmes rose from his chair and said, “Come along, Watson. I must leave this room. It has become too much for me. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Skimpton.”

The stagehand had by now regained his composure. He said to Holmes, “I suppose you will have to tell the police.”

“The police? What would I have to tell them?’”

Skimpton was puzzled. “You know, about the flute.”

“I know nothing about a flute, Mr. Skimpton.” Holmes turned to me. “Watson, do you know anything about a flute?”

There was nothing I could say except, “No.”

As we walked back to our hotel in the deep chill of the night, I pressed Holmes to explain his curious behavior in Skimpton’s room. At first, he brushed aside all of my questions. But when we reached our suite at the Ryan and found there the welcome gifts of warmth and light, Holmes became more talkative. While we thawed our stiff hands by the fireplace, I again asked Holmes why he had left the flute with Skimpton.

He turned to me, and in those probing gray eyes, so alive with the vital force of life, I saw a kind of resignation. “Have you never felt it, Watson, that old dark tide which creeps in upon a man in the depths of the night? It was there, in Skimpton’s miserable little room, and it was so powerful that it all but took the air from my lungs.”

“Holmes, whatever are you talking about? I felt no unusual sensations in that room.”

“Ah, my dear Watson, you are indeed the most fortunate of men, for you never lose sight of the light of the world.” Holmes rose and walked over to the window. Gazing out into the darkness, he said, “I did not tell you that when I retrieved the flute from Skimpton’s trunk, it was resting upon a short length of rope with a noose tied at one end.”

“Do you mean to say he was intending to do away with himself?”

“I know of no other way to interpret the evidence. Skimpton placed the flute atop the noose so as to remind himself that there are wondrous and beautiful things in the world. Had he not stolen the flute, I believe he would be dead by now. And that is why I could not take it from him. He has far greater need of it than Mrs. Snyder does.”

“My God, Holmes, you have saved a man’s life tonight!”

“Perhaps. But I do not know how long the flute will work its magic for poor Skimpton. He has fallen far into a chasm as gloomy as that of the Reichenbach, and in the end there may be no escape for him.”

Holmes turned away from the window and said, “The hour is growing late, Watson, and I suggest you retire for the night. We shall have a long day of travel tomorrow.”

I was indeed feeling quite tired. “By the way, what will you tell Mrs. Snyder in the morning when she comes to ask about the flute?”

“I will tell her the truth, which is that there are mysteries in this world without solution.”

“She will not be happy to hear that.”

“Nor will I be happy to say it,” Holmes said as he walked toward his bedroom. “Goodnight, Watson.”

I went to my room and soon fell fast asleep. Hours later, I awoke to the sound of Holmes’s violin. He was playing one of Papageno’s songs from The Magic Flute, and he kept at it until the first morning light.