found dead since Sunday night and that Sherlock Holmes was the next name
on the list, I thought we should take the precaution of meeting up with Arthur
to discuss the situation. Just before we left the Cadogan, I found Nat and
asked him to convey my message to Arthur. Just after we left the Cadogan, Nat
found us in the street and brought us the good doctor’s reply.’
‘Was
Arthur in the hotel at the time then?’ I asked.
‘No,’
said Oscar. ‘Arthur was in South Norwood.’
I fell
silent for a moment. ‘I can’t fathom it, Oscar. If Arthur was in South Norwood
and the boy was at the Cadogan Hotel—how on earth did they communicate?’
‘By
telephone!’ said my friend, triumphantly.
I was
amazed. ‘Does Conan Doyle have a telephone—in South Norwood?’
‘Nowhere
is a telephone more necessary than in South Norwood, Robert.’ Oscar smiled his
sly smile. He scraped his butter knife noisily across his toast. ‘Arthur has
had a telephone installed because he is a medical man. Doctors get priority,
apparently. But soon, I’m told, we shall all be linked by telephone— the length
and breadth of the land. The telephone is about to revolutionise both the art
of conversation and the science of detection. I am thinking of having one installed
in Tite Street.’
‘Do you
know how to use a telephone, Oscar?’
‘Not
yet, but I have children, Robert. They will teach me.’
I
laughed and, as I did so, glanced up to see coming towards our table,
simultaneously, side by side, our waiter, bearing our kidneys and poached eggs,
and Arthur Conan Doyle, looking distinctly flustered and bedraggled.
‘I got
caught in a sudden downpour,’ he grumbled.
‘But
worse than that,’ said Oscar, ‘you have just realised that you left your
umbrella in the hackney carriage that brought you here …’
Conan
Doyle stopped in his tracks and gazed at Oscar in astonishment. ‘How on earth
did you know that?’ he asked.
Oscar
smiled. ‘I saw you come in at the door just now, looking damp but relatively
serene. Suddenly, your face clouded over as, frantically, you looked about you.
What had you forgotten? It might have been your hat, but your hair is dry while
your shoulders are sodden. It must be an umbrella—most likely your favourite
umbrella, the special one with the fine ebony handle.’
‘It’s
too early in the day for this, Oscar. Come, man, explain yourself. Have you
seen me with the umbrella before?’
‘No,’
said Oscar, complacently, ‘but if you turn around, Arthur, and look behind
you—standing at the desk, talking to the maître d’hôtel, is a London
cabby holding a furled gentleman’s umbrella that bears a remarkable resemblance
to the one I’ve just described.’
Instantly,
Conan Doyle’s troubled face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Just tea and toast for
me,’ he called as he strode off to reclaim his lost umbrella. We watched as he
tipped the cabman and shook him warmly by the hand.
‘He’ll
be telling him he’s the salt of the earth and the backbone of the Empire,’ said
Oscar. ‘There’s no more decent fellow in England than Arthur Conan Doyle.’
When he
returned to the table, the doctor was a man transformed. He was bubbling with
delight. ‘Salt of the earth, that cabby,’ he said.
‘Where’s
the umbrella now?’ I asked.
‘In the
cloakroom, I hope, with my hat. The maître d’hôtel offered to look after
it. We can trust him, can’t we?’
‘We
can,’ said Oscar. ‘Franco comes from Lake Como.’
‘Excellent,’
said Doyle, surveying the breakfast table and reaching for the marmalade.
Oscar
leant towards me to explain. ‘Arthur and his wife enjoyed a particularly happy
holiday on the banks of Lake Como two summers ago.’
Doyle
bit into his toast and, crumbs flying, exclaimed, ‘Oscar, you amaze me! Nothing
passes you by.’
‘I
don’t know about that,’ said Oscar, tapping his next cigarette against the back
of his silver cigarette case, ‘but I did at least
on the list, I thought we should take the precaution of meeting up with Arthur
to discuss the situation. Just before we left the Cadogan, I found Nat and
asked him to convey my message to Arthur. Just after we left the Cadogan, Nat
found us in the street and brought us the good doctor’s reply.’
‘Was
Arthur in the hotel at the time then?’ I asked.
‘No,’
said Oscar. ‘Arthur was in South Norwood.’
I fell
silent for a moment. ‘I can’t fathom it, Oscar. If Arthur was in South Norwood
and the boy was at the Cadogan Hotel—how on earth did they communicate?’
‘By
telephone!’ said my friend, triumphantly.
I was
amazed. ‘Does Conan Doyle have a telephone—in South Norwood?’
‘Nowhere
is a telephone more necessary than in South Norwood, Robert.’ Oscar smiled his
sly smile. He scraped his butter knife noisily across his toast. ‘Arthur has
had a telephone installed because he is a medical man. Doctors get priority,
apparently. But soon, I’m told, we shall all be linked by telephone— the length
and breadth of the land. The telephone is about to revolutionise both the art
of conversation and the science of detection. I am thinking of having one installed
in Tite Street.’
‘Do you
know how to use a telephone, Oscar?’
‘Not
yet, but I have children, Robert. They will teach me.’
I
laughed and, as I did so, glanced up to see coming towards our table,
simultaneously, side by side, our waiter, bearing our kidneys and poached eggs,
and Arthur Conan Doyle, looking distinctly flustered and bedraggled.
‘I got
caught in a sudden downpour,’ he grumbled.
‘But
worse than that,’ said Oscar, ‘you have just realised that you left your
umbrella in the hackney carriage that brought you here …’
Conan
Doyle stopped in his tracks and gazed at Oscar in astonishment. ‘How on earth
did you know that?’ he asked.
Oscar
smiled. ‘I saw you come in at the door just now, looking damp but relatively
serene. Suddenly, your face clouded over as, frantically, you looked about you.
What had you forgotten? It might have been your hat, but your hair is dry while
your shoulders are sodden. It must be an umbrella—most likely your favourite
umbrella, the special one with the fine ebony handle.’
‘It’s
too early in the day for this, Oscar. Come, man, explain yourself. Have you
seen me with the umbrella before?’
‘No,’
said Oscar, complacently, ‘but if you turn around, Arthur, and look behind
you—standing at the desk, talking to the maître d’hôtel, is a London
cabby holding a furled gentleman’s umbrella that bears a remarkable resemblance
to the one I’ve just described.’
Instantly,
Conan Doyle’s troubled face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Just tea and toast for
me,’ he called as he strode off to reclaim his lost umbrella. We watched as he
tipped the cabman and shook him warmly by the hand.
‘He’ll
be telling him he’s the salt of the earth and the backbone of the Empire,’ said
Oscar. ‘There’s no more decent fellow in England than Arthur Conan Doyle.’
When he
returned to the table, the doctor was a man transformed. He was bubbling with
delight. ‘Salt of the earth, that cabby,’ he said.
‘Where’s
the umbrella now?’ I asked.
‘In the
cloakroom, I hope, with my hat. The maître d’hôtel offered to look after
it. We can trust him, can’t we?’
‘We
can,’ said Oscar. ‘Franco comes from Lake Como.’
‘Excellent,’
said Doyle, surveying the breakfast table and reaching for the marmalade.
Oscar
leant towards me to explain. ‘Arthur and his wife enjoyed a particularly happy
holiday on the banks of Lake Como two summers ago.’
Doyle
bit into his toast and, crumbs flying, exclaimed, ‘Oscar, you amaze me! Nothing
passes you by.’
‘I
don’t know about that,’ said Oscar, tapping his next cigarette against the back
of his silver cigarette case, ‘but I did at least
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