Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I started my investigations by inquiring after Mycroft. Needless to say he was not receiving visitors. Locked away within the book-lined walls of the Diogenes Club, he frequently instructed the staff to fend off all callers. He talked to the world only when he wished it.

With that method of inquiry closed, I decided to call on Norman Greenhough, my editor at The Strand. This was something I tried to avoid wherever possible, as Norman’s pursuit of material often bordered on the vicious. That day was no exception.

“John!” he called, reaching inside the liquor cabinet he concealed behind a counterfeit row of books on his shelf. “How nice to see you. Care for a drink?”

“Bit early for me,” I admitted, having never adapted to the liquid consumption of those who worked in publishing.

He checked his watch, white moustache twitching. “You may have a point there,” he admitted. “I’ve been in the office since yesterday and one loses track.”

He walked to his door, opened it and bellowed for his secretary to find some morning coffee and something that might pass for an ad hoc breakfast.

“Why so late?” I asked as he settled back down behind his desk.

“Oh the usual crackpots and loons,” he said. “We’ve had a reader threaten to blow the place up unless we reveal the whereabouts of Raffles.”

“Raffles?”

“You know, Hornung’s character—gentleman thief, homosexual and anti-Semite—the character, not the man. I don’t think so anyway …”

“Oh yes, him.” I might add that Norman’s opinion of the character’s attributes were not necessarily shared by his creator. The editor was famed for his jocular dismissal of most of the work he published. I had no doubt that, were Ernest Hornung to pop in for a chat about his latest submission, Norman would moan for a few minutes about “that upstart medico and his smart-aleck room-mate”. “And why do they feel such a need for an amateur cracksman?”

“Who knows? And it doesn’t matter how many times you insist the only place Raffles can be found is in the flaccid forebrain of his creator, the fools won’t listen. Some people just can’t help but blur the lines between fiction and reality.”

“Have you alerted the police?”

“Heavens, no. If they could really build a bomb they could surely blow up their own safe. If they turn up at the office I’ll have a couple of the print boys throw them out on their ear. It just sends everything into a panic for a few days. Nothing scares the filing clerks like a bomb threat, and before you know it half the staff are claiming to be trapped in their sick beds.” He mopped his brow with the florid silk handkerchief he kept stuffed in his jacket pocket. “Lily-livered lot! Oh, for a decent war! They could use the training.”

Not being altogether able to recommend the experience of combat, I decided to try and change the subject.

“I wanted to talk to you about a series of press articles I remember from a few years ago,” I said.

“Oh,” he replied. “I rather hoped you were planning to offer me a novel.”

“Just short stories at the moment I’m afraid,” I said. “I haven’t the time for a full-length piece.”

“But the public love the serials,” he insisted. “They queue up around the block.”

“I’m afraid most of our cases just don’t really suit the format.”

“Couldn’t they be … well, padded out a bit?”

“I’d rather not.”

“You know—a few red herrings, trips to the country. Throw in another moor and they’ll be biting our hands off—they were as rabid as the damned dog during our serialisation of the Baskerville case!”

“I understand that, Norman,” I said. “But I really can only work with the case files I have. Besides, I think the stories read much better when they’re kept trim.”

“Our bank disagrees. What are you working on at the moment? Following up that business with the chef?”

“Chef?”

“Andre Le Croix. Famous chap, fat, did a runner on the opening night of his new restaurant.”

“Not really our sort of thing.”

“No, I suppose not. Shame though, I was one of the diners and the whole night put me out a couple of quid. You sure I couldn’t get you to hunt him down for me?”

“I’m not your personal debt-collection service, Norman. I’m afraid the current case is not for publication.”

“Top secret, eh?” he asked, a vicious glint in his eye.

The last thing I wanted to do was encourage him. “Not at all, it just wouldn’t make a very good story. Now, about these articles …” Which was when the coffee arrived, and my request was curtailed by the serving of drinks. I fielded the offer of sandwiches.

Finally, while Norman’s mouth was filled with salmon paste, I tried to get the information I was after.

“Dr Moreau,” I said. “Disgraced physiologist. Who was the reporter that broke the story?”

Norman swallowed, somewhat reluctantly. “What do you want to bring that lunatic up for?” he asked. “Thinking about him’s likely to put me right off my sandwiches.”

I apologised, and waffled about researching for a science-fiction story.

“Science fiction?” he asked, poking uncertainly at the indeterminate filling of another sandwich with the nib of his pen. “What do you want to write that sort of rubbish for? Grisly murders and heaving bosoms, that’s what the readers want.” He popped the sandwich into his mouth. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a bit of both myself.”

“I may not even want to publish,” I insisted. “But you know what it’s like when you have an idea—you just have to follow where the muse takes you …” This was unutterable guff but Norman swallowed it as easily as his ad hoc breakfast.

“Fella’s name was Mitchell,” he said. “He was a freelancer. Believe it or not I’ve published him myself. Though keep it under your hat—the three or four old pussies who write demanding to know who authored ‘The Adventures of Professor Q’ have been informed it’s a state secret.” He winked over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a big mouthful. “That sort of nonsense sells copies. I can give you his address if you like.”

“If you’re sure he wouldn’t mind?”

“My dear Doctor, you don’t know writers like I do—he’ll be over the moon to have such a famous personage on his doormat. I give it five minutes before he’s trying to convince you to co-write a novel with him!”