The West End Horror by Nicholas Meyer Read Free Book Online Page A

before eight?”
    “One moment.” Holmes laid a hand on his arm. “You know Mr. Wilde personally?”
    “I know him, though not well. We are too awed by one another’s gifts, with the result that we intimidate ourselves.”
    Holmes maintained his loose hold on the critic’s arm. “Is he really a genius?”
    “Oscar? Some of the cleverest people in London suppose so –Harris, Max Beerbohm, Whistler–”
    “Do you?”
    “What does it matter whether he is or is not a genius and if I think so or not?”
    “I am trying to understand the dramatis personae in this business. You didn’t think much of Jonathan McCarthy; I should like your estimate of Oscar Wilde.”
    “Very well,” he frowned, gnawing a bit of his beard. “Yes. I would say definitely yes, he is a genius. His plays will be remembered as among the most scintillating in the language– and they are the least of his creations. Patience, on the other hand, will become passé within his lifetime.*[Shaw’s ability to predict the future popularity of plays and operettas is questionable. He postulated an early demise for Sardou’s play, Tosca, which in operatic form enjoys the same robust health as Patience. ] A genius,” he repeated, unwillingly, “but he is courting ruin.”
    “Why?”
    Shaw sighed and considered how best to answer the question. It was more difficult than I would have imagined for him to frame a response.
    “I am not at liberty to be specific,” he temporized after a pause.
    “Then be general,” Holmes advised.
    Shaw thought again, his Mephistophelian brows arching in concentration. “Oscar has antagonised the world,” he began, choosing his words with care. “He delights in antagonising the world. He doesn’t take it seriously.” He put his hands on the table and interlaced the fingers. “But the world does. The world takes it very seriously and is not inclined to forgive him for it. The world is waiting to take vengeance. There are sacred rites and conventions which will not be flouted.”
    “Mr. Gilbert has flouted them for years, hasn’t he?” I asked. “Are they howling for his blood, as well? I don’t believe it.”
    Shaw looked at me. “Mr. Gilbert’s private life is beyond reproach. Or if it isn’t, Mr. Gilbert is discreet. The same cannot be said of Oscar Wilde.” He rose abruptly, as though annoyed with himself for having spoken too much. “Good day, gentlemen.”
    Holmes looked up languidly. “Where can we find Wilde?”
    “These days I believe he puts up at the Avondale, in Piccadilly. Good day,” he said again and bobbed his head in elfish acknowledgement before leaving with that curious dancing gait.
    Sherlock Holmes turned to me. “Coffee, Watson?”
    We proceeded after lunch to Dunhill’s, in Regent Street, where Mr. Fitzgerald, who knew the detective well, examined the bit of cigar we exhibited.
    “Dinna tell me you’re at a loss,” the Scot laughed, his blue eyes twinkling as he took the cigar.
    Holmes was not amused. “I can identify twenty-three kinds of tobacco from the ash alone,” he responded somewhat testily, it seemed to me. “When you have told me what this is, I shall have incorporated a twenty-fourth into my repertoire.”
    “Ay, ay,” the honest fellow went on chuckling as he bent over the thing. “Well, it’s foreign but not imported by anyone I know,” he began.
    “So much I had already deduced.”
    “Did you, indeed? Ay, well that narrows the field.” He held it up and smelled it. “From the scent and the wrapping, I’d say it was Indian.” He turned it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, holding it to his ear and listening to the crackle, then sighted along its length like a rifle. “A cheroot. Notice the square-cut end and the heavy proportion of Latakia? They’re a great favorite with the boys in the Indian army, but then those laddies’ll smoke anything. I doubt I’d have the stomach for it, but I’ve heard you can acquire a taste for