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

them.”
    “You can’t buy them in England?”
    “No, Mr. Holmes, I don’t believe you can. They’re too tough for civilians, as I’ve said, though some of the lads come home with boxes because they know there’re none to be found here.
    “Mr. Fitzgerald, I thank you.”
    “Not at all, Mr. Holmes. Does it figure in a case?”
    “It may, Mr. Fitzgerald. It may.”

FIVE

    THE LORD OF LIFE

    Holmes and I had of course seen caricatures of Oscar Wilde. Over the years his strange haircut, corpulent physique, and outlandish mode of dress had become familiar to us–as to all–through countless pen-and-ink sketches in various papers. And though we had not seen either play, we were aware that the brilliant Irishman was the author of two comedies playing simultaneously to packed houses. His latest, The Importance of Being Earnest, had opened only a fortnight or so before and been highly endorsed by the critics and public alike.
    Yet neither the cartoons nor the articles by or about the man nor yet his plays themselves (had we seen them) could have prepared us in the slightest for the living embodiment of Oscar Wilde.
    After our stop at Dunhill’s we trudged ‘round to Piccadilly and presented ourselves at the Avondale, enquiring after the playwright.
    “You’ll find him in the lounge,” the clerk informed us with a dour expression.
    “I take it that is from whence all this noise emanates?” asked Holmes politely. The man grunted by way of reply and busied himself behind the counter.
    There was certainly a great deal of noise coming from the direction of the lounge, and Holmes and I followed it to its source, frankly curious. The clinking of glasses and the babble of animated, overlapping voices were discerned, the latter punctuated by sudden, shrill bursts and hoots of laughter.
    My first impression, upon entering the room, was that I had journeyed backwards in Mr. Wells’s time machine and stumbled upon a Roman Saturnalia of some sort, peopled by satyrs, Pan-like cherubs, and elves. A second glance assured me that the dozen or so young men gathered there, singing, reciting poetry, and drinking each other’s health, were all dressed in the garb of the present century, albeit some of it rather askew. It took but a moment to realise who was chiefly responsible for this Attic impression. Standing in the centre of the room and towering over his guests both in size and stature was the leviathan Oscar Wilde himself. His odd long hair was wreathed with laurel or something very like it, and his deep, rich, and sonorous voice dominated the place as much as did his person.
    Oblivious of the pandemonium, he was declaiming a poem having to do with Daphnis and Chloe (I was able to catch only a snatch here and there through the confusion of sound), with his arm draped over the shoulders of a slender young man whose blond curls framed the face of an angel.
    After a moment or two our presence on the threshold made itself felt, and one by one all the revellers subsided, their songs and jests dying on their lips–save only Wilde himself. With his back to the door, he continued unaware of the intrusion, until the gradual halt in merriment caused him to turn and face us. One disagreeably flabby hand reached up and tugged the vine leaves from his tangled dark hair. His face was astonishingly comely and youthful, though I knew he must be forty. Too much food and too much drink had taken their toll and bloated his features. Nevertheless, his eyes were grey and clear and alert, his expression pleasing. Only his thick, sensual lips and his girth told of the dissipations in which he indulged.
    As he focussed his gaze upon us, subdued whispers circulated, speculating about our business. More than once I caught the word policemen.
    “Policemen?” Wilde echoed. His voice was soft as a caress and deep as a monastery bell. “Policemen?” He came forward siowiy, carrying his coronet, and inspected us attentively. “No, no,” he concluded