The Fifth Heart Read Online Free Page A

James was fascinated with Holmes’s delusion that he was a fictional character and he wanted to hear more about it. It struck him as a wonderful conceit for a short story someday—perhaps one involving a famous writer who also had descended into believing that he was one of his own characters.
    Holmes had ordered cognac—a poor choice, James thought, after the champagne and late evening meal—but both men sipped it now as the writer worked to pose his questions. Suddenly a noisy commotion erupted in the terrace-covered area of the café across the wide dance floor from where they were seated. Dozens of people had gotten to their feet; men were bowing; a few applauded.
    “It’s the King of Bohemia,” said Holmes.
    Henry James wondered if he should humor the madman across from him and then decided not to.
    “There is no King of Bohemia, Mr. Holmes,” he said flatly. “That is the Prince of Wales. I’ve heard that he dines here from time to time.”
    Holmes, not sparing another glance at the royal party across the crowded room, sipped his cognac. “You really have
not
read any of Watson’s chronicles of me in
The Strand
, have you, Mr. James?”
    Before James could reply, Holmes continued, “One of his first published stories of our adventures—if, indeed, John Watson
was
the chronicler or author of these adventures—was titled ‘Scandal in Bohemia’ and dealt with an indelicate case—a former prima donna of the Imperial Opera of Warsaw using a certain photograph to blackmail, for . . . romantic indiscretions . . . a very famous member of a certain royal house. Watson, always discreet, invented the ‘King of Bohemia’ in his clumsy attempt to disguise the royal gentleman’s true identity, which was, of course, our very own Prince of Wales. In truth, the ‘scandal’ was the second time I had helped the Prince out of a jam. The first time was with a potential scandal dealing with a debt incurred in card games.” Holmes smiled above the rim of his cognac glass. “There is, of course, no ‘Imperial Opera of Warsaw’ either. Watson there was doing his earnest best to disguise the Paris Opéra.”
    “You are making up for Dr. Watson’s attempts at discretion with amazing indiscretion,” murmured James.
    “I am dead,” said Sherlock Holmes. “A dead man has little use for discretion.”
    James glanced over to where the Prince of Wales was at the center of a laughing, bowing, fawning circle of dandies.
    “Since I have neither read nor heard of the story . . . chronicle . . . of your ‘Scandal in Bohemia’ adventure,” he said softly, “I must presume that you reclaimed the blackmailing adventuress’s incriminating photograph for the Prince.”
    “I did . . . and in a most clever manner,” said Holmes and laughed out loud. In the noise of the busy restaurant, no one seemed to notice. “And then the woman stole it back from me, leaving a framed portrait of herself in its place.”
    “You failed, in other words,” said James.
    “I failed,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Completely. Miserably.” He took another sip of his cognac. “I’ve been bested by very few men in my career, Mr. James. Never before or since by a . . .
woman
.”
    James noticed that he uttered that final word with a strong tone of contempt.
    “Does this have anything to do with your recent revelation that you are not a real person, Mr. Holmes?”
    The tall man across the table from James rubbed his chin. “I suppose I should really ask you to address me as ‘Sigerson’, but tonight I do not care. No, Mr. James, the ancient case of the Prince of Wales and his former paramour—may she rot in peace—has nothing whatsoever to do with the reasons for me realizing that I am not, as you said earlier, ‘real’. Would you care to hear those reasons?”
    James hesitated only a second or two. “Yes,” he said.
     
    * * *
     
    Holmes set his empty glass down and folded his long-fingered hands on the tablecloth. “It began, as so