WORTHY OF OUR STEELE

By: Kniga

E-mail: kniga@aol.com

First printed: More Red Holt Steele #10

Summary: Laura and Remington investigate accidents on the set of the newest Sherlock Holmes movie.

Disclaimer: This “Remington Steele” story is not-for-profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author and this site do not own the characters and are in no way affiliated with “Remington Steele,” the actors, their agents, the producers, MTM Productions, the NBC Television Network or any station or network carrying the show in syndication, or anyone in the industry.

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It was a slow summer day in ‘97 at Remington Steele’s detective office. So when a call came in from Everest Productions, Mildred gave the client an immediate appointment.

“Sherlock Holmes is here,” she said excitedly, rushing into Remington’s office.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Rocky Sullivan, does it?” Remington whispered to her. Mildred shook her head.

Laura and Remington Steele rose to greet the two men. One man was stout and balding, perspiring in his expensive light gray suit. The other appeared cool, despite wearing the heavy clothes of a British gentleman of the prior century. This man was tall and lean, with a beaky nose and receding hairline; he seemed vaguely familiar to Laura. The Steeles introduced themselves.

“I’m Paul Baker, in charge of production,” said the plump man, “and this is Rudyard Archer. We would like to engage your services, but it must be absolutely confidential. We are producing a Sherlock Holmes film, and find ourselves in need of a real detective. The publicity would be disastrous if we brought in police.”

“Rudyard Archer! I’m so pleased to meet you--both of you,” Remington said. “You were in Midsummer Night’s Dream, weren’t you? My wife and I love the theatre.”

“Yes,” said Archer. “Shakespeare and the theatre have been the mainstay of my career. But Everest Productions persuaded me to take the more modern role of Holmes, as a film. It’s been a learning experience. It’s certainly the first time someone’s tricked me into firing a real gun, with real ammunition, at my co-star.”

“What happened?” Laura asked.

“Not much, fortunately, just a hole in the scenery. I was supposed to shoot Brahms, but had the sense to aim slightly away from him.”

“Brahms?” Remington asked.

“Have you heard of those children's films with the big Newfoundland dog that’s always in trouble?”

“Oh, that Brahms. We’ve seen them all. We have children,” Laura said.

“He has the title role in our film, The Hound of the Baskervilles,” said Archer.

Remington mused, “So our possible suspects are mauled mailmen and parents who’ve seen videotapes once too often.”

Laura spoke. “What my husband is leading up to, is that while someone might have a reason for wanting the dog to die, it’s more likely that someone wanted to disrupt your production. If you had shot Brahms, who’s loved by millions of children, the movie would never recover from the bad publicity. Mr. Baker, is there anyone who stands to profit if your film is either unfinished or a flop?”

“There hasn’t been a serious big-screen version of a Sherlock Holmes movie in ten years. But once we got a green light on our production, an independent studio, Miracle, smelled money and started to work on one of their own. Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain now, so there’s nothing we can do legally to restrain them. Their film is set in Victorian times, but rumors say it’s scripted for the MTV generation. A primitive gear-driven computer, the Babbage Engine, is used as a major plot point. Their Holmes actor is Brian Flynn--remember him?”

Remington responded, “He was supposed to be your Holmes back in the mid-eighties, but he almost died in a car crash. The film was produced with another actor; a fine Holmes movie, but a box office disappointment. Flynn recovered, and has been doing small films since then; he’s a better actor now. He’s concentrated on character parts. He was in Mr. Snow as a serial killer who was quite unsettling to watch.”

“Exactly. We considered him for this production, but there were some hard feelings when we couldn’t wait for him to recover back then. We’ve also heard that he’s a bit erratic since the accident. His emotions are closer to the surface, which can make for great acting, but a studio can lose an expensive hour of filming if someone sets off his temper. We decided to go with a reliable old trouper, Archer.”

“So Miracle might want to stop you to eliminate competition, and Flynn might have personal reasons,” remarked Laura. “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? Shooting a dog is awfully vicious, even by Hollywood standards.”

“Believe me, Ms. Steele, since The Crow incident, everyone double-checks the prop weapons,” said Baker. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to substitute an identical real one--a British service revolver over a hundred years old, in perfect condition.”

“How many people knew what type of gun you were using?” asked Remington.

Archer said dryly, “Everyone who’s read the Sherlock Holmes stories closely. And heaven knows there are plenty of gun collectors in this country. We want to be true to a classic, well-known novel, yet make it appeal to new generation of filmgoers. That’s one of the reasons we used Brahms.”

Laura said, “We’d like to visit the set and talk with your staff. We’ll investigate at Miracle, too.”

****

At the set, the studio guard’s records showed that hundreds of employees, contractors, deliverymen, and caterers had signed in for work. The set was arranged as a foggy moor. The guards had not allowed anyone but Baker and Archer to leave the building, pending the arrival of the detectives. The prop men were tense but forthright in their explanation that the prop gun was handled only by them, the two leading men, the director, and the stand-ins.

The dog’s trainer, Hans Klug, had handled it also, the Steeles discovered as they asked the men to reenact the rehearsal.

The gun given to Archer at the start of filming for that day was definitely a fake, but it was handed around among Archer, his co-star Frederick Raft (playing Watson), director George Stern, the trainer Klug, and the two stand-ins, Neil Jones and Dexter Smith. All of the men had been frisked after the real gun went off, to see if one had been hiding the prop, but nothing had turned up. The guards continued to search the huge set.

All of the men, when questioned privately, assured the Steeles that they had no reason to disrupt the production and had no idea how a real gun got on the set. Baker gave personnel files on the men to the Steeles, to start a background check. He took Polaroids of them with Brahms, for their children.

Brahms, a huge black dog, seemed unaware that he had been in danger. Baker said, “He’s very easy-going. He has two understudy dogs that look just like him, so the production could have survived without him, but we love him as much as the kids do. We have to dress him up a little to make him look ferocious. Don’t pet his shoulders; we couldn’t get his neck hair to stand up the way it does on a dog that’s going into a fight, so we had to add a ruff of extra fur there, and it’s a little itchy for him.”

“I’ve heard that larger dogs are bred for gentle dispositions, so at his size, he ought to be a regular pacifist,” said Remington. “Thank you for the pictures--we’ll be the hit of ‘show and tell.’” He continued, “We’ll run prints on the gun, but will probably only get prints of the most recent user. Let us know if you find the prop. Frisk everyone who leaves today.”

Baker looked dismayed.

“Treat it as impromptu theatre--they’re all about to board a plane, but one of their fellow passengers may be a killer,” said Remington quietly.

“Quite a list of suspects, and we still have to talk to Miracle Productions and Flynn,” said Laura, as they left. They dropped off the personnel files at their office so Mildred could start checking backgrounds, and drove to the rival studio.

****

Miracle Productions was in a lower-rent neighborhood than lofty Everest. When they entered the studio, the eccentric director Jim Bourbon met them immediately. He was a wiry, dark haired, pale young man--as if the Addams Family had had a prodigal son who ran off to Hollywood.

“Damn, you’re quick,” he greeted them, barely giving them time to introduce themselves. “We just realized it was missing 15 minutes ago. Who called you?”

“Everest Studios--,” began Laura.

“I knew they were behind it!” Bourbon laughed. “We’ve had some strange snafus around here lately, but it would take professionals to haul off the Engine. Have you found it?”

“Could we back up for a minute?” Remington said. “I take it that the Engine is missing. What engine?”

“This movie’s called The Babbage Engine. It’s a 19th century computer, which was sketched out, but never actually built, by a fellow named Babbage. Our story uses it as the item that everyone’s trying to find. With Babbage dead, Sherlock Holmes, and the evil Moriarty, are the only men smart enough to use it. We really did build it, a working prototype. Little brass gears turn to add up the numbers. They’re turned by a little turbine, which is powered by a little boiler, which is heated by a little coal furnace. The whole thing is encased in a brass coffin, so it’s not only the first computer, but the first portable one. It all works. It’s really cool to watch, and it cost a small fortune to have it made. It weighs hundreds of pounds, of course; we normally move it with six ‘pallbearers.’ It was flat on the prop room floor last night, and now it’s gone. You think Everest has it?”

“Actually, Everest sent us over here to talk to you about a problem they’ve had,” said Remington. “First, we must get your promise of confidentiality.”

“I love secrets. I promise,” the boyish director said breathlessly.

“Someone stole the engine that’s the basis for your story, and someone just tried to kill the Hound of the Baskervilles at Everest,” said Laura. “I’ve heard of cutthroat competition in the industry, but it rarely involves actual theft or killing.”

“Competition?” Bourbon grinned. “Everest’s competition is men like Basil Rathbone, Peter Cushing, and Jeremy Brett. The actual Sherlock Holmes stories have been filmed so often that there’s nothing new to say. To make people pay seven bucks for a ticket, I’m going to say, ‘And now, for something completely different,’” he said. “We have former Monty Python members as the police, and a former Dr. Who as Dr. Watson. My movie’s going to draw a very different crowd from Everest’s.”

They discussed the recent problems. A pair of Miracle’s security guards had gotten sick the night before. Bourbon had assumed it was food poisoning until the discovery of the missing Engine; the guards’ coffee might have been doped.

“It had to be a conspiracy by Everest,” Bourbon said darkly. “They’ve used dirty tricks before. I know, I used to work for them. I’ll bet they faked the attack on their dog to avoid suspicion and attract sympathy.”

“That’s certainly possible, but it will take some detective work to prove it,” said Laura. “Let’s start by looking at that prop room.”

The prop room was near the back of the building, by the loading dock. As they walked, several actors noticed the visitors and trailed after the Steeles curiously. Laura stooped to examine the prop room lock with her magnifying glass, much aware that Sherlock Holmes was looking over her shoulder.

The actor, Brian Flynn, was a once-familiar face. The “grown choirboy” look that had established his career had been altered by the accident. While he was not obviously scarred, his nose and jaw had healed to become more prominent and angular, less symmetrical. Pain and sun had lined his face, and time had thinned his dark hair. Ten years ago he had really been too young and handsome to play Holmes, but the part was a good fit for him now. Laura sneaked looks at him, noticing how the anger in his face was replaced by fascination as she worked. The lock appeared to have been picked by an expert.

Remington noticed the glances and coolly said, “Would you give us some room, ladies and gentlemen? You’ll all have a chance to talk to us individually later.”

The Steeles entered the prop room. They stepped carefully to preserve any clues that the floor could give them. The prop room was cluttered with furniture, fake trees, and other items. Boxes near the door had been positioned to hide an empty coffin-sized area. Remington dusted for prints, while Laura examined the floor.

“Plenty of lint, not much outdoor dirt--hmmm, interesting fibers. Almost straight, black, too fine for human hair, two to three inches long.” She carefully slipped a sample into an envelope. “There’s a very clean swath from the place where the Engine sat, to the door. The floor isn’t recently scratched, as I’d expect to see if something that heavy had been dragged. I suspect the thieves got the coffin onto a dolly, and tidied up their footprints. Any luck with the fingerprints?”

“I have some clear ones, but I suspect the last person who handled these boxes was wearing gloves. Let me have a look at those fibers, and would you get out those photos of Brahms?”

A few dog hairs clung to the Polaroids; Laura saw that they were good match for the fibers from the floor. “It’s possible that Brahms, or someone who handled him a lot, has been here,” agreed Laura.

Remington said, “It’s also possible that the prop man happens to own a dog. One more puzzle piece to try to fit in. Both Bourbon and Flynn are disgruntled former employees of Everest, and they might have hidden the Engine themselves. It would be pretty difficult for one man to move it, even with a dolly. But if they did steal their own Engine, it doesn’t explain how they switched Everest’s fake gun for a real one.”

They checked the loading dock. A few hairs were present there too, and a huge pawprint--Laura caught her breath when she saw it. “The game’s afoot,” she murmured. But she realized that stray pets often hung around movie lots, and sometimes became informal mascots.

They questioned the prop man, who did own a shaggy black and white mutt. He assured them that he never brought it to work, and that he didn’t recall seeing any large stray dogs in the area. He told them that the coffin had been left on the floor, not on a dolly, and that he had locked up as usual. He, Bourbon, and the security guards had keys to the prop room.

The Steeles met with Bourbon for more questions.

“Is there anyone who would have a reason to disrupt both productions?” asked Laura. “Anyone who dislikes Sherlock Holmes movies in general?”

Bourbon responded, “A few of the guys on the newsgroup alt.fan.holmes think any deviation from Doyle’s work is a travesty, but they're scattered around the world. A Holmes fan who’s a little over the edge might have the motive to disrupt a movie, but isn’t likely to have the opportunity.”

“Whoever did this would have to know his way around both studios,” Laura said. “Everest gave us personnel files on the staff members who were on the scene of their incident. We’d appreciate it if you’d do the same. We may discover a common link.”

“Besides me and Brian, right?” Bourbon asked dryly.

“Another thing,” asked Laura. “Who was the actor who did Everest’s Holmes movie of ten years ago, after Brian got hurt?”

“’Study in Scarlet?’ That was Douglas Sanderson,” Bourbon replied. “He really was an excellent Holmes. He played him exactly as Doyle wrote him--a brilliant, cold, arrogant misogynist. Unfortunately, moviegoers prefer their heroes to be likable, and the film flopped. Sanderson got the blame, and his career went downhill; there were also rumors of drug abuse.”

“A Seven Percent Solution, eh?” Remington murmured.

“Very likely. Sometimes an actor lets a role take over his life. Sanderson couldn’t get Holmes out of his system. After the movie he did live theatre of Holmes plays in Europe. Nine years ago he died in a hiking accident in Switzerland.”

“Was it anywhere near Reichenbach Falls, where Sherlock Holmes nearly died, according to the story?” asked Laura.

“Exactly there,” said the director. “The tight-lipped Swiss government admitted that his pack was found near the top of the falls, by some disturbed ground. His shredded jacket and identification were eventually recovered from the water, but not the body. The violence of the falls could have turned him into finely chopped fishfood.”

“He could have faked his death, and returned to the United States under a false passport. Holmes was a master of disguise,” said Laura uneasily. “He could be anyone... including an actor who spent over a year recovering from a terrible accident.”

“Let’s talk with Brian Flynn. I’d also like to visit Everest again. Those hairs in the prop room suggest a trail from here to there,” said Remington.

Flynn was cooperative, and pleased to have real detectives to observe.

“I had nothing to do with any problem over at Everest, or with what happened to the Engine. For the last 24 hours, I’ve been surrounded by witnesses, most of the time here. I was with my wife and children--and our shaggy black spaniel--for about seven hours last night. We have a tough schedule; I don’t have time to get into trouble. I nearly died because I was careless with whiskey and a convertible ten years ago. I'm glad to be alive, and a lot less willing to take risks. A movie’s success just isn’t the most important thing in my life.”

The Steeles headed toward Everest again. Laura checked with Mildred on the car phone to let her know their findings and ask if anything had turned up on the background checks.

“The actors, prop men, and director are all clean, except for the occasional traffic ticket,” Mildred answered. “The dog trainer, Hans Klug, is more interesting. He’s from Germany, here as a resident alien. He came here eight years ago and started a business raising and training dogs. But I did a little checking with German kennel associations, and they have nothing on him--no ownership of pedigreed dogs or such--from more than nine years back. Very few German records of him at all, actually. No school attendance, no car registration.”

“Thanks, Mildred,” Laura said. She called Baker at Everest, and asked if the prop gun had been found. It hadn’t.

“Mr. Baker, don’t let Hans Klug leave the building. We need to talk with him again, but don’t tell him that. You mentioned that you’re using three dogs, Brahms and the two understudies. Don’t let them leave either...Well, have him put down some newspapers. There’s a connection between Everest and Miracle, and I think it’s a leash. Also, a prop room is like a movie museum, isn’t it? I’ll bet you have something in your prop room that was handled only by Douglas Sanderson in ‘A Study in Scarlet.’ Would you have that retrieved? Be careful not to disturb the fingerprints.”

The Steeles made plans and checked their briefcase of notes and fingerprints as they traveled.

The Steeles were escorted to Baker’s office.

“Mr. Baker, no one who handled the gun has been allowed to leave the building, correct?” asked Remington.

“Correct, except for Archer, to visit you, and he was with me the whole time.”

"Did any suspect go to another room in the building after the accident?"

"Klug was pretty shaken up after the shooting, so we let him take the dog to the dressing room for a few minutes, but we searched there too."

“You’ve searched all the men, the set, the dressing rooms, and every other room they’ve been in?” he continued.

“Correct.”

“Have you searched the dogs?”

“What? How do you search a dog?”

“Mr. Baker, please have a guard escort Mr. Klug to the guard’s station and don’t let him talk to the dogs. Ask other security guards to bring the dogs here and warn them that they might become hostile,” said Remington.

The dogs were brought in. Laura was uneasy in a room with three large carnivores.

“All right, Brahms, remember me?” Remington asked, offering the back of his hand for a sniff to the first dog. “I’m just going to gently pet your back, and take off the itchy ruff you’re wearing.” He ran his hands over the dog’s back, and slipped off the black straps to his ruff. It was a simple broad band of fur.

He repeated the procedure with the next dog. “You’re ruff is a bit loose, isn’t it? Let’s see if I can pull it off.” He started to ease off the straps around the dog’s neck and shoulders. The dog gave a serious warning growl.

“Gut hund, sei ruhe,” he said firmly in German, “Be calm.” The ruff slid off. “Look,” he said, “There’s a pocket. Empty now, but check it for traces of gunpowder; he might have used it to get the real gun onto the set.” He took a deep breath, and approached the third dog. “That only leaves one place to hide the prop gun, and if I were Klug, I’d hide it on the least friendly dog.” He spoke to the three guards. “Would two of you take the two dogs I’ve searched out in the hall? If things get unpleasant, I don’t want to have to deal with three of them. Uh, Calvin,” he said, reading the third guard’s nametag, “Hold that leash firmly. I may need help if he objects to the search.”

“Gut hund, nett hund,” Remington said soothingly, stroking it. “Nice doggy.” The dog growled, displayed its teeth, and Laura saw the ruff move as the dog raised its fur naturally, to make itself look bigger. The movement made a lump apparent in the ruff. Baker watched in fascination. As Remington touched the straps that held the ruff, the 200-pound dog lunged at him, snapping.

“Nein!” Remington ordered harshly. “Nieder! Down!”

Still growling, the dog lay down. Remington and the guard managed to get the ruff off the dog without bloodshed--barely. Remington handed the heavy ruff to Laura. She gently slid a prop gun out of the pocket, onto Baker’s desk, without touching it. She started to dust it for prints, and gave her husband a curious look.

“In my circus days, I helped out with a German dog-and-pony show,” he said with a smile. "These dogs know how to take orders, unlike that silly ragmop, Doolittle."

Remington spoke again, briskly, “Calvin, please put the dogs back in their dressing room to cool off. Mr. Baker, do you have that item that Sanderson used ten years ago?”

Baker displayed a small box. It contained a pipe that the actor had smoked. Laura dusted it for prints, which matched those on the prop gun.

“I believe we’re ready to talk to Mr. Klug now,” she said.

A guard brought in Klug. He saw the ruff, the prop gun, the pipe, and the fingerprint kit on Baker’s desk, stiffened for a moment, then slumped into a chair.

“You have been in Switzerland, I perceive,” said Laura softly. “The dog didn’t bark during the night time, but it shed, didn’t it?”

Klug was a tall, angular man of about sixty, with a full beard. He had spoken with a heavy German accent when the Steeles had interviewed him earlier that day. But when he spoke now, his accent was upper-class British.

“You are right, Ms. Steele. I have been to Switzerland, and the dogs and I were busy last night.”

“I am Douglas Sanderson. I can’t excuse my actions, but I can try to explain them. I had a miserable childhood. My father was a brilliant but harsh man, a cryptographer during World War II, something of a war hero. He never should have married. His genes should have died with him when he drank himself to death a few years after the war. He treated my mother like a fool. He had high standards for me. He made me learn German as a child during the war, so I would know my enemy. He slapped me if I made a mistake in my German irregular verbs when I was five.

“Of course, millions of people have had bad childhoods, and still grew up to be honest, sane people. For most of my life I was one of them. I became an actor partly to be free to express myself, after years of repression. I was successful in a variety of roles, but but I’d go home to a normal, quiet life. I wasn’t particularly famous.

“Then I was chosen for the role of Holmes. I was good in it--more than good. I devoured all the Holmes books, and found myself observing people, and deducing things about them. I felt as if part of me was becoming Holmes.”

“’They Might Be Giants,’” murmured Remington. “A man who becomes convinced that he is Sherlock Holmes.”

“It was damned scary for me. I was behaving like Holmes involuntarily. Holmes was much like my father, whom I still resent, so it was alarming to find myself talking and acting like him. After the film flopped, I went to therapy, I tried prescription medication, and even illegal drugs, but I couldn’t get Holmes out of my head. The only parts I could get were as Holmes. It was so obvious that I was the character.

“I finally decided that, like Doyle, I would have to get rid of Holmes at Reichenbach falls. I very nearly did throw myself in, but I just threw my jacket. I knew that if I went back to acting, the problem would return, so I looked for a profession that I could genuinely enjoy, that did not involve much human contact. Using my childhood German, I apprenticed to a dog trainer in Germany, and established a new identity for myself. I moved to California, where plenty of people can afford well-trained dogs. I found myself specializing in the larger breeds, particularly the Newfoundlands. The Brahms movies made a tidy fortune for me, and I thought my problems were over.

“I didn’t realize it at the time, but Holmes was trying to reassert himself. He knew that if I had several trained huge black dogs, eventually a producer would need them for another version of ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles.’ I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to work on the film. I thought I could handle it, walking onto the Everest lot again. I was older, bearded, with a German accent; even actors I’d worked with closely no longer recognized me. People don’t look much at a dog trainer.

“But when I saw Archer in the costume, the Holmes in me burned with a quiet, jealous rage. He wanted to punish both Archer and Flynn, for impersonating him. Last night, I slipped into Miracle Studios. I had acted there before. I knew where the guards’ coffeepot was, and with Holmes’ background in poisons, I had something to slip into the coffee to temporarily incapacitate them. I knew that the Babbage Engine was too heavy for one man to lift, so I brought the dogs, with harnesses, to help me get it onto a dolly and into my truck. It’s hidden in my kennel now, protected by a tough bitch with a new litter of puppies.

“As you’ve deduced, I brought a real gun onto the set, hidden in the dog’s ruff. With a little sleight-of-hand, I was able to substitute it for the prop. I knew that Archer was supposed to shoot Brahms. After the gun went off, I was so relieved to see him alive that I nearly wept. I took Brahms back to the dressing room, hid the prop gun on Fritz, one of the understudy dogs, and put the plain ruff on Brahms.

“I was willing to destroy the thing I loved most in the world...I had to appease the Holmes in me, the harsh father, by letting the Hound be killed. I was afraid that if I didn’t satisfy him, he might compel me to kill both actors to stop the films. I’ve been trying hard to be sane and honest, and not succeeding,” the old man said wearily.

“Mr. Baker, it appears that no real harm was done,” said Laura. “Perhaps you could arrange for Mr. Sanderson to take medical retirement, and get the help he needs. We’ll escort him to return the engine to Mr. Bourbon. Once Bourbon has it back, he’d probably rather not risk publicity and the lost time from a police investigation.”

As they hoped, Bourbon was so happy with the prompt return of his expensive toy that he decided not to press charges. Sanderson sheepishly handed the director a check for the “rental” of the coffin, and to compensate the guards for their discomfort.

They drove Sanderson to a pleasant clinic where Hollywood’s elite checked in when the pressures of fame made them do unhealthy things. Sanderson arranged for an assistant to handle the dogs at Everest and those at his home business.

****

The Steeles started back to the office. “Two mysteries solved before dinner,” Remington said cheerfully. “God, we’re good.” He phoned Mildred to let her know that the case was solved. No other cases had come in, and it was too nice a day for paperwork, they decided. Mrs. D., their sturdy British nanny, would keep their children occupied after school.

Laura quoted Doyle again. “‘We have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels.’”

They spent the rest of the afternoon having more fun than Holmes and Watson ever had.

END