Canon Fodder

Neville (the Man with the Twisted Lip)

Every library has 'permanent patrons', the people who come almost every day. Some are 'lifelong learners'. Some come to read the newspapers. Some come to send electronic mail or play electronic games. Some come to stave off loneliness.

Some come to find shelter. Outside, they beg. Inside, they sleep. But they cannot sleep inside the Arthur Conan Doyle Room. Though quiet and dark, the Room is open only two hours on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

So the beggar snoring in the padded chair surprised me. Steve Dixie of '3 Gables' fame could not have looked blacker or smelled worse. His clothes were faded, frayed, tattered and holed. And the puffy appearance of his upper lip, drawn up to expose his yellowed teeth in a snarl, was certainly horrific.

He snorted himself awake and blinked at me.

"Scared ya, dinn't I?" He waved a slim, grimy hand toward the glass door, and said, in a cultured voice, "Most of the others look pristine compared to me."

He held out his dirty hand, looked at it, and then let it fall. "Please excuse my appearance, if you can. Neville St. Clair at your service, madame."

"Mr. St. Clair; … why are you …?" I felt embarrassed. "I mean … ."

"Why have I returned to beggary?" He examined his black rimmed fingernails. "I suppose I missed the life. I was not cut out for the banal routine of a white collar job, scribbling down political lies and anxious to meet deadlines. Before I was a reporter on a metropolitan newspaper, I was an actor. I returned to the profession." He smiled. "Superman was within Clark Kent. Hugh Boone's inside me."

"A beggar." I couldn't help sounding disgusted.

"A beggar who can quote anything from Homer to 'Beavis and Butthead'", St. Clair countered, still smiling. I'm a genius and a public servant. I give the citizens entertainment and the opportunity to demonstrate their benevolence."

"You promised Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Bradstreet there would be no more of Hugh Boone."

"Nor is there – in London. But in Berlin, or Washington, or here…." He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his greasy hair. "I'm a Citizen of the World – go where I can, do what I wish."

"What about your family?"

That wiped off his grin. He sat up in his chair and regarded me soberly. "I intended to forswear mendicancy. Unfortunately, Watson could not resist selling my story to the Strand.

"My wife might have forgiven me, eventually. But when the world read about us … ." He shrugged. "It was like I soiled our marriage bed with Hugh Boone's dirt."

He shrugged. "As I told Holmes and Bradstreet, newspaper work paid me far less than begging did. A 'regular job' could not keep my family in the comfort to which we had grown accustomed, but I did not want my children to lack that comfort. My savings sank as my debts rose. So I took a 'business trip' and 'died' en route. My 'widow' claimed the insurance, paid off the debts and now lives a quiet life on the interest of my remaining investments. I meet her whenever I am in England; but the children know me only as 'Uncle Neville'."

"I am sorry to hear that," I said.

"Don't be. This is my métier. I enjoy begging because I enjoy acting." He opened his grubby wallet and held up his ACTRA card. "I occasionally clean up and take a role for the CBC. King of Kensington. Road to Avonlea. DaVinci's Inquest. Hockey Night in Canada …."

"Hockey Night --."

"As a defenseman."

"No wonder the Leafs always lose the playoffs."

He smiled. "But I'm in some spectacular fight scenes."