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618 pages, Hardcover
First published March 24, 2015
At the top of the card within the plain border, there were five hearts embossed. Four of the hearts had been colored in, in blue, with what looked to have been hasty strokes of a colored pencil or crayon. The fifth heart was left uncolored – blank.
Henry James knew immediately the more general meaning of what the hearts signified. He had no clue as to what the empty heart or the single line of print below the letters – a single sentence that looked to have been added by a typewriting machine – might mean.She was murdered.
In the rainy March of 1893, for reasons that no one understands (primarily because no one besides us is aware of this story), the London-based American author Henry James decided to spend his April 15 birthday in Paris and there, on or before his birthday, commit suicide by throwing himself into the Seine at night.
Clemens laughed until he began coughing again. “Don’t you see, James?” he said at last. “You and I are only minor characters in this story about the Great Detective. Our little lives and endings mean nothing to the God-Writer, whoever the sonofabitch might be.”
There were only the three of them in the canvas-walled blacksmith shop – Holmes, the tall man with the big knife, and the tall man's body odor. Holmes stayed silent, the man with the knife stared at him without speaking, and the stench spoke for itself.
“Forcing school children to recite a national pledge doesn’t sound very American to me,” said James. “No,” agreed Holmes. “It sounds German. Very German.”