Sherlock Holmes In America (22 page)

“And you led Mr. Barratt to believe that this recipe was proof that—”

“I led him nowhere, Watson. He led himself. He had tried, for reasons that doubtless seemed honorable and patriotic to him, to take advantage of my reputation. This is a small revenge.”

“But what shall you tell him?”

“That the Alamo Museum must, alas, do without Colonel Crockett's violin. Texas seems to be a resilient state. I hope it may learn to live with the disappointment.”

Bill Crider

Bill Crider is the author of more than fifty published novels and numerous short stories. He won the Anthony Award for best first mystery novel in 1987 for
Too Late to Die
and was nominated for the Shamus Award for best first private-eye novel for
Dead on the Island
. He won the Golden Duck Award for best juvenile science fiction novel for
Mike Gonzo and the UFO Terror
. He and his wife, Judy, won the best short story Anthony in 2002 for their story “Chocolate Moose.” His latest novel is
Murder in Four Parts
. Check out his Web site at
www.billcrider.com
.

I
have written little about Sherlock Holmes's adventures in the United States, not least because Sherlock Holmes himself requested that I refrain from any attempt to tell how he occupied himself there. Both he and I agreed that it was best for me to confine myself to setting down what he did in his native England, if I had to set down anything at all. His inclination always was to believe that I exaggerated somewhat when reporting the events of his career.

Now, however, because Holmes has left London again and lives in pleasant anonymity, enjoying his view of the Channel and his bees, I believe that he would not take it amiss if I were to set on paper at least one of his adventures in the New World. He said as much at one time. The story that comes to mind happened the year after the strange events at Wisteria Lodge, and Holmes and I had special reason to remember it, as we discussed one evening as we sat in our rooms at 221B Baker Street.

I remember the night well. The moon was full, and its light shone through the windows overlooking the street. The windows were closed, and a brisk wind swept down the street, occasionally rattling a somewhat loose pane. Holmes, whose powers of concentration far exceed my own, showed no sign that the faint noise bothered him, or that he heard it at all. He sat reading the day's news, and I said to him, “It must bother you a great deal, Holmes.”

He lowered the newspaper, looked at me over the top edge of it, and said, “Whatever do you mean by that, Watson?”

“The fact that you share a name with one of the most shockingly brutal and cruel murderers of this century.”

“You surprise me, Watson,” said Holmes, lowering the newspaper into his lap.

“Furthermore,” I said, “it must disturb you greatly that you were in the same city with him and knew nothing of his frightful depredations.”

“You are positively brilliant this morning, Watson,” said Holmes. “For those are my thoughts exactly. How, pray tell, did you come to fathom them?”

“I know your methods, Holmes,” said I, perhaps a bit too smugly. All too often in the past, Holmes had amazed me by seeming to read my mind, when in reality he had merely been observing me. Being able to turn the tables on him was a pleasant diversion.

Holmes put the newspaper aside and went to the chimneypiece to fetch the Turkish slipper in which he kept his tobacco. Having done so, he reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a briar pipe.

When Holmes had filled it with tobacco and lit it, he looked at me and said, “You, of course, saw the newspaper earlier and read about the trial of the notorious ‘Torture Doctor,' known as H. H. Holmes, and surmised the rest.” He paused and puffed on the pipe to make sure the tobacco was burning to his satisfaction. “I do not believe we have mentioned the similarity of the names before, but you are quite correct, Watson. It does bother me a bit that Mudgett should have chosen for himself my own patronym, but that is not his only alias. He has had many others.”

“And he will soon meet his well-deserved end under the original name of Mudgett,” said I. “Was the other point I mentioned also correct?”

“That I am bothered by having been in some proximity to Mudgett without knowledge of his crimes? Yes, Watson. I wish that I had known something of them at the time. With that knowledge I might have been able to put a stop to him before he had killed so many.”

“How many? Is the number even known?”

“No,” said Holmes. “Some surmise he may have done away with more than a hundred victims, but I suspect the number twenty-seven is much more likely.”

He resumed his seat in the chair and took up the newspaper once more.

“I remember your desire to visit the Columbian Exposition in Chicago,” I said. “And to see Buffalo Bill's Wild West once again.”

Holmes had become quite a student of the history of Buffalo Bill Cody and the American West after his first meeting with the man. He put aside the newspaper again and glanced at the patriotic V. R. formed by bullet holes in the wall.

“Yes, indeed, Watson. Meeting Colonel Cody at the time of the Golden Jubilee was quite interesting. He and I have something in common, I believe.”

I merely nodded at that. I did not have to ask Holmes what he meant. More than once he had expressed his opinion that the wild tales of Buffalo Bill, as related by Mr. Buntline and Mr. Ingraham, contained no more excesses than those I myself composed about him.

“While you did not hear about Mudgett while we were visiting the White City,” I said, “you did find opportunity to exercise your skills in the service of good.”

Holmes smiled a thin smile. “Ah, Watson. While you know my methods, I know yours. You are ever on the alert for something with which to fill your notebooks, some item you can later spin into a tale of adventure for your readers.”

I laughed. “You have caught me out, Holmes, for that was indeed the very thought that crossed my mind. We are even, then, for I have read your thoughts, and you have read mine. I should very much like to tell of our American adventure some day.”

“I do not believe the events of the story will be of interest to your readers, as they occurred so far away.”

“Even in America there are many who know of you,” I replied.

“Very well,” said Holmes. “Perhaps in later years you will find occasion to tell the story.”

And so at last I have.

After the bizarre affair at Wisteria Lodge, the idea of a trip to the White City to see “the highest and best achievements of modern civilization” had a great appeal to Holmes and me. We were certain that the sight of the Exposition's grounds would be one to inspire even the dullest of souls.

Surprisingly enough, Buffalo Bill's Wild West show was not a part of the fairgrounds. Colonel Cody had, I believe, wanted to be a part of the Exposition, but he was denied the privilege. He was too much of a showman, however, to let that stop him. He simply set up his tents just outside the grounds, taking up several blocks with his campgrounds and arena. His extravagant advertisements promised to introduce his “Congress of Rough Riders,” with more than 450 horses, ridden by vaqueros, Cossacks, gauchos, Indians, cowboys, and more.

“Buffalo Bill's Wild West will be a show on a grand scale,” Holmes remarked as we prepared to leave our hotel on the morning after our arrival in Chicago. “Even grander than the one presented before the queen.”

“Perhaps we shall see the battle of the Little Big Horn enacted once again,” said I, recalling a particularly exciting moment.

Just then there came a knock upon the door. Holmes's eyes widened, and I confess that I was startled. I had not heard the sound of anyone approaching, and I was certain that the same was true of Holmes, who rose and went to the door.

He stopped with his hand on the knob and said, “Colonel Cody, I presume.”

Then Holmes opened the door to reveal the great showman standing there. He wore a wide-brimmed grey felt hat, black coat and britches, and western boots. His hair, moustache, and goatee were shot through with grey, and his piercing gaze lighted on Holmes's face.

“Mr. Holmes,” Cody said, sweeping off his hat, “it is a pleasure to see you again. But how did you know who I was before you even opened the door?”

“Who else in this city but the great scout of the plains could move so silently through the corridors of the hotel that no one could hear him?”

Cody had turned his right ear slightly toward Holmes to hear the answer, and Holmes touched his nose surreptitiously so that only I could see. I ascertained his meaning, as I smelled the faintest odor of livestock, a clue that I felt we need not mention to Cody.

“I guess that's so,” Cody said with a smile.

Holmes gestured him inside. “You remember Dr. Watson, I am sure.”

Cody said that he did, and shook hands with me in his frank American way. After the re-introduction, Holmes offered him a chair. Cody sat down, both feet planted on the floor, his hands clasping his knees as he leaned slightly forward. He was about to speak, but Holmes raised a hand to stop him.

“Before you tell us why you have come to visit,” Holmes said, “I would like to know how you learned we were in Chicago.”

“Easy enough,” Cody said. “I saw it in the newspaper.” I suppressed the urge to tell Holmes that the article proved I was right about his being known in North America.

“Ah,” Holmes said, with a glance in my direction as if to say he knew my thoughts. “I suppose some reporter or other noted our arrival at the railway station.”

“Must have,” Cody said, “and then he jotted it down in time for the late edition. As soon as I saw it, I decided to track you down.”

Holmes walked across the room and rested his shoulder against the chimneypiece. “Not as difficult as tracking on the plains, I imagine,” said he. “But you did not come here to talk about tracking.”

“No,” Cody said. “I came to ask for help.”

Holmes took his pipe and the Persian slipper, brought all the way from England on our journey, from the chimneypiece. He filled his pipe with tobacco from the slipper, and when he had made sure the pipe was lighted to his satisfaction, he said, “I am not surprised to hear it. A man with your duties and responsibilities at this moment would not come merely for a visit. What is the nature of the problem?”

Cody leaned further forward as if to express his earnestness. “It's not real easy to explain. Have you heard that one of the exhibits here at the Exposition is Sitting Bull's cabin?”

Holmes looked in my direction. Taking my cue, I said, “We have read of it, but have not yet strolled the Midway. I believe there will be a daily ‘war dance' performed at the site. It is, if you will permit me to say so, not unlike something from your own show.”

“It sure is,” said Cody. “Some folks might even see it as some kind of conflict, but that's not the problem.”

“The problem has to do with the cabin, however,” said Holmes.

“It does. I believe somebody wants to destroy it.”

“But why?” said I. “And how?”

“How? Well, the plan is to burn it. Why? That's hard to say. Some people never have forgiven Sitting Bull for his part in the Custer massacre, and even his death at the hands of the Lakota police didn't end their desire for revenge. To destroy his cabin would be one way of striking at him even though he's dead.” Cody sighed. “There's more to it than that, though. If the cabin's destroyed, at least some of the blame will fall on me and people in my show. Sitting Bull was with me for a little while, and even now I have some Indian performers that the government and a lot of the rest of the country would prefer to have living on the reservations. Destroying the cabin would be an act of revenge, and it would make me and my performers look bad.”

“Have you informed the police?” I asked.

“Certainly,” Cody said, “but I have a feeling they're not up to the job.”

Holmes nodded his assent and added, “Their forces are spread too thin with the Exposition and all its visitors. It would be difficult for them to mount a twenty-four-hour guard on an exhibit on the basis of a rumor.”

“It's no rumor,” Cody said. “I'm sure of that.”

“Then how did you come to hear of it?” asked Holmes.

“From Annie Oakley and Frank Butler. They overheard two men talking. One of them said, ‘Burn Sitting Bull's cabin.' Butler says he heard him distinctly, and he heard the other agree. The voices came from behind a row of tents. Naturally, Butler ran down to the end of the row, but by the time he got there, the men had disappeared, lost in the crowd of people who work on the show. There are hundreds of them.”