Sherlock Holmes In America (3 page)

“Not in the strictest sense; but inside of ten minutes, I found myself passing gin palaces that could have rivaled St. Giles for depravity. The gaslights appeared sickly and meager, and riotous men stumbled from one red-curtained den of thieves to the next, either losing their money willingly by gambling it away, or drinking from the wrong glass only to find themselves propped insensate in an alley the next morning without a cent to their name.

“At one point I thought I had lost sight of him, for a drayman's cart came between us, and at the same moment he ducked into one of the deadfalls. I soon ascertained where he had gone, however, and after a moment's hesitation entered the place myself.

“The light shone from cheap tallow candles and ancient kerosene lamps with dark purple shades. Losing no time, I approached the man and asked if I could speak with him.

“He stared at me silently, his dark eyes narrowed into slits. At last, he signaled the barman for a second drink, and handed me a small glass of clear liquor.

“I thanked him, but he remained dumb. ‘Do you speak English?' I inquired finally.

“He grinned, and with an easy motion of his wrist flicked back his drink and set the empty glass on the bar. ‘I speak it as well as you,
señor
. My name is Juan Portillo. What do you want?'

“‘I want to know why you visited the Warburton residence yesterday, and again this afternoon.'

“His smile broadened even further. ‘Ah, now I understand. You follow me?'

“‘There have been suspicious events at that house, ones which I have reason to believe may concern you.'

“‘I know nothing of suspicious events. They hire me to do a job, and to be quiet. So I am quiet.'

“‘I must warn you that if you attempt to harm the colonel in any way, you will answer for it to me.'

“He nodded at me coldly, still smiling. ‘Finish your drink,
señor.
And then I will show you something.'

“I had seen the saloon keeper pour my liquor from the same bottle as his, and thus could not object to drinking it. The stuff was strong as gin, but warmer, and left a fiery burn in the throat. I had barely finished it when Portillo drew out of some hidden pocket a very long, mother-of-pearl handled knife.

“‘I never harm the colonel. I never even see this colonel. But I tell you something anyway. Men who follow me, they answer to this,' he said, lifting the knife.

“He snarled something in Spanish. Three men, who had been sitting at a round table several yards away, stood up and strode towards us. Two carried pistols in their belts, and one tapped a short, stout cudgel in his hand. I was evaluating whether to make do with the bowie knife I kept on my person, or cut my losses and attempt an escape, when one of the men stopped short.

“‘
Es el Doctor!
Dr. Watson, yes?' he said eagerly.

“‘After a moment's astonishment, I recognized a patient I had treated not two weeks before even though he could not pay me, a man who had gashed his leg so badly in a fight on the wharf that his friends had carried him to the nearest physician. He was profoundly happy to see me, a torrent of Spanish flowing from his lips, and before two minutes had passed of him gesturing proudly at his wound and pointing at me, Portillo's dispute had been forgotten. I did not press my luck, but joined them for another glass of that wretched substance and bade them farewell, Portillo's unblinking black eyes upon me until I was out of the bar and making for Front Street with all speed.

“The next day, I determined to report Portillo's presence to the colonel, for as little as I understood, I now believed him an even more sinister character. To my dismay, however, I found the house in a terrible uproar.”

“I am not surprised,” Holmes nodded. “What had happened?”

“Sam Jefferson stood accused of breaking into Charles Warburton's darkroom with the intent to steal his photographic apparatus. The servant who opened the door to me was hardly lucid for her tears, and I heard cruel vituperations even from outside the house. Apparently, or so the downstairs maid said in her state of near-hysterics, Charles had already sacked Jefferson, but the colonel was livid his nephew had acted without his approval, theft or no theft, and at the very moment I knocked, they were locked in a violent quarrel. From where I stood, I could hear Colonel Warburton screaming that Jefferson be recalled, and Charles shouting back that he had already suffered enough indignities in that house to last him a lifetime. Come now, Holmes, admit to me that the tale is entirely unique,” I could not help but add, for the flush of colour in my friend's face told me precisely how deeply he was interested.

“It is not the ideal word,” he demurred. “I have not yet heard all, but there were cases in Lisbon and Salzburg within the last fifty years which may possibly have some bearing. Please, finish your story. You left, of course, for what gentleman could remain in such circumstances, and you called the next day upon the colonel.”

“I did not, as a matter of fact, call upon the colonel.”

“No? Your natural curiosity did not get the better of you?”

“When I arrived the following morning, Colonel Warburton as well as Sam Jefferson had vanished into thin air.”

I had expected this revelation to strike like a bolt from the firmament, but was destined for disappointment.

“Ha,” Holmes said with the trace of a smile. “Had they indeed?”

“Molly and Charles Warburton were beside themselves with worry. The safe had been opened and many deeds and securities, not to mention paper currency, were missing. There was no sign of force, so they theorized that their uncle had been compelled or convinced to provide the combination.

“A search party set out at once, of course, and descriptions of Warburton and Jefferson circulated, but to no avail. The mad colonel and his servant, either together or separately, against their wills or voluntarily, left the city without leaving a single clue behind them. Upon my evidence, the police brought Portillo in for questioning, but he proved a conclusive alibi and could not be charged. And so Colonel Warburton's obsession with war, as well as the inscrutable designs of his manservant, remain to this day unexplained.

“What do you think of it?” I finished triumphantly, for Holmes by this time leaned forward in his chair, entirely engrossed.

“I think that Sam Jefferson—apart from you and your noble intentions, my dear fellow—was quite the hero of this tale.”

“How can you mean?” I asked, puzzled. “Surely the darkroom incident casts him in an extremely suspicious light. All we know is that he disappeared, probably with the colonel, and the rumour in San Francisco told that they were both stolen away by the Tejano ghost who possessed the house. That is rubbish, of course, but even now I cannot think where they went, or why.”

“It is impossible to know where they vanished,” Holmes replied, his grey eyes sparkling, “but I can certainly tell you why.”

“Dear God, you have solved it?” I exclaimed in delight. “You cannot be in earnest—I've wracked my brain over it all these years to no avail. What the devil happened?”

“First of all, Watson, I fear I must relieve you of a misapprehension. I believe Molly and Charles Warburton were the authors of a nefarious and subtle plot which, if not for your intervention and Sam Jefferson's, might well have succeeded.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because you have told me, my dear fellow, and a very workmanlike job you did in posting me up. Ask yourself when the colonel's mental illness first began. What was his initial symptom?”

“He changed his will.”

“It is, you will own, a very telling starting point. So telling, in fact, that we must pay it the most stringent attention.” Holmes jumped to his feet and commenced pacing the carpet like a mathematician expounding over a theorem. “Now, there are very few steps—criminal or otherwise—one can take when one is disinherited. Forgery is a viable option, and the most common. Murder is out, unless your victim has yet to sign his intentions into effect. The Warburtons hit upon a scheme as cunning as it is rare: they undertook to prove a sane man mad.”

“But Holmes, that can scarcely be possible.”

“I admit that fortune was undoubtedly in their favour. The colonel already suffered from an irrational preoccupation with the supernatural. Additionally, his bedroom lacked any sort of ornament, and young Charles Warburton specialized in photographic technique.”

“My dear chap, you know I've the utmost respect for your remarkable faculty, but I cannot fathom a word of what you just said,” I confessed.

“I shall do better, then,” he laughed. “Have we any reason to think Jefferson lied when he told you of the ghost's earthly manifestations?”

“He could have meant anything by it. He could have slit that hole and stolen that firewood himself.”

“Granted. But it was after you told him of Portillo's presence that he broke into the photography studio.”

“You see a connection between Portillo and Charles Warburton's photographs?”

“Decidedly so, as well as a connection between the photographs, the blank wall, and the torn out lilac bush.”

“Holmes, that doesn't even—”

I stopped myself as an idea dawned on me. Finally, after the passage of many years, I was beginning to understand.

“You are talking about a magic lantern,” I said slowly. “By God, I have been so blind.”

“You were remarkably astute, my boy, for you took note of every essential detail. As a matter of fact, I believe you can take it from here,” he added with more than his usual grace.

“The colonel disinherited his niece and nephew, possibly because he abhorred their mercenary natures, in favour of war charities,” I stated hesitantly. “In a stroke of brilliance, they decided to make it seem war was his mania and he could not be allowed to so slight his kin. Charles hired Juan Portillo to appear in a series of photographs as a Tejano soldier, and promised that he would be paid handsomely if he kept the sessions dead secret. The nephew developed the images onto glass slides and projected them through a magic lantern device outside the window in the dead of night. His victim was so terrified by the apparition on his wall, he never thought to look for its source behind him. The first picture, threatening the white woman, likely featured Molly Warburton. But for the second plate . . . ”

“That of the knife plunging into the Texian's chest, they borrowed the colonel's old garb and probably placed it on a dummy. The firewood disappeared when a number of men assembled, further off on the grounds, to portray rebels with torches. The lilac, as is obvious—”

“Stood in the way of the magic lantern apparatus!” I cried. “What could be simpler?”

“And the headaches the colonel experienced afterwards?” my friend prodded me.

“Likely an aftereffect of an opiate or narcotic his family added to his meal in order to heighten the experience of the vision in his bedchamber.”

“And Sam Jefferson?”

“A deeply underestimated opponent who saw the Warburtons for what they were and kept a constant watch. The only thing he stole was a look at the plates in Charles's studio as his final piece of evidence. When they sent him packing, he told the colonel all he knew and they—”

“Were never heard from again,” Holmes finished with a poetic flourish.

“In fact, it was the perfect revenge,” I laughed. “Colonel Warburton had no interest in his own wealth, and he took more than enough to live from the safe. And after all, when he was finally declared dead, his estate was distributed just as he wished it.”

“Yes, a number of lucky events occurred. I am grateful, as I confess I have been at other times, that you are an utterly decent fellow, my dear Doctor.”

“I don't understand,” I said in some confusion.

“I see the world in terms of cause and effect. If you had not been the sort of man willing to treat a rogue wounded in a knife fight who had no means of paying you, it is possible you would not have had the opportunity to tell me this story.”

“It wasn't so simple as all that,” I muttered, rather abashed, “but thank—”

“And an admirable story it was, too. You know, Watson,” Holmes continued, extinguishing his pipe, “from all I have heard of America, it must be an exceedingly fertile ground for men of mettle. The place lives almost mythically in the estimations of most Englishmen. I myself have scarcely met an American, ethically inclined or otherwise, who did not possess a certain audacity of mind.”

“It's the pioneer in them, I suppose. Still, I cannot help but think that you are more than a match for anyone, American or otherwise,” I assured him.

“I would not presume to contradict you, but that vast expanse boasts more than its share of crime as well as of imagination, and for that reason commands some respect. I am not a complete stranger to the American criminal,” he said with a smile.

“I should be delighted to hear you expound on that subject,” I exclaimed, glancing longingly at my notebook and pen.