World's Greatest Sleuth! (32 page)

With no more flames to worry about, I finally managed a longish look at our saviors. Of the two first on the scene, one was bearded, the other not, yet both seemed vaguely familiar. It was hard to see clearly through eyes still teared-up from all the smoke, though, and the third gent proved a distraction, what with his spluttered, near-hysterical questions of the “How did—? What could—? Did you—?” school.

“Perhaps you’d better go and fetch along an officer of the law,” the bearded man said, and the sound of his soft, lilting brogue told me we had an officer of the law among us already. Gustav waited till the befezzed fellow had hurried away to address him by name.

“Good thing you were tailin’ us today, Sergeant Ryan,” he said, holding out his hand. “I assume that was you followin’ the Crowes yesterday.”

Ryan took my brother’s hand and gave it a shake. “I’ve been keeping an eye on things, in my own quiet way.”

I peered at the policeman’s beard, which suddenly seemed so obvious in its falseness it wouldn’t pass muster in a kindergarten pageant about the life of Lincoln.

“So the sergeant here’s the Other Other Bearded Man?” I said to Old Red.

He nodded, then turned to the man beside Ryan—a tall, lanky fellow with sunken eyes and swarthy skin—and offered him his hand as well.

“We owe you our thanks, too, Mr. Agajanian. I’m sure glad you had a change of heart about us.”

The man huffed out a bitter grunt, but he shook my brother’s hand all the same.

“I am angry. I am not crazy,” he said. “I could not stand by and see you die.”

I squinted at the man’s eyes and nose and found I knew them well. This unbearded man was the Bearded Man: Emile “Billy Steele” Agajanian.

“You shaved since yesterday,” I said to him.

Agajanian slapped his hands to his lean, freshly smoothed cheeks. “Oh, such a deduction! I can see why Smythe prefers you two to the likes of me!” He dropped his hands and rolled his eyes. “Of course, I shaved. You pulled out half my chin whiskers yesterday! What’s more, you had seen me up close twice. With my beard, I wouldn’t get within thirty feet of you without being recognized. Without it, I almost got close enough to lock you in this room. Imagine my surprise when someone else did it first.”

“Yeah. About that someone else…,” Gustav said.

“I don’t think you’ll like it,” Ryan said.

“Oh?”

“He had a beard,” Agajanian said. “Black. Very thick.”

“A big man?” I asked. “Burly?”

Agajanian shook his head. “Not especially.”

“That all you got?” Old Red said. “A thick black beard on a not so burly feller?”

“I think he was wearing a brown coat.” Agajanian shrugged. “He was in and out very fast.”

Ryan jerked his head at Agajanian. “And I was watching
him
.”

I hung my head and groaned. “Oh, Lord, no.”

“Yup. Looks like we got us Another Other Other Bearded Man.” Gustav dismissed this newest mystery with a wave of the hand. “We ain’t got time to sit around paintin’ pictures of him, though—and what’s more, there ain’t no need to. If we get to that egg quick, we’ll find our answers. If we don’t, we ain’t gonna have nothin’ but questions till kingdom come.”

“What makes you say that?” Ryan asked.

My brother ignored him, turning instead to me. “We gotta get back to the Court of Honor. My guess is right, the egg’s gotta be around there somewhere.”

“What makes you say
that
?” I asked. “Mr. Another-Other-Other up and stole our clue.”

“We don’t need no clue to get within spittin’ distance of the finish line. Every day so far, the egg’s been tucked away in a building in direct line of sight of that bandstand we start from. They can’t go any further off and expect an audience to tag along. Now, the egg hunt’s taken us to the Agriculture Building, the Mines Building and the big long one with the name to match.”

“The Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building,” I said.

“Right. So that leaves what else in the Court of Honor?”

“The Administration Building—”

“Closed to the public,” Ryan threw in.

“—and the Electricity and Machinery buildings.”

Old Red nodded. “It’s one of them last two then, if the pattern holds. Only choice now is to hightail it thataway, duck into them buildings, and hope we hear Major Bacon and his boys. If they’re kickin’ up their usual racket, that’ll lead us in the right direction.”

Agajanian shook his head with grim-faced admiration. “I owe you an apology. You
are
good.”

“Save the pats on the back for later … if we get our man. Right now, we gotta skedaddle.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Amlingmeyer,” Ryan said. “A serious crime has been committed here. Innocent people could have been killed, and I’m not talking about you and your brother. What makes you think I’m going to let you go stir up more trouble?”

“You ain’t gonna let us. We’re just gonna do it. Come on, Brother.”

Gustav stomped off toward the doorway—which was suddenly blocked by the Egyptian ticket taker and two blue-coated, potbellied Chicago bulls.

“Those two! They must have started it!” our fezzy friend cried. “They were trying to destroy my temple!”

“You there. Wild Bill,” one of the coppers said to Old Red. “What’s this all about?”

I turned to Sergeant Ryan again. “Alright, so we’re back to askin’. But come on—you must’ve known all along we had us some skullduggery here, though you couldn’t say so. Otherwise, why would you be runnin’ around with someone else’s hair stuck to your face? The Exposition’s a big deal, with big-deal backers, I understand that. Your hands were tied. But that don’t mean you gotta tie ours, too. Let us go, before it’s too late.”

The sergeant looked at me, saying nothing, the usual twinkle in his eyes as dead as the fire we’d just put out.

“Well?” the uniformed cop prompted. “Is anyone going to tell me what the hell’s going on here?”

“I can do that, Officer … Haas, isn’t it?” Ryan reached up to his ears and pulled a rubber band out from around each, and just like that his bushy beard popped free. “Detective Sergeant Ryan from Central Station. I happened to be here attending to a spot of police work when the trouble began. I’ll explain everything. In the meantime”—he nodded at me and Gustav—“these two gentlemen are free to go.”

“What about me?” Agajanian asked.

“You are not,” Ryan said simply. Then he shooed me and my brother away. “Go on … and happy hunting.”

“Thanks, Mo!” I called over my shoulder as we darted off.

“You won’t regret it, Sergeant Ryan!” my brother added.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Amlingmeyer.”

“But those men nearly burned the place down!” the Egyptian wailed as we scooted around him. “And just look what they did to my mummies! They’re black as coal!”

“Oh, I assure you it wasn’t their fault,” Ryan replied. “As for your ‘mummies,’ you’ll find there’s more than enough gauze and papier-mâché in Chicago to make more.”

The last thing I heard from the crypt was Agajanian shouting after us.

“I want my coat back!”

When we reached the gates to the White City again, we found but two wheeled chairs still waiting on the other side. Ours. Valmont, Greene, and the Crowes were all ahead of us somewhere.

“Did King Brady ever come thisaway?” Gustav asked our charioteers. “Good-lookin’ young feller with dark hair? Natty dresser? In a hurry?”

“Sure, we saw him. Went out to the Midway not long after you, then came tearing back through a couple minutes ago.”

Old Red gave himself all of two seconds to muse on that before throwing himself into his chair. “The Electricity Building! Go!”

I settled into my own seat, but before the poor soul tasked with pushing me could get to it, he handed me a small envelope.

“The lady said to give you this.”

It was already torn open, and as we got to rolling southward, I slipped out the card inside and looked it over. It was another clue—the one the Crowes had just found tucked away along the Midway, no doubt. Diana had left it for me in case our own proved too tricky or we jumped to the wrong conclusion.

I looked over at my brother as his cart flew up the gravel path beside mine.

“We don’t gotta rely on Major Bacon, after all! We got the Crowes’ clue to crack!”

“Well, get to crackin’, then!”

So I did.

The G___ C_____

Its cage does not itself entrap,

for it has no wind-borne wings to flap.

Neither is it gray or golden hued

(though its gleam a fortune does imbue).

It feathers a nest, but not its own;

just one in the hand could purchase a throne.

You’ll find its like down man-made hole,

yet those who dig seek not for coal.

By now, assuredly, you know its name

… though why it’s called that, no one can say!

I didn’t just crack it, it practically came pre-cracked: Like our first clue of the day, this one was laughably easy. What wasn’t so laughter-worthy, though, was the fact that we were headed to the wrong place.

“Forget the Electricity Building!” I shouted. “The Machinery Building, too! It’s the Liberal Arts Building we want!”

“But—” Gustav began.

“I’m tellin’ ya, the egg’s in the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building!”

There wasn’t another “But.” There wasn’t an “Are you sure?” or a “Why?” Old Red just looked back at the young men panting behind us and said, “You heard him. Manufactures and Liberal Arts. Pronto!”

Not three minutes later, we were sprint-limping through the building as fast as our leather leggings would allow. We were behind most of the others, sure, but that didn’t mean we were out of the running. As we passed collections of porcelain and pottery, medical supplies, musical instruments, photographs, stained glass, and on and on—not to mention what seemed like a million gawping sightseers—the sound of a great, murmuring multitude grew steadily louder. I was leading us the right way … and no one was cheering for a winner yet.

Then a deafening roar echoed through the massive hall like thunder, and a moment later Major Bacon’s band added to the din. They were playing “The Gladiator,” which told me exactly what to expect when we finally turned off the broad thoroughfare running up the middle of the building and got the Tiffany Pavilion in sight.

There was the crowd, parted up the middle by low-slung velvet ropes and a small army of Columbian Guards. Halfway up the red carpet that lead to the Tiffany exhibit of jewelry and pearls and precious stones were Diana and Colonel Crowe. Farther on a ways was Eugene Valmont.

Beyond them all, at the far end of the carpet, was King Brady.

He was coming down a stepladder set up beside the rotating column of gold atop which had rested, the last time I’d been there, the Tiffany Diamond, otherwise known as “the gray canary.” The gem’s pyramid-shaped glass case was empty now, and Brady had what I knew to be its latest, temporary occupant in his hands.

When he stepped off the ladder, he held the Egg of Columbus up for all to see, and the crowd hurrahed him again. Then he turned to the cluster of folks waiting for him at the base of the ladder—Frank Tousey, Lucille Larson, Urias Smythe, Blackheath-Murray, a small flock of newspapermen, and three overdressed swells I took to be representatives of Tiffany & Co. of New York.

With them was William Pinkerton. Brady gave him the egg.

And with that, the competition to find the World’s Greatest Sleuth ended in a draw. The only thing it had established for certain was who
wasn’t
the greatest: us.

Yet though the contest was over, our work wasn’t. We carried on along the carpet, sweeping up the Crowes as we went. The four of us shared some hurried, whispered words before the colonel and Diana slipped under the velvet ropes and disappeared into the crush on the other side. Then my brother and I moved on to Eugene Valmont, each taking him by an arm without stopping.

“Well done, miz-yer,” Old Red told him.

“Excusez-moi?”
Valmont said, startled to find himself being hustled along between us.

“You’re in a mighty exclusive club,” I said. “The five greatest sleuths in the world!”

“What say we go congratulate your newest member?”

Gustav nodded ahead at Brady, who’d taken to throwing kisses to the crowd between bows.

“Oh.
Naturellement
. That would be the sportsmanlike thing to do, yes?”

“Yup,” said Old Red.

“Exactemente,”
said moi.

Where the red carpet ended, the Tiffany Pavilion began, and strung out along its borders was more velvet rope. Strung out along
that
was a mixture of Columbian Guards and hard-eyed men in dark suits, all of them intent on keeping the rabble a safe distance from the treasure-packed cases on display. As we drew up close, two moved out to intercept us, but I kept my eyes locked on William Pinkerton.

“We have come to concede defeat,” I announced. “May we humble commoners pay homage to the King?”

The guards looked back at Pinkerton, who gritted his teeth and nodded his head. We were allowed to pass through into the pavilion.

Brady didn’t notice our approach: He was too busy glad-handing the stuffed shirts while Tousey blocked a photographer who’d set up his tripod nearby.

“Here you go. Someone else to kiss your ring,” I said, and we deposited Valmont before Brady—then swept past to the stepladder he’d descended but a moment before.

Gustav started climbing. I turned and planted myself by the bottom step.

Tousey spun around and lurched toward us. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You ready, Brother?”

When I got no reply, I threw a quick glance back. Old Red had come around to the far side of the ladder before starting up, so as he stood there, feet three rungs from the top, he was facing our audience: a swollen sea of humanity overflowing into the exhibits and showrooms and galleries all around.

Gustav opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

There he was. A man who could hardly look a young lady in the eye gazing out at hundreds of them, not to mention their fathers and mothers and brothers and so on. A man who hated pretension and the putting on of airs making a spectacle of himself in a red-and-white leather suit. A man who didn’t care for talking trying to address himself to more people than he’d ever spoken to in his entire life.