The Fifth Heart

by Dan Simmons

  Former Metropolitan Police Major and Superintendent Brock: So, Mr. Holmes, we have only your word of Rudolph Schnaubelt’s . . . confession.

  Sherlock Holmes: My word and the word of two rather extraordinary law-enforcement officers who were with me when Schnaubelt made his boasts and then tried to escape.

  Secret Service Chief Drummond: Can you tell us the names of these men, Mr. Holmes?

  Sherlock Holmes: Certainly. The first fellow detective present was Inspector Lépine of whom I spoke earlier, and the second police officer there to hear Schnaubelt’s confession—and to help us pull his dead body from the river—was a young and very promising new member of the Brussels police force, an inspector junior-grade by the name of Hercule Poirot. But enough of old cases. What are you gentlemen going to do in the next four weeks—or less—to save the life of President Grover Cleveland?

  * * *

  Holmes stepped out of the circle and set his back against a bookcase filled with steamboat boiler regulations and specifications.

  Vice-President Stevenson stepped forward and faced the other men in the room. “The president,” said Stevenson, “has directed that this group—and anyone else we might find it necessary to invite—meet biweekly on this problem of executive protection. I believe Sunday mornings, ten until noon, shall suffice.”

  “Sundays!” cried Brock. “Now I am to give up my Sundays and attending divine services with my family because of this . . . shadow of a phantasm of a threat? Besides, I no longer have any official capacity in law enforcement. There is no reason for me to be here.”

  “The president wished you to be part of this first assembly,” Vice-President Stevenson said softly.

  “For what possible reason?” demanded the haggard former major and superintendent of police.

  “Your Bureau of Detectives was deeply corrupt when you resigned,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You left, many of them remained and are in positions of higher authority today. Detectives on the payroll of the gangs or anarchists could be fatal to our plans. Your expertise in that area is required. In other words, sir, the President of the United States has commanded you to be what I believe American criminals call . . . a rat.”

  Brock made blustering noises but had nothing discernible to say.

  “Fine, let us move on,” said Stevenson, as if some minor motion had been passed in the Senate. “Major and Superintendent Moore, please explain to us your department’s role in protecting the president.”

  The major and superintendent cleared his throat. “The Metropolitan Police provide security for the president when he makes public appearances in Washington City.”

  “Do your officers accompany the president to and from these public venues?” asked Stevenson.

  “No, Mr. Vice-President.”

  The pale, round face with its faded mustache looked around the room. “Who does travel in the city with the president?”

  Silence.

  “Who protects the president when he is in the Executive Mansion?” asked Stevenson.

  “The White House Police,” said Major and Superintendent Moore.

  “Is that a unit under your jurisdiction, Major and Superintendent Moore?”

  “Not directly, Mr. Vice-President.” Moore again cleared his throat. “We train the recruits and send them to that unit, but the White House Police Force has its own autonomy.”

  “Who is in charge of the White House Police Force?” asked Stevenson.

  “Sergeant O’Neil, sir,” answered Major and Superintendent Moore.

  “Sergeant O’Neil?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many police officers are under your supervision in the entire Metropolitan Police Department, Major and Superintendent Moore?”

  “Two hundred, Mr. Vice-President.”

  “Not counting the White House Police.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And how many officers are assigned to the White House Police?”

  “There were three until this spring, Mr. Vice-President,” said Major and Superintendent Moore. “But the number and intensity of the death threats that President Cleveland has been receiving has caused that unit to raise its numbers to twenty-seven.”

  “Working on three shifts around the clock, one presumes.”

  “More or less, Mr. Vice-President.”

  “So at any given time, the president has about nine rookie police officers guarding his life.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Moore, who was beginning to sound aggrieved. “But that is by far the most any American president has had guarding him, with the exception of President Lincoln who sometimes had an escort of federal cavalry or infantry billeted on the White House grounds.”

  “But not that night at Ford’s Theatre,” said Vice-President Stevenson.

  “No, sir,” said Moore. “The soldier usually assigned to sit outside the president’s booth at the theater was not present that evening.”

  “When President Cleveland goes to Chicago on May first to open the Columbian World Exposition in front of a crowd of a hundred thousand or more people, how many of your Metropolitan Police or the White House Police . . . or the army, for that matter . . . will accompany the president?” asked Stevenson.

  There was silence as the men looked at one another.

  Finally Major and Superintendent Moore said, “None, Mr. Vice-President. When the chief executive travels to other cities, his protection is the responsibility of the police force of that city.”

  Stevenson looked at Major and Superintendent Moore for a long, strangely tense moment. Stevenson’s gaze remained as soft as his voice, but there was some electrical charge in the air. The vice-president turned his gaze toward the tall Secret Service Chief.

  “Mr. Drummond,” said Stevenson, “I understand that your department has had some experience in recent months in guarding the president.”

  “A small amount, sir,” said Drummond. “We have well-trained and -armed agents, as you know, and from time to time in the past few weeks, the White House Police have asked us to provide some additional protection for President Cleveland.”

  “At the White House or when he leaves it?” asked the vice-president.

  “When he leaves it to speak or make any public appearance, sir,” said Drummond.

  “That is the role of the Metropolitan Police Department, sir,” snapped Major and Superintendent Moore. It was obvious that this was the first the major and superintendent was hearing about the Secret Service poaching on the Police Department’s prerogatives.

  Drummond nodded. “Yes, Major and Superintendent, we know. But during events such as the president’s address to the large crowds at City Park last Christmas, your department had only three uniformed officers there to guard the president. At the request of the White House Police—presumably because of specific threats received—we sent six of our armed agents in plain clothes.”

  “Unnecessary,” snapped Major and Superintendent Moore.

  Ignoring the Metropolitan Police Major and Superintendent, Vice-President Stevenson said, “Chief Drummond, has not the Secret Service Department of the Treasury also experimented in accompanying the president during his travels in the city?”

  “Oh, yes!” cried former Major and Superintendent Brock, braying a laugh. “Six men in a carriage rumbling after the president’s coach, trying to keep up, getting lost on K Street! What a farce that was! The entire population of Washington, D.C., was amused by the folly.”

  Drummond bowed his head. “Agents following the president’s carriage in a separate coach has not proved effective, Mr. Vice-President. And President Cleveland and his advisors understandably do not want agents in the presidential coach with them.”

  Vice-President Stevenson folded his arms. “Chief Drummond, if Congress were to assign full-time protective duties to the Secret Service—full-time both here in Washington and wherever and whenever the president travels—how long would it be before your agency could assume those duties?”

  D
rummond blinked. “We would have to hire and train more agents, Mr. Vice-President. Currently we simply do not have enough for full-time protection duties for the president even here in Washington. And these agents would have to be trained . . . bodyguard duties require special skills beyond the usual police officer’s purview.”

  “Nonsense,” said Moore.

  Drummond turned his cold gaze onto the major and superintendent. “Are Metropolitan Police officers trained to throw themselves in front of the person they are assigned to protect?” he asked in a low, firm voice. “To take the bullet meant for that official?”

  “Of course not,” barked Moore. “The very idea is absurd. Police seize the suspect or foil the aim of the would-be assassin before any shot can be fired. They’re not trained in suicide.”

  “Effective executive protection agents from the Secret Service will have to be trained in exactly such tactics,” Drummond said flatly. “Stop the assassin if possible. Take the assassin’s bullet in protection of the president if necessary.”

  Moore turned away to look out the window.

  “How long, Mr. Drummond?” repeated the vice-president.

  “By the beginning of the new year, Mr. Vice-President, for full, round-the-clock, traveling anywhere with the president, executive protection. We shall have to open new bureaus in various American cities. Train some agents in the full panoply of advance security work.”

  Stevenson nodded almost sadly, as if he had expected that date. “But you can provide some ad hoc protection in the meantime? When called upon?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Drummond.

  “Arrange to have at least eight of your agents travel with President Cleveland to Chicago in May,” said the vice-president.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I may make a suggestion, gentlemen,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  Everyone looked at the consulting detective, who was taking his ease sitting on one corner of the empty desk.

  “I would suggest, Chief Drummond, that when you choose those agents who will most closely accompany the president, that they be chosen in part for their height and thickness of torso.”

  “The public won’t be able to see the president!” cried former Major and Superintendent Brock.

  “That is precisely the idea,” said Holmes. “It is a shame, however, that this tall phalanx of bodyguards cannot surround the president when he is greeting dignitaries or speaking to the crowds. Still, the closer they can press, the safer the president will be.”

  Drummond nodded and made a note. “We have such large and tall men amongst our best agents,” he said softly. “I shall see that they shall be closest to the president when he is walking somewhere or standing alone.”

  “Preposterous,” said former Major and Superintendent Brock.

  Ignoring Brock and nodding slightly to Holmes, Vice-President Adlai E. Stevenson said, “And so we shall continue having meetings here on Sunday, gentlemen, until the details of this transfer of executive protection responsibilities are worked out.” Again he glanced at Holmes and then at Brock and Washington’s current police Major and Superintendent, Moore. “Although not everyone here today may be required in all future meetings.”

  “What shall we call this committee, sir?” asked Rockhill from the State Department.

  Stevenson smiled slightly. “Since it is the Office of Steamboat Inspection Department’s Supervising Inspector General Dismont, I suggest we refer to our little group as the Steamboat Inspection Committee. Any objections?”

  No one spoke.

  Before the men began moving toward the doorway, Vice-President Stevenson said, “A final question, gentlemen. Who is in charge of liaison with the Chicago police for the president’s security at the Columbian Exposition on May first?”

  The silence was embarrassing.

  “I can do that, sir,” Drummond said at last.

  “I shall as well,” said Major and Superintendent Moore. “I had always intended to send a telegram or two.”

  Sherlock Holmes moved away from where he lounged against the bookcase. “I shall be going to Chicago next week to make arrangements,” he said while tugging his kid gloves tighter. “I would be pleased to work with Chief Drummond and his Secret Service on such liaison with the Chicago P.D.”

  The six men took turns riding the lift down in pairs. Holmes rode down with the vice-president. At the bottom, the two men had to take care in stepping up the seven inches the heavy elevator had sunk below the level of the first floor.

  The Supervising Inspector General of Steamboat Inspection and his secretary were standing in the lobby, their faces red with indignation.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dismont,” said the vice-president to the flustered Steamboat Inspector General. “I will be in touch regarding any future weekend needs for your office.”

  “This is ridiculous,” muttered Dismont as he and his secretary jumped the seven inches down into the elevator to ride back up to their offices and while Holmes held the front door for the vice-president.

  Outside on the sidewalk, Stevenson turned to the detective. “Is it, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Is what, sir?”

  “Is our whole effort . . . no, is this entire talk of attempted assassination by anarchists . . . ridiculous? Are we all being ridiculous?”

  “We’ll know soon enough, Mr. Vice-President.” Holmes touched the handle of his walking stick to the brim of his top hat and turned away up Constitution Avenue.

  Tombstones for Teeth and Tame Cats

  On Saturday morning, Henry James received a hand-delivered message from John Hay asking if James could drop by that afternoon—anytime that afternoon—for a talk that would take no more than a few minutes.

  James did stop by the mansion commanding the corner of H and 16th Streets, taking care to time his stop late enough after lunch and early enough before tea time so as not to put Hay to any obligation.

  James had barely given his hat and coat and cane to Benson when Hay hurried from his study to shake James’s hand, thank him for coming, and lead him into the parlor.

  “I’ve always admired the two kinds of stone you and Clara chose for this room,” said James, settling into the deep leather chair to which Hay had gestured.

  “Do you?” asked Hay, looking around idly as if he’d not looked at the stone—or the parlor—for some time. “The African marble is called Aurora Pompadour, I seem to recall, and the rest is Mexican onyx.”

  “My favorite combination of stone in your lovely home may be the yellow fireplace in the library with its reddish or pink hearth,” said James.

  “Oh, yes . . . that hearthstone was damnable hard to find. Everything was either too red or too pink or too . . . something. As it was, we decided on that very subdued reddish porphyry . . . ‘Boisé d’Orient’ I think they called it. Would you care for something to drink, Harry?”

  “No . . . thank you. This is a restful pause in the middle of my constitutional. Walking allows my mind to wander back to work. I’ve been pondering a new play, but nothing clear enough to talk about yet.” James had hurried that last phrase in, to make sure they would not be discussing his work.

  “Then I’m doubly sorry for intruding on your Saturday afternoon,” said Hay. “But I thought a fair warning was due to you.”

  “Warning?”

  “And an apology,” said Hay. “You and Mr. Holmes should be receiving an invitation to a tiny dinner party for tomorrow evening, nothing elaborate, just Adams and a few friends here at the old fort. Half the sincere apology is for such short notice.”

  “And the second half?” murmured James.

  “You asked for discretion when you arrived—your presence not to be advertised, that is—but that was almost two weeks ago, Harry. You know how word gets around in this small town in spite of all our efforts.”

  “Of course,” said James. “And I am delighted to hear that Adams is back and I look forward to seeing him.”

  “He says that he never dines out,” Hay said, s
till seeming somewhat distracted. “But you know as well as I that that’s all hogwash. Henry has fewer full-fledged dinner parties next door, but he’s as social as ever. He simply wants to appear the recluse.”

  “I possess some kindred feeling there,” said James. “May I ask who else will be attending besides Adams? King’s not back in town, is he?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Hay. “I sent a cable to his Union Club in New York but haven’t received a reply. He’s probably a mile underground in Mexico by now, up to his earlobes in gold nuggets or diamonds.”

  James waited.

  “The rest of the party will be made up of the usual suspects,” continued Hay. James remembered all too well going to a mediocre play—little more than a comic-romance melodrama, really—in London with the Hays and how for days afterward John had kept repeating that (to James) eminently forgettable line—“The party will be made up of all the usual suspects.” Knowing the rather tight Washington social circles the Adamses, Hays, et al. had always moved within, James caught at least a glimmer of the humor Hays found in “all the usual suspects”.

  “Don and Lizzie are coming,” said Hay. “And Lodge and Nannie, of course. And Adams . . . the whole thing is a sort of welcome-home thing for Adams. And . . . oh, yes . . . when you inquired about the children last week, I told you that Alice, Helen, Clarence, and Del were all away at school, but Del has the weekend off from St. Paul’s Academy and Helen will also be joining us.”

  “Wonderful,” said James, who loathed having children—even nearly grown children—at a dinner party. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen them. You said in a recent letter that Del has had quite the growth spurt?”

  Seventeen-year-old Adelbert—“Del”—Hay had always struck Henry James (and probably his father John Hay, as well) as a rather slow, dull, uninteresting boy. But James hadn’t seen any of the four children since the Hay family’s last en masse descent upon London at least five years ago.