by Otto Penzler
“You’ll have to wait long enough so the first hundred or so get through the doors and meet the president,” Holmes said. “By then the line will be moving in an orderly way, and the guards will be getting overconfident and bored. Remember that the first move is mine. You will act only after I do.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Booth. “And then I’ll make some hasty attempt at departure.”
“Certainly, but be careful not to succeed. You must remain embroiled with the guards and police officers. If you make it into the open, one of them will surely get a shot off.”
“I’ll be sure to be overwhelmed promptly,” said Booth.
And on they went. Since my presence was not required I retired to my bedchamber and settled my mind with a nap, which helped me to digest the many details I would need to remember two days hence. It was a few hours later before Mr. Booth stood and shook Holmes’s hand. By then, I noticed, he had once again become the old white-haired man.
“I won’t see you again until the afternoon of the sixth, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure we agree on all of the essentials of the performance. If you learn of any changes, please let me know. I’m staying at the boardinghouse at Main and Chippewa Streets.”
“I will, Mr. Booth. In the meantime, know that we have great confidence in you, and we salute you for your patriotism.”
“Good-bye. And good-bye to you, Dr. Watson. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Booth.”
And he was gone. Holmes quickly put away his disguise kit and some other items he and Booth had studied, and said, “I’m hungry, Watson. It’s time for a late supper.”
We left the hotel and walked around the block to a small establishment that had many of the qualities of a London public house. Sitting at a table in the rear of the house was a large man in a blue police uniform. His hat was on the table next to an empty beer glass, and as we came in the door, I saw him move it to the seat beside him.
“Mr. Bull,” said Holmes.
“Sit down,” said the policeman.
Holmes and I took a pair of seats across the table from him, and he raised his hand and beckoned, and the bartender arrived. Mr. Bull said, “Have you had dinner?”
“Well, no,” I said.
“These two gentlemen will have dinner, please. And a pitcher of beer. Put it on my tab.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Do you happen to know what dinner consists of this evening?”
“Roast beef on kummelweck, pickled hard-boiled eggs, beer, sauerkraut, and pickles,” said the barman. “All you want.”
“Excellent,” Holmes said, with what appeared to be sincerity.
I was surprised at the eagerness with which Holmes and the police chief attacked the strange food, but I joined in with little hesitation, and found that the bar fare was exactly what I needed after a long day with my medical colleague. I particularly liked incidentals that had been judged not worth mentioning—short lengths of sausage and small pieces of chicken, primarily thighs and wings. I have often found that in exotic countries the native diet is exactly what is required for the maintenance of health and vigor.
Holmes stood and looked up the hallway behind the barroom to be sure there were no eaves-droppers, then opened the conversation almost immediately. “Chief Bull, do you know why I asked for a chance to meet with you?”
“I do,” he said. “When Captain Allen came to me on your behalf, I made inquiries with the president’s secretary, Mr. Cortelyou. I’ll confess I was feeling insulted that they would hire a private citizen from another country to do my job of protecting important guests in my home city.”
“And did Mr. Cortelyou settle your mind on that score?”
“He did,” said Bull, then leaned closer to us and kept his voice low. “Now I’m not insulted. I’m afraid for everyone involved. If this goes wrong, it will be difficult for anyone to believe that we weren’t joined in a murderous conspiracy. Once the name ‘Booth’ is mentioned…” He shuddered.
“We must be certain that there are no mistakes,” said Holmes. “The fact that you are with us has helped to settle my mind considerably.”
“And what will you need from me?”
“First,” said Holmes, “we must request that you maintain the utmost secrecy. This is not a hoax that can later be revealed. We mean to establish a historical event that will remain enshrined in public knowledge for centuries. The men who know of it are the three of us, the president, Mr. Cortelyou, Dr. Roswell Park, Mr. Booth, and Captain Allen. I believe we can keep it within a small circle of honorable men, only those who must know.”
Chief Bull sipped his beer thoughtfully. “Agreed. Any of my men will do as I say because I say it. They don’t need to know why I say it.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “The portions for which we most need your help are the arrangement and disposition of the audience, the immediate aftermath of the performance, and then, just as important, the events of the following two weeks.”
“You have my cooperation,” he said. “We’ll need to go over exactly what you want to happen, and what you don’t want to happen.”
“I propose to do that as soon as we have finished this sumptuous repast,” said Holmes.
And he did. It took only about an hour spent pleasantly in the American pub for Holmes to choreograph exactly what he wanted—where each officer was to stand, how the citizens would be lined up to meet the president, what would happen as soon as Mr. Booth discharged his part, and so on. Chief Bull, I must say, proved to be a canny and intelligent strategist, picking up every detail and foreseeing more than a few that came from his professional knowledge of the behavior of crowds. By the end of the hour, when he stood and retrieved his policeman’s hat, he and Holmes had a clear understanding.
Holmes was extremely thorough by habit and temperament, and in the time that followed he made sure that each member of the group knew something of the role of each of the others, so that none would mistakenly impede the execution of another’s part. At his urging, each went to the Exposition alone and studied the areas he would need to know during the fateful day, like an actor blocking his part in a play.
And then, before I was even prepared for the day to come, it was the sixth of September. The moment I awoke I knew that the day was going to be hot. The sun had barely risen on the slightly overcast morning when it began to exert a power over the city. The humidity reminded me of those days in Delhi just before the government would decamp each year to the higher, cooler climate of Simla.
At 7:15 a.m. the president awoke at 1168 Delaware Avenue, the home of Mr. Milburn. He took a walk along the avenue, where he met another solitary figure, a tall, trim gentleman equipped as a peddler on the way to the Exposition with a tray of souvenirs to sell. I’m told they walked together for only a couple of blocks, but in that time, a great deal of information was conveyed in both directions. Then the mysterious salesman parted with the president, and they went their separate ways.
Later in the morning Holmes and I were at the railway station to board a train which was to take us to Niagara Falls. I noticed that there seemed to be a large number of prosperous-looking and well-dressed gentlemen waiting on the platform, even after Holmes and I had climbed aboard. The train was held up at the last moment, to take on a particular passenger. The president and his party arrived by coach and were ushered to a special car. The local dignitaries were far too numerous to be admitted to the car, but they filled in on the nearest alternative cars as well as they could, with little jostling.
I whispered to Holmes, “Where is Mrs. McKinley?”
He whispered back, “She’s still at the Milburn house. Her husband fears this heat would be too much for her.” He paused, significantly. “And she has a great many preparations to make. She will have a large role to play in the next few weeks.”
The train took us along the Niagara River, which I judged to be a half-mile wide with a current of three to five knots for most of its length. It was ple
asant to ride along at a brisk pace in the heat. But Holmes insisted on standing and walking the length of the train. I said, “What are we doing?”
“Looking,” he said. “Look for faces that are familiar, faces that don’t belong here, faces that don’t want to meet our gaze, faces that look at us with too much interest.”
We walked from one car to another, with a leisurely gait, looking at the many passengers. At times Holmes would stop and speak to someone in a seat. “A wonderful day to visit the falls, isn’t it?” he would say. Or “Do you have any idea when this train reaches the falls?” Or even, “Is this seat taken?” The person would reply, he would nod and touch the brim of his hat, and then go on. I can be sure that nobody who was in the public sections of the train escaped his scrutiny. At the end, when we were standing at the back railing of the front car, staring ahead at the coal car and the engine, I said, “Well, we’ve looked. What have we seen?”
“Not enough,” he said. “But we’ll see more on the way back.”
“What do you expect to see?”
“You and I have a plan. But what if someone else has a plan of his own? This is a fine day for it. The Exposition is a fine place for it. But an even better place might be the falls.”
“You mean—”
“I mean nothing more than that. Search the faces, Watson.” He opened the door and went up the aisle. This time we were facing the passengers, and had a better opportunity to stare at each one.
At the end of the last carriage before the president’s, he whispered, “We shall have to be vigilant today. There are three on this train who are not what they seem.”
“Which ones?”
“There is a man in a coal black suit in the third car up. He is thin, with long elegant fingers that play idly along the length of his walking stick. He has on the floor between his feet a hard-sided case. I wondered at it because he didn’t put it in the luggage rack.”
“Do you suspect it holds a weapon?” I asked. “Perhaps something silent like the air gun that the blind craftsman Von Herder made and Colonel Moran used in his crime some years ago?”
“The same idea crossed my mind when I saw it, but then I noticed that the clasp on the case bears the emblem of Bergmann-Bayer, a maker of military firearms for the Spanish army,” he said. “The weapon needn’t be silent if he intends to fire it after we reach the falls. I’m told that the roar of the water is so loud that you could fire a field piece and the report would seem no more than a pop. No, I think with him, we have time.”
“An angry Spaniard, trying to get revenge for the war. Who are the other two?”
“One is the middle-aged lady, quite small, wearing the brown dress with green trim in the front car.”
“A lady? Surely you can’t be serious.”
“She’s an unusual lady. She has a very slight but fresh cut, half an inch and nearly vertical, along her jaw line on the left side. I noticed from her movements that she is right-handed. And that is why she cut herself on the left side while shaving. It’s harder to reach with her razor.”
“So it’s a man.”
“And one who shaved extra closely this morning. The makeup powder she must have applied after it happened has run in this heat.”
“Incredible,” I said. “She…he could be carrying anything under those skirts. A brace of pistols. A cavalry sword. Even a rifle.” I thought for a moment. “If we’d only had time, we could have devised a way of ensuring safety.”
“Oh?” said Holmes.
“A device of some kind—perhaps an archway that each passenger had to walk through that had powerful magnets hanging from strings. They would detect the iron and steel of a weapon, swing right to it, and stick.”
“We may consider the idea another time, perhaps,” he said. “I believe we must get close to the third man before the train arrives. He is the one who seems to offer us the most imminent competition.”
“Who is he?”
“Think about this. We bought a ticket. We got on the train. We walked from back to front, then from front to back. We’ve stopped to talk. I just saw a sign that said we were entering La Salle, which is the last place before Niagara Falls. Has the conductor punched your ticket?”
“Why, no.”
“He hasn’t checked anyone else’s either. When I looked at him he avoided my eyes and stared ahead as though he were driving the train. The conductors I’ve observed can practically feel where they are on a line without looking. They have an almost miraculous sense of the exact duration of the journey. I would guess that in a moment he will be making his way to the back of the train looking very conductorly, if you’ll permit me to coin a term. But what he’ll be doing is using his uniform to be admitted to the car where the president sits.”
And within minutes, there he was. As we were reaching the outskirts of a larger city that could only be Niagara Falls, the false conductor suddenly came down the aisle, taking tickets and punching them. He punched them without looking closely at them, which made him seem very experienced, but he was actually too engrossed in judging the distance to his destination, the door of the last car.
Holmes sat in the aisle seat on the right of the car, and I sat in the seat across the aisle from him as we watched the man’s progress. I waited for Holmes to make a move, but he allowed the conductor to continue his advance. I looked at Holmes repeatedly, but saw no sign in his expression that he had even noticed. He actually was gazing out the window at passing glimpses of the river between the quaint buildings of the City of Niagara Falls. The conductor continued his approach. He was ten feet from the door, then five, but Holmes never moved. Finally I could stand it no more. I had my cane across my lap, and as he stepped to the door of the presidential car, I jabbed it between his ankles, tripped him up so he sprawled on the floor, swung the stout ivory handle across the back of his skull, and then threw myself on top of him. I could tell he was dazed, half-conscious, and somewhat deprived of wind. Holmes rather casually reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed me a pair of handcuffs without even standing up. The sight irritated me, but I could see I had only a single choice to make—accept them or reject them, and either must be without comment. I chose to accept them because the conductor was a man of some size and probable strength, and I pulled his arms behind his back and clasped the irons on his wrists quickly before his senses fully returned.
Holmes helped me roll him to his side, and patted his blue uniform tunic. He pulled from the man’s uniform a loaded .45 caliber Colt revolver, a quite sizable weapon for concealment. Holmes slipped it under his coat, and looked up at the nearby passengers, who were all members of the group of local dignitaries not important enough to sit with the president. He fanned the fallen culprit with his conductor’s hat and said to the others, “This heat can make a man faint with just light exercise.”
The man had planned his crime rather well. The train was already pulling up to the platform at Niagara Falls. He had clearly intended to go in, shoot the president, then jump from the last car as the train slowed while approaching the platform. He could have thrown away the conductor’s hat and coat in a second and looked like anyone else in the crowd gathering at the station to see the president’s arrival.
The train stopped, and we waited for the other passengers to make their exit. Then Holmes knocked on the president’s car, and a young soldier opened the door. We could see four other soldiers behind him. “This man was attempting to get in and shoot the president,” Holmes said. “Be sure he is locked up in the Niagara Falls police station right away. Take no chances. You are dealing with a murderer.” He handed the soldier the gun, helped the failed assassin to his feet, and walked down the aisle toward the exit at the front of the car.
Seeing that we were alone, I said, “Why did you do nothing while I fought an armed assassin?”
“Untrue, Watson. I cheered you on—silently, for reasons of security.”
I straightened my clothing as we walked out onto the platform and soon cau
ght up with the American president and his party. They made their way down a broad street lined with trees to a series of staircases that led down to the very brink of Niagara Falls. The blue, wide river narrows at this point into the brink of a semicircular cliff, then drops 170 feet to a churning white cauldron below. The sheer volume of water pouring over the falls was astonishing. It threw a white cloud of mist hundreds of feet into the firmament that was visible for miles. The roar of the water was constant, unchanging, hypnotic. It didn’t matter that the falls were so loud, because their immensity and beauty rendered all sensible men mute, and made all commentary inadequate. Whatever we might have said would have seemed irrelevant.
I noticed as we approached the giant falls and the sight and sound overwhelmed all else, Holmes’s visage seemed to cloud and then freeze in a stoic expression. He walked along, and for a moment, his eyes lost their focus.
“Steady, Holmes,” I said. “I know what you’re remembering, but right now, I need you here and on duty.”
Holmes patted my arm. “Good point, my friend. Reichenbach Falls is a good ten years behind us. It is uncanny how sounds and smells can bring back moments from the past. But we linger in them at our peril.”
We walked along about three hundred feet behind the presidential party, and I could see that Holmes was not watching them, but studying the faces of the people in the crowd. Seeing so many well-dressed men and women in a single group on a promenade along the railing that separated them from the chasm made an impression on all the strangers who were there on holiday. It was difficult for me to tell whether the average American citizen recognized William McKinley, but it was also often difficult for me to tell whether any individual was an American or not. I heard speech that was French, German, Spanish, and several kinds of central European Slavic. There were several Asian voices also, including some speaking Hindi or Punjab. We were, after all, at one of the seven wonders of the modern world, and people had come from all the continents to see it. Very few took their eyes off the water except to watch their steps to keep from falling into it. Presidents, kings, or emperors were tiny, paltry sights compared with nature’s titanic spectacle.