World's Greatest Sleuth!

by Steve Hockensmith

  “Hmm.” Old Red looked at Valmont. “You say the buildings over to the Exposition close at nine?”

  “Oui.”

  “And the grounds close at eleven?” my brother asked Greene.

  “That’s correct.”

  Gustav threw both men a grimace. “So y’all just wandered around in the dark for two hours before comin’ back to the hotel?”

  “It was hardly dark,” Valmont said. “The electrical lighting of the White City is quite magnificent.”

  “We’d all had a chance to see how the contest would play itself out, Mr. Amlingmeyer,” Greene added. “Through puzzles requiring a familiarity with the Fair. Our wanderings might seem strange to you, but frankly I find it harder to believe that any of us would have stayed in his room.”

  “Bravo, M. Greene. An excellent point.” Valmont turned back to my brother with eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that what you claim? That after such a dramatic din-AIR and with so much at stake the next day, you simply went to bed?”

  “Well, I—”

  “That sounds like a man trying to establish an alibi,” Greene said.

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “Oui! Yes! And then after M. Curtis was found dead, M. Amlingmeyer engaged in a spectacle ostentatoire … a … a…” Valmont spun his hands in the air until the English words came to him. “An ostentatious show meant to establish that he alone was interested in catching the kill-AIR.”

  “A transparent attempt to place himself above suspicion,” Greene said.

  “Exactement! In addition, what are we to make of this mysterious odor that only M. Amlingmeyer can detect?”

  “Now, really—”

  “He was putting us on a false scent,” Greene said. “Literally.”

  Valmont nodded. “It is quite damning. Or would be—”

  “If we actually thought Mr. Curtis had been murdered,” Greene finished for him.

  The two sleuths grinned at each other.

  Old Red fumed.

  Usually he was the clever one, the crafty one, the one tripping folks up with words. Yet with less than a minute of effort, Valmont and Greene had just deduced circles around him. Never had I seen the tables turned on my brother with such complete and obvious ease.

  This, I realized, was what it would look like to go up against a killer who knew more about detectiving than we did—a professional as opposed to talented amateurs like ourselves. If mystery-solving’s truly a game, as Valmont had said at dinner the night before, then there was one conclusion I couldn’t escape.

  We were out of our league.

  18

  THE TEMPEST

  Or, Pinkerton’s Get-together Just About Blows Apart

  My brother didn’t have much time to seethe over Valmont and Greene’s little humiliation. King Brady came through the hotel’s front doors and (after pausing by the front desk to let Mrs. Jasinska bat her eyes at him) joined us in the lobby. He still looked a tad addled and ashen, as he had atop the Mammoth Cheese, but he managed to smooth away the jitters by the time he slipped into a seat across from me and Gustav.

  There was some small talk along the “Where’s Pinkerton and what’s he going to say?” line, but my brother didn’t join in. He just stared at Brady, seeming to perk up every time the man crossed or uncrossed his legs. I noticed his nostrils flare a few times, too, so by the time he reached up and scratched the end of his nose—giving me the signal to drop my watch again—I was ready.

  I shook my head.

  Old Red scratched harder.

  I shook harder.

  Gustav clawed at his big beak with such vigor I’m surprised his mustache didn’t fly off.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Brady,” I said. “Would you mind if my brother smelled your shoes?”

  “What?”

  Brady gaped first at me, then at Old Red.

  Valmont rolled his eyes.

  Greene shook his head, his mouth puckered tight.

  “It won’t take but a second,” Gustav sighed, and without waiting for permission, he went down on his knees before Brady, lifted up the man’s right foot, and pointed at a chunk of brown crud wedged against the heel of his shoe. “Thought so. You’ve been in a cow pen.”

  Brady jerked his foot away. “So what if I have?”

  Valmont’s eyes stopped rolling and started bulging.

  “You have?” Greene said.

  “Would you mind?” Brady snapped at Gustav, who was still kneeling at his feet.

  My brother got up and plopped back in his own chair.

  “You paid a call on some Herefords today,” he said. “Mind tellin’ us why?”

  “Because that’s where Curtis sent me. My second clue in the contest today was hidden in the Stock Pavilion.”

  Old Red nodded, a familiar, faraway look coming over him. Inside his head, enough gears were turning to do Tom Edison proud.

  “That explains why Curtis was over by them pens last night,” he muttered. “He was tuckin’ away Brady’s envelope for today.”

  “Which tells us how the you-know-who came to follow him there,” I said.

  Gustav nodded, gazing off at nothing.

  “So why didn’t the you-know-who you-know-what him right then and there?” I asked. “I don’t imagine there was a crowd around the livestock in the dead of night. It would’ve been the perfect place to do the deed. Wallop him upside the head and make it look like a cow kicked him. Spook the cattle and flatten him. Smother him in plop instead of cheese. There would’ve been a dozen ways to get it done. Why carry on to the Agriculture Building and do it there?”

  I half-expected the standard reply, courtesy of Mr. Holmes: “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.” Yet Old Red just shook his head again.

  He had data. He was trying to theorize. Those gears of his weren’t running smooth, though—the facts were grinding against each other like clockwork knocked out of synch. It was a wonder smoke wasn’t coming out of his ears.

  A sudden commotion kicked up by the front door, and we all turned to find our missing colleagues coming into the hotel in a herd. Some conversation amongst them was already well under way—and some fracas close at hand.

  A couple fracases, actually. William Pinkerton and Colonel Crowe and Urias Smythe were going ’round and ’round about something, while Blackheath-Murray traded snarls with Frank Tousey. Miss Larson, meanwhile, was off to the side, furiously taking notes.

  Watching them approach took me back to my childhood in Kansas and the times I spotted twisters bearing down on the farm. Only this time there was no storm cellar to flee to.

  “—only thinking of yourself—!”

  “—put this insanity behind us—!”

  “—taking advantage of a man’s death—!”

  “—make amends for your duplicity—!”

  “—save ourselves from utter ruin—!”

  The hullaballoo drew the last of our party into the lobby: Diana and Detective Sergeant Ryan. They came strolling in together looking so perfectly pleased and at ease, I almost expected to see a picnic basket dangling from Ryan’s crooked arm.

  Without ever letting up his carping at Pinkerton, the colonel collected his adopted daughter and steered her to a divan as far from me and my brother as possible while still keeping himself within shouting range.

  “Is anyone gonna bother tellin’ us what the heck is goin’ on?” Gustav asked.

  I don’t think anyone heard him but me.

  “Alright,” said Pinkerton, striding over to stand beside Ryan, “that’s enough.”

  Something about the way he said it made it so. The lobby went quiet.

  “We’re going to talk this through quickly and professionally, with no more outbursts,” Pinkerton said. “Understood?”

  There were a few sullen nods, then Pinkerton went on, addressing himself first to Old Red and me, then Valmont and Greene.

  “Armstrong Curtis’s death is being investigated by the proper authorities … and only the proper
authorities. It’s too early to come to any conclusions—”

  “But here one comes anyhow,” my brother said under his breath.

  “—but every indication points to a sad accident, and we will move on knowing that we now honor not just Sherlock Holmes, but his greatest admirer as well. The contest will continue.” Pinkerton switched his attention to Tousey and the colonel, staring hard. “As planned.”

  “Pardon my askin’,” Gustav said, “but how else would it continue?”

  Pinkerton did not pardon his asking. In fact, it looked like Pinkerton wanted to squash him into a ball and take him bowling.

  “It could continue,” Tousey sneered, “as something other than a farce.”

  “The matter’s been settled,” Blackheath-Murray said. “Let it lie, sir.”

  Boothby Greene’s publisher had struck me as a mild-mannered fellow up till then, gentlemanly and affable, but there was steel beneath his soft, genteel appearance—you could see it glittering in his eyes.

  King Brady’s publisher had plenty of steel himself, though. Or brass balls, anyway.

  “I will not let it lie!” Tousey thundered. “Not when we’ve been handed the chance to fix this crazy thing before Pinkerton makes laughingstocks of us all!”

  “Hear, hear!” King Brady threw in, swinging a fist into the air. I think he was expecting more folks to join in with him—more than the nobody he got, at least—and his cheeks took on a touch of pink as his hand dropped back to his side.

  “What are you proposing?” Greene asked Tousey. “That we toss out all the clues Mr. Curtis prepared and create entirely new ones?”

  “Exactly. Pinkerton was supposed to come up with the contest in the first place. Let him do it now.”

  “I got another question,” Gustav said.

  Everyone ignored him.

  “I already said no,” Pinkerton snapped at Tousey.

  “But why?” Tousey shot back. “Curtis was trying to make us look like fools—he told us as much last night. We should let him get away with it even after he’s dead? No!”

  Pinkerton was a big, bluff man, and all he had to do was lean forward and it felt like his shadow was falling over the whole room.

  “Now, look here, you—”

  Old Red poked a finger up into the air. “I got another question.”

  “I think Tousey’s making good sense,” Colonel Crowe announced. “Those silly puzzles … they’re embarrassing. Why not come up with something worthy of real detectives?”

  “Hear, hear!” Brady cheered, pumping his fist again.

  “I will grant,” Blackheath-Murray said, addressing himself to Tousey, “that Mr. Curtis’s approach wasn’t perfect. Still, to toss out everything he prepared is to invite chaos.”

  “I agree,” Greene said.

  “Invite chaos?” Smythe whined. He had a love seat all to himself, and it looked like he was going to collapse back on it in a dead faint. “What do you call this?”

  Then the chaos really kicked in.

  Blackheath-Murray was fussing at Smythe.

  Brady was fussing at Blackheath-Murray.

  Greene was fussing at Brady.

  Tousey was fussing at Pinkerton.

  Pinkerton was fussing right back at Tousey.

  Colonel Crowe was fussing at everybody.

  Smythe was fussing at God. (“What did I do to deserve this?”)

  Valmont … well, I couldn’t tell who he was fussing at, his accent grew so thick.

  Diana took it all in with the look of someone who’d rather be somewhere else—the South Pole, a Bolivian prison, the middle of a volcano, anywhere.

  Ryan, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the show, while Miss Larson was scribbling so fast it was a wonder her notebook didn’t light up like kindling.

  And my brother … what was he doing, anyway?

  I watched in helpless horror as he calmly rose to his feet, climbed atop his chair, cleared his throat, and hollered at the top of his lungs.

  “Put … it … to … a … vote!”

  Then he stepped down, reseated himself, and folded his arms across his chest.

  The shouting was over. Now everyone was staring.

  Pinkerton found his voice again first. “This isn’t a Grange meeting. I’m in charge, and I’ve made my decision.”

  “Well, it looks to me like you got a mutiny brewin’,” Old Red replied. “If you wanna stamp it out, a vote’s the way to go. Cuz if it swings your way, Tousey there ain’t got a leg to stand on, and this argument is over.”

  Diana raised a hand. “I second the motion,” she said. “You might be in charge, Mr. Pinkerton, but it’s our money at stake, not to mention our reputations. We should have a say in how we proceed from here.”

  “I third the motion,” I said.

  “I fourth it,” said Valmont.

  Colonel Crowe swiveled around to glower at Diana, but she kept her eyes on William Pinkerton. Unlike my brother, he wasn’t one of those people you can see thinking. For all the turning the wheels may have been doing in his head, his jowly face remained stock-still for a long, long time.

  “Alright,” he finally said. “All those who think we should discard Curtis’s clues and start from scratch, raise your hand.”

  Tousey’s and Brady’s hands were up first, of course, followed by Smythe’s and Crowe’s. The colonel’s glare finally got through to Diana, and she reluctantly voted with her father.

  I started to put my hand up again as well, but Gustav gave me a quick shake of the head.

  “But you hate riddles,” I whispered.

  “I surely do,” my brother said. “Now get that hand down.”

  I did as he said.

  “That’s five, then,” Pinkerton said. “Now, all those who think we should see this through with the contest as it stands?”

  Blackheath-Murray and Greene had their hands up first, followed by Valmont and, finally, Old Red.

  “Come on, come on,” my brother prompted me.

  “Boy, this is a Chicago election, alright.” I raised an arm. “You gonna cast a vote for Mr. Holmes, too?”

  “Five. A tie,” Pinkerton said. “And as judge, I can—”

  “One party ain’t been heard from,” Gustav said.

  He turned toward Miss Larson.

  “Me?” The lady finally gave her pencil a rest. “I’m just an impartial observer.”

  “You’re here representin’ McClure’s Magazine,” Old Red reminded her. “Your bosses have as much ridin’ on this as anybody. You need to weigh in.”

  The lady eyed him a moment, and though her face remained the same expressionless mask of ice, I could somehow sense the shift inside her as she reappraised the peculiar little fellow with the grubby clothes and the rough ways.

  “Alright,” she said. “I side with you and Mr. Pinkerton. It would be a shame to let Mr. Curtis’s hard work go to waste. Let us honor him by carrying on as he intended.”

  “That’s six to five, then,” Pinkerton said. “We will move forward with the contest as is. Those who wish to withdraw—and forfeit their stake—are free to do so. Otherwise, the matter is closed.”

  Momentous words, those were. Funny thing, though: Nobody was looking at Pinkerton as he spoke them. All eyes were on Old Red.

  Half the folks there looked like they were trying to figure out what he was thinking.

  The other half? It looked like they were trying to figure out how to get his face into a chunk of cheddar.

  19

  THE OFFICE

  Or, I Smoke Out a Lie While Gustav Burns Our Bridges

  “Well, now … if you’ve concluded your business, I hope I might have a word.”

  Slowly, all the stares and glares directed at Gustav swung toward Sergeant Ryan. He was a mousy-looking man—lean and tidy and generally nondescript—yet there was a sparkle in his eyes that suggested unflappable amusement. My brother took in all around him with a perpetual glower, as if bitterly disappointed to find himself str
anded on such a sorry world as this one, but Ryan was just the opposite. Everything that put a frown on Old Red’s face slipped a wry little smile onto his.

  “For those of you who don’t know,” he said, “my name is Moses Ryan, and I’m a detective sergeant with the Chicago Police Department. I’m handling the inquiry into Mr. Curtis’s unfortunate demise, and it would be a great service to me if I could speak with each of you separately. Mr. Pinkerton has arranged for the use of the hotel office just behind me, so that we might have some privacy. If you could wait here while I call you in one at a time, I promise you we’ll be finished by—”

  “I’ll go first.” My brother hopped off his seat and stalked toward the office. “I got questions for you, too, and I’d rather ask ’em away from all the rowdydow out here.”

  “Thank you. That would be fine,” Ryan said softly, unfazed, smile still in place. “Mr. Pinkerton, would you care to join us?”

  “I’d love to,” Pinkerton muttered, and he fairly sprinted toward the office door.

  Away from us.

  He was wise to make his escape. Within seconds, Frank Tousey was grousing at Eugene Valmont for voting to keep Curtis’s clues, which drew Blackheath-Murray in to defend the Frenchman, which drew King Brady in to back up his publisher, which drew Boothby Greene in to back up his publisher, which drew the colonel in to tell everybody they were fools, which drew from Urias Smythe a pathetic appeal to heaven for deliverance from all the uproar, which did not seem to draw in God at all, as the bedlam carried on unabated.

  The ladies kept out of it, and I tried to follow their lead. I did slip in one small bit of detecting, though, just to cover my rump should my brother want to know how I’d made myself useful while he’d been off interrogating Sergeant Ryan.

  “Got a match?” I said, sliding in beside Smythe.

  I slipped a hand into my coat and began fishing around as if for a pouch of tobacco.

  “I’m sorry,” Smythe mumbled, too benumbed by all the hubbub to even look at me. “I don’t smoke.”

  I’d meant to bum a stogie off him under the pretext of forgetting my rolling papers. If he’d really been out buying cigars the night before, as he’d told Mrs. Jasinska, perhaps the brand would have offered some clue. This was far, far better, however. I’d been digging for potatoes and struck gold.