by Bill Crider
“There are no vampires,” Holmes said, though it was plain he was still a bit distracted.
“Nevertheless,” said Stoker, “after they read my book, they will believe.”
As the coach clattered away, I said to Holmes, “Do you think he will succeed?”
“Perhaps,” said my friend, “but the mind of man is more perverse than any horrors of the imagination.” With that, he shook himself and appeared to brighten a bit. “But we have averted one disaster today, and that may be enough. Let us go in and see if Mrs. Hudson has returned. It may be that she can prepare us a decent dinner. It has been along time since breakfast.”
He turned to the door, and I followed him inside.
The Adventure in the White City
I have written little about Sherlock Holmes’s adventures in the United States, not least because Sherlock Holmes himself requested that I refrain from any attempt to tell how he occupied himself there. Both he and I agreed that it was best for me to confine myself to setting down what he did in his native England, if I had to set down anything at all. His inclination always was to believe that I exaggerated somewhat when reporting the events of his career.
Now, however, because Holmes has left London again and lives in pleasant anonymity, enjoying his view of the Channel and his bees, I believe that he would not take it amiss if I were to set on paper at least one of his adventures in the New World. He said as much at one time. The story that comes to mind happened the year after the strange events at Wisteria Lodge, and Holmes and I had special reason to remember it, as we discussed one evening as we sat in our rooms at 221B Baker Street.
I remember the night well. The moon was full, and its light shone through the windows overlooking the street. The windows were closed, and a brisk wind swept down the street, occasionally rattling a somewhat loose pane. Holmes, whose powers of concentration far exceed my own, showed no sign that the faint noise bothered him, or that he heard it at all. He sat reading the day’s news, and I said to him, “It must bother you a great deal, Holmes.”
He lowered the newspaper, looked at me over the top edge of it, and said, “Whatever do you mean by that, Watson?”
“The fact that you share a name with one of the most shockingly brutal and cruel murderers of this century.”
“You surprise me, Watson,” said Holmes, lowering the newspaper into his lap.
“Furthermore,” I said, “it must disturb you greatly that you were in the same city with him and knew nothing of his frightful depredations.”
“You are positively brilliant this morning, Watson,” said Holmes. “For those are my thoughts exactly. How, pray tell, did you come to fathom them?”
“I know your methods, Holmes,” said I, perhaps a bit too smugly. All too often in the past, Holmes had amazed my by seeming to read my mind, when in reality he had merely been observing me. Being able to turn the tables on him was a pleasant diversion.
Holmes put the newspaper aside and went to the mantel to fetch the Turkish slipper in which he kept his tobacco. Having done so, he reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a briar pipe.
When Holmes had filled it with tobacco and lit it, he looked at me and said, “You, of course, saw the newspaper earlier and read about the trial of the notorious ‘Torture Doctor,’ also known as H. H. Holmes, and surmised the rest.”
He paused and puffed on the pipe to make sure the tobacco was burning to his satisfaction. “I do not believe we have mentioned the similarity of the names before, but you are quite correct, Watson. It does bother me a bit that Mudgett should have chosen for himself my own patronym, but that is not his only alias. He has had many others.”
“And he will soon meet his well-deserved end under the original name of Mudgett,” said I. “Was the other point I mentioned also correct?”
“That I am bothered by having been in some proximity to Mudgett without knowledge of his crimes? Yes, Watson. I wish that I had known something of them at the time. With that knowledge I might have have been able to put a stop to him before he had killed so many.”
“How many? Is the number even known?”
“No,” said Holmes. “Some surmise he may have done away with more than a hundred victims, but I suspect the number twenty-seven is much more likely.”
He resumed his seat in the chair and took up the newspaper once more.
“I remember your desire to visit the Columbian Exposition,” I said. “And to see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West once again.”
Holmes had become quite a student of the history of Buffalo Bill Cody and the American West after his first meeting with the man. He put aside the newspaper again and glanced at the patriotic V. R. formed by bullet holes in the wall.
“Yes, indeed, Watson. Meeting Colonel Cody at the time of the Golden Jubilee was quite interesting. He and I have something in common, I believe.”
I merely nodded. I did not have to ask Holmes what he meant. More than once he had expressed his opinion that the wild tales of Buffalo Bill, as related by Mr. Buntline and Mr. Ingraham, contained no more excesses than those I myself composed about Holmes.
“While you did not hear about Mudgett while we were visiting the White City,” I said, “you did find opportunity to exercise your skills in the service of good.”
Holmes smiled a thin smile. “Ah, Watson. While you know my methods, I know yours. You are ever on the alert for something with which to fill your notebooks, some item you can later spin into a tale of adventure for your readers.”
I laughed. “You have caught me out, Holmes, for that was indeed the very thought that crossed my mind. We are even then, for I have read your thoughts, and you have read mine. I should very much like to tell of our American adventure some day.”
“I do not believe the events of the story will be of interest to your readers, as they occurred so far away.”
“Even in America there are many who know of you,” I replied.
“Very well,” said Holmes. “Perhaps in later years you will find occasion to tell the story.”
And so at last I have.
After the bizarre affair at Wisteria Lodge, the idea of a trip to the White City to see “the highest and best achievements of modern civilization” had a great appeal to Holmes and me. We were certain that the sight of the Exposition’s grounds would be one to inspire even the dullest of souls.
Surprisingly enough, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show was not a part of the fairgrounds. Colonel Cody had, I believe, wanted to be a part of the Exposition, but he was denied the privilege. He was too much of a showman, however, to let that stop him. He simply set up his tents just outside the grounds, taking up several blocks with his campgrounds and arena. His extravagant advertisements promised to introduce his “Congress of Rough Riders,” with more than 450 horses, ridden by vaqueros, Cossacks, gauchos, Indians, cowboys, and more.
“Buffalo Bill’s Wild West will be a show on a grand scale,” Holmes remarked as we prepared to leave our hotel on the morning after our arrival in Chicago. “Even grander than the one presented before the queen.”
“Perhaps we shall see the battle of the Little Big Horn enacted once again,” said I, recalling a particularly exciting moment.
Just at the moment there came a knock upon the door. Holmes’s eyes widened, and I confess that I was startled. I had not heard the sound of anyone approaching, and I was certain that the same was true of Holmes, who rose and went to the door.
He stopped with his hand on the knob and said, “Colonel Cody, I presume.”
Then Holmes opened the door to reveal the great showman standing there. He wore a wide-brimmed grey felt hat, black coat and britches, and western boots. His hair, moustache, and goatee were shot through with grey, and his piercing gaze lighted on Holmes’s face.
“Mr. Holmes,” Cody said, sweeping off his hat, “it is a pleasure to see you again. But how did you know who I was before you even opened the door?”
“Who else but the great scout of the plains
could move so silently through the corridors of the hotel that no one could hear him?”
Cody had turned his right ear slightly toward Holmes to hear the answer, and Holmes touched his nose surreptitiously so that only I could see. I ascertained his meaning, as I smelled the faintest odor of livestock, a clue that I felt we need not mention to Cody.
“I see,” Cody said with a smile.
Holmes gestured him inside. “You remember Dr. Watson, I am sure.”
Cody said that he did, and put forward his hand for shaking in his frank American way. After the re-introduction, Holmes offered him a chair. Cody sat down, both feet planted on the floor, his hands clasping his knees as he leaned slightly forward. He was about to speak, but Holmes raised a hand to stop him.
“Before you tell us why you have come to visit,” Holmes said, “I would like to know how you learned we were in the city.”
“Simple enough,” Cody said. “There was a small article in the newspaper.”
I suppressed the urge to tell Holmes that the article proved I was right about his being known in North America.
“Ah,” Holmes said, with a glance in my direction as if to say he knew my thoughts. “I suppose some reporter or other noted our arrival at the railway station.”
“No doubt,” Cody said, “and then jotted it down in time for the late edition, where I saw it and determined to track you down.”
Holmes walked across the room and rested his shoulder against the chimneypiece. “Not as difficult as tracking on the plains, I imagine,” said he. “But you did not come here to talk about tracking.”
“No,” Cody said. “I came here to ask for your help.”
Holmes took his pipe and the Persian slipper, brought all the way from England on our journey, from the chimneypiece. He filled his pipe with tobacco from the slipper, and when he had made sure the pipe was lighted to his satisfaction, he said, “I am not surprised to hear it. A man with your duties and responsibilities at this moment would not come merely for a visit. What is the nature of the problem?”
Cody leaned further forward as if to express his earnestness. “It isn’t easy to explain. Have you heard that one of the exhibits on display at the Exposition is Sitting Bull’s cabin?”
Holmes looked in my direction. Taking my cue, I said, “We have read of it, but we have not yet strolled the Midway. I believe there will be a daily ‘war dance’ performed at the site. It is, if you will permit me to say so, not unlike something from your own show.”
“Indeed,” said Cody. “Some might even see it as a slight conflict, but that is not the problem.”
“The problem has to do with the cabin, however,” said Holmes.
“Yes. I believe someone plans to destroy it.”
“But why?” said I. “And how?”
“How? The plan is to burn it. Why? There are a number of possible reasons. Some have never forgiven Sitting Bull for his part in the Custer massacre, and even his death at the hands of the Lakota police has not lessened their desire for revenge. To destroy his cabin would be one way of striking at him even though he is dead.” Cody sighed. “There is more. If the cabin is destroyed, at least some of the blame will attach to people in my employ. Sitting Bull was with me for a short time, and even now I have a number of Indian performers whom the government and much of the population would prefer to have living on the reservations. Destroying the cabin would be an act of revenge, and it would also reflect badly on me and my performers.”
“Have you informed the police?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Cody said, “but I fear they are not equal to the task.”
Holmes nodded his assent and added, “Their forces are spread too thin with the Exposition and all its visitors. It would be difficult for them to mount a twenty-four hour guard on an exhibit on the basis of a rumor.”
“It is no rumor,” Cody said. “Of that, I’m certain.”
“Then how did you come to hear of it?” asked Holmes.
“From Annie Oakley and Frank Butler. They overheard two men talking. One of them said, ‘Burn Sitting Bull’s cabin.’ Butler heard him distinctly, and he heard the other agree. The voices came from behind a row of tents. Naturally Butler raced to the end of the row, but by the time he reached it, the men had disappeared, lost in the crowd of employees. I have hundreds.”
“And no one else overheard the conversation?” said Holmes.
“No one. The nearby tents were deserted, and it is amazing that Butler happened to hear, considering the noise of the camp. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes, or must I seek elsewhere?”
“Butler overheard nothing else?”
“Only nonsense. He could tell you himself if you would be so kind as to visit my campgrounds.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see what we can do to assist our American friend.”
Colonel Cody expressed his thanks and settled his hat on his head. Holmes and I readied ourselves and went with him to the site of the great Columbian Exposition.
We went first to the Indian village on the Midway, as it was closer to the hotel. The village was located across the way from the Lapland village, which had a board building covered with sod as well as a tent, and the International Dress and Costume Exhibit, which promised “40 Ladies from 40 Nations, a World’s Congress of Beauties.” I was quite eager to have a look inside the building, but Holmes, of course was not interested.
“We did not come here to gawk, Watson,” he said.
Further down the Midway was the immense Ferris Wheel, towering two hundred and fifty feet above the ground. I was thoroughly interested in that, as well, but Holmes had eyes only for the Indian village.
First he inspected the sign that announced the war dancing. He said, “Make a note of the time, Watson.” I did, and we entered the area and found the cabin easily. The outside walls were pocked with bullet holes and what I took to be splashes of blood, possibly a result of Sitting Bull’s final moments.
An Indian stood near the entrance. He was clothed in full buckskin regalia and wore long braids and a feather in his hair. Cody spoke to him. The man moved aside, and we entered. As we did, the man went quickly out the back door. He wore a loose shirt with crimson bands at the cuffs, elbows, and shoulders. A wide crimson V adorned the neck. Cody paid him no mind, but Holmes stood silently for a moment, watching the doorway.
The moment passed, and Holmes, as was his custom, examined the entire edifice with great care. I had no idea what he might have been looking for, as, knowing nothing of such a cabin, I saw nothing out of place. The place smelled of the smoke of many winter fires. The odor had infused the very wood of the walls, along with the smell of tobacco.
When Holmes had finished his inspection, he pronounced himself ready to speak to Butler, and Cody led us down the Midway, past innumerable wonders, though none was so grand as the Ferris Wheel. We had a walk of several blocks beside the tracks of the Illinois Central Rail Line before reaching a crossing street and then another long walk past the tents of Cody’s show and livestock before reaching the campgrounds, which were located between the Illinois Central Rail Line and the Exposition itself. Farther to the east was the vast inland sea called Lake Michigan, and a breeze from the lake cooled the air.
The campgrounds swarmed with men and women striding about in the colorful garb of all the nations represented by the Congress of Rough Riders, and of course American Indians and cowboys of all stripes. They seemed to have no purpose in mind, but Cody assured us that all had definite assignments. The air was thick with the smell of livestock.
“We had best talk to Mr. Butler as soon as possible,” Holmes said.
“Before I left to see you, I asked him to be available in his tent,” Cody said, and he led us through the crowds.
As we walked, I heard a veritable babel of languages spoken around us. I wondered if Butler had detected a distinct accent, and I was certain that would be among the first things Holmes questioned him about.
The t
ent to which we were led was somewhat larger and grander than most, if grand is a term that may be applied to tents. The flap was pulled back, and we went inside.
What I saw was quite different from the interior of Sitting Bull’s cabin. The tent was furnished as well as the hotel room Holmes and I had engaged. Standing near a sofa was a tall man wearing a black coat. He had black hair and a black moustache, and he greeted Cody with a smile.
“Are these the men you told me about?” he said, appraising us frankly.
“Yes,” Cody said, and performed the introductions. When those were done, Butler and Holmes sat on the sofa, while Cody and I took chairs nearby. I had hoped to see Little Sure Shot, but she was not in evidence.
“Annie’s in the main tent,” Butler said with a smile, as if he sensed my disappointment. “She’s always practicing.”
As usual, Holmes did not care for unnecessary information. He said, “Please tell us of the conversation you overheard, Mr. Butler. Word for word, if that is possible.”
Butler explained that he’d been in his tent and heard the men talking outside. He couldn’t hear the words distinctly, and, as Cody had said, the men were gone by the time he’d reached the spot where they had been.
“I heard one of them say they’d burn Sitting Bull’s cabin,” Butler told us, “but nothing else very clear. I can’t give you a word-for-word reckoning.”
“You heard nothing else?” Holmes said.
“I did hear a thing or two, but nothing that made any sense.”
“Tell me, nevertheless,” Holmes said.
“There was noise outside the front of the tent, and the wall isn’t as thin as it looks. At first I heard something about a blustering wind and waving air. I wasn’t really listening, and I don’t hear too well, anyway, thanks to years of firing rifles off next to my ear. What they said doesn’t make any sense at all, so I must have misunderstood. I perked up, though, when I heard the part about burning Sitting Bull’s cabin.”
