The Stalwart Companions

by H. Paul Jeffers

  “Thieves, one and all,” I responded sourly. “Pathetic!”

  “Isn’t all of life exactly that? Futile? Pathetic? We reach and what have we in our grasp at the end of life? A shadow.”

  “A miserable neighbourhood, this,” I stated with disgust, but that disgust quickly gave way to pity. “I am a religious man, Holmes, but at times I must ask myself what purpose such misery can serve.”

  “That is the one problem which human reason has never answered,” replied Holmes. “I doubt it ever will. That is a question of religion. Oh, yes, I am a religious man, as well.

  I reject the proposition that our universe is ruled by chance. I see by your expression that I surprise you, yet there is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as religion. I long ago deduced the existence of Providence from a rose. Yes, a rose. A splendid bloom it was and, as I studied it, I saw immediately that the highest assurance of thegoodness of Providence was found in the very existence of that flower. All other things are really necessary for our existence. But the rose is extra, an embellishment to life, not a condition of life. It could only be goodness which gives such extras, the goodness of Providence. Ah, here we are! Driver. Pull up here!”

  I peered through the pitch-black night at the grimy facade of a saloon with the improbable name The Peaceful Glade. The wooden sign bearing the name of the establishment was badly weathered, the paint chipped and faded and nearly illegible in the flicker of the lamp above it. The building itself was a two-storey affair of brick whose red colour was encrusted with an accumulation of black soot and green slime – deposits from the effluence of hundreds of chimneys and the mists from the nearby East River through the decades. As Holmes and I stood before this revolting place, I slipped my hand into my pocket to find the reassuring cold steel of my revolver. “A nurturing place for how many crimes?” I muttered as we crossed the wet sidewalk.

  Holmes, peering amusedly at me from beneath the brim of his cap, replied, “The vilest alleys of a city do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling countryside, Roosevelt!”

  As he pushed open the door of The Peaceful Glade with a remarkable sense of belonging, I followed close behind, trying to emulate his confidence, but bolstered by the gun beneath my pocketed hand. “What a smell,” I whispered as we stepped into the stench of years of whiskey and tobacco smoke. The large room which we entered by way of a small descending staircase was only barely brighter than the night outside. In the glow of kerosene lamps and candles upon tables that crowded the room I felt that every eye in the establishment was fixed upon Holmes and me. Although I had put on my most casual sporting clothes in keeping with the informal attire which Holmes was wearing, I felt decidedly overdressed. I might as well have worn evening clothes, for my clothing stood out like a sore thumb among the shabby adornment of the denizens of that place.

  As Holmes stepped up to the bar, two surly, sinister-looking men made room for him grudgingly. “A man named Griggs?” asked Holmes of the barman.

  “Who’re you and whatcha want with Griggs?” demanded the burly fellow.

  “Who I am and my business with Griggs are none of your affair,” replied Holmes sharply.

  “A copper, eh?”

  “If I am and you aren’t more cooperative you will find the shutters closed upon this establishment quicker than boiled asparagus!”

  “Griggs, you say?”

  “Griggs!”

  “In the back,” nodded the barman with decidedly more respect.

  “You certainly intimidated that fellow by making him believe you were with the police,” I whispered, chuckling with admiration.

  “It has long been a maxim of mine, Teddy, that nothing is more important than making people believe what you wish them to believe.”

  “Who is this fellow Griggs?”

  “None other than the half brother of the late Nigel Tebbel,” he stated, threading through the clutter of tables, chairs, and customers to a small table in a dark corner where sat a man whose suspicious eyes had followed our progress step by step. “Griggs, I have bad news for you,” stated Holmes without preliminaries as he stepped up to the bottle-strewn table. Griggs stared at the tall intruder for a moment, then lowered his gaze to his folded hands – rough, calloused, and scarred, the hands of a man who had probably worked years as a stevedore on nearby wharves.

  “Your half brother is dead,” Holmes said quietly.

  Griggs nodded slowly and brushed a finger beneath his florid nose. “I warned him,” he muttered, his voice choking back an unexpected emotion.

  Holmes drew up chairs for himself and for me. As we sat, he asked, “You warned him that he might be killed?”

  Griggs shook his head slowly, evidently trying to hold back tears that would have seemed singularly out of place in that dismal establishment of rowdy laughter and noisy song. “I warned Nige that he ought not have anything to do with uptown swells. They could only spell trouble, I told him.”

  “Who were these uptown swells?” asked Holmes.

  “Dunno,” grunted Griggs, adding gruffly, “and who the hell are you to be comin’ in here and askin about Nige? A copper?”

  “I am not with the police,” Holmes quietly assured him.

  “Then git the hell outta here.”

  “Have you no interest in apprehending the murderers of your half brother?” I demanded.

  Griggs turned hard and angry blue eyes toward me. “He’s dead and that’s all there is to that.”

  “But, surely, man...”

  Holmes cut me off with a glance. Turning back to Griggs, he asked, “In what regiment did you serve in the Civil War?”

  “The Seventh New York,” Griggs replied, his face amazed. “How’d you know about me bein’ in the war?”

  “A small tattoo, the edge of which I can see plainly beneath the edge of your sleeve cuff. It is, if I am not in error, a rendering of a victorious Columbia. The tattoo was quite popular among merchant seamen who were veterans of the war. I take it that after the conflict you went to sea?”

  “You have a sharp eye and a shrewd brain, sir,” muttered Griggs.

  “You must have been quite young at the time of the war,” I suggested.

  “I was a drummer boy,” said Griggs, lifting his shoulders proudly. “Twelve years old, I was. My Pa was in the same regiment. He got killed at Chancellorsville. After the war, my Ma married again, but her second husband was a rounder and a rascal and absconded, leaving Ma with the little boy Nigel and no man to care for them.”

  “So you gave up the sea and began working as a stevedore,” stated Holmes.

  “Yes. Thanks be to God Ma is gone and won’t have to suffer knowing Nigel ‘as been murdered.”

  “In memory of her you should cooperate with us,” I said sympathetically.

  “And wind up dead myself? No thank you.”

  “In that case I must appeal to your obvious patriotism, Griggs–that same patriotism that stirred you to come to the aid of your country in the Civil War and to have that tattoo in memory of victory. I appeal to the sense of duty which you exhibited in giving up your career as a seaman to aid your widowed mother. I must tell you, Griggs, that your brother was the victim of a group of ruthless individuals who mean harm to your country.”

  Griggs lifted his reddening eyes to Holmes. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean that your brother was killed by men who will stop at nothing to achieve their ends. Your brother appears to have crossed them. So, they murdered him. If you have any feeling for him, for your martyred father, for your mother, for your country, then you must help me if I am to prevent further disasters.”

  “What could I possibly say to help you?”

  “I need to know your brother’s whereabouts yesterday and earlier this evening.”

  Griggs shrugged. “I can’t help you. I ain’t seen him in two, three days.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “A hotel on the west side of the city.”

&nb
sp; “Near the waterfront?” asked Holmes.

  “Yeah. A place on West Street.”

  “The address?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Your brother was a cocaine user! Did he frequent any special dens on the west side?”

  Overwhelmed by the realisation that Holmes knew a great deal about his brother, Griggs slumped in his chair and toyed with his whiskey glass, his head down to his chest, his voice barely audible above the din of that awful place. “You even know about Nigel’s addiction to that hellish powder? I tried many times to show ‘im the error of his ways, and while Ma was alive there was some hope for ‘im. But when she died of the consumption disease there was nothing I could do to keep Nige from gettin’ into the worst possible kinds of trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?” I asked.

  “Rowdyin’, mostly. He was a strong lad all his life. Got that from his Pa, I suppose. Nigel was always in scrapes of one kind or another and before long he was hirin’ himself out to whoever needed a man who could use his fists or a club or a knife, if it came to that. You would be surprised, gentlemen, at the number of persons of your class who come down to these miserable streets lookin’ for someone like my brother to do their dirty work for ‘em. Especially when there’s an election comin’ up.”

  “This was the kind of work your brother did, then,” said Holmes. “Hiring out as a tough and a strong-arm man, but with special interest in brutalising and intimidating voters going to the polls?”

  Griggs nodded sadly. “It is not a pretty story, I know, but Nigel needed a great deal of money to feed his addiction, you see.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Holmes, “and I regret that your brother came to such a bad end, but if it can be of any comfort at a time like this, I must express my belief that your brother’s ill fate should not rest upon your conscience. From what you have said I am convinced you did all you could to rescue your brother’s life.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir,” muttered Griggs, choking back his tears.

  “I have one more question, Griggs. Then my associate and I will leave you to find the peace you deserve. Had your brother been active as a strong-arm man in the most recent Presidential election?”

  Griggs nodded slowly.

  “On whose behalf?” asked Holmes.

  “A fellow I knew only as Charles hired Nige to beat up people who were going to the voting places to cast their ballots for Tilden.”

  “What a dastardly thing!” I exclaimed.

  “Charles, you say?” asked Holmes, glancing at me with the light of discovery in his grey eyes. “The initials on the scrap of paper, Roosevelt. C. G.”

  “You know this Charles?” asked Griggs.

  “No, but I hope to meet him soon,” said Holmes.

  “Well, he’s a bad one, and you would be wise if you took precautions. Yet bad as Charles is, he pals around with another bully who’s worse. Don’t know his name, but you would not fail to see him in a crowd. A giant man with flaming red hair and beard and the look of a madman in his eyes.”

  “What a remarkable fellow you are, Griggs,” cried Holmes. “Can you describe the man called Charles?”

  “A mousy young fellow. Brown hair, wispy whiskers, a face that’s kind of thin, like he ain’t had a good meal in a long time. A sullen son of a–”

  “Yes,” nodded Holmes. “A small man?”

  “I would guess about five-five. Skinny, too. Gave me the creeps, he did, him in his black suit and one of those slouched hats that people who want to hide their faces wear.”

  “Thank you, Griggs,” announced Holmes. “You have been most helpful.”

  Once again in the fresher air in front of The Peaceful Glade, I surveyed the street for a cab to take us out of that dreadful neighbourhood. “It is a curious coincidence,” I remarked, “that Tebbel died in front of the residence of the man whom he worked against in the election of ‘76 to the point of brutalising Tilden voters.”

  “Coincidence, Roosevelt? Hardly! When a man who was hired to terrorise Tilden voters is shot to death on Tilden’s doorstep the bounds of coincidence are stretched too far! You will recall that I pointed out at the scene of the crime that it appeared obvious that Tebbel was trying to reach Tilden’s house at the very moment of his death.”

  “But why? We have just heard that Tebbel worked against Tilden.”

  “Yes.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “Yet I assure you, Roosevelt, there is a sense to it, and you and I will discern it. I promise you that! Now, if we may hail this hack, while I accompany you to your home, you may be of great assistance to me by discoursing on the details of the election of 1876, which seems to be playing an increasingly important part in our fancy little problem.”

  ___

  Author's notes on this chapter

  Eight

  As I have told you, my brother Mycroft is the Holmes who has the interest in and the understanding of political matters,” continued Holmes as we settled into our cab, “but I am fortunate in this affair to have you to fill the shoes of Mycroft, given your own interest in and knowledge of politics. Pray, educate me!”

  Sherlock Holmes proved an excellent student, listening to me intently and making few interruptions for questions as our hack plodded uptown toward my residence. “As you may or may not know, Holmes, the American political system has evolved into a two-party system. There are what we call splinter parties, of course, but they attract little support at the polls. The major parties, the Democrats and the Republicans, encompass the vast majority of the American electorate. Yet within the two parties there are factions which often feud with each other, coming together only after the moment when a slate of candidates has been chosen. This intra-party factionalism can be very bitter. We have witnessed a recent example of it within the Republican party, even though the Republicans have their man in the Executive Mansion in the form of Rutherford B. Hayes. I will say more about the Republicans in a moment.

  “First, let me tell you about that remarkable gentleman, Governor Samuel Jones Tilden, and the events which led to him being selected as the Democratic candidate for President of the United States in 1876, just four years ago. Governor Tilden is a man of unquestioned integrity and moral uprightness who came to national prominence as a reformer who overthrew the notorious Tweed Ring.”

  A sidewise glance at Holmes indicated to me that he had no knowledge of the infamous Tweed Ring, and I found it prudent to digress from my comments upon Tilden to explain the basic function of political machines in America’s large cities. “Tweed, that is William Tweed,” I explained, “is the boss of the faction of the Democratic party known as Tammany Hall. In New York City, as in other great cities, political affairs occasionally fall under the direction of a class of men who make politics their regular business and means of livelihood. These men do this successfully because they are able to organise their respective parties or factions. These organisations have come to be called machines, and they serve some very important roles in our country – helping those who need help, providing social services to the poor, and stimulating interest in elections. Machines are not entirely anathema, you see. Well, the career of ‘Boss’ Tweed is a singular example of how these salutary characteristics of machines combined with the vilest type of bossism that results in the hiring of men like Tebbel as thugs to intimidate and terrorise the political opposition both in the other party and within the machine’s party. Tilden was instrumental in opposing the Tweed Ring, as I have said.

  “Because of his success, four years ago Tilden was chosen as the Democratic choice for President. Tilden was, at the time, governor of New York. The campaign was to be a bitter one and the chief issue in the debate was corruption. Both parties accused each other of it.

  “Until the Republicans met in convention, it was expected that they would nominate as their standard-bearer James G. Blaine of Maine. The Republicans would have much preferred, I believe, to nominate President Grant once more, but ther
e is an unwritten rule in American politics that no President may run for a third term. This is based on the refusal of Washington to do so, and every President since has followed Washington’s example. I do not believe the American people will ever permit a President to hold office for more than eight years.

  “Unable to name Grant, the Republicans found themselves in heated debate over choosing a successor. Ohio delegates quite understandably went to the convention in support of their favourite son, Mr Hayes, although the national party leadership looked with favour on Blaine. Well, American politics is rarely predictable, and after six ballots, the Republicans still had no candidate. On the seventh, Hayes emerged from obscurity and he was nominated.

  “Then came the campaign, and it was unmatched in its ugliness. It was expected that Tilden would win. Indeed, the headlines on the morning after the election announced Tilden was the winner. Popular votes clearly gave it to Tilden as did electoral votes. Do you know about our Electoral College?”

  “It is familiar to me,” nodded Holmes. “I recall remarking to Mycroft that it seems odd to me that this system of assigning electoral votes to states on the basis of their Congressional representation might deny the majority of voters their choice.”

  “It was through this very electoral system that the Republicans were able to challenge the outcome of the election, claiming that in certain Southern states Negroes were denied their vote. The outcome of the balloting was upset and the election was thrown to Hayes. Yet despite this, the certification of the voting was still in doubt because the Congress consisted of a Democratic House and a Republican Senate. Our democracy was at an impasse. Three months of extreme unrest followed amid virulent accusations of election fraud. Mr. Charles Dana of the Sun even to this day refers to President Hayes as ‘His Fraudulency!’”

  “I’ve been amazed at the libellous things Mr Dana says in his newspaper.”