I ran too, and as I did, I realized that what the assassin had was a specially designed rifle with a smaller telescopic sight mounted independently to the tripod. He had spotted his prey and aimed the gunsight before attaching the rifle. Holmes and I came close, then stopped and began to approach him silently from two directions. We walked toward him, watching him peer into the scope at the president. Then he knelt and reached into his carrying case, pulled out a box magazine, and inserted it into the now-assembled rifle.
As the assassin’s eye reached the eyepiece of the telescopic sight, Holmes and I surged forward like two rugby players lunging into a scrum. I crashed into the man’s shoulder, throwing him against the railing, while Holmes hit the tripod and pushed it over the railing, where it fell, turning over and over, toward the churning water below.
“Oh, excuse me, please, gentlemen,” said Holmes to both of us. “I tripped on that protruding rock along the path. I hope neither of you is injured.” He helped me up first, and then took the arm of the man in the black suit and began to brush the dust off him, roughly.
“I’m terribly sorry about your telescope,” he said to the man. “Or was it a camera? Either way, I insist on paying you its full value.”
“You—” The man suddenly contained his rage, like a man turning off a faucet. “You haven’t hurt me at all,” he said. Now I could hear the Spanish accent that I was expecting. “And the telescope, it was just a trifle, a toy that I bought in New York.”
“I insist,” Holmes said. He took out his billfold and produced a sheaf of American money. It looked to be a great deal, but since American money consisted of identically colored, sized, and shaped currency, I couldn’t tell how much at a glance. When the man wouldn’t reach out for it, Holmes stuffed it in the breast pocket of the black suit. “Please, sir. I’ve already ruined your day. It’s all I can do.”
And then Holmes turned and walked off quickly, leaving me with the frustrated murderer. It occurred to me that with his weapon being churned about underwater far below, the man was relatively harmless. Nonetheless I tipped my hat as a pretext for backing away, then turned and went after Holmes. Just before the pathway took a turn to the pedestrian bridge off Luna Island I looked back to see him throw the hard-sided gun case over the railing into the chasm.
As I reached the main walkway above the falls I saw that the president’s party, having observed the cataract from nearly every prospect, and seen the electrical power plant invented by Mr. Tesla on the shore below, was now walking toward the nearest city street. Holmes left the group and joined me. “They’re going to lunch, Watson.”
I was ravenous, not having eaten since my hasty breakfast of tea and toast in the hotel. “Shall we join them?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I believe we must feed our eyes and noses today, and not our bellies.” He broke into a brisk walk, and I noted that instead of the front door to one of the row of restaurants, Holmes headed up a narrow alley and stopped at an open door.
Hearing the noises coming from inside, I said, “The kitchen?”
He nodded. “Your medical education and experience make you the ideal man to ensure that no poison made of a medical derivative is introduced to the food—opiates, for instance—or any of the biological toxins like botulism. And I have some familiarity with most of the common substances like arsenic and strychnine, as well as a few that have seldom been heard of outside a shaman’s hut. Come, my friend. Anything that doesn’t look or smell right must be discarded.”
We entered the kitchen. Outside it was a hot, humid day, but inside it was like the engine room of a ship steaming through hell. The sous-chefs were working stripped to the waist, their bodies glistening with sweat as they labored over their bubbling soups and sauces, braised their meats, and baked their fish. Holmes and I threw off our coats and waistcoats and joined the staff, examining every dish that went out through the swinging doors to the dining room, sniffing each uncooked carcass, tasting a pinch of every spice, and inquiring into the freshness and provenance of every comestible. We found no poisons and only one dish of elderly oysters, but the work lasted nearly two hours, and when we went outside to join the president’s party on its walk to the train, I felt as though I had been catapulted out of Hades into paradise.
At one the train loaded and left for Buffalo, and I stood outside the car on the small area above the rear coupling where there was a railing, enjoyed the wind moving over me, and watched the passengers through the glass from there. Holmes joined me after a time. He said, “When we reach Buffalo the president will rest for an hour in his room at Mr. Milburn’s home on Delaware Avenue. At four o’clock they’ll bring him to the Exposition, and he will greet his constituents at the Temple of Music. That’s our hour and I must prepare for it. After this, you and I will not see each other for a day or two. I trust that you and Dr. Park have made all the preparations you’ll need?”
“I’m certain of it,” I said. “He’s a brilliant doctor with a scientist’s mind, and he took to conspiracy quickly.”
“Good,” said Holmes. “Then I wish all of us the favor of fortune.” He turned, walked off into the next car toward the rear of the train, and disappeared from my sight.
The train arrived in the station in Buffalo at one thirty, and the president and his party left in carriages, but I didn’t spot Holmes among the throng. Nor did I see him anywhere else. It was as though he had crumbled into dust and blown away in the breeze.
I took a carriage directly to the Exposition grounds. I walked to the hospital that had been set up on the site, introduced myself as Dr. Mann, and indicated that I was to be the physician in charge for the shift that began at five P.M. As we had anticipated, the administrative nurse, a formidable woman of about fifty years, sent a messenger to Dr. Park to verify my credentials, even though she had seen him give me a tour of the facilities only two days earlier. The delay gave me an opportunity to leave, so I went off on the pretense of inspecting the ambulances stationed on the midway in case of emergency. Actually I made my way to the Temple of Music and introduced myself to the policeman at the door as Dr. Mann. He called for Chief Bull to come to the door, and Chief Bull greeted me warmly and admitted me. Through the windows I could see that there were already large crowds of people who had been arranged into an orderly queue waiting outside for the president. I pitied them, and fancied that before long I would be catering to cases of heat exhaustion.
During the next minutes I stood in the building inspecting the arrangements for the president’s visit. Many chairs had been removed, to make way for the president’s receiving line. He was to be standing approximately in the center of the auditorium with some of his entourage and the soldiers. People would be permitted inside, and each would shake hands with him, and then be turned and sent out.
I heard a murmur outside. It grew into a commotion. The doors opened, and President McKinley entered. He took his place flanked by Mr. John Milburn and Mr. Cortelyou. There were eleven soldiers and four police officers in the building, including Chief Bull. The president gave the order at four o’clock, and the soldiers opened the doors.
The orderly line of citizens advanced into the building. There were men, women, and a fair number of children. When I saw the children I shuddered, but then I saw that their parents were keeping them in close order, so I worried less. The president met each person with a smile and a greeting, and then the policemen moved each person out of the way so others would get their turns. I conjectured that the soldiers and police officers had agreed to move the crowd along smartly so more of them could get inside into the shade.
And then there was trouble. I could see it developing as the crowd inched forward. There came a tall, thin, swarthy man with a handlebar mustache and black curly hair. He was muttering angrily to himself as he stood in the queue, in a language which after a moment I realized was Italian.
He began to draw glances from the onlookers, and then from the guardsmen. Three of the policemen sidled al
ong up the row of people, apparently straightening the line and narrowing it strictly to single file as it got close to the president. When they reached the Italian, one of them spoke to him in a low voice and took his arm like an usher to move him a pace to the left. He reacted like a madman. He punched the policeman, and turned to charge the other two. They were taken by surprise, so he bowled them over into a pair of ladies, who were thrown roughly backward onto the carpet.
That part of the line became a battle royal, with eight or nine soldiers and all the policemen diving onto the pile and delivering blows with less judiciousness than fervor. When the sudden motion froze into a contest of tugging and resisting, I recognized that the swarthy Italian had a profile very familiar to me. I also noticed that he had one of the women in an apparently unbreakable embrace. After a second I realized the offended woman was the disguised man Holmes had recognized on the train.
Just then, as the crowd ahead of the Italian swept forward, partly to meet the president and partly to get out of the way of the fighting, one of their number, a man who looked Central European—perhaps a Serb or a Croatian, with dark skin, hair, and mustache—stepped into the vanguard. He had a white handkerchief in his hand, as several others did, to wipe away the perspiration before shaking the president’s hand. I saw that nearly all of the policemen and soldiers were occupied with the disorderly Italian and the ones still near the president were watching the fray, mesmerized. So when the man aimed a revolver he’d hidden under the handkerchief at the president, there was no one there in time to prevent it.
He fired once, and a brass button on the president’s coat threw sparks. His second shot was not deflected. The president gripped his belly and fell. As the president fell, the soldiers and policemen let go of the unruly Italian. Some went to the president’s side, and the others surrounded the assassin. Fortunately, a tall man of African descent had been behind the shooter in the line. He batted the gun from the man’s hand and kept him from escaping. If he had not done that, the soldiers almost certainly would have shot the culprit. Instead, they dragged him to the floor and delivered a series of kicks and punches.
The president, lying on the carpet in the arms of his secretary and Mr. Milburn, called out, “Don’t hurt him, boys!” The calm, wise words seemed to bring the men to their senses. They subdued the culprit and took him out to a police van that was parked near the building.
Meanwhile, I pushed my way to the president’s side. “I’m a doctor,” I called out, and the guards made room. I opened his coat as I leaned close to listen to his breathing. As I did, I surreptitiously produced a small vial of fresh chicken blood from my waistcoat and spilled it on the white shirt just above the belt. “He’s wounded, but alive,” I said. “Lift the president to his carriage,” I ordered. “We’ll take him to the field hospital on the Exposition grounds.”
The strong young soldiers nearby lifted the president and placed him in the carriage. I joined him and Captain Allen jumped into the driver’s seat and whipped the horses to such a gallop that I feared the president would die in a carriage accident and take me with him. I managed to speak with him a bit in a low voice. “How are you, sir?” I asked.
“Excellent, Dr. Watson,” he said. “Seldom better.”
“Good. We’ll try to keep you that way. Now put on this coat and hat.” It was a rather dull brown coat that looked very different from his tailored black one, and a bowler hat like the ones many men wore that day. When we were near the Indian Congress, Captain Allen drove the coach into a horse barn. Allen and I got into a second coach that was waiting there. Our horses had easily outrun word of the attack on the president, and as we pulled away, I could see that none of the visitors touring the Exposition noticed Mr. McKinley in his new garb entering the Indian Congress.
Captain Allen whipped the new set of horses, and I went to work on the substitute patient already waiting on the seat, a cadaver that Dr. Park and I had selected at the medical school the previous day. I covered his torso with Mr. McKinley’s black coat, and his face with my handkerchief, as though keeping the sun out of his eyes. When we reached the field hospital, I jumped out, and Captain Allen and I put the corpse on a stretcher. Two orderlies loitering outside rushed to carry it in. “To the operating room immediately,” I shouted. We took the stretcher inside and locked the door.
After a few minutes, Dr. Roswell Park arrived at the door with several of his assistants and nurses, and made the little hospital look as though it were being run with great professional skill. With him to assist, I began the operation. I had removed bullets from a number of soldiers while on duty in India, so I was extremely familiar with the procedure and the many ways in which it can succeed or fail. As I worked on the cadaver to make it look as though it had been opened to search for the bullet, he complimented my technique several times.
We had only the open part of the abdomen uncovered by sheets, and the deceased man who was supposed to be the president lay on his back with a face mask over his mouth and nose and a surgical cap on his head. Nonetheless, it occurred to me that we were fortunate that while millions of lightbulbs were displayed everywhere throughout the Exposition, nobody had thought to install a single bulb in the hospital.
Through Dr. Park’s nurses and assistants, we slowly fed our fiction to the outside world. We said the president was a healthy specimen, and he had been lucky. The first bullet had hit a brass button and ricocheted, leaving a shallow gash along his side. The second shot entered the abdomen at close range, but the pistol had been a small caliber, and most likely Dr. Mann would find and remove the bullet in the present surgery. Once that happened, McKinley could be expected to recover fully. But after more than four hours of surgery, we changed the news slightly. Dr. Mann had not found the bullet, which must have fragmented in the body.
This was the story all that evening. It was still the story when we moved the cadaver to Mr. Milburn’s house to recover.
At various times during the next few days we issued reports that the president was recovering nicely, that his spirits were high, and that we expected an early return to health.
Meanwhile, as Holmes told me later, the rest of the deception went tolerably well. The assassin captured at the Temple of Music was taken to the police station. He, of course, was Mr. Booth. He identified himself as Leon Czolgosz, the son of Polish immigrants, who had been struck by the inequality in the way the president was treated compared with an ordinary man. Because of Chief Bull’s fears of public emotion aroused by his crime, Czolgosz was kept apart from other prisoners.
The president had made his way into the Indian village, where he met Holmes, no longer an Italian madman. Holmes was waiting for the president with three Iroquois Indians he had met while they were studying at the University of London years before—two Senecas and a Mohawk. Holmes applied some of the makeup he had brought, and within a few minutes he and the president were the fourth and fifth Iroquois Indians. After nightfall, the five men left the Exposition in the midst of a growing crowd, and rowed across the Niagara River into Canada.
With the help of his Iroquois friends, Holmes conveyed Mr. McKinley to Montreal, where he put him on the steamship Arcturus, which sailed on September 9 for London. I’m told he was an impressive figure, registered in the ship’s manifest as Selim Bey, first cousin to the third wife of the Sultan of Turkey. He wore some makeup, a large turban, and a sash with a curved dagger in it. After he reached London he took another ship for Tangiers as the Reverend Dr. Oliver McEachern, a Methodist missionary.
Five days after the Arcturus sailed, on September 14, I was forced to declare President William McKinley dead. He had been said to be recovering, but a few days later he succumbed to blood poisoning. There was some speculation, especially in the papers in New York City and Washington, that Dr. Mann had botched the surgery. There was even some lamentation that on the grounds of the Exposition had been an experimental X-ray machine, which could easily have found even fragments of a bullet. That was precisely w
hy I, or Dr Mann, had forbidden its use.
Nine days later, on the testimony of eyewitnesses, Leon Czolgosz, the young man who had shot the president, was convicted of murder. He was taken from the court to Auburn Penitentiary, where he was executed in an electric chair, another application of the marvels of electricity celebrated by the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo. The one flaw of the modern method in comparison to hanging was that when a single wire was loosened, an electric chair became simply a chair. A fine actor can perform a set of death throes that would make a gravedigger faint.
Holmes and Dr. Mann were among the dignitaries who attended the very small funeral held at the penitentiary for the murderer. The casket had been nailed shut because the face of the killer Czolgosz had been disfigured by sulfuric acid poured on the corpse by persons unknown. Presiding over the funeral was a young clergyman who gave an extremely impressive elegy, inspiring all listeners with the notion that even the worst sinner can be forgiven and admitted to the kingdom of heaven. Afterward we took him to the nearest railway station and bought him a ticket, not to heaven, but only to New York, where he was in time to begin rehearsals for a Broadway play called Life, which opened the following March to appreciative notices.
After the state funeral of the president in Washington, it was popularly supposed that Mrs. Ida McKinley returned to Ohio where she was to live with her sister. I often thought of her during the next seven years, knowing that she was living happily by turns as the wife of Selim Bey or of the Reverend Dr. McEachern—a veiled Moslem to the Christians, and a Christian to the Moslems, a person who pretended never to speak the language of those around her, and never had to explain herself. When she died after seven years, her body was secretly shipped back to Ohio and then buried by her sister, as though she had lived as a reclusive widow all along.
A Study in Sherlock Page 13
