World's Greatest Sleuth!

by Steve Hockensmith

  Tousey nodded. “I understand. It’s only natural that you’d have some reservations. Take your time. Think about it.”

  He picked up his wine and took another sip—a longer, deeper one this time that left a little crimson crescent on his lips.

  “Don’t take too long, though,” he said. “In fact, I think you should probably make up your minds before dessert.”

  That grounded me fast. I once again knew exactly where I stood. It wasn’t a good place, but there’s a comfort in the knowing.

  “Long as we’re all bein’ so friendly,” I said, “do you mind if we ask you a question or two?”

  “That depends on how friendly the questions are.”

  Tousey chuckled again, as if this had been some joke. The coldness of his eyes, though, made it plain it wasn’t.

  “Well, we won’t be askin’ ’em out of spite,” I said, and I turned to my brother and gave him a look that said, Got your anvils ready?

  “We saw a man followin’ Mr. Smythe yesterday,” Old Red said. “Tall feller wearin’ a fake beard. Today I saw him again—meetin’ with your man Brady. Who is he?”

  “A mysterious stranger with a fake beard?” Tousey scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I can be,” Gustav said. “I am. And it makes me wonder: Would you still be our friend if we keep tryin’ to figure out who that man is?”

  I could have sworn someone opened a door and let in a cold wind off the lake. The temperature around our table seemed to drop ten degrees.

  “No,” Tousey said.

  “And you would be our friend if we stopped?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just wanted us to be clear on that.”

  “Let’s be clear, then,” Tousey said.

  Old Red shrugged. “We ain’t friends.”

  Tousey didn’t waste another second looking at him.

  “Hutchings,” he said, turning away and putting up a finger.

  Tousey must have been a regular customer there, and a healthy tipper to boot, for the maître d’ heard him on the first call and came scurrying over quick.

  “Yes, Mr. Tousey?”

  “Do you own a dog, Hutchings?”

  “It just so happens, I do, sir,” the man said without blinking an eye. I got the feeling Tousey could’ve asked “Do you have two heads and purple skin?” and he would’ve replied “No, sir, I don’t believe I do” with equal aplomb.

  “What’s his name?”

  “There are two of them, actually, Mr. Tousey. Copperfield and Nickleby.”

  “Ah. So much the better. I have a treat for Copperfield and Nickleby, Hutchings.” He pointed across the table at me and Gustav without taking his eyes off the maître d’. “Please take these gentlemen’s steaks home with you tonight and give them to your dogs.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Also, if the gentlemen are still sitting at this table in two minutes, summon a policeman.”

  “Absolutely, sir. I hope you’re not being annoyed.”

  “I am, but it’s no fault of yours. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Tousey.”

  Hutchings bowed ever so slightly before hustling away. I found the smug satisfaction on his face puzzling until I realized the size of the gratuity he had to look forward to—not to mention the steaks.

  “No need to get the law mixed up in this,” Old Red said, pushing back his chair. “We’ll go.”

  I got to my feet, too. “We got work to do, anyhow. Ain’t that right, Brother?”

  “It sure is.”

  Tousey went right on ignoring us, focusing himself instead on draining his wineglass and admiring the paintings of (ironically enough) cowboys and cattle drives that lined the wall.

  We left.

  Halfway back to the Columbian, Gustav started to steer us into another, lower-rail chophouse, but I wouldn’t follow him inside.

  “Thought you’d wanna talk it all through over some food,” my brother said.

  I just shook my head. It had taken me a couple months to lose my first publisher, and a couple minutes to lose my second.

  For once, I wasn’t hungry.

  29

  TROUT IN THE MILK

  Or, We Angle for More Facts and End Up Hearing Something Fishy

  As my brother and I carried on back to the Columbian, a funny thing happened. It was my second Trudge of the day, and I didn’t feel up to filling the silence between us with gab—yet Old Red, of all people, did.

  “Got some good data outta Tousey ’fore he tried to buy us off,” he said. “Turns out the contest was his idea. Or so he tells it. Said he saw McClure’s was gonna publish Doc Watson’s last Holmes story and set out to find an ‘angle’ for makin’ hay off that. Cooked up the competition, roped Smythe in, then the two of ’em took it to McClure’s together. It was Smythe’s notion to do it in Chicago and get Pinkerton involved. You know who recruited Curtis. The Crowes bought their way in after that notice ran in McClure’s last month. But with just them and King Brady and Dan Slick, the Dude Dick, lined up, the McClure’s crowd didn’t think the contest was ‘international’ enough. So they signed up two sleuths from Europe on their own.”

  Gustav gave me a long, wide-eyed look that obviously prompted me to name names. I went ahead and did it before he could barrel straight into a streetlamp.

  “Eugene Valmont and Boothby Greene.”

  My brother shook his head. “Eugene Valmont and Gareth Lestrade.”

  “Lestrade! As in Inspector Lestrade? Scotland Yard Lestrade? Holmes’s…?”

  Neither “friend” nor “foil” seemed to suit the man perfectly, so after a little thought I had to go with the admittedly awkward “acquaintance Lestrade?”

  Old Red, to my relief, finally looked where he was going just in time to avoid a head-on collision with a family of six. He weaved his way through them, ignoring their “Hey!”s and “Well, I never!”s as he answered me.

  “The very one. Agreed to come over and compete—for the widows and orphans fund, of course—but had to bow out at the last minute. Some kinda fracas on the job, apparently. Got thrashed so good, he’ll be laid up for weeks. By then, Blackheath-Murray had heard of the contest, though, so McClure’s still got themselves an Englishman. That was as far as we got before Tousey launched into his eyewash about you.”

  “You don’t need to remind me what happened after that.”

  “Yeah, well, still…,” my brother began, but whatever he’d been about to say got hacked away by a cough, and he started up again with a whole new thought. “Tousey played it pretty cool, but he’s gotta be spooked to try something so obvious.”

  “I just wonder what he’ll try next.”

  “You and me both, Brother.”

  Up ahead, I saw a sure sign my Trudge was almost over: Jerzy, the Columbian’s cadaverous old bellhop, was standing beside a hansom as it was loaded with trunks. The cabdriver and what I assumed was a soon-to-be-former hotel guest were doing all the work while Jerzy waited to do his part: lightening the tourist’s pockets of whatever spare coins they might contain.

  Inside, we found Mrs. Jasinska beaming her usual sunshiny smile from behind her desk, and I planned to bask in it no more than the second or two it might take to sweep past her and head for the stairs. There was a pillow in our room with my name on it—either to sleep upon or smother myself with, I hadn’t decided which.

  Mrs. Jasinska waved us over to her desk, however, and when we stopped before it she leaned toward me, grinning.

  “Aren’t you the belle of the ball this evening? A certain personage gave me this.”

  She slid a folded slip of paper across the desktop. MR. OTTO AMLINGMEYER had been written on it in the fine, frilly hand of an educated lady. I picked up the note and opened it. The message inside was simple, if not exactly direct.

  218

  D.

  I thanked Mrs. Jasinska, ignored the insinuating wink she gave me in reply, then told my br
other what the note said as we made our way across the lobby.

  “So we’ve been invited to pay a call on Miss Crowe,” Gustav said.

  “What makes you so sure it’s a ‘we’ sorta invite? It’s just my name she wrote down.”

  Old Red threw me a look hot enough to boil water. “Cuz it’s just you that can read.”

  “True. Still, if she wants to see the both of us, I can always run back down the hall to fetch you.”

  “After you’ve showed up at her door alone?”

  “I don’t see the harm.”

  “And if the colonel should spot you? Or if he should be waitin’ in that room with her, expectin’ to speak with the both of us? Or if he should’ve told Miss Crowe to write the note thataway so he can make doubly certain you ain’t got improper designs on his goddaughter?”

  I chewed that over a moment.

  “I see the harm,” I said.

  We went to room 218 together.

  Diana answered at my knock. When she swung the door wide and invited us inside, I saw Colonel Crowe seated upon the bed, a map of the White City spread out beside him. A pair of men’s hats—one a boater, the other a stovepipe—sat atop the dresser just beyond him, while a big steamer in the corner bore the initials “C.K.C.”

  For C. Kermit Crowe. This was the colonel’s room, not Diana’s.

  I shuddered like someone had walked over my grave—and that someone was an elephant.

  “We waited for you after the contest ended this afternoon,” Colonel Crowe said once the door was closed. “You never showed up.”

  “We got sidetracked,” my brother said, and he turned to me while jerking his head at the colonel.

  I was being cranked up like one of Mr. Edison’s phonograph machines over in the Electricity Building, and out again came all we’d seen, heard, and learned that day: Brady and the Unbearded Man as neighbors in the WC, me and the Bearded Man tussling over a clue, Pinkerton’s short-lived threat to throw us out of the contest, the Bearded Man at last becoming the Named Man (a.k.a. Emile Agajanian, a.k.a. Billy Steele, Boy Detective), Smythe’s win-or-else ultimatum, and Tousey’s attempted bribe.

  It took a while to get it all out, and for the first time the day didn’t seem like a total loss: In spite of all our setbacks and blunders, we’d gathered up quite a pile of new facts, and now I could lay it before someone who’d (hopefully) appreciate it.

  “Well, one thing’s obvious,” Colonel Crowe said when I was finally through. “Tousey and Brady are trying to cheat, somehow.”

  “At the very least,” Gustav said.

  “Meaning you think they killed Curtis?”

  “Meanin’ we still don’t know what’s really goin’ on around here.”

  “Don’t you find it curious,” Diana said, “that even with the Unbearded Man as a confederate, Brady would remain one of the few contestants who hasn’t yet won a point?”

  Old Red and the colonel took a silent moment to (I assume) ponder this mystery. Me, I was pondering the fact that the rest of those “few contestants” the lady had mentioned were me and my brother.

  “Well,” she went on, “the colonel and I didn’t have quite the day you did, but it wasn’t wholly without developments. We were followed both during and after the contest, for instance. By a bearded man.”

  “Couldn’t have been one of ours,” I said. “The Unbearded Man was with Brady in the jakes, and that Agajanian feller must’ve been followin’ us to snatch our clue the way he did.”

  “Only one way to look at it,” my brother said. “There’s another other bearded man.”

  I groaned and put a hand to my forehead. “Just when I thought we were gettin’ somewhere…”

  “Describe him,” Gustav said to the Crowes.

  The colonel did the honors.

  “Dark beard, not too thick. Average height, average build. It was hard to pick out particulars. He kept his distance, and he was wearing a long coat and a slouch hat, pulled down low.”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s part of their uniform.”

  “After the contest,” Colonel Crowe carried on, “when we noticed he was still shadowing us, we split up and tried to set a trap for him. I assume he spotted it. He simply disappeared.”

  Old Red grunted. “So he’s a professional, too. Like the Unbearded Man. I wonder why he was followin’ you?”

  “For that matter, why was the Unbearded Man followin’ Smythe?” I said. “Seems to me we ain’t gonna nail a name to either gent till we know what they’re after.”

  “I reckon you’re right.”

  My brother spent the next few seconds absently stroking his mustache.

  “Fortunately, it’s not only new questions we have to share,” Diana said. “We got an answer today as well. I’m sure you remember that Mrs. Jasinska saw Pinkerton take a bundle of papers out of Curtis’s room yesterday. I can only assume the right moment never arose to ask him about it.”

  I nodded. “All our moments were about yellin’ and threats.”

  “I’m happy to say that wasn’t the case for us. Pinkerton’s really not a bad sort, if you approach him the right way. I struck up a conversation with him this afternoon and managed to coax him into talking about Curtis. Those papers Mrs. Jasinska saw—”

  “Were the clue cards for the contest,” Gustav said. “All of ’em for the whole week, typed up neat and ready to go.”

  “That’s right,” the colonel said. “How did you know?”

  My brother shrugged. “Had to be them. Otherwise, how could Pinkerton keep the contest goin’ the way he has? Y’all get anything else out of him?”

  “Yes and no,” Diana said. “I asked about those queer objects we found in the alley. The squirrel and the fruitcake and the box of dead snails. Pinkerton just brushed it all off as meaningless. According to him, you’ll find all kinds of odd things when you dig around in a Chicago trash can.”

  Old Red snorted out a “Feh.” “There’s odd and then there’s odd under a murdered man’s window.”

  “Seems to me the oddest thing of all is a so-called sleuth who ain’t curious about a stuffed squirrel in a tuxedo,” I said.

  “I disagree entirely,” Colonel Crowe shot back. “The squirrel and the snails and the rest hurt your case more than they help. Such grotesqueries lend the whole affair the flavor of a schoolboy prank.”

  Gustav turned sharply toward the little man. He said nothing, though, and his eyes quickly lost their focus, so that he was no longer looking at the colonel so much as through him.

  Colonel Crowe turned to me. “Is he having some sort of seizure?”

  “You could call it that. It’s just a thought that’s seized him, though. Don’t bother askin’ him what it is, cuz he won’t tell.”

  “I don’t like servin’ up ideas till they’re fully baked,” Old Red muttered, still staring at nothing. Then he blinked, shook his head, and was truly with us again. “Y’all round up any other data today?”

  “I’m afraid that’s it,” Diana said.

  Colonel Crowe hopped off the bed. Standing up added all of five inches to his height.

  “I suggest we gather again tomorrow after the contest to compare notes … assuming you two don’t end up in the clink again.”

  He walked to the door and reached for the knob.

  “That sounds fine,” I said. “But before we call it a night, don’t you think we oughta come up with a plan for tomorrow? Figure some way we can get our hands on one of them bearded fellers, say? I mean … we are workin’ together now, ain’t we?”

  Colonel Crowe opened the door.

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘together,’ ” he said. “More like ‘in tandem.’ We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The four of us passed around good nights, and then Gustav and I were in the hall, the door closing firmly behind us.

  “That’s progress, at least,” I said as we walked away.

  “Is it? What was that remark about bein’ ‘in tandem’ all about?”
/>   “Means we’re workin’ toward the same thing at the same time, only not necessarily as a team.”

  “Well, horses runnin’ against each other in a race are ‘in tandem,’ then,” Gustav pointed out. “Far as the colonel’s concerned, we’re still the competition.”

  “I suppose. I don’t think you can blame the man for it, though. Remember: He had to put up part of the prize money just to be here. All we can do is not win. The Crowes stand to lose.”

  “Hmm,” Old Red said.

  We’d paused outside the door to his room to finish our talk, and just as he fished the key from his pocket, two of our neighbors appeared at the top of the stairs nearby.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Boothby Greene said. “Calling it a day, are we?”

  His publisher, Blackheath-Murray, was beside him, and both were dressed in black tail coats and trousers—not so gussied up as tuxes, but close. No doubt they’d been out celebrating Greene’s victory in the contest that afternoon.

  “Oh, I’ll put in some more time readin’ up on the fair,” I said. “But yeah—we’ll turn down the lights soon enough. A man needs his rest if he’s gonna keep gettin’ up and losin’ every day.”

  “Now, now. Don’t lose heart, Mr. Amlingmeyer,” Greene chided me. “I didn’t score my first point until the third day. Who’s to say you won’t score yours on the fourth?”

  “We didn’t see you at the closing ceremony, after Greene here found the egg,” Blackheath-Murray said. “Did you make it to the Mines and Mining Building?”

  From Tousey, I would’ve taken this as a jibe. The Englishman seemed truly curious, however, and I saw no hint of derision on his round, fleshy face.

  “We didn’t even know that’s where things ended up today,” I said. “We were a mite distracted.”

  “By your inquiries into Mr. Curtis’s demise, I presume,” Greene said.

  “Something like that.”

  “Interestin’ things we been findin’ out,” my brother said. “You might change your mind about Curtis dyin’ accidental if you knew it all.”

  Greene shook his head. “I think it’s most likely a case of a trout in the milk, if you’ll pardon my saying so. And if it isn’t, Sergeant Ryan’s the man to handle it. It’s not for me to stick this in.” He tapped the side of his beak-like nose. “Someone might get hurt.”