The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (96 page)

Whenever I thought I had perceived the organizing principle of the Exposition, I saw my guess was inadequate and partial. The colors of the buildings at the south end were bright and vivid. The Temple of Music was a garish red, with green panels in its dome and a liberal use of gold and blue-green. Nearer the north end, by the Electric Tower, the colors had grown to be subtler, gentler, and more subdued, as though they represented a change from barbaric splendor to modern sophistication. I also saw monumental sculptures, like frozen plays, that purported to represent the Rise of Man, the Subjugation of Nature, the Achievements of Man. Another series was labeled the Age of Savagery, the Age of Despotism, the Age of Enlightenment. Perhaps if there was an organizing principle, it was that these were people who worshipped progress and pointed it out wherever they could detect it.

From time to time Holmes would jump down from our carriage and look closely at some building or press his face against the windows to see inside. Or he would stand on the raised edge of a fountain and stare along a prospect as though aiming a rifle at a distant target. He craned his neck to look along the tops of parapets, as though he were looking for imaginary snipers.

At length I got out and walked with him. “What are we doing?” I asked.

“The Exposition has been open all summer, and it's now enjoying advertising by word of mouth. Current estimates are that it will have been visited by eight million people by its closing next month. If we came to do our examination tomorrow morning, not only would we draw attention to ourselves, but we would be trampled by the crowds.”

“But what are we examining it for?”

“Vulnerabilities and opportunities, my friend. Not only must we find the best means, time, and place to conduct our feigned murder of the president, we must also make sure that we retain a monopoly on presidential murders for the day.”

“What?”

“You recall that President McKinley managed to give Spain a crushing defeat in 1898. That must make him seem to many European powers a dangerous upstart. He also has let the unscrupulous owners and operators of large U.S. companies and their political minions know that he intends to rescind many of their privileges and powers. I can hardly imagine a person with worse enemies than he has.”

“Is what you're saying that we must keep Mr. McKinley alive in order to assassinate him?”

“Precisely. Our little charade can only flourish
in the absence of genuine tragedy.” He walked along a bit farther. “That is why I told him we would move on the sixth. Giving ourselves until the tenth or twelfth might expose him to unacceptable risk.”

I remained silent, for I had finally realized what he was looking for. He showed special interest in the Acetylene Building, examining it from all sides and shaking his head. “The danger of explosion is too obvious,” he said. “We can avoid the hazard by keeping him away.”

We got out again at the Stadium in the north-east corner of the Exposition. It was a formidable place, considering it was built only for this summer, and like the other buildings, would be torn down at the end of it. The place could hold twelve thousand spectators. “This spot is tempting,” he said. “The marvel of large open spaces like this is that we could have him stand at a podium in the center, and assemble twelve thousand witnesses in the seats. They would all later swear that they saw the president killed, but none of them would have been close enough to really see anything but a man fall over.”

“It's something to keep in mind,” I said. “We could contrive a rifle shot from up high—maybe on the Electric Tower—and pretend he'd been hit.”

“Let's see what else is available.” We returned to our cab and Holmes directed the driver farther down the main thoroughfare.

We moved south to the ornate Temple of Music. It was about 150 feet on a side, with truncated corners so its square shape looked rounded. It had a domed roof, and every exposed surface was plastered with ornate decorations and painted garish colors, primarily red, and surrounded by statuary representing some sort of allegory that no living man could decipher—kinds of music, I supposed.

Holmes showed particular interest in this building. He walked around it from every side, looked in the windows, and, finally, picked the lock on the door and went inside. It was a large auditorium with a stage at the far end and removable seats in the center. “I believe we may have found what we were looking for,” he said. When we went out, he took a moment to relock the door.

We took our cab back to the Genesee Hotel and paid our tired driver handsomely for the long evening he'd had.

The next morning, as Holmes and I were having breakfast in our room, there was a quiet knock on the door. I got up to open it, expecting it to be Captain Allen. But there, standing in front of me, was an elderly man. Judging from his snow-white hair, his clothing, worn and a bit discolored from many washings, and the positively ancient shoes he was wearing, I thought him to be a tradesman who had gotten too old to pursue his trade. As kindly as I could, I said, “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, my friend,” said the old man in a cracked voice. “Is this the suite of Mr. Holmes?”

“Why, yes it is. Would you like to come in?”

As he stepped into the sitting room, Holmes emerged from his bedroom and grinned. “Ah, Mr. Booth. I'm very glad to see you could come so quickly.” He added, “And thank you for hiding your identity so effectively.”

The elderly gentleman immediately straightened, stepped athletically to Holmes, and shook his hand with a smile. “The journey was by night, and very quick,” he said. “I came as soon as my final show was over. We're due to begin rehearsals for the next one in New York in a month, and if I'm not back, my understudy will stand in for me.” He looked at each of us in turn. “Do you mind if I make myself at ease?” he said, as he pulled off the white hair, then carefully removed the mustache and put them in the pocket of his oversized coat. He had become a young man, perhaps twenty-one to twenty-five, as tall and healthy-looking as before he had been bent and weak.

“This is my friend Watson,” said Holmes. “He has my utmost confidence and trust. Watson, this is Mr. Sydney Barton Booth, a member of the premier family of actors in this country.”

I pulled him aside and whispered. “Booth?” I said. “But Holmes—”

“Yes.” He spoke loudly and happily. “The same.”

The young man said, “I'm twenty-three years old. My uncle John Wilkes Booth's terrible deed took place twelve years before I was born. He was the only one of my father, grandfather, and nine aunts and uncles who sympathized with the Confederacy. The others were staunch Union people and supporters of President Lincoln.”

“The Booth family have long ago outlived any suspicion,” Holmes said. “In the interim, they have continued their tradition of fine acting, and particularly in the realistic portrayal of human emotion. Mr. Sydney Booth is considered the finest of his generation. I had deduced from our invitation that we would need the services of an excellent American actor. A friend of mine from the British stage whom I contacted before we left informed me that the Booths have always searched for a way to make up for the mad actions of Mr. Booth's uncle. He also gave me his professional opinion that the present Mr. Booth was likely to be our man. We need him more than I had predicted, although in a performance with a very different ending.”

“But have you warned Mr. Booth of the delicacy and danger of the role he would be playing?”

Holmes turned to Booth. “Mr. Booth, our scheme is dangerous in the extreme, and will earn you little thanks if you are successful. The only reward is that it is a patriotic task that I am persuaded will strengthen your country—and with it, ours, at least for a time.”

Booth said, “I can think of nothing that would make me happier.”

Holmes said, “There will be only a handful who are invited to join in our conspiracy. In addition to us there will be the president, of course; his trusted secretary, Mr. Cortelyou; the chief of police of Buffalo, Mr. William Bull; the head of the military contingent, whom I hope will be our friend Captain Allen; and Dr. Roswell Park, the most respected physician in the city. Each of them may have a trusted ally or two who will need to be told some part of the plan, but not all.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “I must be on my way. I'm meeting with Dr. Park this morning.” I took my hat and cane and left the suite.

I found that my American medical counterpart, Dr. Roswell Park, was a man of great learning and a citizen of some standing in the medical community. He and I toured the University of Buffalo medical school facilities, the county morgue, and three of the local hospitals, as well as the field hospital that had been established at the edge of the grounds of the Pan-American Exposition. Everywhere we went, all doors opened and he was welcomed, something between a visiting potentate and a fatherly benefactor.

He and I examined the X-ray machine that was on display at the Exposition, which made it possible to see inside the body to detect a break in a bone or identify dangerous lesions. There was also an infant incubator on the midway, which I found particularly promising.

In many of our moments we were in places where the only possible eavesdroppers were the dead—the cadavers used for dissection by medical students, or the fresh bodies of transients found near the docks off Canal Street. During these times we discussed the difficulties of the assignment that the president and Holmes had given us, but we found a number of solutions in accepted medical protocols and in the simple matter of being prepared in advance to make sure events unfolded in certain ways and not others. Dr. Park was a man of such thoroughness that he thought of some things I had not—making sure that certain interns and nurses would be the ones on duty the afternoon and evening of September 6, because they would unhesitatingly follow his every order, and arranging to have horse-drawn ambulances prepared to make certain clandestine deliveries during the nights that followed. By the end of that day I was ready to entrust my life to Dr. Park. It was a sentiment that went unexpressed, because that was precisely what I was doing, as he was entrusting his life to me.

I returned to the Genesee Hotel in the evening, and found Holmes and Booth still in earnest conference. Holmes had brought out the makeup kit that I'd sometimes seen him use in London. It was a mixed collection of substances
he had borrowed from the art of the theater, but even more liberally borrowed from the more subtle paints and powders employed by fashionable ladies in the interest of beauty. He had often gained information in the past by posing as a longshoreman or a gypsy or an old bookseller, and this kit had helped transform his face. It seemed from the change in his appearance that the young actor Mr. Booth was as expert as Holmes. He had changed once more. He now appeared to be a rough sort of fellow of thirty years who worked outdoors with his hands. His skin and hair had darkened a bit so he seemed to be from somewhere in continental Europe.

They had also laid out a series of maps of the Pan-American Exposition grounds that Holmes appeared to have drawn from memory. Booth was studying one of them.

“You'll have to wait long enough so the first hundred or so get through the doors and meet the president,” Holmes said. “By then the line will be moving in an orderly way, and the guards will be getting overconfident and bored. Remember that the first move is mine. You will act only after I do.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Booth. “And then I'll make some hasty attempt at departure.”

“Certainly, but be careful not to succeed. You must remain embroiled with the guards and police officers. If you make it into the open, one of them will surely get a shot off.”

“I'll be sure to be overwhelmed promptly,” said Booth.

And on they went. Since my presence was not required I retired to my bedchamber and settled my mind with a nap, which helped me to digest the many details I would need to remember two days hence. It was a few hours later before Mr. Booth stood and shook Holmes's hand. By then, I noticed, he had once again become the old white-haired man.

“I won't see you again until the afternoon of the sixth, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure we agree on all of the essentials of the performance. If you learn of any changes, please let me know. I'm staying at the boardinghouse at Main and Chippewa Streets.”

“I will, Mr. Booth. In the meantime, know that we have great confidence in you, and we salute you for your patriotism.”

“Good-bye. And good-bye to you, Dr. Watson. I'll see you in a couple of days.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Booth.”

And he was gone. Holmes quickly put away his disguise kit and some other items he and Booth had studied, and said, “I'm hungry, Watson. It's time for a late supper.”

We left the hotel and walked around the block to a small establishment that had many of the qualities of a London public house. Sitting at a table in the rear of the house was a large man in a blue police uniform. His hat was on the table next to an empty beer glass, and as we came in the door, I saw him move it to the seat beside him.

“Mr. Bull,” said Holmes.

“Sit down,” said the policeman.

Holmes and I took a pair of seats across the table from him, and he raised his hand and beckoned, and the bartender arrived. Mr. Bull said, “Have you had dinner?”

“Well, no,” I said.

“These two gentlemen will have dinner, please. And a pitcher of beer. Put it on my tab.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Do you happen to know what dinner consists of this evening?”

“Roast beef on kummelweck, pickled hard-boiled eggs, beer, sauerkraut, and pickles,” said the barman. “All you want.”

“Excellent,” Holmes said, with what appeared to be sincerity.

I was surprised at the eagerness with which Holmes and the police chief attacked the strange food, but I joined in with little hesitation, and found that the bar fare was exactly what I needed after a long day with my medical colleague. I particularly liked incidentals that had been judged not worth mentioning—short lengths of sausage and small pieces of chicken, primarily thighs and wings. I have often found that in exotic countries the native diet is exactly what is required for the maintenance of health and vigor.