World's Greatest Sleuth! Page 4

  We were damned if we did, damned if we didn’t … and damned if I knew what to do about it.

  So absorbed was I in all this I only barely noticed that Curtis was lulling the crowd to sleep with some sort of fable about Christopher Columbus.

  “—which has been secreted somewhere within the confines of the White City,” he was saying when I actually started paying attention. “Only I, the Puzzlemaster, know where it is. So it will be for the next four days. At noon precisely, our contestants will gather here to be given clues as to the egg’s whereabouts. Every day they’ll have the chance to find it, and every night I will hide it again. Whosoever has located the egg the most times by two o’clock Thursday will be our winner.”

  “Uhhh … did he just say ‘egg’?” I asked Smythe.

  He goggled his eyes at me. “Haven’t you heard a word he said?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. ‘Egg.’ ”

  “I’m doomed,” Smythe said. At least he was over his palpitations.

  Curtis, meanwhile, was introducing that great American (according to him) William Pinkerton. There was a smattering of applause—and one “Boo!” I was actually surprised there weren’t more, what with the Homestead Strike fiasco little more than a year old and the Anti-Pinkerton Act fresh-passed by Congress. The Pinks may be heroes to some, but they’re villains to just as many others.

  Pinkerton slowly scanned the crowd from left to right as he stepped up to the podium. I got the feeling that heckler wouldn’t live long if Pinkerton spotted him.

  “You know my name and what it stands for,” he said. “Nearly half a century ago, my father invented the modern detective profession. Today, despite the best efforts of agitators and cranks, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency remains synonymous with integrity and efficiency. Crime and radicalism know no greater enemy, and democracy and capitalism no better friend, than the well-trained, professional private detective.”

  The man’s lack of brevity was matched only by his lack of zeal. Of all those listening to his speech, he himself seemed the least interested in it.

  “But there is another kind of detective,” he went on. “One typified by the late Sherlock Holmes: the talented novice. His passing was a tragic loss for his followers—some of whom are standing behind me at this very moment. For the time has come to answer the question: Who is now the World’s Greatest Amateur Sleuth?”

  “Amateur Sleuth?” I said.

  “Talented novice?” Old Red spat.

  “Doooooooomed,” Smythe moaned.

  Whatever enthusiasm the audience had once possessed had been smothered under Pinkerton’s wet blanket, and I fancied I heard groans when he consulted a piece of paper fresh-pulled from his pocket. The speechmaking was over, though. It was time for introductions.

  “Will it be King Brady”—Pinkerton squinted down at the paper and frowned—“monarch of the New York detectives?”

  A young man who’d been standing near us stepped out to the center of the gazebo. He was a big buck blessed with features so pretty-perfect no woman could look upon them and not swoon, and he acknowledged the cheers that greeted him with a wave and a cocky grin. He was no Nick Carter, fame-wise, but Old Red and I knew his magazine well, and he certainly had ol’ Nick beat out in one important respect: He existed.

  “Will it be Boothby Greene,” Pinkerton read out listlessly, “English heir to the genius of Sherlock Holmes?”

  A tall, lean, sharp-featured fellow joined Brady. Though I’d never heard of him, he struck me as strangely familiar-looking, and as he nodded to the crowd I realized why. He was a dead ringer for Holmes himself (or at least the Holmes I’d come to know from the illustrations in Harper’s Weekly).

  “Will it be Eugene Valmont,” Pinkerton went on, “French master of the sleuthing arts?”

  A compact, square-faced fellow with graying red hair and a bulbous nose lined up with Brady and Greene.

  “Will it be Little Red Amplyminor, the Holmes of the Plains?” Pinkerton droned after a distracted glance down at his notes.

  Smythe grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Father, why hast thou forsaken me?”

  “The Holmes of the Plains” was more succinct.

  “Feh,” he grunted, and slowly, sheepishly, he slouched out to join the competition.

  “Or,” Pinkerton went on, “will it be railroad detective Colonel C. Kermit Crowe and his daughter, the beautiful and brilliant Miss Diana Crowe?”

  The colonel and Diana lined up with the others.

  “And there you have it,” Pinkerton declared. “Fizzle blop de ginkle shmertz. Clopthrobble fuff oaka heng holla diffin.”

  Of course, that’s not exactly what the man said. Yet that’s sure what it sounded like to me after his earlier words—“daughter” and “Miss Diana Crowe”—started to sink in. Once they did, it was only the stiff leather of my costume that kept me upright.

  “Puzzlemaster,” Pinkerton said, turning to Curtis. (In spite of the “Diana Crowe-Crowe-Crowe” still echoing in my ears, I could understand English again.) “You have the clues?”

  Curtis held a little bundle of envelopes up over his head. “Here, sir!”

  “Then you may proceed.”

  This Curtis did, stepping up to each contestant in turn—the Crowes (the Crowes!?!), King Brady, Boothby Greene, Eugene Valmont—to hand over an envelope.

  As he gave the last one to Gustav, he peeped over at me.

  “Your brother might need help with this part. On account of the trouble he’s having with his eyes.”

  I was still in such shock I felt like my own eyes were spinning like pinwheels, yet I managed to stumble up next to Old Red and mumble out my thanks. Curtis might have been a fanatic, by Smythe’s measure, but at least he was a kindly one: He’d read my stories, so he knew my brother was illiterate—and how it would shame him to have that fact brought up in front of the other sleuths.

  Curtis threw me a wink, then returned to Pinkerton’s side.

  “Gentlemen!” he called out. “And lady,” he said more softly, with a nod Diana’s way. “Deduce!”

  6

  THE CONTEST (ROUND ONE)

  Or, We Go on a Wild Goose Chase and End Up Laying an Egg

  The band struck up a song. The mob hurrahed. The contestants tore into their envelopes.

  I gaped at Diana Crowe and drooled on myself.

  Or so I imagine. There was no mirror there in which to see myself—and I thank the good Lord for it.

  I suppose I should be grateful, too, that Diana didn’t see me in such a state: She was too busy reading her fresh-opened clue with her father (father!?!) to throw more meaningful glances my way. Which meant my slack-jawed, pop-eyed “Huh?” went unanswered.

  When Gustav and I had first met the lady, she’d called herself Diana Caveo—this because she was a spy for the S.P. Railroad Police. The second time our paths crossed, she was Diana Corvus, though this name she also abandoned whenever convenient, bald-faced lying being one of her specialties while on the job. Off it, too, I had to figure, for never in all our time together had she even hinted that Colonel Crowe was more to her than a particularly nettlesome employer.

  “I said mmm-MMM!” I heard my brother growl. When I looked his way, I realized he must’ve been clearing his throat at me for quite some time, for upon his face was a scowl and in his hand—unread, of course—was his clue.

  “Oh. Right. Let’s see now.”

  Inside the envelope Curtis had handed him was a small card, perhaps four inches by six. Upon it were these words, pounded into the heavy paper in the slightly smudgy gray-black lettering of a typewriter:

  A bleeding edge along the east

  A famous dodge for northbound beast

  Southwest is where you grip the pan

  Go back, go back!

  And you’ll advance

  “Most intereSTING,” someone said, and I found the Frenchman, Valmont, peeping down at the note. “Your massage is not the same as mine.”

  �
��What’s yours say?” Old Red asked.

  Valmont smiled and tucked his card away in his coat. “Oh, I would tell you, but—quel dommage—it is en français.”

  He offered us a little bow, turned, and headed for the steps off the stage.

  He wasn’t alone, either. Greene, the faux Holmes (who says I don’t know any French?), was striding away as well. The famous King Brady was still staring down at his card, beetle-browed, but when he noticed the others hurrying off he barked out a laugh and said, “Clever … but not clever enough to stump me! Miss Larson?”

  A slender blond woman separated herself from the dignitaries at the back of the bandstand, and the two of them set off together. Colonel Crowe marched off next with his arm around his daughter’s (daughter’s!?!). He took care to attach himself to her left-hand side, thus keeping his puny self between her and us as they walked past.

  “Diana Crowe,” I groaned once they’d started down the stairs. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Gustav said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That apple fell pretty damned far from the tree, you ask me. Like a mile away.”

  “You mean cuz she’s twice as tall as him? But why would they be lyin’?”

  “I don’t know. All I do know is we’re the last ‘sleuths’ still standin’ here.” My brother flicked the card in my hand. “And that still don’t make a lick of sense.”

  “Let’s break it down a line at a time, then,” I suggested. “ ‘A bleeding edge along the east.’ Could be it’s something on the eastern edge of the fairgrounds. Maybe a hospital or a slaughterhouse.”

  “The Exposition’s got its own slaughterhouse?”

  “Well, no. Not that I know of. It’s got just about everything else in the world, though.”

  “But ‘go back,’ it said. We just showed up today. How can we go back to anything? We ain’t been nowhere.”

  As we spoke, I could hear the murmurings and mutterings of the crowd growing louder. Folks were getting restless, and I couldn’t blame them. If the two of us were any indication, puzzle-solving was every bit as exciting a sport as a staring contest or competition napping.

  Old Red swiped a hand at the clue card, exasperated. “Alright, forget the bleeding part. What was next?”

  “ ‘A famous dodge for northbound beast.’ ”

  “A famous dodge?”

  I nodded. “It’s an odd choice of words, alright. The only famous dodge I know of is Dodge City.”

  “Yeah, and that’s … hel-lo!” Gustav jerked his head at Armstrong B. Curtis. “Our Puzzlemaster there’s read your yarns. Which means he knows where we hail from.”

  “Peabody?” I said. Then, just barely resisting the urge to smack my forehead (an urge my brother no doubt shared): “Kansas!”

  Suddenly, it all made sense.

  The bleeding edge to the east: the “Bleeding Kansas” border war with Missouri.

  The famous dodge for northbound beast: Dodge City, the West’s best-known cattle town.

  The pan grip to the southwest: the Oklahoma panhandle.

  And the “go back, go back”: I had no idea.

  “He wants us to go back … to Kansas?”

  “Don’t seem like such a bad idea,” Old Red muttered, eyeing the crowd.

  “Hold on a tick. I just remembered—”

  “Are you just gonna stand there all day?” someone shouted out.

  “Yeah!” another voice chimed in. “Do something!”

  Gustav spun around, face flushed. He was indeed about to do something. He was about to tell our public to shut the hell up.

  I caught his arm just in time.

  “Allow me,” I said, and I cleared my throat, stepped around my brother, and addressed the audience. “We need a map of the White City—pronto!”

  I would’ve said “immediately,” but “pronto” seemed to suit my costume better. Funny thing, too: It worked.

  “Here!”

  “I’ve got one!”

  “Take mine!”

  “Come on,” I said to Old Red, and I tried to stride manfully from the bandstand.

  I say tried because the attempt was unsuccessful: It’s impossible to “stride” down stairs with one’s legs strapped to red leather splints, and a waddle is anything but manly. Still, I made it to the bottom of the steps without breaking my neck, and this I counted as a victory.

  The crowd had thinned a bit since the ceremony began. Some folks had hustled off after Valmont and the Crowes and the rest; others had just drifted away upon realizing, perhaps, that the contest wouldn’t involve us solving an actual on-the-spot murder. Yet there were still more than enough spectators to swarm me, and I quickly had my pick of maps. I accepted a dog-eared guidebook from a beaming young lady, receiving in reply to my tip of the hat a blush the memory of which I cherish to this day.

  “Every state in the Union’s put up a big display here at the Fair,” I said as Gustav slid up beside me. “All we gotta do is find … a-ha!” I lifted a hand up over my head, the index finger jabbing at the clouds. “To the Kansas Building!”

  There were huzzahs and applause, and a gray-haired gent clapped Gustav on the back.

  “Good luck, Little Fred,” he said.

  More encouragement rained down upon us: “Go get ’em, boys!” and “You can do it!” and “America’s counting on you!”

  Never have I seen my brother look more miserable—and keep in mind, I’ve seen him beaten, shot, blown up, and lynched.

  “Yeah, yeah. To the Kansas Building,” he mumbled, shooing me forward with both hands. “Please.”

  And we set off … very, very slowly. My outfit was rubbing me raw from the waist down, and every step felt like I was wading into a pool of razor blades. At the pace we were setting—about equal to a three-legged mule in full pack—we’d make it to the Kansas Building just in time for Christmas.

  “Can’t you go no faster?” Old Red snapped at me.

  “Not without sawin’ my legs off. Too bad Smythe didn’t give us a pair of horses to go with the … well, lookee there!”

  “Lookee where?”

  “There.”

  Up ahead, just around the corner as we left the Court of Honor, a dozen boater-wearing lads were lounging about in wheeled chairs. FEAST YOUR EYES, SPARE YOUR FEET, a sign above them said. SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS AN HOUR.

  One quick negotiation later, we were speeding away. We’d promised our young attendants an extra two bits apiece if they could get us to the Kansas Building within five minutes, and God bless them, they meant to collect. They were so eager, they didn’t even notice that neither my brother nor I had a watch.

  I assume we got stares aplenty as we zoomed north through the fairgrounds: It’s not every day you see what looks like a blind man and a cowboy carved out of candle wax getting pushed around in wheelchairs. I didn’t even notice any gawping, though, for I was too busy doing it myself.

  The gravel paths we followed took us along the lagoon, which stretched on and on and on to our immediate right. To our left was the long, angel-adorned facade of the Transportation Building, its bright red paint a shocking smear of crimson through the heart of the White City. Then it was back to blanco for the Choral Building, the Horticulture Building, the Women’s Building—a Building, it seemed, for everything under the sun but Ham and Eggs and the Piece of Lint Stuck to the Bottom of Your Sock.

  “Almost … there,” my attendant rasped (oh, how his face had fallen when he’d been assigned to ferry husky me instead of my runty brother). “We’ve … reached … the…”

  “Save your breath for pushin’, friend,” I said. “I see.”

  We were passing another majestic dome-topped building—the men who planned that fair sure loved their domes—and this one had the word ILLINOIS over the doorway. Around the corner was a grand Spanish mission (CALIFORNIA it read across the front) and a dark, high-roofed manor house (WISCONSIN) and an ornate, twin-towered palace (INDIANA,
of all things).

  KANSAS couldn’t be far off now.

  State pride forbids me from discussing at length my reaction when it first came into view. Suffice it to say this: The Michigan Building it was not. Or the Washington Building or the Minnesota Building or the Nebraska Building or …

  Anyway, the exterior—so boxy, so boring, so punily domed—didn’t matter. It was what we’d (hopefully) find inside that counted.

  We left our huffing, puffing beasts of burden outside and went bounding up the steps toward the building. (I was able to bound now, having finally had the good sense to unstrap my chaps.)

  “I was a mite preoccupied when Mr. Curtis was explainin’ the contest,” I said to Old Red. “What exactly are we lookin’ for again?”

  “An egg.”

  “I heard that part. But what kinda—?”

  “I was a mite preoccupied myself, dammit.”

  “Oh. Wonderful.”

  I didn’t have to ask what had distracted my brother. It would be the same thing that had distracted me. Which left us both in the same boat now: the leaky kind with no paddle one usually finds adrift up Shit Creek. Fortunately, there was someone on hand to toss us a lifeline.

  When we hustled into the Kansas Building, we found a dozen men and women waiting just inside. They were clustered before a photographer’s tripod, staring expectantly at the entrance.

  “Gustav and Otto Amlingmeyer?” asked a muttonchopped man wearing a ceremonial sash. From the tone of his voice, it was clear he was hoping to hear a “No.”

  “That’s us,” I said.

  The man winced, cleared his throat, and held out his hand.

  “As president of the Kansas World’s Fair Board of Managers, it is my great honor to—”

  “That for us?” Gustav asked. He nodded at an envelope in the man’s other hand. It was identical to the one Curtis had given us back at the bandstand.