A Study in Sherlock

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.

Holmes stood and looked up the hallway behind the barroom to be sure there were no eavesdroppers, then opened the conversation almost immediately. “Chief Bull, do you know why I asked for a chance to meet with you?”

“I do,” he said. “When Captain Allen came to me on your behalf, I made inquiries with the president’s secretary, Mr. Cortelyou. I’ll confess I was feeling insulted that they would hire a private citizen from another country to do my job of protecting important guests in my home city.”

“And did Mr. Cortelyou settle your mind on that score?”

“He did,” said Bull, then leaned closer to us and kept his voice low. “Now I’m not insulted. I’m afraid for everyone involved. If this goes wrong, it will be difficult for anyone to believe that we weren’t joined in a murderous conspiracy. Once the name ‘Booth’ is mentioned …” He shuddered.

“We must be certain that there are no mistakes,” said Holmes. “The fact that you are with us has helped to settle my mind considerably.”

“And what will you need from me?”

“First,” said Holmes, “we must request that you maintain the utmost secrecy. This is not a hoax that can later be revealed. We mean to establish a historical event that will remain enshrined in public knowledge for centuries. The men who know of it are the three of us, the president, Mr. Cortelyou, Dr. Roswell Park, Mr. Booth, and Captain Allen. I believe we can keep it within a small circle of honorable men, only those who must know.”

Chief Bull sipped his beer thoughtfully. “Agreed. Any of my men will do as I say because I say it. They don’t need to know why I say it.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “The portions for which we most need your help are the arrangement and disposition of the audience, the immediate aftermath of the performance, and then, just as important, the events of the following two weeks.”

“You have my cooperation,” he said. “We’ll need to go over exactly what you want to happen, and what you don’t want to happen.”

“I propose to do that as soon as we have finished this sumptuous repast,” said Holmes.

And he did. It took only about an hour spent pleasantly in the American pub for Holmes to choreograph exactly what he wanted—where each officer was to stand, how the citizens would be lined up to meet the president, what would happen as soon as Mr. Booth discharged his part, and so on. Chief Bull, I must say, proved to be a canny and intelligent strategist, picking up every detail and foreseeing more than a few that came from his professional knowledge of the behavior of crowds. By the end of the hour, when he stood and retrieved his policeman’s hat, he and Holmes had a clear understanding.

Holmes was extremely thorough by habit and temperament, and in the time that followed he made sure that each member of the group knew something of the role of each of the others, so that none would mistakenly impede the execution of another’s part. At his urging, each went to the Exposition alone and studied the areas he would need to know during the fateful day, like an actor blocking his part in a play.

And then, before I was even prepared for the day to come, it was the sixth of September. The moment I awoke I knew that the day was going to be hot. The sun had barely risen on the slightly overcast morning when it began to exert a power over the city. The humidity reminded me of those days in Delhi just before the government would decamp each year to the higher, cooler climate of Simla.

At 7:15 A.M. the president awoke at 1168 Delaware Avenue, the home of Mr. Milburn. He took a walk along the avenue, where he met another solitary figure, a tall, trim gentleman equipped as a peddler on the way to the Exposition with a tray of souvenirs to sell. I’m told they walked together for only a couple of blocks, but in that time, a great deal of information was conveyed in both directions. Then the mysterious salesman parted with the president, and they went their separate ways.