A Study in Sherlock

“Think about this. We bought a ticket. We got on the train. We walked from back to front, then from front to back. We’ve stopped to talk. I just saw a sign that said we were entering La Salle, which is the last place before Niagara Falls. Has the conductor punched your ticket?”

“Why, no.”

“He hasn’t checked anyone else’s either. When I looked at him he avoided my eyes and stared ahead as though he were driving the train. The conductors I’ve observed can practically feel where they are on a line without looking. They have an almost miraculous sense of the exact duration of the journey. I would guess that in a moment he will be making his way to the back of the train looking very conductorly, if you’ll permit me to coin a term. But what he’ll be doing is using his uniform to be admitted to the car where the president sits.”

And within minutes, there he was. As we were reaching the outskirts of a larger city that could only be Niagara Falls, the false conductor suddenly came down the aisle, taking tickets and punching them. He punched them without looking closely at them, which made him seem very experienced, but he was actually too engrossed in judging the distance to his destination, the door of the last car.

Holmes sat in the aisle seat on the right of the car, and I sat in the seat across the aisle from him as we watched the man’s progress. I waited for Holmes to make a move, but he allowed the conductor to continue his advance. I looked at Holmes repeatedly, but saw no sign in his expression that he had even noticed. He actually was gazing out the window at passing glimpses of the river between the quaint buildings of the City of Niagara Falls. The conductor continued his approach. He was ten feet from the door, then five, but Holmes never moved. Finally I could stand it no more. I had my cane across my lap, and as he stepped to the door of the presidential car, I jabbed it between his ankles, tripped him up so he sprawled on the floor, swung the stout ivory handle across the back of his skull, and then threw myself on top of him. I could tell he was dazed, half-conscious, and somewhat deprived of wind. Holmes rather casually reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed me a pair of handcuffs without even standing up. The sight irritated me, but I could see I had only a single choice to make—accept them or reject them, and either must be without comment. I chose to accept them because the conductor was a man of some size and probable strength, and I pulled his arms behind his back and clasped the irons on his wrists quickly before his senses fully returned.

Holmes helped me roll him to his side, and patted his blue uniform tunic. He pulled from the man’s uniform a loaded .45 caliber Colt revolver, a quite sizable weapon for concealment. Holmes slipped it under his coat, and looked up at the nearby passengers, who were all members of the group of local dignitaries not important enough to sit with the president. He fanned the fallen culprit with his conductor’s hat and said to the others, “This heat can make a man faint with just light exercise.”

The man had planned his crime rather well. The train was already pulling up to the platform at Niagara Falls. He had clearly intended to go in, shoot the president, then jump from the last car as the train slowed while approaching the platform. He could have thrown away the conductor’s hat and coat in a second and looked like anyone else in the crowd gathering at the station to see the president’s arrival.

The train stopped, and we waited for the other passengers to make their exit. Then Holmes knocked on the president’s car, and a young soldier opened the door. We could see four other soldiers behind him. “This man was attempting to get in and shoot the president,” Holmes said. “Be sure he is locked up in the Niagara Falls police station right away. Take no chances. You are dealing with a murderer.” He handed the soldier the gun, helped the failed assassin to his feet, and walked down the aisle toward the exit at the front of the car.

Seeing that we were alone, I said, “Why did you do nothing while I fought an armed assassin?”

“Untrue, Watson. I cheered you on—silently, for reasons of security.”