Martin Greenberg - Sherlock Holmes In America

“No, Armitage didn’t say you were coming. But he has mentioned that he knew you, and when he telephoned this morning that he was bringing to campus someone I would want to meet, your name immediately sprang to mind. Now, what can you deduce about me?”

“Apart from the fact that you are suffering from sciatica and are troubled by some sort of mystery, I can deduce little.”

“How in the world do you know I have sciatica?”

“My friend Watson has schooled me in the diagnosis of limps.”

“Maybe if the good doctor were present, he could suggest a cure,” Stagg said ruefully. “I have covered the map of the United States seeking treatment, from Colorado to Arkansas to Indiana to Florida, with no lasting result. Laying that painful matter aside, what about this mystery you believe is troubling me?” Now it was Stagg’s turn to look pointedly in my direction. “What has Armitage been telling you?”

“I’ve told him nothing,” I said, “apart from the population, mean temperature, and annual meat-packing production of the city of Chicago.”

“Then how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”

“Armitage must have mentioned many of his friends and acquaintances to you at some time or other. Why would the name of a detective spring to your mind if you were not in need of one?”

Stagg nodded. “It’s true I could use your help. But I haven’t adequate money to pay for your services, and anyway, time is too short.”

“My time in your city is short as well. But I charge no fee for a brief consultation, and perhaps I could make some suggestions toward solving your problem.”

“That’s very kind of you. Please sit down, gentlemen, and I’ll tell you about it. You know a bit of this, Armitage, but not the most recent development. When that reporter was here, he asked me my opinion of Glenn ‘Pop’ Warner, my opposite number at the Carlisle Indian School. You may have noted some hesitation in my answer. Glenn and I are unlike in many ways. I once planned to become a minister, changing course only because I couldn’t preach for sour apples and believed I could serve God more effectively as a coach. Glenn by contrast trained as a lawyer. He is profane in his language. The strongest word my players ever hear from me is jackass , though I’ll confess they hear that all too frequently.

“While I have tried to improve our game with my colleagues on the rules committee, Glenn has given us little help, but when we do change or introduce a rule, he is quick to exploit it. Last year, we allowed the forward pass for the first time, and no one has made more effective use of it than Glenn Warner. Sometimes, we have to make another new rule to close whatever loophole he has exposed.

“No one in coaching will soon forget Warner’s hidden-ball trick against Harvard in ’03: The Carlisle players pulled closely together to receive the kick-off, and the Harvard men could not tell who had the ball. One player-Dillon was his name-put his empty arms out in front of him as he ran down the field and was ignored by the Harvard defenders, who concentrated on searching among the other Carlisle players for the ball-carrier. Dillon crossed the Harvard goal line, produced the ball from the back of his sweater, and scored an unimpeded touchdown.”

“Surely that’s not cricket,” I said.

“Obviously not,” Holmes said humorously. “But is it American football?”

Stagg said, “Mr. Holmes, in that famous expression about cricket, your countrymen express a devotion to sportsmanship that goes beyond the importance of winning. To us in America, winning is the thing. We will honor the letter of the law, but not always the spirit. Glenn Warner will do anything to win within the rules, and I cannot in good conscience criticize him for that. I have always respected him as a coach and as a man, but now something has shaken that respect.

“I was pleased at your hearty endorsement of amateur sport in Dr. Watson’s account of the ‘Missing Three-Quarter.’ Despite our minor differences in philosophy, in my country as in yours, the teamwork and ideals of sport mold boys into men, making my profession of coaching a sacred calling. Did not Wellington say, ‘The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton’?

“But when I read that story of a missing rugby player, I never imagined that a similar situation might confront me. It has. A young man named Clayton Cumberland enrolled this year at the University and turned out for the team. I knew immediately he could be a player of great ability and versatility. He has shown in practice that he can do everything our game requires-run, block, punt, pass, tackle-and I have had the luxury of developing his potential slowly. Others did the job for me through the Big Ten season, but I believed I would need more in our upcoming game against Warner’s Carlisle team. I was planning to unveil Cumberland as a sort of secret weapon.

“But the day before yesterday, a mere three days before the game, Cumberland suddenly vanished from his dormitory. His roommate had sensed something was worrying him but could provide no clue to where he might have gone. His professors say only that he had been diligent in his studies. With no evidence of violence, I could hardly enlist the efforts of the police. I was not so much worried about the game, Mr. Holmes, as the welfare of the young man. Then in this morning’s mail, I received this.”

He passed over a plain envelope addressed to him at the University. There was no return address. Inside was a crumpled sheet of paper that Holmes and I looked at in turn. It had a Carlisle Indian School letterhead, and a typewritten message was crowded into the top half of the page, followed by a handwritten signature.

Dear Mr. Cumberland:

As we discussed, there will be no problem in obtaining documentation of your Indian blood. We are delighted you will be joining our team here at Carlisle.

Sincerely yours,

Glenn “Pop” Warner

“You see the implication,” Stagg said. “Warner is now stealing players from other coaches by nefarious means. I don’t believe Clayton Cumberland has any Indian blood at all. It seems Warner will do anything he can to gain an advantage. This goes beyond bending the rules. This is flat-out cheating.”

“This is Warner’s true signature?” Holmes said.

“I have seen his signature, and I believe it to be authentic. Mind you, I am no expert in handwriting analysis. But if this were merely a matter of Cumberland leaving Chicago to go to Carlisle, why would the young man not simply come and tell me what he was planning to do, or at least write his decision to me in a letter? Why just disappear one day?”

Holmes turned to me. “Armitage, if I may impose upon your time for a few hours more, it is possible we can make some sense of this.” I readily agreed. For who would decline the chance to be substitute Watson?

We were fortunate to find the roommate, a young ministerial student named Chad Armbruster, in his dormitory room, and eager to talk to us. While Holmes continued to use the alias Mr. Benson, we made no effort to conceal that he was a detective.

“Are you English, Mr. Benson?” Armbruster asked. “Cumberland’s parents were English.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Are they living?”

“No, I believe they’re both dead.”

“You told Coach Stagg that Cumberland was worried about something.”

“He certainly wasn’t himself the past week or so.”

“Did he say nothing to suggest the source of his worry?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he say anything out of the ordinary that might help us?”

“There was one very odd thing, now that you mention it, but I can’t imagine how it will help you. I returned to the room late one evening to find Cumberland sitting at his desk, just staring into space. I heard him say to himself, speaking in a low voice but very clearly, as if unaware I had entered the room, ‘It all comes down to the missing three quarters.’”