Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

“I’m sorry to say that Scotland Yard has not yet adopted fingerprinting as a universal practice,” said Holmes. “But I have an assistant who visits the prisons and we make our own cards—photograph of the suspect on front, prints of all fingers and the palm on back. I believe I have about three thousand such cards on file.”

Superintendent McClaughry was visibly startled at this information.

“Bob,” said Mayor-elect Harrison, “it’s time to move out. You’re welcome to ride with us and Bonfield can ride with the patrolmen.”

“No, I shall ride with my men,” McClaughry said stiffly. “It was a great, great pleasure, Mr. Holmes, and I do hope we meet again when we have time to discuss Bertillon’s methods and other forensic matters.” A final handshake and the chief of police marched back to his crowded surrey.

“Hop on up here next to me, Mr. Holmes,” said Harrison. “Bonnie, you get in back with Mr. Drummond. I believe you know Drummond, do you not, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes nodded at the Secret Service director. “Yes. A pleasure to see you here, sir.”

Drummond smiled and returned the nod.

“All right, it’s time,” said the mayor-elect and touched the two horses gently with his whip.

“I presume that President Cleveland will be staying there at the Lexington Hotel,” said Holmes.

“Yep,” said Harrison. “It’s got the largest suite in town. But if it had been me choosing a hotel for the president, I would have picked one on a paved street.”

Holmes had noticed that this stretch of Michigan Avenue was more yellow dirt than pavement.

“Just so it doesn’t rain on Opening Day, we’ll be okay,” said Harrison. “This was the furthest-south high-quality hotel, built just last year, so I suppose it makes sense. It shouldn’t take more than about twenty, twenty-five minutes to get to the Fair going down Michigan Avenue.”

“Too bad Superintendent McClaughry didn’t choose to ride with us,” said Drummond from his place behind the mayor. “We need to discuss C.P.D. security arrangements as well as the Columbian Guard security.”

Harrison chuckled and adjusted the brim of his black slouch hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. “Chief McClaughry is a good man. And a dedicated reformer. He sent me his letter of resignation on the day I was elected.”

“Why?” said Holmes.

Harrison grinned. “All of the things Bob wants to reform—gambling, kickbacks to party officials, drinking, dallying with the ladies of the night—are more or less the things I most enjoy doing.”

“Mayor Harrison has very strong support amongst the working class,” said Inspector Bonfield from behind Sherlock. “Even among the colored folk.”

Holmes decided that this was all the local politics he needed to hear. More than enough, actually. He said, “How many officers in Chicago’s police force, mayor?”

“A little over three thousand,” said Harrison. “We’ll have mounted officers riding along and ahead when the actual procession from the Lexington gets going, but my guess is that a couple hundred thousand folks will be walking and riding behind us. Joining the parade, so to speak.”

“And there are two thousand–some Columbian Guards inside the Fair,” said Sherlock.

“That number of uniformed officers,” said Bonfield. “Plus about two hundred plainclothes detectives under my supervision on the fairgrounds—both in the White City and along the Midway Plaisance where we expect the pickpockets and others to do most of their work.”

“Hand-picked detectives?” asked Holmes.

“Handpicked not just from the C.P.D. but from all over the United States,” said Inspector Bonfield.

“Mr. Drummond, what about your agents?” said Holmes.

Mayor Harrison broke in. “When Mr. Drummond showed up this morning and told me that he was from the Treasury Department, I was sure the jig was up. All my back taxes catching up to me.”

“Someday, Mr. Mayor,” Drummond said softly. “Someday.” To Holmes he said, “I’ll have fifty-five Secret Service agents in place when President Cleveland gets to the Exposition grounds. Eight of them are master marksmen and they’ve been checked out with the newest army sniper rifles. Six are on permanent detail with the president.”

“Tall men, I hope,” said Holmes.

“None under six foot three,” said Drummond. “But, of course, no one can be standing in front of the president when he gives his opening address.”

“How many carriages will be in this procession?” asked Holmes.

Harrison grinned again. “My guess is somewhere between twenty and twenty-five coaches. Mr. Cleveland and his immediate entourage will be in a landau. Very Important Chicagoans keep coming out of the woodwork like cockroaches and they all want to be in President Cleveland’s procession to the Fair. All I know for sure is that I’ll be in the last carriage, whatever number that will be.”

“Why is that?” asked Holmes.

“Because I’m going to get the most applause and happy shouts from the crowd of anyone in the procession,” said Harrison who was obviously just stating a fact rather than bragging. “I wouldn’t want President Cleveland to hear that if I were ahead of him. It might hurt his feelings.”

“Does the landau have a top?” asked Drummond.

“A foldable top,” said Inspector Bonfield. “It’ll be folded back so that everyone, even those in the higher buildings, can see the president. Unless it’s raining, of course.”

“Pray for rain,” Drummond said softly, speaking to himself.

“Oh, Mr. Mayor,” said Bonfield. “Mr. Holmes informed me that he knows the whereabouts of Rudolph Schnaubelt . . . the Haymarket Square bomb-thrower.”

“You don’t have to tell me who Rudolph Schnaubelt is, goddamnit,” snarled Harrison. “I’ve had enough nightmares about the sonofabitch. Where do you think he is, Mr. Holmes?”

“I know exactly where he is,” said Holmes and gave the mayor Schnaubelt’s farm business and personal addresses in Buenos Aires.

“Well I’ll be dipped in shit,” said Harrison. “Bonnie, can’t you send some of your boys down there to Buenos Aires to get that murdering reptile?”

“We have no extradition arrangements with Argentina, Mr. Mayor.”

“God damn it, I know that,” said Harrison. “I mean get him. A black bag job. Haul that goddamn anarchist back here to Chicago for a fair trial and very public hanging.”

“If the Argentinian authorities were to discover a plot like that, it would mean war,” Bonfield said softly.

“It’ll be a sad day when the United States of America can’t whip some pissant country like Argentina,” said Harrison. “Okay, Bonnie, maybe we could just send someone down to shoot the sonofabitch. Bang! Take a picture of the corpse for the Chicago papers. No muss, no fuss.”

“We should talk about this later,” said Bonfield.

“You’re right!” laughed Harrison. “I have my favorite literary hero of all time right here in my carriage to ask questions of. Tell me, Mr. Holmes, in ‘The Sign of the Four’, you were injecting a seven-percent solution of cocaine into your arm or wrist when you were bored. Was that accurate?”

“A habit I abandoned after my friend Dr. Watson convinced me that—how did the good doctor put it?—that the game was not worth the candle.” Holmes saw no reason to mention his morning injection of this more powerful heroic drug or the fact that he planned to inject it twice more before this day was over.

“Ah, good,” cried Harrison. “So tell me, if you are free to do so, in that same adventure, do you think the lovely Miss Mary Morstan had romantic designs on you? Did she just settle, as we say, by marrying Dr. Watson?”