Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

Holmes rapped his cane soundly on the wooden floor four times and all heads turned in his direction.

“Gentlemen,” said Holmes, using his most commanding tone, “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and it is at my request—relayed through Whitehall, your president, and your State Department—that we are all gathered here this morning. Mr. Dismont”—Holmes nodded at the confused Inspector General of Steamboat Inspection—“we shall need the use of your office for only about forty-five minutes and we invite you and your clerk, Mr. McWilliams, to leave the building and enjoy the lovely spring day for the next hour.”

Dismont puffed his cheeks as if ready to argue but then looked at the faces of the important men in his office, nodded curtly, and left, closing the door softly behind him. Holmes made sure that the Inspector General and his secretary were gone from the outer office and then turned back to those same apoplectic faces ready to explode at him. He held up one gloved finger.

“Stop!” he said. “Before any remonstrations or demands are made, please understand that this meeting was approved by Her Majesty Queen Victoria and President Cleveland and arranged by our Whitehall and your State Department . . . precisely for reasons of privacy.”

“My office at police headquarters would have been perfectly private!” thundered Major and Superintendent of Police Moore through his white whiskers.

“No, Major and Superintendent Moore, it would not have been,” Holmes answered softly. “For not only is the entrance to your police headquarters at Fifth and Louisiana being observed by scouts . . . touts, you might call them . . . on the payroll of this city’s criminal gangs, but there are members of your staff and police department also on that payroll.”

“That is . . . outrageous! ” roared Moore.

“As outrageous as the charges by Mr. Holmes, more than ten years ago, that my detectives were corrupt!” rasped former Major and Superintendent Brock. “I lost my position in eighteen eighty-three due to such rumor mongering.”

Holmes nodded. “That was unfortunate,” he said softly. “I was invited to America to look into the assassination of your President Garfield . . . more specifically, to see if the assassin Charles Guiteau was connected to the anarchist conspiracy that had later attempted to murder Queen Victoria. My investigations showed that Charles Guiteau acted alone and out of motives concocted only in his insane mind. But those same investigations showed the active corruption of many members of your Detective Bureau—including taking money from known anarchist conspirators.”

Brock turned his back on Holmes and went to the window to look out.

Before Moore could roar again, Holmes said, “Let me introduce the three other gentlemen whom President Cleveland wanted to be here today.”

Holmes nodded toward a short, handsome man standing near Brock and the window. The gentleman’s mustache was waxed and curved in the French fashion, his dark hair was slicked close to his skull, but any sense of dandyism was immediately dismissed by his square jaw, firm mouth, and powerful gaze.

“Mr. William Rockhill, if I’m not mistaken,” said Holmes. “Executive Secretary to the Third Assistant Secretary of State and our liaison with the State Department and various European governments, should the need arise to communicate with these governments.”

Rockhill bowed toward Sherlock Holmes. “ Un plaisir de vous rencontrer , Monsieur Holmes.” He bowed to the other men. “Mr. Vice-President. Gentlemen.”

Holmes gestured toward a tall, silent man with his white hair parted in the middle, the only man in the room other than Holmes who was clean-shaven. “You are Mr. Drummond, I presume?”

The tall man bowed slightly. “Andrew L. Drummond, at your service.”

“Mr. Drummond is currently Chief of the Secret Service Division of the Department of the Treasury,” said Holmes.

Drummond nodded his head again. His bright blue eyes seemed to show some slight amusement.

“What in blazes do the State Department or Treasury Department have to do with anything?” roared Major and Superintendent Moore. “And for that matter, sir”—the Major and Superintendent raised his cane in Holmes’s direction—“who the blazes are you and by what authority do you summon the Chief of the Metropolitan Police Department?”

Before Holmes could answer, the sixth and final man in the room, the only one not yet introduced, a quiet, balding, mustached man in his early sixties standing in the shadows of a corner, said softly, “I will answer that, Major and Superintendent Moore. I am Vice-President Adlai E. Stevenson. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, England’s most renowned and respected consulting detective, was asked to call today’s meeting on the authority of President Cleveland, who has asked that everyone here might give their full cooperation on an issue of the gravest national importance.”

“Mr. Vice-President . . .” stammered Major and Superintendent Moore and fell silent. Holmes knew from Hay and others that Vice-President Adlai Stevenson, elevated from assistant postmaster to vice-president by a whim of Cleveland’s party at the 1892 Democratic Convention, could walk into almost any party or assembly in Washington and not be recognized. (Nor will Holmes be surprised, four years hence, late in 1897, when he will read a small item in The Times of London—“When asked whether President Cleveland had ever asked his opinion on any matter, Vice-President Adlai E. Stevenson responded—‘Not yet. But there are still several weeks remaining in my term.’ ”)

“The issue in front of us, gentlemen,” said Holmes, noting that even former Major and Superintendent Brock had turned his attention back from the window, “is the anarchists’ plans to assassinate Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and the monarchs, emperors, and elected leaders of at least twelve other nations, beginning with the assassination of President Grover Cleveland on or before this May first.”

It was Vice-President Stevenson who took charge of moderating the outbreak of gabble into a series of questions and answers with a calm Sherlock Holmes at the swirling conversation’s locus.

Secret Service Chief Drummond:How reliable is this intelligence regarding President Cleveland, Mr. Holmes?

Sherlock Holmes:Very reliable, sir.

Secret Service Chief Drummond:Are there any specifics to this warning or is it the usual vague threat?

Sherlock Holmes:The most specific threat to date suggests that President Cleveland will be assassinated on May first . . . the socialist International Workers’ Holiday since the Haymarket Square incident . . . most probably while he is officially declaring open the Columbian World Exposition in Chicago.

State Department Sec. Rockhill:Is this supposed to be another Haymarket Square operation, Mr. Holmes? Mobs? Bombs thrown? Rampant shooting at police as well as at the president?

Sherlock Holmes:That is always possible . . . but our intelligence suggests that it is more likely to be the work of one or two master assassins hired by the anarchists.

Secret Service Chief Drummond:Do we have the identity of those hired assassins?

Sherlock Holmes:We do. Here are photographs of the two men. The older man is probably well known to you . . . Colonel Sebastian Moran. The younger man is the more able assassin . . . twenty-year-old Lucan Adler . . . and this photographic plate is the first official photograph of Adler. Please be careful with the glass. Can you make close-up copies from that plate, Chief Drummond?