Authors: Dan Simmons
“Not worry about Moriarty?”
cried James. “But certainly he must take priority in your searches. Professor Moriarty is the . . . in your words, I believe . . . the mastermind behind all the murders and violent uprisings to come. Surely you must seek out Moriarty as your primary duty and allow others to take care of this . . . this . . .
boy
. . . Lucan Adler.”
“No,” Holmes said bluntly. “What we have to concentrate on first is stopping Lucan Adler from killing the president. Then I shall deal with Professor Moriarty. You need to trust me on this, James.”
James could only shake his head in frustration and amazement. “And do you know how to do that? Stop the assassination from happening?” he asked at last. “Do you know where the assassin will be shooting from, how he plans to escape, and . . . most of all . . . what on earth you could do to stop him?”
“I believe so,” said Holmes. “We shall find out in less than three days, shan’t we? Oh, and I shall expect you to help me when that time comes, James.” He had the effrontery to pat Henry James on the shoulder again before Holmes went to the connecting door, waved the waiting servants in, and said, “Shall we join the other gentlemen in the smoking car?”
Henry James had never in his life felt the urge to kill anyone—save for a few brief stabs of that emotion aimed at his older brother William—but now he felt he could take a carving knife to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He went into the smoking room and found a seat as far from the detective as he could get in the long carriage.
H
enry Cabot Lodge’s special World’s Fair Express train arrived in Chicago on the morning of April 29 with everyone well-rested and amused. Everyone, it seemed, save for Sherlock Holmes, who seemed further and further lost in his own thoughts.
Lodge had let everyone know that their special cars were going to be parked on a private siding less than fifty yards outside the Columbian Exposition’s western gates where all the trains deposited visitors who went through the gates and onto the Parade Ground, flowing ahead to the Administration Building and the Court of Honor and then into the rest of the White City. All of his guests were free to come and rest or freshen up at any time of the days and nights they’d be there. The servants and cooks were on constant call.
But their first stop that morning was at a downtown-Chicago pier where everyone was ferried out to Don Cameron’s “Great Lakes Yacht”, the stately
Albatross
, where they were each shown slightly smaller but still luxurious rooms they could use whenever they wanted. The yacht was also heavily stocked with servants who would bring a cold drink or fix a full meal on a minute’s notice. Cameron gathered everyone together before the expeditions to the Fair began and explained that messengers would run any notes from the
Albatross
to anyone who decided to stay at or visit the luxury train cars and that there would always be at least one, and usually two, steam-powered longboats to rush them to or from Casino Pier at any hour of the day or night.
And with that, the explorations began. John Hay and Cabot Lodge had made sure that everyone—even young Helen—had the all important special visitor badges that allowed them the run of the White City and the newly vitalized Midway Plaisance at any time. Lodge explained that the director of the entire Columbian Exposition, Daniel Burnham, had said that there would be a lot of last-minute cleaning-up going on—rubble moved, temporary tracks being taken out, last-minute fields of flowers and even trees being planted, some of the huge buildings getting their last spray of white paint—but if they were careful, they shouldn’t be in anyone’s way.
Finally, Lodge warned them to be careful on the mile-long strip called the Midway Plaisance. Burnham had told Henry Cabot that everything and everyone was in place save for the . . . Lodge didn’t use the word Burnham had . . . doggoned Ferris Wheel which should be completed in June. Meanwhile, the Midway offered complete Algerian and Tunisian Villages where they could sample the exotic food or watch even more exotic jugglers and dancing girls; the Barre Sliding Railway—a water-propelled ride that guaranteed screams and squeals of delight the whole length of the Midway; the Bernese Alps Electric Theatre where visitors in a hundred-seat diorama took a frigid (thanks to electrical refrigeration) trip over thirty simulated miles of Alpine peaks.
There was the captive balloon, which Lodge didn’t recommend to the ladies, as well as the Chinese Village, Dahomey Village, Turkish Village, and German Village, all populated with hundreds of appropriately dressed natives. For those seeking out culture along the Midway Plaisance, there was Hagenbeck’s Zoological Arena placed conveniently near the Hungarian Concert Pavilion where Gypsy bands would play and dance in native costume. Also nearby was the Vienna Concert Hall and Café.
There was a perfectly realized Street in Cairo—along with native Egyptians in their robes and with their dogs, snakes, and monkeys—as well as a huge building for the Kilauea Volcano for those who wanted a thrill. If they grew too warm in their weekend visit, there was the Natatorium indoor swimming pool. This Saturday night and Sunday night, the White City would be lighted only by its gaslights and the full moon, but Lodge promised that after President Cleveland turned the magic key on Monday, May first, the White City and its extended Midway Plaisance would become the most brightly and dramatically lighted place on the planet.
Everyone—wearing their darker suits and dresses for almost the last time before light summer linen clothing became appropriate on Monday—got onto the waiting power boats and went ashore. Sherlock Holmes left the others when he reached the pier; he had scheduled meetings with Colonel Rice, Agent Drummond, and the Chicago Chief of Police Robert McClaughry.
Henry James decided to stay aboard the
Albatross
—Lake Michigan was so calm at their anchorage that there was almost no discernible movement of the large yacht—and to take a nap in his mahogany lined, silk-and-velvet-cushioned stateroom.
He awoke sometime after dark to find the yacht empty save for crew members. Everyone must be partying somewhere ashore.
They’d left a power launch and boatman for him and, as James came to the boat ladder, the man at the helm said, “Take you into the White City dock, sir?”
“No,” said James, his heart beating so quickly that he found it hard to take in a breath. “Take me to the main Chicago pier.”
H
e had decided that he—Henry James—would track down the elusive Professor Moriarty. During the hours of his sleepless “nap” that afternoon aboard Don Cameron’s yacht, James had convinced himself that Moriarty and his accomplices at the train station had not been searching for
him
. Searching for Holmes or someone else, perhaps, but not for him. What was he to Moriarty or Moriarty to him?
No, he’d assured himself, it had just been coincidence that he’d spotted the evil professor at the train station. James trusted again in his own anonymity—at least in terms of being a target for either the Adler boy or his dark master, Moriarty.
Telling the boatman to wait for him there at City Pier, no matter how late it might be, James took a trolley into the dark heart of Chicago and boarded one of the elevated trains there.
He had no real search plans and, of course, had not brought any weapon—the idea of searching night-time Chicago for Moriarty felt strangely thrilling. What reassured James was that the chance of him crossing Moriarty’s path again by sheer accident was so small as to be something that could only occur in a poorly written popular novel.
Chicago’s transit system of elevated trains—called the “L” even then—had only come into service the year before, in 1892. The first cars were wooden coaches open to the elements on either side, but now—as James rode through the night on the Lake Street Elevated Railroad—the carriages were enclosed. James had picked up a transit-system map at the first station he’d found and it clearly showed that, except for the Chicago and South Side Rapid Transit Railroad, which now extended south all the way to 63rd Street and Stony Island Avenue, the Transportation Building entrance to the Columbian Exposition, all the other terminals were, most inconveniently, James thought, at the periphery of Chicago’s actual downtown.
On their first day in the city, Holmes had told him that this quirk was due to a state law requiring approval from the businesses and building owners along any downtown street before tracks could be built over that avenue.
James knew that he was headed south on this spur, but he had no intention of going all the way back to the Jackson Park stops at the World’s Fair. Holmes and all of Cameron’s other guests might still be there. Of course, so might Moriarty. But James chose to stay in Chicago proper—the Black City as he now thought of it—for his late-night search for the professor.
He stepped off the “L” train some blocks before the 63rd Street Station that would have brought him back to the Fair and began walking almost at random.
He’d gone several blocks in the poorly lighted section of the city before he realized three things: first, that there were no street lights in this part of town but many people on the sidewalks; second, that there seemed to be an ungodly number of bars and dance halls pounding the night with raucous music; and third, that his was the only white face present in the five- or six-block distance he’d walked from the “L” station.
Realizing (with some small flutter of alarm) that he’d mistakenly got off the elevated train in the south side Negro section of town—he’d heard Holmes refer to it once as “Ebonyville”—James whirled to walk briskly back to the elevated’s platform and realized he’d taken several turns and not paid attention to which way he’d walked. No elevated tracks were visible down any of the cross-streets he was now coming to in a stride so urgent that it almost qualified as running.
Suddenly a Negro man in a rather showy pinstripe suit, amazingly bright tie, and quality straw hat came up to him and blocked his flight.
“Are you lost, sir?” asked the Negro. “Can I be of some help?”
James took three steps back but managed to say, “Would you be so kind as to tell me how to reach the ‘L’ platform that would put me back on the Lake Side train?”
The Negro smiled—perfectly white teeth against the darkest skin James had ever seen—and said, “Certainly, sir.” He pointed the way from which James had just come. “Back three blocks along this street, then left at 48th Street, and it’s just a block and a half to the ‘L’ station there.”
“Thank you,” said James, almost bowing in his relief. But as he headed back the way he had just come—the sidewalks and streets full of colored people who appeared to be celebrating something—he could not resist glancing back over his shoulder to see if his benefactor was following him for some dark reason.
The man in the straw hat was standing exactly where he’d spoken to James, half a block away now, and at James’s glance, the tall Negro again showed that white grin and raised his hat in a friendly wave.
Had that wave been an act of insolence?
wondered James. Immediately he was ashamed of himself.
But the truth was that although Henry James now considered himself to be one of the most cosmopolitan of men (especially of Americans), equally at home in the streets of London, Paris, Florence, Venice, Rome, Zurich, Lucerne, or Berlin, he simply hadn’t had much contact with Negroes in anything but their occasional service capacities in American hotels.
But then he was on the “L” platform again, an enclosed-carriage train arrived within minutes, and he was riding north again.
* * *
For the next ninety minutes or so, James took the elevated lines as far as he could but then had to take the late-running trolley cars to areas such as Douglas Park, Garfield Park, Humboldt Park, and Logan Square (although the small print on his “L”-system map bragged of opening the West Side Elevated line within another year or two).
James didn’t mind the transitions. The trolleys were more comfortable at any rate.
And in the few sections that had adequate street lighting—and white people on the sidewalks and in the carriages—James would stretch his legs for several blocks, always on the alert for Moriarty’s gleaming bald dome and terrible gaze.
In one of these western, working-class sections of town, James realized that he’d not eaten anything since an early and light lunch that day. It was late enough now that some of the cafés were shutting down for the night, but others were open and several were crowded. Still, it was a working-man’s clientele complete with cloth caps—kept in place even while dining—corduroy or moleskin trousers, and huge boots. There were a few women in these places but judging from the excess of rouge and other make-up, combined with their calculated dishabille, James supposed them to be women of the night.
He decided to eat when he finally returned to the yacht. For now he turned back to find the next trolley stop going west again.
* * *
James soon realized that there was a mystery to these trains and trolleys that had nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes or Lucan Adler or his prey for the night, Professor Moriarty. After sitting in more than two dozen mostly empty train carriages and trolleys, he had seen at least a dozen different men reading the same book.
All the men were dressed in poorly fitted wool suits and old but well-shined shoes and a few wore straw hats (but none as clean or well-blocked as that of his Negro interlocutor hours earlier) and each man held the book up close to his face as if he were near-sighted. But few of the men wore glasses. And, compounding the mystery for James, he would stay on for several stops and none of the reading men ever turned a page.
They simply seemed to be holding the book open in front of their bored (and sometimes closed) eyes. What bothered James most
was that it was the same book in each case
.