“I’m still at a loss about what it is that you want with this nontrivial gentleman, Ms. Wesson.”
“Why, business, of course! Have you read the sign you nailed to the door? I run a detective agency. Or, well, trying to, at least. Nobody’d ever trust a woman to do their detecting for them, so that’s where you come in, Mr. Smith – you will act as the public face of our agency, so to speak. But having a proper front isn’t enough to bring in clients, I’m afraid; nobody’d ever trust a detective they haven’t heard of before, either.” She fiddled with her necklace. “Think of it! One of the most famous men in the business is here, in our city, and immediately his ship’s under quarantine! Coincidence? I think not. We go there, we find out what’s going on, and we get involved. And after we get involved, we try our damnedest to let the world know that the Smith & Wesson Detective Agency is worth more than the soles of my boots!”
She put her feet back on the floor and leaned towards me with an inquisitive look.Go there, find out what’s going on, get involved didn’t sound like the most brilliant business plan ever, but what did I know.
“All right,” I said. “All right. I might be able to get us onboard. But if you’re serious about this, I’d appreciate a small advance. Just in case we get arrested or whatnot, I’m sure you understand.”
Jane Wesson understood. She counted out five crisp one-dollar bills on the desk. At the time, I could hardly believe my fortune. In retrospect, had I known what was to happen in the days (nights? weeks? years?) that followed, I would’ve dashed for the door and never looked back.
Just thinking about it hurts my brain even today, but for the sake of my readers’ good fortunes, I will do my best to recount everything as it occurred in the most chronological order possible.
For now, know this, Dear Reader: unlike money, time is a relative thing.
I’d started my shift at midnight like always. Gas lamps illuminated the Chicago South-Eastern port, and shadows danced on the wooden warehouses as my colleagues hauled crates of grain through the docks. I’d waited until the foreman looked the other way and slipped into the darkness.
My plan was so stupid it was doomed to work. I must have spent at least ten minutes waiting until I’d spotted the man I needed.
“Psst,” I said, “Bratoslaw, got a minute, man?”
“Tak?” he asked me. “Vay are you hiding ozer there, Adam?”
I cringed at his Polglish, the unofficial language of the docks. Couldn’t have been avoided, with more than eighty percent of our jobs taken by the Poles, I supposed. “I need a favor, man.”
“Vat kind of favor? Iz it an illegal favor?”
I took out a dollar bill. “Not at all. Fifteen minutes of your time. Need you help me haul a crate.”
“Haul a crate vor a week’z pay? Iz it a very big crate?”
“Come with me, man.”
We’d walked to where I’d cut a hole through the chainlink fence after my interview with Ms. Wesson, and helped the feminist detective extraordinaire onto the through the opening. Hell, who I was to judge? Five dollars was five dollars.
“Vho iz zis?” Bratoslaw asked.
“She goes in the crate.”
“Not a very big crate, zen.”
My colleague checked his key ring, nodded, and lead us to a warehouse at the edge of the docks, where, with some snickering on Bratoslaw’s part, we helped Ms. Wesson into a crate marked FRAGILE. DO NOT OPEN.
He even threw in a couple of pillows. “Now vat?” he asked.
“Now we get it onto Victoria.”
“Are you joking, Adam? Victoria iz clozed off. Cop on watch, twenty four seven.”
“How many cops?”
“Tell me you are not zeriouz.”
“How many?”
“One.”
“Not a problem.”
“Vot are you going to do?”
“I’ve got another dollar.”
When I’d told the cop I had a special delivery for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he refused the bribe and helped me and Bratoslaw get the crate up the swing-bridge and onto the deck. Before I could voice my surprise, Bratolaw nodded and followed the fine policeman off the ship, probably worried I’d ask for my money back.
The deck was empty. No lights. The policeman was out of sight, and I was left alone, the SS Victoria’s two pipes towering above me. Around: only the ship’s masts of folded sails, reaching for the starless sky. My hair stood up on the back of my neck; the ship felt wrong. I blinked, snapping back to the world of the physical and wondered if Ms. Wesson would let me write off the dollar I gave to the Pole as expenses. I knocked thrice on the crate to signal Jane to get out.
The moment she did, a metal door squeaked on its hinges in front of us, and a tall gentleman with a hawkish nose and a lit pipe in his hand stepped out on the deck. His piercing eyes almost shined from under his deerstalker cap, making me think he might have enjoyed pleasures other than piple toboacco. He gave me a brief glance that made me feel like I’d been analized and catologued in less than a second, before he switched his attention to Jane.
A shorter man followed him, a snub-nosed revolver in hand. I froze. “Marvelous, my dear Watson,” the first man said. “Simply marvelous. You can put your gun away now.”
His companion hesitated for a second, then holstered the weapon into his suit.
“Mr. Adam Smith, I presume?” the taller man asked. How did he know my name? “And Ms. Wesson?”
“That’s us,” I said. “And you are?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my good friend and companion, Dr. John Watson. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Em… excuse me for asking, but do we know each other?”
“Not in the least, Mr. Smith. The only few things I know about you is what any trained mind can deduce. Judging by your posture, you’re a military man; not hard to tell, considering Watson here is very much the same.”
Watson crossed his arms, listening to his companion’s monologue with a disapproving frown.
“More over,” Holmes continued, “judging by your youthful looks, you haven’t served your full term… honorably discharged, most likely due to an injury, if your unnaturally rigid posture is any indication. I’d say you suffered from an injury to the –”
“That’s enough! How do you know our names?”
“Ah.” The British detective puffed on his pipe, and said, as if to himself. “More importantly, why do I know your names?”
“Good question!”
“It only made sense. If there is a Mister Adam Smith, then there must have been a Jane Wesson, of the Smith & Wesson Detective Agency… and if we eliminate the impossible and allow only the improbable to remain… then the improbable must be the truth. Watson, would you mind?”
Ms. Wesson pulled out a Browning Number One pistol from her pocket and Dr. Watson trained his revovler on her. She wasn’t pointing the weapon at anyone, but she looked like she was about to. “What the hell is going on?” she said. “Why is Victoria under quarantine?”
“That’s an expensive handgun,” Holmes said. “Browning M.1900 semi-automatic; seven rounds. Undoubdetdly one of Mr. Browning’s crowning achievements in weapons engineering.”
“You don’t say,” Jane replied.
“But I do! There is no need for violence, Ms. Wesson. Show them, Watson,” he said. Dr. Watson checked his pocket watch, his revolver still pointed at Jane, muttered something under his breath, then took a folded parchment from his jacket, and handed it to my employer. She’d skimmed through the document.