The Affair of the Politician

As discovered by Harry Dolphin

Omaha City, July 1892

Fate is cruel, and once more she dealt me a hand that seemed beyond endurance. It was with heavy heart I took up pen to record the latest exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in the matter of The Final Problem. To his everlasting credit, this man whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man I have ever known rid the world of that arch-fiend, Professor Moriarty, but those who follow the better journals are aware Holmes, too, found his ultimate solution.

However, having witnessed the Master in seemingly inextricable difficulties e'er this, it is beyond belief he could come to such an ignominious end. Thus, I vow to keep faith until positive proof of his doom is forthcoming.

I wrote The Final Problem in Nice whence I had gone to grieve not only for Holmes but for my dear wife, the late Mrs. Watson of fond memory. As I brooded over the loss of two so close to me, my mood was also affected by the probable demise of my successful literary career. In truth, I fancied the attention bestowed on a successful author -- and I needed the money.

Fortunately, when the depth of my hopelessness was such I feared an attack of the vapours right there in the hostel, I chanced upon a weathered copy of a quaint American newspaper, "The Omaha Herald" or recent date. I espied a small item therein entitled, "Strange Occurrence at H.P. Murphy Stables."

Written by Mr. Ned Buntline, the article recounted a tale of scientific crime deduction accomplished by a deputy sheriff Holmes in apprehending a noted horse thief in the City of Omaha. Mind boggled, I thought,"Could it be? Could my Holmes, be alive? Could I continue my writing and selling?"

Thereupon I determined to visit the Colonies for no clue was too small if it meant continuing a lucrative career as a man of letters. Upon returning to London and with no dear, concerned, nagging wife to demand explanation, I left a note for my neighbour who would readily agree to care for that handful of patients who remained loyal to me.

I booked passage on a quite excellent ship, The Gloria Scott. A singular name, I thought, but she was of American registry and the matter passed from my mind. The voyage was uneventful, rather pleasant, although the master, a Captain Hudson, was a baleful looking chap with a tendency to sneer when we chanced to meet.

Arrival in New York was routine, our overland trip commonplace. Truth told, I was sorely disappointed my few meetings with Red Indians proved uneventful and devoid of hazard. Unfortunately, this was not true of my arrival in Omaha City which coincided with a cricket-like contest between the local team and one from Denver City. The matter was never entirely clear, but it seems the Colonials take this so-called "baseball" rather hard. A competitor from Omaha City was adjudged guilty of an infraction by the arbiter who thereupon terminated the contest. The local sporting gentry revenged themselves upon this charlatan and several visiting contestants. The station agent met me at trackside, a decent gesture, I thought, but his mission was to seek assistance for the injured contestants. I was summoned because of my registry as a physician on the passenger manifest.

As I leaned over a victim laying on the magnificent walnut bar of the Silver Tap, someone clapped me on the shoulder. I turned and recognized young Stamford, a dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in the primitive wilderness is a pleasant thing indeed for a lonely man. Of course, Stamford was not as young as he had once been; rather he was sallow of face and long of tooth. But he was the easier to recognize because, as always, he had a tumbler of strong drink at hand. Although never a particular crony, I hailed him with enthusiasm for had it not been for young Stamford, I should never have met Holmes.

"By Jove, Watson," he cried. "It is smashing to see you after these years. Still practicing with the old scalpel and poultices, I see." I found his remark condescending. He continued, "Prior to sallying forth from the warmth of the Criterion Bar to this ruddy land, I heard rumours you had turned to the pen to make your wherewithal. Delighted to learn that was balderdash. Not a proper pastime for a gentleman. What?"

"My heavens, no, Stamford. Not to make a living," I lied, "merely to chronicle some singular adventures of a friend, the best and wisest man whom I have ever known." Then I asked, "And you, Old Man, are you practicing medicine here in the Colonies?"

"Not on your bloody life, Pard. Inadequate dinero in that, Old Fellow. Over here the smashing thing is to be a vet." I must have looked at him strangely. "I trust you shan't misunderstand, Old Buckeroo, but I am a horse doctor. These chaps will cure their wives and themselves with Chief Blue Feather's Bitters, but they demand the best for their horses and their critters," he explained.

"To be sure, Stamford, but I have come on a matter of some urgency. As a resident you must know that scourge of the criminal class, your deputy sheriff Holmes?"

Stamford pondered over his glass, then replied, "Sounds familiar I say, was that not the peculiar chap to whom I introduced you, the one with whom you took up digs on Baker Street?"

"The very same. But this man is your deputy sheriff. I read an article on his great deductive powers by your Mr. Buntline in the Omaha Herald."

"Buntline? That mountebank! You must excuse me, Watson, but that hombre is the most renowned liar in all these here parts. As for your deputy sheriff, we may very well have a Holmes working for the sheriff. Let us go straightaway and seek the truth."

We completed the short journey to the sheriff's office, vainly attempting to ignore heat, humidity and dust. As we entered, Stamford was called aside by a tall, gaunt man wearing a large hat of a type that seems indispensable attire for Omahans, irrespective of calendar and clock, indoors or out. "Doc, you got to check Old Nell. She's been right poorly of late." Stamford excused himself, and I proceeded through another door, unprepared for what I heard.

"I have found it! I've found it!" The voice was from our glorious past -- high, crisp, piercing, precise. I rushed forward to embrace the man, then halted in mid-stride.

"You are deputy sheriff Holmes?"

"The same," said he, sparing me not even a sideways glance. "And you are the first person to learn that I have the answer to criminal identification. It is elementary, my dear fellow. The shape of the skull, by Jove. Each skull is unique. That, sir, is the key." The man was ecstatic.

"I regret disillusioning you, but the Frenchman, M. Bertillion, discovered that very principle some years ago." I fear disappointment overcame breeding; so, I hastened to add, "I apologize for intruding, but I seek the best and wisest man whom I have ever known. Obviously, you are not he. Forgive me."

"Ah, dear fellow, I note that you are Dr. James Watson, recently come from Switzerland and, if you will permit a modest observation, you have successfully run to ground the world's leading deductive criminologist."

"Amazing, Holmes. How on earth did you know that?" Then, I added quickly, "My name is John not James, however, and it has been some time since I was in Switzerland. I most recently came from France and am searching for my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

My new-found acquaintance said, "Oh, dash. Never have been one for names, but your bag bears the imprint, 'J. Watson, M.D.,' so that was kind of elementary, my dear Watson. Further, I read The Final Problem in the latest McClure's Magazine, thus my deduction that you but recently returned from Switzerland. Too bad about Sherlock, a good old crock, if I do say." Finally, he swung round to face me. "I, my good doctor, am the younger brother of your friend, Sherlock. And in all modesty, since his demise, I am the best deductive criminologist in the world."

After an embarrassed silence, I said, "Quite so, my dear Holmes, but you gave me a turn, that same aquiline nose, those piercing, albeit watery, gray eyes, the same strong, sinewy fingers."

He chuckled. "Certainly, my dear Watson, but you are too polite to note that I am short, much shorter than you, and portly -- hell -- fat, much fatter than you." He added, "Note, too, I am bald. Undeniably bald." As proof he removed his hat, the same deerstalker model many imitators mistakenly associate with my late friend. His eyes glittered, rather glistened. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed. "You are a walking compendium of my brother's career. Perhaps you, rather than this dolt Buntline, should chronicle my exploits. We could take digs together at 221B in the Farnam House.

I was completely taken aback; new life for my literary career! "My dear Holmes, that would be capital," I exclaimed. "But really, I must return home before Guy Fawkes Day. My practice, you know, and the matter of my late wife's estate. God rest her."

Holmes drummed long, sensitive fingers on the door jamb before replying, "To be sure, Watson. I perceive you are disillusioned at not discovering my older brother. Of course, he is not as old as Mycroft, the eldest who yes, well, I note you are fatigued by your lengthy journey. Moreover, your head aches, your eyes feel as thought they are popping from your head, and you breathe with difficulty since arriving in Omaha City."

"An astonishing feat of deduction, quite like your dear brother, the best and wisest man whom I have ever known. Pray, how do you accomplish such legerdemain!"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," he replied, mistakenly assuming Mr. Sherlock Holmes frequently commented thus to me. "Aware of my brother's personality, I realize he never spoke of me, the acknowledged black sheep of the family; hence, your disillusionment. As you still carry your luggage, it is child's play to determine you but recently arrived. However, you wear a new celluloid collar you must have purchased from our leading provender, The Half-Price Store. Only this afternoon, the proprietor informed me he disposed of all sized save 14's. It is readily apparent you require a size somewhat larger. And were one to wear an undersize celluloid collar in this heat, surely his head would ache, his eyes would feel as though popping from his skull, and he would breathe with difficulty." Amazed, I said, "Amazing! I accept your invitation and gladly."

We set out for Holmes' rooms, maintaining a lively conversation the while, no mean feat in the confounded weather the natives ignore. Despite his short stature and excessive bulk, the man took abnormally long strides, a fact I brought to his attention. "You noticed, Watson. Recall that in your writings, references ad nauseum are made concerning my brother's long strides. I studied your every account of his adventures. I pattern myself after him in many matters, both superficial and basic Of course, you noted this tweed jacket I wear in the bloody hot sun."

I found it singular, more especially since he strapped a wide cartridge belt and heavy holster over the jacket. In fact, the large revolver and peculiar boots with Cuban heels and pointed toes were his only concessions to the fashions of this strange land.

Upon entering his quarters, the familiar surroundings struck me dumb. He asked, "You do not mind the odor of strong tobacco, I trust?" He added, "Good. I frequently have chemicals about for occasional experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means." I felt I was listening to a wax cylinder in young Tom Edison's latest invention.

"What other shortcomings need I confess," he mused. "Rather few, I should say. Of course, I do play the jew's harp when pensive, but I play it exceeding well; so, that should be no problem."

"My heavens, no, Holmes." I studied his quarters with the shingle nailed to the door proclaiming this "221B." The sitting room was dominated by an ornate fireplace. The room contained several wicker chairs and a well-worn sofa. Volume upon volume bespoke the tenant's interest in crime detection, and a considerable number of scrapbooks lay about. I observed the latter contained complete histories of his brother's activities. These were the modest efforts I had penned. Prominent on an ottoman before the sofa lay clippings from the Omaha Herald concerning exploits for this younger Holmes as recorded by Mr. Ned Buntline.

Scientific paraphernalia and assorted impedimenta lay about the quarters. Upon discovering a strange form of tobacco he referred to as "Plug" in a Red Indian sandal known as a "moccasin" and a selection of cigar-like cheroots in the coal scuttle, I fear indignation overcame manners once again. "My dear Holmes, I find this a bit much."

He merely shrugged, "Image, Old Fellow don't you know?"

Young Holmes struck me as a passing strange chap. However, silhouetted in the half-light from the street, he did remind me of the man whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man whom I have ever known because even in the dark of his own room he insisted on wearing that confounded deerstalker. His ample girth and the long slender pipe he affected gave lie to the image, of course. The pipe, he explained, was made by the Red Indians. "It is impossible to purchase one of those ruddy calabashes from the local tobacconists, Watson."

To my discomfort, I learned Colonials arise at an unseemly hour. I was awakened by my rotund host attired in a short nightshirt. He wore the deerstalker and held a candle. "Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot!"

"What bloody game, Holmes?"

He arched an eyebrow in answer and insisted I dress hastily. Finally, satisfied with my energetic bustling, he unfolded the elements of an intriguing case. "My dear Watson, you will confer a great favour upon me by coming, and your time will not be misspent for there are points about the case which are unique. We have, I think, just time to catch our train for Ogallala."

An hour later I was on the horsehair seat of a first class railroad carriage flying en route to this quaint Nebraska settlement while Mr. Horace Holmes -- for at last I determined that to be his name -- dipped rapidly into a bundle of miscellany.

"We are going well," said he. Holmes borrowed my watch, looked out the window then stared at the watch. "Our rate at present is thirty-six and one-half miles an hour."

"Pray tell, how can you determine our speed?" I asked. "I observed no telegraph poles by trackside to serve as a measure."

"Nor have I," said he. "The conductor told me. I presume you are curious as to our mission."

"A fair deduction."

"During the evening past, an unspeakable cad trifled with the affections of the inestimable Rosalie Blake, proprietress of the Silver Tap. He made off with her purse and, worse, he " the poor chap's voice failed him.

I was aghast, "You don't mean "

"Yes," my companion said, "the bounder also pinched a gold watch given her by an ardent admirer. Fear not, the cowardly villain shall not escape for we have a considerable body of information upon which to base our investigation. The lady in question called upon me this morning to plead for assistance. I perceived immediately she feared for her very life. Haltingly, she offered a few meager clues in her near-fainting condition. From these I deduce two rising political stars are at the heart of this uncommon strange case. The central figure we shall pursue and hound to earth in Ogallala on the western frontier. The dear lady could provide only a fragmentary description of the scoundrel and a name which, of course, is not his correct one."

"Good heavens, man. With such sketchy information, why are we off on such a great journey? And who, pray tell, is the second politician?"

"In due time, Old Fellow. Betimes, take heart. We are off to Ogallala to run down a man of no little girth and of exceeding height. Six-four or five, I wager. His initials are 'R.F.M.', and he left Omaha City as the target of rather bawdy banter by those who observed his departure."

"Simply amazing. You are more like your dear brother than you can dream, this man whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man, et cetera."

My new-found friend and boon companion leaned back in the railroad chair, his eyes drew to slits, great clouds of acrid Red Man tobacco smoke streamed through that familiar aquiline nose. "The dear lady was in fear for her very life because our quarry leapt form the room moments ahead of my boss, the sheriff of Omaha City. And that worthy happens to be her faithful and jealous husband. This is the reason she pleaded for our utmost discretion. And more's the pity, her purse contained the day's proceeds from the Silver Tap, a matter of no little concern to our good sheriff were he to discover the loss."

"Indeed," vouchsafed I. "But your uncanny description of this diabolical fiend is enough to cause the meanest among us to credit the theory of reincarnation. Never was your late, lamented brother more perceptive."

My companion chuckled. "The bounder left in such haste he embarked to Ogallala without trousers, a bit of evidence the lady brought me for safekeeping. We may assume he was the target of ribald humour. Furthermore, I pulled these trousers over my own legs and discovered that, whereas the waist is an acceptable fit, the legs are far too long; hence, our certain knowledge as to height and girth. I judge him sixteen stone. Here is the evidence." From his carpetbag, he produced the accusing garment.

"Certainly your brother, were he alive, would no longer consider you a black sheep. Pray, what more can this garment reveal?"

"Ah, doctor, we learn from the nickel-plated belt buckle the felon's initials are 'R.F.M.' From the pockets, we discover a number of printed broadsides proclaiming the virtues of one Reno F. McMasters, candidate for Mayor of Ogallala. A singular fact, think you not? Sheer coincidence could not place a man with the initials 'R.F.M.' in the position of distributing posters supporting Reno F. McMasters were the two not one and the same. Note the trousers have a well- worn spot that tells us the man normally carries a revolver on his left hip. He is a left-handed gunman."

Thunderstruck, almost speechless, I could say only, "Uncanny, a rare tribute to the study of your brother's profession."

"We shall have no difficulty running our quarry to ground, Watson. The most singular aspect of the case is the gentleman's appearance. As you know, my brother devoted much study to trivia such as brands of tobacco; whereas, I concentrate on men's heads. Yes, heads. Drawing on this knowledge, I tell you the most singular feature of our man is that his hair is a basic, rich brown tipped with black. Did Sherlock ever have such a case?"

"By Jove, Holmes, singular indeed."

I spent the remainder of our journey intrigued by the talents of this younger brother of the man whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest, etc. Holmes provided high diversion as he dipped into his carpetbag and produced the moccasin containing cut plug. He proffered, but I declined. Thereupon, he severed a sizeable "chaw", thoroughly salivated it and straightaway began pinioning hapless flies and other insects to the walls and windows of the coach. A man of incalculable talent. I wondered at my fortune in meeting two such extraordinary men in a single lifetime.

Upon arrival in Ogallala, Mr. Horace Holmes noted our course was apparent. "A man who has made the long journey form Omaha City to Ogallala, most especially one who endured the rigorous travel sans trousers, will repair immediately to the barber's, the only public bathing facilities in the community." Holmes strapped a cumbrous gunbelt round his formidable hips. He replaced the trousers in his carpetbag, pulled the deerstalker over his piercing, albeit watery, gray eyes and -- with those long strides -- sallied from the railroad coach, me hurrying at his heels.

An inquiry garnered simple directions, "Just to the north of the proposed riverfront development, and you'll find the barbershop." The shimmering white sun bore down on rutted streets as Holmes charged past the Last Chance Saloon and the undertaker's parlor to the door decorated with the striped pole of the barber. He brushed past the immobile proprietor and his equally immobile customer, through the back door of the small shop and into the alley beyond where we were confronted by a series of small, canvas-shrouded stalls, each surmounted by a large copper kettle of steaming water. Each container was suspended over its stall by a metal hook swung from a wooden gibbet; the bather cascaded hot water upon himself by pulling a rope attached to the kettle.

Like a ponderous cat, Holmes advanced on the balls of his feet, surveyed each stall but was particularly attentive to the shirts hung outside. He paused dramatically at the furthest right stall fingering the shirt hanging there. I noted a greenish tinge to the left breast pocket but paid it no heed.

"Ah-ha," he whispered. Then, "All right, McMasters, you scoundrel! The game is afoot!" He thrust the canvas curtain aside. I was unprepared for my first sight of the bounder. He was fat and even folded into the small, copper tub, obviously exceeding tall. This mountain of corpulence, in all its nakedness, was surmounted by one of those peculiarly American coonskin caps. Holmes had found the telltale brown hairs tipped in black! McMasters fixed my friend with a venomous glare, lunged for the leather belt hanging above his tub. In a trice, he drew lethal-looking pliers from the holster and made to hurl them at Holmes.

For the merest moment I dared question the eyesight of Horace Holmes, younger brother of the man whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest etc. With the slinky, blinding speed of an obese mongoose deputy sheriff Holmes drew his revolver and fired twice. I thought he meant to end the life of this wretch. But the first round struck the ground between us and the copper tub inhabited by McMasters, a ploy designed to disconcert the villain. The second ball shattered the wooden pole supporting the overhead kettle, causing it to drop, full force, on the coonskin bedecked head of the arch-fiend. He succumbed without struggle.

Overcome with the tactical brilliance of this brother of the Master, I cried, "By Jove, Holmes, that was indeed as remarkable a bit of deductive cunning and superb marksmanship as ever your brother performed. 'The Affair of the Politician' must take its rightful place alongside the exploits of the man whom I shall ever regard as the best and so on. But there remain some small points to be put aright ere I set pen to paper." My literary career was reborn!

The fiend regained sensibility and admitted he indeed was a candidate without party for the mayoralty of Ogallala. However, McMasters was a lineman for Western Union. A leather toolkit, carried on the left side of his person, kept his right side unencumbered for climbing poles. Counter to Holmes' deduction, he was right-handed. Thus, I rephrased my earlier comment, "A truly amazing case. Deductions the brilliance of which would be the envy of your brother, my dear Holmes, but I pray you clarify some niggling items to assist in chronicling this adventure."

Homes shook his head, peered down the muzzle of his revolver and muttered, "I daresay I need additional practice on the old walls of 221B before sallying forth again. As for your question, doubtless you refer to my scrutiny of shirt pockets at the bath. We sought the blackguard who stole a gold watch given the beauteous Rosalie by an admirer. The purchaser in question was hornswoggled. The gold case was nought but brass. Thus, if carried for any considerable time in a perspiration-soaked shirt it would oxidize, turning the pocket green. I merely looked for a green pocket."

"A deduction to make your brother proud indeed. But how could you know the timepiece was brass rather than gold as we were led to believe?"

The spherical deputy placed a paternal hand on my shoulder. "That uncovers a rather delicate matter, my dear Watson. I rely on our relationship to ask that you refrain from chronicling this adventure."

"Great Scott why?"

Holmes replaced the revolver in his holster, turned his piercing, albeit water, gray eyes on me. "You recall I noted two politicians were involved in this case. More's the pity, Watson, but I am the second! I fully intend to run for sheriff of Omaha City, and if that watch ever were opened before witnesses, the engraving would be revealed."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"It says, 'To Horace H. from your devoted brother, Sherlock.' the damn thing is mine!"

-- J.H.W.