Holmes looked down to find Wiggins tugging on the pocket of his frock coat.
“’Scuse me, Sir,” he said, “but I natural left Simpson as a tail, an’ he’ll reliable report back to Baker Street.”
Which indeed he did, but very late that night, with the news, alas, that Dennis had sailed for New York on the SS
“Well, then, Holmes,” I tried to reassure him, “all you need do is get Lestrade to cable the police in New York, and the man is shackled.”
Holmes sunk deeper in his chair. “Ye-ess,” he murmured, “except… I’ve been thinking… ”
Something about my friend’s tone worried me. “Surely, Holmes, there’s nothing more for you to concern yourself with over this matter? You said yourself, only days ago, that this case was one of ‘intrinsic simplicity’! And I quote you-I took notes.”
Holmes grimaced. “My dear Watson, I shall watch myself more carefully if you are going to be quoting me back to myself like that. What bothers me is that I allowed myself to swallow so much of Jefferson Hope’s unsupported confession, and then let slip away the accomplice whose testimony he tried to withhold from me. There’s a piece missing, and I want it.”
“Undoubtedly, the New York police will nab him and send him back,” I predicted.
Events proved me wrong. In the upshot, Dennis was too slippery for the constabulary of that metropolis. But Holmes’s reaction to this was curious: rather than increasing his frustration, as I had feared, it seemed to fire him with a nervous excitement.
Then we had what I suppose must be accounted a bit of luck-although when I was later careening around the precipitous crags of Utah, and dodging bullets, I was not sure whether that luck was bad or good.
Holmes had cabled a colleague in America who had already helped immeasurably with this case: Police Superintendent Schmitt of Cleveland, Ohio, who confirmed that Tom Dennis was indeed the name by which our quarry had been known for some years, and also that he had been sighted in the proximity of Jefferson Hope while the latter was in that jurisdiction. And by the merest fluke, it happened that one of the Superintendent’s sources had informed him that Dennis had recently slipped through Cleveland again-likely on his way back to Salt Lake City. Supt. Schmitt wondered if this tip would be of any use to Holmes in his enquiries.
He would not have wondered long had he been sitting in my chair in Baker Street when Holmes read Schmitt’s cable, for Holmes burst up off his sofa like an exploding shell from a mortar.
“Watson,” he asked, suddenly as calm again as if proposing a stroll across St. James’s Park, “would you care to accompany me to the Country of the Saints?”
I rose to my feet, dumfounded. “Are you serious?”
“It would make for a change, don’t you think?” he chuckled. “A change in perspective does wonders when you’re having trouble with a case. We could grill that confounded Dennis once and for all; and then there’s nothing like going over the ground of a case for yourself, I’ve always said. I have that nagging feeling that Jefferson Hope was not quite as forthcoming with us as he might have been.”
“But my dear Holmes-I can certainly not afford it, even if you are able to.”
“Oh, tut!” he said, waving his hand. “A wealthy old lady here in London who is a member of the Latter-Day Saints-we have them here, too, you know-wishes to retain my services. Mrs. Ponsonby-Mallalieu was dreadfully offended by that stupid piece of puffery Lestrade had inserted in the papers after Jefferson Hope died in prison-the one about ‘romantic feuds and Mormonism’ being behind the murders, even though there was no trial nor even anyone charged. So the good lady has offered me a generous retainer, plus expenses, to solve the case once and for all.”
“But even with your gifts, my dear fellow,” I expostulated, “with Hope dead that will take a miracle.”
“Well, she believes in them,” said Holmes. “Miracles, that is; and she doesn’t mind paying for me to go to Utah, and I think she’ll allow me a traveling companion. Even miracle workers need their coadjutors.”
Holmes and I had crossed the ocean on the SS
Brigham Young’s “New Jerusalem” had been laid out by the Prophet himself a third of a century before, and although the city’s population could hardly compare with London’s millions, there were tens of thousands thronging its streets, readily apparent as our train came into the station.
“The Mormons chose their honeybee emblem aptly, Holmes,” I said, gesturing through the travel-stained window of our car. “How do you expect to find Dennis amongst this multitude?”
“Well, well!” my companion chuckled. “We can but try! I fancy that Superintendant Schmitt’s friend, Marshal Ames, may have a bone to throw us.”
When our bags had been unloaded, we did not have to look for porters or cabmen, as our client had arranged for us to be met by her man of business in Salt Lake City, who turned out to be English, Mr. Edgar Smith.
“No need for surprise, gentlemen,” he assured us. “You’ll soon find that a fair percentage of our citizens are from the old country-why, the president himself is an Englishman!”
“What! Mr. Garfield?” I asked.
“No, no!” the man of business replied, in a hurt tone. “
Holmes gave me a rather sharp poke in the ribs, and we rode the rest of the way to our lodging demurely in Smith’s carriage, our proud guide pointing out to us along the way the remarkable sights of Zion, like Brigham Young’s “beehive” house, and the many-spired temple, still a-building after thirty years.
On the morrow, we asked our host for directions to the United States Marshal’s office, since we were anxious to make contact with Supt. Schmitt’s colleague while Dennis’s trail was yet warm. When he learned that it was Deputy Marshal Ames whom we sought, Smith tried to warn us away from a person of, he claimed, questionable character. Finding us adamant, he sighed.
“At any rate, you’re far more likely to find him in Robertson’s than in the Marshal’s office,” he told us.
“Robertson’s?” asked Holmes.
“A sort of private club,” sniffed our host. “The fumes! We are teetotal here, you understand.”
Holmes looked troubled. “When you say fumes, Mr. Smith, do you mean alcoholic?”
“That too, I fear!” tsked Smith. “But chiefly tobacco! Quite forbidden!”
“Oh dear!” said Holmes, turning pale. “I hadn’t realized… but at any rate, Mr. Smith, we really must make the acquaintance of this officer, so may we beg you to direct us to this den of infamy. We shall steel ourselves in the name of duty.”
“I can’t corrupt a servant by sending one with you to that sort of place.” Smith shook his head. “But if you must go, I’ll draw you a map.”
When Holmes and I were admitted to the club (production of our pipes at the doorway being equivalent to an occult handshake, we discovered), I had trouble at first adjusting my eyes to the dim light within. I don’t know why I was surprised that the place was not dissimilar to an English club, or that an enquiry to the first person we happened to encounter-yet another Englishman, a Yorkshireman-brought us to Ames, who we discovered to be taller than Holmes, and wearing a frock coat that would have passed in London, but with his trousers stuffed into high riding boots. He had an aquiline face, which, again, curiously resembled that of my friend, save that his windblown tan was evident even in the subdued light. With his shoulder-length, rather greasy hair and drooping moustache, he put me in mind of some of the Afghans I’d known in my service days.
But when he spoke, his voice was pure Yankee prairie. “Glad to meet you gents,” he said, wringing our hands with that excruciating American force to which I never became accustomed. “Schmitt wired me, and I reckon I can help you ’prise Tom Dennis outen his roost, but the jurisdiction may be kind of tricky.”
“Really?” said Holmes, lighting the cigar Ames had offered him.
“You see,” the Marshal continued, “we’re in the City of Salt Lake, but also the County of Salt Lake, and of course the Territory of Utah. Now, of course I’m a Deputy United States Marshal, so I can collar the boy anywhere, theoretically.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that ‘theoretically,’” said Holmes. “This is an excellent cigar.”
“Thanks, I get ’em made special and brought through the Isthmus. The problem is that we’re also in the
