DODGE CITY: 1874
I
Matt Dillon walked into the usual noise of the Long Branch saloon and saw Kitty almost immediately. She was sitting with Chester and two of those English actors from the travelling stage players that had arrived in Dodge City a few days earlier.
Matt walked to the table—Chester's voice reached him even before he arrived. "I declare, Mr. Thomas, the words you fellows speak up on the stage are so purty, I swear I was on the edge of my seat the whole time."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Proudfoot," replied Thomas in his cultured voice. "An actor is always eager for all the praise he can get."
"'Course, I didn't understand half of what you all said," continued Chester, "but is was still purty all the same."
Kitty laughed, then turned to see the marshal. "Matt, have a seat. Have you met Mr. Thomas?"
Matt shook hands with the actor, then sat. "Yes, he introduced himself to me when his company arrived. A fine play tonight, Mr. Thomas."
"Thank you, Marshal. I must say, the audiences we've found here in the West are some of the most appreciative I've ever encountered."
"Well, A cowboy can spends months out on the plains, without any real chance at entertainment at all." Matt smiled. "Like Chester here, I doubt many in your audience tonight understood half of what Mr. Shakespeare wrote a couple of centuries ago, but they enjoyed the novelty of it nonetheless."
"I understood it," said Kitty. "And you were magnificent as King Claudius."
"Thank you, kind lady." Mr. Thomas finally remembered there was another actor at the table, probably just as willing to accept a little praise. He motioned at the tall, sharp-nosed young man sitting besides him. "But please excuse my manners. Marshal, have you met our young Horatio? Marshal Dillon, this is Mr. Sher…
"Matthew!" The yell came from the door—it was Will McCloud, the Scottish owner of Dodge's largest general store. He was hurrying across the saloon to their table. "Matthew, a man's been killed."
Dillon sighed. At least he'd been able to see the whole play earlier before trouble broke out.
II
The body was that of a stranger—dressed in the fancy cloths of a dude fresh from the east. The body was lying in the mud (it had rained an hour earlier) in an alley between Will's store and the Dodge House. The cause of death was obvious—a small knife was protruding from under the man's ribs.
Matt knelt besides the corpse and searched the pockets. He found a wallet containing two hundred dollars cash and a German passport in the name of Hans Brecker.
"Well, it wasn't robbery," he said to Chester, who stood nearby besides Will.
"I would have to disagree," someone said in a clipped English accent.
Matt turned and stood. The younger English actor from the Long Branch had followed them to the alley.
"Mister, perhaps you'd better just go back inside and leave this to us." Then Matt saw something—a flash of calm intelligence in the actor's eyes—and changed his mind. "Not robbery, huh? What makes you say that?"
The actor pointed towards the body. "May I approach?"
"All right."
He stepped to the corpse and leaned over, pointing again. "Notice the button on his upper vest pocket has been torn loose. The thread left behind isn't wet, even though the rest of his clothing is still damp. This man was caught outside in the rain an hour past. Then he entered or was lured into this alley. Whoever killed him then took something from the vest pocket. He was in a hurry, so he tore the button loose in his haste. But he found what he was looking for.
"Maybe the button was torn loose in the struggle."
"No. The footprints in the mud indicate no struggle. This man was stabbed quickly and expertly, but someone who wanted to take a specific item from him." The actor stood and turned to Chester. "May I borrow the lantern?"
Chester looked to Matt, who nodded. The actor took the lamp, bent down again and began to examine the mud around the body.
"I noticed this gentleman checking into the Dodge House this morning," said the actor. He was not carrying a walking stick."
Matt and Chester exchanged glances. "Um, so what?" asked the Marshal.
The actor stopped and held the lantern close to the ground, illuminating the long, narrow indentation in the mud. "Because someone else—almost certainly the killer—did carry a walking stick. He dropped or laid it in the mud here, perhaps while retrieving whatever item he wanted from the body."
III
"A walking stick," muttered Matt. "And he was a German. Chester, do you remember that German fellow we saw at the Texas Trail yesterday. He carried a walking stick."
"I remember him, Marshal Dillon. Short, round-ish kinda fellow. Didn't know he was German, though."
"He was. I heard his accent when he ordered his drink. We'd better check to see who else is registered at the Dodge House."
The actor cleared his throat. "If I may suggest, Marshal, perhaps you should hurry to the train depot first."
"Why? There's no train before…" Matt paused, then remembered. "Of course. They posted a notice this morning that the train to St. Louis is running a good twelve hours late. Had a breakdown over at Hays City. It's scheduled to arrive at 9:30 tonight."
The actor nodded. "And it is now just past nine. If our killer has recovered the object of his desire, he has no reason to extend his stay in your fair city."
Matt looked wryly at the actor. "Mister, you should be a lawman."
"Well, Marshal, to be honest, I have some ambitions in that direction—though I plan to act as a private agent to those in need rather than as an official policeman. I felt a few months treading the boards as an actor would help me develop some skill with disguise that could be useful in my latter career."
"What's your name, anyways."
"Holmes, Marshall Dillon. My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I believe I will take up your suggestion and check out the depot. But if the German is there, I won't have enough to hold him on. I'll search him, but if he's smart, he hid whatever he stole somewhere in the depot while he waits for the train. It's got to be something small to have fit in this man's vest pocket. He could have stashed it anywhere and plan to get it back when the train arrives."
"Mister Dillon," commented Chester. "If that's true, couldn't he even leave town without it, then double back to get it later? That way, he'd be safe even if we're watching him."
Holmes smiled. "What if we convince him he's safe now? That we've already eliminated him as a suspect?"
Matt smiled also. "And I'll just bet you have a plan for doing just that."
IV
Fritz Kammel sat on the uncomfortable bench in the train depot, waiting patiently for the train to arrive. He'd waited months to get his hands on it—he wasn't going to risk everything by acting too hastily now. His bag and his walking stick lay at his feet. The depot was otherwise deserted.
The door to the street opened and the local Marshal entered. Fritz smiled at him and waved casually. No bumpkin lawman was going to cause him to panic.
The Marshal walked up to him. "Sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but could I ask your name?"
"Why, of course, Marshal." He stood and held out his hand. "Fritz Kammel. I'm a travelling salesman."
"Well, Mr. Kammel, there's been a robbery in town tonight. I'm afraid I'm going to have to search your bag and ask you to turn out your pockets."
Fritz frowned. "I don't think I care for that, Marshal. Why am I suspected? I'm a stranger here."
"Well, sir, that's why. It will only take a few moments, but I'm afraid I must insist." The Marshal seemed very embarrassed by his own actions. Fritz realized he wasn't really suspected—the buffoon was just going through the motions to make it look like he was doing his job.
"Very well, Marshal. Let's get it over with."
The Marshal pawed through the bag and had Fritz empty his pockets, turning each pocket inside out as he did so. He examined Fritz's papers perfunctorily, and sniffed the barrel of the German's derringer to see if it had been fired. Fritz suppressed an urge to smile—I killed Hans with a knife, he thought. This man is an idiot.
Finally, the lawman was through. In the meantime, a decrepit drunk staggered into the depot and lay down on the next bench. Within a minute, he was snoring softly.
"Why not search that man, Marshal?" snapped Fritz.
"Old Gus? He couldn't see straight enough to steal an apple from a street cart." The Marshal sighed. "Well, sorry for the bother, Mr. Kammel. I'll leave you be now."
"I should hope so." Fritz sat back down and frowned deeply until the Marshal had left the depot. Then he smiled broadly. He could already here the train whistle in the distance—there was no reason not to just take the prize with him.
He glanced at the drunk. Dead to the world. Feeling enormously satisfied with himself, Fritz reached under his bench and pried up the loose floorboard. He removed the small box hidden underneath it.
"Don't move!" The voice was sharp and sure. Fritz looked up in shock to see the drunk now standing over him, covering him with a revolver.
V
Fritz recovered from his shock quickly—he hadn't established a successful career as a criminal by panicking easily. The trick he pulled was the oldest in the book—but it still worked nine times out of ten.
He glanced over the "drunk's" shoulder and smiled. The "drunk" began to spin around, then cursed and turned back as he realized that this was indeed a trick.
But that gave Fritz time to snatch up his walking stick and swing it, knocking the revolver out of the "drunk's" hand. A backswing smacked the man in the kneecap, causing him to stagger and fall to his knees.
Fritz stood and snatched his derringer from his pocket. He leveled it between the eyes of his opponent.
"Drop it!" This voice thundered from behind him. Fritz spun and saw the Marshal. He didn't have a chance—but he was acting on instinct now. He swung the derringer around and fired, but his aim was off. Before he could fire the second barrel, the Marshal's Peacemaker Colt thundered even louder than the Marshal's voice. The last thing Fritz Kammel ever felt was something smacking into his chest—just to the left of center.
Dillon walked up to the body, reached down and recovered the fallen derringer. Nearby, Holmes had regained his feet. The Englishman was actually blushing. "Marshal, I am mortified that I fell for such a simple trick."
Dillon smiled. "Holmes, I will guess that you have quite a career ahead of you as a detective. Just remember—there's a lot you can learn from books, but there's some things you can only learn from experience."
"I will remember that, Marshal. If nothing else, I will remember tonight's lesson." While he was talking, he picked up the small box that had been hidden under the floorboard. He opened it. "Good heavens," he exclaimed.
Dillon looked into the box as well. Inside were two small but beautifully shaped jewels. One was a blood-red ruby, the other a green emerald.
"The Rainbow Jewels of Burma!" exclaimed Holmes.
"You recognize them?"
"Yes. I suspect the story did not reach the papers this far West, but it was big news in Europe and the eastern United States. Two months ago, five men broke into the high security section of the British Museum in London. They stole five priceless gems known as the Rainbow Jewels, so called because each is a different color."
Dillon nodded. "Then this fellow and the man he murdered were two of the thieves. Kammel here apparently decided he wasn't happy with just one of the jewels."
"Exactly. It's a pity you were forced to kill this man, Marshal Dillon. He might have identified the other three thieves, thus helping to recover the other three jewels."
"Well, he didn't leave me much choice. I don't think we have any actors buried on Boot Hill, Holmes. I'd just as soon it stayed that way. I have a feeling the world might be a little better off if you remain with us for awhile."
Holmes smiled brightly. "I concur with that decision. It is unlikely my chosen career as a detective will bring me any lasting fame, but it is pleasant to be remembered with kindness by someone."