Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the Six Letters

There is no crime in this adventure. You may choose to skip this part of the diary, but Mr. Holmes does see and talk to one of Them. Though what he sees is rather small.

Mr. Holmes is of the opinion that we can prevent frozen moments by not including anyone in our notifications except for the authorities themselves. No Sams, or Dr. Kipowitzs as intermediates. These intermediates may be unexpected and undesired elements in a chain of information that gives cause for adjustment to the time order (or whatever), ergo, a frozen moment. 

 

Mr. Holmes also has worked up an alarm setup to make us aware that a frozen moment has started. It should set off an alarm in milliseconds of the start of a frozen moment. Maybe even microseconds. Mr. Holmes will start up a chemical reaction in our lab that will overshoot equilibrium, then it will “rebound” and overshoot again, and so on with additional reagent dripped in rarely. If the reactions stops due to a frozen moment, its lack of action will unblock a pencil of light that will then strike a sensor and an alarm, like a klaxon – it startled me even in that mode when I knew it was coming- will sound. Since frozen moments have only occurred if we are together, then the most likely locale will be the basement when the alarm sounds and we will need to dash outside, otherwise we are sitting ducks. 

So, OK, I like the alarm and it works, but preventing a frozen moment is too passive for me. I want to get at Them, find out who or what They are or is this thwarting Their worldly intents going to be endless? It could be so if I cycle through junior high again. Do my three years and then start back in the seventh grade, and on and on?

So long as They are inventive in their schemes, I don’t think Mr. Holmes cares if I recycle. He does have an impatience with a lack of a challenge. He may even attempt to assist the locals in some criminal investigations. Perhaps he’ll sign on for some cold cases. But he runs the risk of the need to finish whatever he has ongoing with the cops if at the same time he may have read in the newspaper that They are at it again.

He potters about in our lab. He has gone to an international newsstand (didn’t have it before) to read weeks old mags and newspapers from Great Britain. He reads books checked out on my library card, one was about quantum mechanics.

This diary is mostly about what we have done vis à vis Them , so a lot of my activity isn’t recorded and it isn’t in the world crime-fighting mode. I have family, friends, school, and my extracurricular games and preoccupations that keep me hopping. I write in the diary in the basement bedroom.

The bedroom has all that isn’t tied down out in the center. The basement is rather large. He and I occupy a space taking up maybe one third of the area. My bed is away from the E wall and the two-drawer chest is by the bed. A few steps W is my card table and chair. Immediately to the right of the table are the two shelves with one containing the typewriter. The shelves at my end lean against a post that is from ceiling to floor. To my left from the table a few steps away is another post. Mr. Holmes sits SW, so to speak, from me, a few steps away. It is all a tight grouping.

The space heater is by the bed or under the table for comfort. Another comfort, unexpectedly, is Mr. Holmes. Especially on those winter nights of extreme cold and wind, it is a comfort to know he is there, in the chair. Sometimes he turns around my table lamp to read (no, he cannot see in the dark). More often he is in the chair, eyes closed (he says) and he thinks. He is with me, we are together as a team but I like the guy in any event. I have missed him when he goes out on a long journey. We sometimes talk of the USA now, in the large, and he is informative about the Victorian England he knows even if it died out pretty soon after he got his start. He continues to be in Victorian England long after it ceased to be. 

So, with a lot of hesitation, I brought forth my plan of the six letters. My plan was to type six short letters, one to the Air Force, one to the newspaper, and four others to four national organizations that could be put to good use about how the scheme of challenge and rebuke has gone down. No names, no tracing to us. But my letters, though no crime is involved, does break the current way of potentially not putting us in direct contact with the powers that be. These powers may be the best and the brightest but they are our only choices. This not going only to the authorities, if Mr. Holmes is correct, will disturb the mix and we will get a visitation from you know who. But we will be warned and we can repel them and follow them to their lair. So I hope. I can drive a car, sort of, Mr. Holmes cannot. I will manage somehow and we will put them on the defensive, so I hope. Mr. Holmes is kindly going along with this six-letter plan. We mostly recognize that one member of the two person team must, simply must put it to them, answer questions, get “this” better defined.

The letters were sent off. Five of the letters were returned. They did not have any marks on them, no “return to sender, address unknown.” Also, there were no return addresses on any of the envelopes. One letter, the one to the local newspaper, was not returned. This didn’t look good. And sure enough the klaxon sounded as we sat in the basement. I stood up from my chair. Mr. Holmes leaped to his feet and tossed me two revolvers, 9-shot 22s. He had his 38s ready to go. Outside we went to the end of the backyard. We overturned two picnic tables. He really didn’t need cover, but crouched low behind his table. I was ready and I knew we had probably an unlimited supply of ammo. Just keep pulling the trigger.

And here they came. Zeeglers carrying spears! They came around the E side of the front of the house and back towards us. They had about 60 yards of bare ground to traverse to get to us. I opened up at long range. Mr. Holmes had said you needn’t be a crack shot since a bullet could touch a Zeegler anywhere and they would disappear. Mr. Holmes held his fire until they got closer.

Zeeglers were poofing away at a rate like hotdogs at a fast eating contest but I could see more and more coming around the corner of the house. Must be hundreds of them. No chance for us. They would be nearly on us soon. Spears were coming in singly and in bunched volleys. I got one in the throat. Down I went.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Again, like three times again, I was in bed. Mr. Holmes at bedside, natch.

Well, well, says he, same old story.

For me, it’s only the area of pain that changes.

Spear?

Yeah, in the throat.

Sounds most unpleasant.

I’ve got a sore throat.

Merely momentary, as we well know.

And you? How far did they get with the cars?

The motor cars? A good distance away from here. Dozens of black motor cars were in the roads round about. I got put in a back seat, a Zeegler on either side, as before. We went to Buffalo Ridge Road, then S to Pershing, then past your school, then S again past Alta Vista Elementary School, and to Lincolnway. Then we went to the rail yard. I was placed in an almost empty railcar. Inside were Zeeglers lining the interior. There was a highly polished ornate mahogany desk in the center of the car. I was placed in a chair in front of the desk. Seated behind the desk sitting in a high backed exquisitely upholstered chair was a person. I am sure it was a person. The person was all in black. Black gloves. Black hood over the head that came down to the chest. The hood had two holes for the eyes. The eyes were grey behind the very thick eyeglasses.

Then this one of Them spoke – Sherlock Holmes, I presume.

Elementary.

What brings you to Cheyenne, Mr. Holmes?

The plant life and the snow.

Then the desk, person, and Zeeglers disappeared. The railcar was jolted by another car kicked down the track by the switch engine making up a freighter.

So you see, my boy, we did learn something valuable about Them. Also, I hope you agree, we should not engage in provoking the powers that be. Your wrestling with the existing perplexities should take another form.

Ok, ok, I agree. You were right. What little we learned from sending the letters wasn’t enough. I will have to give it more “tink.”

“Tink?”

Supposedly what Einstein did.

Einstein?

A great scientist, successor in many ways to Newton.

Is he about?

No, though not long gone, but gone.

Said Mr. Holmes - Well then, it is back as we were – at least in large shape. Is today’s newspaper here?

Said I - Let me see about the throat. Yeah, it’s OK. So I’ll go upstairs and see about it.

In short order I returned with the paper and another invite to join us for supper. He had been at supper with us on a few other occasions and ate and drank well enough, I guess it went into nowhere once consumed. Mr. Holmes handled the conversation admirably, complementing the girls on their dresses, appreciating the food, and fielding and deflecting any and all comments and questions without giving offense. They liked him.

He had settled into the chair with a sigh - of relaxation or resignation -  I couldn’t tell. I decided I needed more bedrest. 

There is a small item in the paper - said he - about cigarettes missing from a local warehouse. Nothing else and there has been nothing else.  I suppose this is bearably enough for looking into.

By all means, Mr. Holmes. (He was getting desperate for what to do. A few missing cigs? No worldwide threat there. But then, at his start, he took all manner of cases. Some he could solve on the spot, there in his quarters, asking a few salient questions.)

I will, of course, need to visit the warehouse. Can you manage without me for a short time?

Of course, supper first?

Give them my regrets. You are not the only one I tutor, tell them, and I must be off to help another student.

OK. (And it wasn’t just a few missing cigs.)