Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the Missing Missile Part

On page 4 of the local newspaper was an account of an Army convoy from Northern Colorado being diverted. It had gone into Nebraska and disappeared. Mr. Holmes did not fail to bring this to my attention. But a convoy, Army trucks, deuce and a halves gone off the reservation? So?

Popcorn was a family tradition on Friday night. We had a gunnysack of it in a hallway closet. We shelled it. Then into a popper with a right angle stirrer through the cover and into the corn. Add lard to the popper, corn in, gas on and stir. We would get the top coming off as the popping went on and on. The top would clang onto the stovetop, so we knew to remove the popper from the heat. Then we would load up the popper again and give it another go. Butter (real butter) and salt until satisfied.

Fully stuffed with popcorn I went downstairs and found no Mr. Holmes. As he had resolved after the activity known informally as The Case of the Missing Milk Bottles, he was probably in disguise and not smoking as he visited far and wide with the citizens of Cheyenne.

He was gone until the AM next day. Then it was front-page news that a convoy of trucks had been proceeding west from Kimball (Nebraska) near the state line when a few other Army trucks uninvitingly joined them near Pine Bluff. The interlopers roared up beside a truck, removed the occupants by means of long grappling hooks and commandeered the truck away from the convoy, heading due north. A Zeegler, or so it must have been from the description, was seen by flashlight in the truck bed before the light was shot out.

Why was this usurpation of a government truck so momentous? It had been in a low profile convoy transporting a missile part. That part of the missile was to be fitted to an ICBM having a nuclear warhead. Until the capture of the missile part, no nukes were known to be in the area.

But note, it was front-page news. The missing convoy had been on page 4. Page 4 was one of "our" pages but now it had gotten promoted out of our territory. Maybe we were to assume a license to pursue front-page news?

Mr. Holmes did not think so. He religiously read pages 3 and 4 over the next few days and sadly concluded that we were to have no involvement in the missing missile part dustup. He had talked to his Air Force contacts and learned the part was involved in the guidance system of the missiles. The Air Force feared They would duplicate the part for placement in all other ICBMs.

I thought so what - make up a new part and install that one.

So then - said Mr. Holmes, They will steal the newer one and fabricate copies.

Can't they stop Them?

Apparently it would be cat and mouse on and on. Our side could never be sure the missiles would go where they should go. A faulty guidance device could convince the missile to explode after the rockets had ignited but without the missile leaving the site. In other words, the faulty guidance would "convince" the missile to detonate at the site after a travel of zero miles. Then, too, the missile could leave the site but be misdirected and impact an incorrect target.

Me - This meddling gives the Soviets the advantage.

Mr. Holmes - Not if their guidance systems have also been tampered with.

Have they?

Mr. Holmes nodded in affirmation.

Me - But this is all, if I may so, highly irregular. (Mr. Holmes almost smirked.) Whatever could They be up to?

It seems They have always had the threat of someone in the nuclear force deciding to end it all if They were on the verge of success from one of Their schemes to rid the world of almost all of us.

Me - That has always been a possibility, hasn't it?

Yes.

So they are removing the nuclear capability worldwide. Then the scenario of a Red Army sweeping across Europe comes alive.

No, They would not allow it.

Who says?

Our authorities.

What cold comfort. The B52s are still operating.

No.

No?

They have had, these last months, a need on an ad hoc basis to return to base for repairs. The nuclear loads were then altered.

Me - This has gotten out of hand! This makes it seem They can now operate without hindrance if they can get a scheme successfully swooshing along.

Mr. Holmes - We would stop them.

True, we have so far.

Sad to relate, I think we go no further.

What do you mean? At last, They have been successful?

No, quite the contrary, we have succeeded.

You mean to say, they have given up?

Mr. Holmes - If we remain, they can achieve nothing.

Granted. We, or at least you, won’t let them get along.

So why must they persist? It would be rather senseless of Them, agreed?

Me – Like nukes are pointless, unless their threat is to the use, accidental or insane.

Correct. But note They are not insane nor are They accidental.

Meaning?

The meaning will become clear in a fortnight. My guess presently is that your suspicion that you might cycle through your school, ad infinitum, is groundless.

We are kaput?

In another manner of speaking, yes.

I took a long look around. It was all familiar, yet it wasn’t mine, not really. Mr. Holmes sat in his chair, arms on the armrests, pipe in mouth, looking very much like when I first saw him. The newspaper was unceremoniously dumped on the concrete floor.

Done? No more fun? Why end it? Why start it? Why continue it? This wasn’t our world. Mine was elsewhere. Mr. Holmes would go to ….

So, Mr. Holmes, you think I am to return?

I do suppose so.

You?

I have no idea.

I irrationally kept trying to fit Mr. Holmes into this world, why couldn’t he be allowed to persist? I wanted to make it known that he could be allowed to persist. Though truly I didn’t want to go. I had suddenly come on the scene. I suppose I would suddenly go away from the scene. Start and stop. No more tutor, Black Leg, cig stamps and green gas, Stephanie and John and a twenty-dollar bill and bad lettuce and snowflakes that bacteria loved. Mostly, no more “smoke it outside” and helping with chemical analysis, and receiving homework assessment by phone, and helping to gun down Zeeglers galore. He wouldn’t be with me on cold, windy nights. Whatever he was, he was a Mr. Holmes to me. My Mr. Holmes. I don’t suppose I could go with him? No escape. Certainly not. We didn’t come together. I had my route, he, his.

I had been musing about all this, then I realized Mr. Holmes was watching me-  again, a lot like when I first saw him here in this basement, this bedroom.

My dear boy, we have saved a world and helped it to be safer than the one you came from. I suppose it is “progress” that Victorian England was dismantled slowly and surely into a world like yours that ignores a stunning peril. A grievous, vicious, horrible world-ending in store for yours, someday. Always 1 + 1 is 2. Insanity plus error makes for an accepted outcome. It must be persistently accepted, the process of addition persists, so the outcome too persists.

I hope not, Mr. Holmes.

Never give up hope but know reality when you see it. History is not memory. Memory is history. Have a weapon, use it. Axiomatic, if you don’t have it, then it can’t be used. If you can’t remember it, then it isn’t. Remembering when it wasn’t, hopefully, won’t help.

Now, Mr. Holmes, you make me all the more reluctant to go. All will go on as it is here. They won’t miss me.

Truly, They will know you are gone.

Yes, incongruously, I am known to Them and no one else.

But for me.

Pardon me, of course, you are the most important of all.

A fortnight passed by. Mr. Holmes said it would be today. We would go. He had said goodbye to Them. How odd of him to do that.

It was 10 AM on a Saturday. Lots of Sun was coming in the East window of the bedroom-basement. I heard a tramping of many feet coming down the stairs. Mr. Holmes did not reach for his revolvers. He did pick up the diary from the card table and put it in one of his jacket pockets. I knew they wouldn’t knock. The door swung open slowly. A phalanx of Zeeglers entered. All of them were smiling. I was standing by the armchair. Mr. Holmes was directly behind me.

The Zeeglers parted in the center and out stepped the only teacher that ever gave me unbiased encouragement. She was one of my junior high teachers, an English teacher. I could never recall her name. She had me read my writing before the class, and it got in the school newspaper. She mentioned what better books were to be had from the Scholastic Book Club. She had me looking up words in the dictionary. She was great. She had steel blue hair, glasses, tall, overweight and shook all over if she laughed. She offered me her hand, I took it. She faded away.

Then one of my Army lieutenants appeared where she had been. Red hair, narrow nose, head back, a lasting smirk coupled with a blank look of authority on his face. Suddenly a fist shot by my right cheek and collided with the lieutenant’s jaw. He fell quickly backward and disappeared.

Mr. Holmes whispered– Was he the one?

Yes.

Then Dr. Hammer came forward. My research guide and savior from economic disaster. Sad, blue watery eyes. His hands always twisting  at the wrists. I intercepted the right hand for a shake. He beamed at me. There were only three signposts for my past. Dr. Hammer disappeared.

Then it all disappeared. I was home. My wife and daughter were down at the end of the hallway going over my daughter’s homework. I was in the living room, but I wasn’t alone. I turned around and looked up at Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Holmes – We have little time. I have been posted to a new venue.

I hope you knock them dead, so to speak.

Mr. Holmes had lost his boots and legs up to his knees.

Give me your hand, my boy. I wish you well. Those were memorable adventures. You are to be commended.

Mr. Holmes, I thank you for the adventures. No one can top you. May you never cease to exist, to be thought of with admiration always.

Thank you, my dear boy.

He had disappeared from the waist up to the shoulder on the left side. He still had his left arm. He still had his right hand in mine. His right shoulder was starting to fade. He quickly removed from his right jacket pocket the diary I had kept.

Yours, he said.

I couldn’t say anything as I took the diary.

I must go. His grip was firm and confident.

I let go of his hand. Only his head remained. He smiled assuredly and knowingly.

I smiled.

He was gone.

Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the Haunted Canyon

Mr. Holmes had been gone three days. He had left a note that something had come up and that his presence in western Wyoming was required. I got the note since I had been gone on an overnight school outing at an observatory.

Then the knock on the door meant that he had returned.

May I come in my dear boy?

Why of course, Mr. Holmes.

He entered and said – You look hale and hearty. Are you?

Yes, I’m fine.

I have been to western Wyoming because our newspaper had an article about increases in wind speed in that region. The article said the winds were blowing N, E, and S. Of course this peculiarity alerted me to engage in further investigation. Oddly, too, the article informed me that such winds are part of Indian legend.

At the words “Indian legend”, I recalled an article in today’s newspaper. Earlier today, having only the usual to do and being bored, I picked up the newspaper that was in Mr. Holmes armchair. He said the articles especially of interest to us would be on pages 3 or 4. On page 4 I read an article about a haunted canyon in western Wyoming and that it’s being haunted is according to Indian legend. This I related to Mr. Holmes.

Indeed! A coincidence?  - he said and asked as he removed his outer garments, picked up the paper, and sat down in the armchair. In less than a minute he said – This calls for further investigation. After my visit to the West, I became convinced They are at work again on another dastardly plot of worldwide disturbance. I assumed that all that would be needed would be to contact the Air Force. They could stop this latest of Their plans easily enough. At least I assume so since defacing Their ill-gotten gains would not be to their liking.

I had no idea what he was talking about. Actually it was as if he had been talking to the newspaper. Then he realized that an explanation was in order.

He looked up and said – Sorry, my boy, thinking out loud there for a time. You are owed an explanation – It seems They are attempting to hurry along the wind speed with what the Air Force, in my meeting with them, called accelerators.  The already strong west wind enters an accelerator and comes out much stronger and going N, E, and S. The perpetrators of this accelerator program are attempting to increase the wind speed enormously. With my disguise as a representative of a borax storage depot in western Wyoming, I have convinced the Air Force that they could put borax, or a like substance, in the air before the wind is introduced to the accelerators. The accelerators could be damaged. If not sufficiently damaged, what they accelerate would hit objects and deface and them and break glass, break lesser plastics, and so on. I do not think They want to “inherit” damaged goods. So all was proceeding nicely but now comes another Indian legend and about a haunted canyon.

The Indian legend about the west winds was put forth by Them to gain time for further testing. Presumably an Indian legend is not to be taken seriously nor tampered with. So the change in winds becomes only a minor transitory change. You scoff at it, you don’t accept it. You do not check into it.

But now, another Indian legend. This canyon is also in western Wyoming. You must excuse me, my boy, I must head West again to see if there is a link. I can’t delay. He donned his outerwear and was gone.

Two days passed. Then I got a phone call. A phone call from, of all people, from Mr. Holmes.

Hello, Mr. Holmes?

Yes, my boy, it is me. I am here at a town some distance from the canyon. Indians are about the canyon. There is a village called Owl about fifty miles from the canyon. The only occupants of the village are an Indian tribe. They say they have not heard of any legends in connection with this canyon. They aren’t believers in canyons being haunted. There may be ghosts, they say, of individuals. One of the Indians has a brother living in Cheyenne. He is an authority on Indian legends. Do please try to find him. According to the brother here, the brother there is listed in the phonebook under Black Leg.

OK, one moment, I’ll check. Sure enough, he is listed.

Good, ask him about the haunted canyon legend. I’m short of time here. I must be off. I’ll return directly.

Then he hung up.

Wow. A phone call from Sherlock Holmes, real or otherwise, that made my day. Ok, so I call Black Leg, no answer. I pedal over to his address. The landlady says no one has lived in the dump (her word) for many months.

Mr. Holmes returned next day. Before his coat was off, “Black Leg?”

No go. Phone rings and rings. Not at his apartment.

Mr. Holmes said he doubted there could be any legend existing in connection with the canyon. Most probably They were involved here too. The wind accelerators in further western Wyoming were gone. They may have moved Their efforts to this canyon. The canyon is like a box, open at the east end. The Indians have seen what can only be Zeeglers digging cylindrical holes throughout the floor of the canyon.

Zeeglers again! I thought only you and I could see them during frozen moments and you have since seen one at a warehouse and now the Indians can see them.

Yes, they are being more apparent.

Continued Mr. Holmes -  They place into the holes thick metal rods with many dials on one face. They have been seen reaching into the holes and, I suppose, making adjustments. I could not enter the canyon if the Indians were present. I took leave of them and entered by means of a crevice at the west end; there are many such openings at the west end.  I, too, saw Zeeglers at work as already described. The Indians say the Zeeglers are trespassing on tribal land. Many of the Indian on the site are armed with knives. But I suppose those in the village may have rifles. It seems a common enough occurrence. The Indians are hostile and restless. Some want to evict the Zeeglers in a short time. But other Indians are of the opinion that the Zeeglers’ activities are a desecration of the canyon and, being of a serious nature, require counsel with other tribes, those that are part of a loose confederation, I gather, that sprawls across the Plains and into Canada.

All this consulting, I said, could give Them too much time.

Agreed. We must dismiss this tenuous Indian legend aspect and allow the Air Force to aid the Indians.

Hm, I said, could be the Indians would regard Air Force efforts as interference.

Perhaps, but…

Mr. Holmes was interrupted by a pounding at the door. A pounding, not Stephanie’s knock or a salesman.

Hello? I called.

The pounding came again.

Hello, whose there?

More pounding.

Ok, OK, I’m coming. A bomb? Gunned down at close range? Oh well, I opened the door.

As I did, I first saw moccasins, buckskin. Looking up I saw nothing but buckskin covering an Indian. Very tall, a little gray in the black shoulder-length hair.

Holmes in?

Well, yes. May I ask who is calling?

He pushed past me into the room. I could see Mr. Holmes had a revolver at the ready inside his jacket.

I am Black Leg.

Ah, said Mr. Holmes, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.

About what?

Black Leg wasn’t here for chitchat. He seemed apprehensive. He remained standing by Mr. Holmes chair. Mr. Holmes made as if to get up but Black Leg raised his left arm and pushed his open flat palm in the direction of Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes remained seated. I was picking up my chair so that Black Leg could sit, but he “pushed” me too.

I have visited with your brother at Owl. People have been saying that the canyon nearby moans and that it is haunted.

That is what you wanted to ask me?

That is all.

The Indian looked a tad less apprehensive and said – No canyon is haunted. There is no Indian story about it.

He went silently to the door, opened it, and left.

Well, said Mr. Holmes, mildly exasperated, that was certainly a short visit.

Long enough for me.

The next day, wonder of wonders, Mr. Holmes gets a phone call!

Mr. Holmes related -  It was the brother of Black Leg. He said the canyon Indians weren’t going to wait for the far-flung tribal elements to convene. For some reason, they felt knives would do the job. They would advance upon the Zeeglers in two days’ time.

I said – All I can think of is what if they knife a Zeegler and he disappears? Or if he doesn’t? The Zeeglers, we know, have pistols or spears. The outcome could be messy.

Ah, yes, “messy”, as you put it.

I simply have no choice, I must return yet again to the canyon. Black Leg’s brother seemed reluctant to proceed against the Zeeglers. I must mention he said the Indians were anxious to be active because the canyon one night was moaning, then screaming, and then screeching. The Indians could not withstand the noise level.

I wished Mr. Holmes good luck and pressed on with my home tasks. Next day I get a phone call from Mr. Holmes. So many phone calls in so little time. Mom seemed uncomfortable about phone use involving canyons and Indians so I only listened on this call and spoke solely in terms of history studies so that I could convince Mom that Mr. Holmes, the tutor, was stranded outside of town but had called to assess my homework progress.

My boy, I am attempting to convince the Indians at hand to wait it out and give the confederation more say in what needs to be done.

 I said - Wilderness Campaign, 1864.

Eh? I believe if sufficient stir up is achieved that the increasing awareness of what They are about will embarrass Them to such an extent that They will cease what I believe is a scheme to extremely enlarge sound patterns to harm individuals far and wide. This is rather better and letting Them have more time I do not now view as critical.

Grant, Sherman, Longstreet, Lee.

See here, are you with me, boy?

Aren’t those the correct answers for my history lesson that you assigned me now that you are stranded outside of town?

I say, you are indisposed to respond other than by use of history items?

Yes, … I am sure the battles of Vicksburg and Shiloh were near rivers.

I understand. American Civil War. I am staying here for the time being. Your test will be most difficult if you persist in answers like these. I assigned you the most significant battles of the British Empire.

He hung up. A sense of humor for Mr. Holmes? Well, stranger things have happened, I suppose.

The account in the newspaper beat the return of Mr. Holmes. The tribal confederation approach was what was needed after all. The initial unknown-to-others testing and shakeout that they needed had been lost. The newspaper reported explosions were heard in the canyon. Holes dug in the canyon floor had been blasted out. No one saw Zeeglers. Indians, knives at the ready, prowled the canyon without incident. The confederation wanted the canyon closed to any entry but by Indians. The Indians of Owl felt that to be acceptable. Knives were put away.

Mr. Holmes returned from his diplomatic mission.

I felt that the upshot of this latest two-prong debacle of Them was the easy-to-see Zeeglers. We had never seen Zeeglers except during frozen moments. Now, besides Mr. Holmes, ordinary Indians can see them, no frozen moment required. Have we entered a new era of our stay here? Have we become less important? Have they more power to display themselves? No frozen moments have occurred since Mr. Holmes returned from the haunted canyon but did he or did he not notify the proper authorities? The Air Force was involved with the accelerators but not the stall that cause Them to detonate to ruin Their instruments of destruction. The authorities were the confederation. Could the Air Force done any better? Still, the Zeeglers are all too obvious now.

They showed up again when they snatched what became “the missing missile part.”

Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the White Blood Society

Mr. Holmes and I were doing our usual thing in the basement bedroom when there was a knock at the door. Such a knock was always so odd. Only Mr. Holmes knocks and he was seated in the armchair perusing The Times. I was on my bed reading about being a good citizen through American history study for my social studies class. I continue to speculate that a salesman will come in the back way someday and be selling trashy novels. (I would buy only one, I promise.)

Mr. Holmes – Well, my boy. The knocks persist. I would advise you answer the door.

Odd way to put it, but OK, why such a quiet knock and it is low on the door.

A midget ? -   I asked Mr. Holmes.

Most likely a child, a bold one or desperate.

I got up from the bed and went to the door. I thought, it flashed through my mind – Them?, a bomb? But no it was Stephanie from next door. Blonde, blue eyes, hawk nose, in a pale (washed many times) blue dress. She was hesitating to enter after I invited her in. Never would her parents have approved of what she was doing.

She was a first-grader. I had seen here as I usually left the house by the East side to get to the bus on school days. Stephanie’s bus came later but she usually was outside playing or waiting for her bus. Mr. Holmes, it turned out, had been seen by her as he paced about between the two properties, smoking and thinking. She had seen him often enough.

The door was open. I had greeted her. She was looking at me.

Mr. Holmes – “Do come in Stephanie”. All hung in the balance. If she should panic and go screaming back to her parents, we could be in big trouble.

She entered. But she still was looking at me. Can I talk to Mr. Hum? (That was as close to “Mr. Holmes” as she got.)

Of course, he is right over there. I gestured with my right arm in the direction of Mr. Holmes. My left hand held the door open. She ducked under my arm and stepped into what was to be a consulting room. She saw Mr. Holmes seated in the chair. He folded away the newspaper.

My dear Stephanie, he said, won’t you come closer? How about sitting here?

He gestured to a spot opposite him while looking at me. I put my study chair in front of his chair. I turned around to see Stephanie was still by the door.

Stephanie, I said -  Mr. Holmes is a good guy and you can talk to him. He would like to talk to you too. You may sit in my chair. OK?

She slowly approached the chair. Mr. Holmes had each arm on armrest, pipe in mouth, sitting ramrod straight. Then the pipe was put in the jacket. He slumped, he folded his arms in his lap. Legs loosely crossed. He smiled most engagingly. Stephanie came to the chair.

You are Mr. Hum, the dit ec if , aren’t you?

Mr. Holmes looked at me in perplexity. I read his mind – however does she know I am a detective?

Yes, indeed, my child, I am Mr. Holmes, the detective. Have you a problem that you wish to discuss with me?

She sat in my chair. Yes, she said.

Then I will do all that I can to help you. But tell me how do you know I am a detective?

Daddy says so.

Apparently Mr. Holmes and his appearance and demeanor what with his pacing and smoking had the father think of Conan Doyle’s creation? So Mr. Holmes and his “cover” weren’t blown. At least that seemed to be most likely.

Ah, I understand. Whatever is amiss? I mean, is there a difficulty, a problem? What is wrong?

She had her head down but looked up at Mr. Holmes like Bacall at Bogart.

Bottles are gone – she said.

Bottles? – Mr. Holmes almost winced. (I instantly thought of my mention in the last diary entry of the fictitious The Case of the Missing Cupcakes.)

Bottles are gone from the porch.

Mr. Holmes knew then that she was referring to milk bottles. (The Case of the Missing Milk Bottles was upon us) since he was sometimes in the pipe-smoking vicinity of Stephanie’s house when the milkman drove up, walked the gravel driveway, and deposited milk bottles on the porch.

So then I am to find out for you who is taking the bottles?

Yes, please.

Miss Stephanie, I would be most pleased to find out who is taking the bottles.

Thank you. She slid off my chair, walked hurriedly to the door, and called over her shoulder – Bye. She let herself out.

Mr. Holmes asked – What should I do now?

You have a case, a client, on your hands now. How do you usually handle a case?

But “milk bottles”? – He asked, incredulously.

It would seem so. The little girl knows skullduggery when she sees it and a first class detective when she needs one. Really, Mr. Holmes, it can’t be much of a bother. A day or two of observation and it’s done. If something appears in the newspaper that commands your attention, I’ll take over. But she did ask for you, so with such an expectation, I expect you must at least put in an appearance.

“Bother,” said Mr. Holmes, “is certainly the correct word for this.” In the event, the decent thing is to do it. I expect to be done with it without great effort. We must again encounter that little girl and swear her to secrecy about my involvement in the outcome. Agreed?

OK.

It really had to be a modest affair. Only a stakeout would be involved. Be there as the milkman makes the dropoff and ID the culprit. Simple. Under no circumstances could They be involved. (Spoiler alert – They are not involved.)

Mr. Holmes spent the night in the armchair no doubt pondering the incredible bad luck that he had now to endure. Approximately a few minutes before the milkman was scheduled to make his delivery, Mr. Holmes went outside. He did not try to be as inconspicuous as possible. He merely smoked behind a tree that was in between our properties. The tree only partially hide him. He glanced around the tree from time to time to see what was going on. Nothing.

I mean no bottles were taken. Mr. Holmes had remained behind the tree until the bottles were collected. The Mom retrieved them.

Well, so Stephanie was not asked if bottles were missing every morning. But then perhaps Mr. Holmes would be required to be present behind that tree every morning? That would be regarded as intolerable by Mr. Holmes.

Next morning Mr. Holmes was not guard duty. That same morning, as I was headed to my bus, Stephanie accosted me and reported that a bottle had gone missing that morning. I assured her that Mr. Holmes would hear of it and take appropriate action.

What! A bottle missing? Only if I am not about? So someone has the scene of the crime in view and acts only if no one can report them. Therefore, I will endorse a sterner measure to apprehend the blackguard. Really, this is too quaint.

Next morning found Mr. Holmes crouched in a ditch that was along the road the milkman would use to make the delivery. Above the ditch was a bank on the side toward Stephanie’s house. Mr. Holmes could pop up from time to time to see how things were going. The milkman’s truck approached. Mr. Holmes held up a portable bush he had made up in front of himself so that the milkman wouldn’t see him there. The milkman went up the driveway. Deposit made. Then, on stepping into the cab of the truck on his return, he looked in the direction of Mr. Holmes and said – “The bush is too green for this time of year, Mr. Holmes.” Then he drove off.

Needless to say, Mr. Holmes was dumbfounded. Does everyone know who he is? I couldn’t believe it either but then he was out a great deal, smoking and talking to folks. I guess his appearance lent itself to the assumption he was a “Sherlock Holmes.” Mr. Holmes resolved to be in disguise when out and smoke less. On second thought maybe they (some of them) were referring to Mr. Holmes, the tutor?

To return to this second surveillance – a bottle was gone. I avoided Stephanie the next day. I waited until my bus was almost to the stop and then I ran for it.

Mr. Holmes wasn’t at a total loss for reasoning. He had been prevented from popping up when the milkman was on his way back to his truck. Someone knew this. Also, only one bottle was ever taken. Your there, you can take all four. Why not? And the one taken was always one of those closer to Stephanie’s house. The four were grouped so that two were near the house and two were set toward the road.

Mr. Holmes decided that to crack this case, taking too much time as it was, he would need to enter Stephanie’s house. Otherwise, he felt, this could drag on and outlast an adventure of foiling Them. He got a day soon enough when Dad was at work, the kids (Stephanie had a brother in the fifth-grade), and Mom was at the grocery store. Mr. Holmes entered the home to find nothing of interest except for a diary kept by the boy. At least Mr. Holmes thought it interesting what with its incantations, rules, and procedures that must be followed to the letter. To me, it was a typical boys club as a secret society variant. It being the kind having its raison d’être as bolstering much needed secrecy so that their individualities could be appreciated by at least themselves.

Mr. Holmes said the key to it all was the blood involved. So, OK, sometimes they bonded like Indians cementing a tribal alliance but Mr. Holmes said bowls of blood might be involved. He had difficulty reading the boy’s writing at some points. Chicken blood? Whatever blood was to be had? Mr. Holmes had guessed what was what but I think he wanted absolute conformation. He had a link, but not a strong one.

Mr. Holmes announced that he would attend the next meeting of the secret society. Mr. Holmes was going all in. He really had the bit between his teeth now. I hoped the world would remain safe as he wrestled with consequences of milk bottles absent from our neighbor’s porch.

Mr. Holmes said one night – I am off to the meeting of the secret society. They meet near here in a small clearing surrounded by hedges.

Good luck.

I have no need of that. All will be to plan.

Upon his return about an hour later, Mr. Holmes was ready to return to the newspaper and worldwide affairs.

Well?

Case solved.

Good for you. Now may I have a few details? Stephanie caught me this morning and I was taking the heat for another missing bottle.

It was at the meeting.

Huh?

Yes, indeed. It is indispensable to the Society. Actually its contents are needed.

Do tell.

I awaited in the hedges until the meeting had progressed to the boys crouching low to the dirt in which they wrote what would befall their enemies – mostly schoolmates that they disliked. They were close to a bowl of milk on a low bench. I stepped into the clearing. They all looked up abruptly, frozen in crouch, mouths all Os.

I am Sherlock Holmes. I wish to join your Society. At this point I recited some oaths I had copied down from the diary of Stephanie’s brother. They looked one to the other and then rose slowly.

Why? – one asked.

I replied – I have a friend who knows the enemies of the Society. I agree with you that these enemies must be treated harshly. But I cannot be a member in full since I am too old though I wish to contribute to the furtherance of your Society. (I don’t know how much of this they understood but matters proceeded apace.)   I wish to do so by maintaining a source for the white blood needed for your Society’s deliberations and provider of purity of purpose that you all endorse.

At this point, Mr. Holmes held out his hand. He had a twenty-dollar bill in his grasp.

This is to be yours so that the purchase of the white blood may be done and stealing of it need not be done.

Stephanie’s brother looked a bit chagrined after Mr. Holmes said this.

“Don’t you agree, John?”  Mr. Holmes was speaking directly to Stephanie’s brother. He stammered out a “Yes.”

Good. I leave my contribution with you all for the good of the Society. May the white blood continue to sanctify your purpose. I must go now. I will remain with you in spirit.

He then chanted some White Blood Secret Society nonsense that he knew from John’s diary, which, on purpose, had no meaning even to them and quickly left the clearing.

Twenty dollars? That is a bit much for those that age and in this day and age.

Enough to supply their needs for the foreseeable future. I seriously doubt the Society will long endure. They will uncover other ways of dealing with their problems. In the event, winter will soon be in full force, the meeting will stop, I hazard to guess. Stephanie will notice all the bottles get inside the home.

Stephanie, on a windy morning next day, said I should thank Mr. Hum on her behalf for all he had done. She did think he was slow getting it done. I asked her to not mention Mr. Holmes and his slowness to anyone. I said the wind had something to do with it.

She didn’t bat an eye. “OK,” she said.

From then on, Mr. Holmes took into account, if at all possible, Stephanie’s whereabouts when he was on a walk.

That wind was getting to be a factor for us. The favorite journalist of Mr. Holmes made a comment about the velocity of recent winds.