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.