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By A. Conan Fats
Special
to the Gazette
Editor’s
note: A. Conan Fats is a maternal-side descendant of
English mystery writer A. Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock
Holmes stories. He is currently a resident of Greater Grace and
owns and operates a rare-book shop that specializes in first
editions of British mystery fiction. Acey (for A.C.) as he is
commonly known around Grace, is also a collector of notebooks,
unpublished manuscript fragments and letters attributed to A.
Conan Doyle. From these he has now written a story about a
hitherto unknown visit by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to
Grace in 1899 to solve what seemed at the time an insoluble
mystery. As was usual in the Holmes stories, the narration is by
Dr. Watson.
Chapter
7
Babalu
pulled a bell cord and a maidservant appeared to take our orders
for breakfast. Our hostess then excused herself and left the
room. “What an extraordinary development,” I said to Holmes.
“Certainly
unexpected,” he replied. “It appears that someone is trying
to play me for the fool. Perhaps there is a deeper mystery here
than the theft of the Jarvis motorcar. Did you overhear anything
of note when you invaded the hacienda?”
I
thought for a moment. “Only that Fritz Fitz was imploring
Babalu to be patient until some stock sale was completed, and
then he promised they would be rich enough to embark on a
tour of the world’s playgrounds.”
“And
she demurred?”
“Yes,
she stoutly indicated she was more interested in Mr. Jarvis, and
that she believed Fitz was behind the theft of the motorcar. She
spurned his denials and was fleeing his clutches without
knowledge of my presence. There was one odd thing, though. She
knew my name without having met me before.”
At
that moment the maidservant returned with a coffee service she
placed on a nearby table. I rose and poured each of us a cup,
adding sugar for myself and cream for Holmes. We sat there for a
few minutes in silence, Holmes obviously in a brown study and I
not willing to disturb his brilliant mind while at work. The
maidservant returned with a cart laden with covered warming pans
containing various breakfast items. At her request we indicated
our preferences and she dished up and set out plates on the
table. As we sat down to eat, Babalu O’Bunion reappeared,
wearing a quite attractive dressing gown. Without greeting us
she dished up eggs, bacon, potatoes and fried tomato halves, and
sat down beside us. It wasn’t until we had all finished eating
that Holmes spoke.
“I
think, Miss O’Bunion,” he said, “that you should explain
your presence at the Fitz house last night.”
“It’s
actually Mrs. O’Bunion, sir. But my beloved husband is
unfortunately deceased. And before I discuss last night, I shall
tell you how he died. Two years ago, gold was discovered in the
Klondike, as you probably have heard. A great rush of
prospectors ensued. I was then appearing in a musical stage play
in Seattle under my maiden name, Barbara Adler. Oscar, my late
husband, was the producer, and he moved the company to the town
of Skagway, at the base of the White Pass that led to the
Klondike gold fields. The town had grown almost overnight from a
few hundred people to ten thousand. It was there that we met
Fritz Fitz and Archie Leach who had formed a partnership to
fleece the prospectors, whether going to or coming from the gold
fields. Fritz opened an outfitting company, complete with horses
and mules, woefully overcharging prospectors heading up the
pass. Archie ran a saloon and gambling den that cheated then out
of their gold dust upon their return. They also had become
associated with Soapy Smith who ran the gang that controlled
Skagway.”
“He
was quite a notorious and ruthless criminal, was he not?”
Holmes said.
“Yes,
a brutal yet cunning fellow with the morals of a snake. Anyway,
our company was booked into Archie’s saloon, and we had no
idea of its criminal nature. But my husband, bless his soul, was
bitten by the gold bug and decided to seek his fortune in the
Klondike. He was outfitted by Fritz at usurious prices that
sapped our savings, and he headed up the fifteen-mile incline
that became known as Dead Horse Trail, and on to the Klondike
some six hundred miles farther on. Six months later he returned
with sacks of gold dust, a veritable fortune. He entrusted me
with most of it and sent me by ship to Seattle, where I had it
converted to cash I deposited in a bank. I returned to Skagway,
only to discover that Oscar had returned to the gold fields. Our
stage company was moribund by then, and I had a bawdy house
constructed to house the girls and myself and to provide a means
for all of us to profit from the gold rush. It was then that I
came to the attention of Soapy Smith.”
She
paused and shook her head in momentary distress. I offered her
another cup of coffee, but she declined and continued her story.
“Soapy
Smith controlled the criminal enterprises in Skagway, and the
local government as well. Archie Leach came to me and said that
I would have to pay a share of my receipts to Smith as a sort of
tax. I refused, and then rued my decision. My girls were rousted
and treated with unspeakable indignities by Smith’s henchmen.
I appealed to Fritz Fitz for help. To my utter surprise he
revealed that he was smitten with me, and that if I would become
his mistress all my troubles with Soapy Smith would be over. I
was aghast at this proposition and refused to have anything to
do with him. But my troubles with the Smith gang only got worse,
and I was about to capitulate and pay the so-called tax when my
beloved Oscar reappeared. I was appalled at the sight of him.”
Babalu
took a handkerchief from a pocket and daubed at her eyes. “He
was gaunt and malnourished, a mere shadow of his former robust
self. He had been set upon by claim jumpers who had stolen his
pack animals and left him to die. He was bitter and
disillusioned, and blamed Soapy Smith for his near demise. As he
was recovering, Fritz and Archie came by to ostensibly cheer him
up, but Oscar spurned them as minions of Soapy. When he regained
his strength, Oscar went on a campaign to arouse public
resentment against the Smith gang. That was the beginning of the
end.”
Babalu
exhaled deeply, her eyes misting again. She dabbed at them and
with effort collected herself to continue the story. “Oscar
collaborated with a man called Frank Reid, and four days after
Independence Day they incited a mob that attacked the Smith
gang. Soapy was shot dead in the melee, but so, alas, was my
beloved Oscar.”
“A
truly distressing account, Mrs. O’Bunion,” Holmes said.
”Please pardon any rudeness I may now display as
unintentional, but I must question you about certain matters
pertinent to my investigation.”
“And
matters impertinent as well, Mr. Holmes?” she replied with a
taut smile. “Perhaps why I am called Babalu?”
“Yes,
if you would so inform us.”
“It
is merely a corruption of Barbara, but I found that it has a
certain cachet with men who attend stage productions and lust
after actresses and chorus girls. In short, it was good for
business.”
“Speaking
of which, why did you move your business to Grace?”
“Very
simply because I blame Fritz Fitz and Archie Leach of being
complicit in the circumstances leading to my husband’s
death.”
“And
therefore you were certainly not at the Fitz Casa Grande for an
assignation?”
“I
should say not! I detest the man. I arrived at his invitation to
a dinner party for the local gentry, only to find that I was the
only guest. Fortunately, I had in my purse a sleeping potion, in
the vernacular called a Mickey Finn, that I surreptitiously
placed in Fritz’s drink. He was unconscious for several hours,
which I used to search through his papers for evidence of his
involvement in the theft of Berry Berry’s invention.”
“Did
you find anything of an incriminating nature?” I asked.
“No,
I did not. But I did find a safe, and I spent considerable time
attempting to find a combination to open it. Which I finally
did, but then Fritz woke up and began making lecherous advances
while pledging his love for me. That’s when I made my escape
and encountered you, Dr. Watson. The rest you know.”
“But
what of this mysterious stock sale,” I asked. “Have you any
idea of what that is about?”
“Unfortunately,
no,” she replied with a resigned shake of her head.
“Thank
you, Mrs. O’Bunion, for your testimony,” Holmes said. “But
I’m afraid you must be tired after your perilous adventure. We
shall now withdraw to pursue other avenues of investigation. I
would, however, like to meet with you again. Is that agreeable
to you?”
“Of
course. At your convenience.”
“Thank
you,” Holmes said as he rose to leave. “Would it be possible
for your sister to be present?”
Babalu
smiled. “I’m afraid that is entirely up to her, Mr. Holmes.
As you know so well, she marches to a different drummer than we
more plebeian members of the female sex.”
Moving
along, In
chapter 8 ....
Holmes learns Reverend plays for high stakes.
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