A Bloomberg Holmes Mystery
by Sir David Conan Burge
I had just completed annotating my Columbia Law Review and donned my nightcap and gown when a gentle rapping fell upon my townhouse door. Having been the object of countless similar midnight visits, I was well prepared for the summons that would follow.
"Beggin' the squire's pardon to disturb him at this late hour," said the wretched message boy in the portal, hat in hand. "But Mr. Bloomberg Holmes requests the squire's presence on a matter of great urgency."
I tipped the filthy lad a shilling and hied to the waiting coach that would bear me to Gracie Mansion, abode of the great Gotham detective Bloomberg Holmes. Of this strange and brilliant man what more can be said? Scientist, philosopher, logician, as a young man he set about making his fortune as a merchant of electrotelegraphic racing forms to the eager bettors of Wall Street Downs. He was proven prescient in this endeavor, for although his race predictions as often as not were proven to be without merit, he had uncannily deduced that the real money was had in the sales of soft-ware. Having secured a great financial fortune he devoted a portion of the same to the purchase of the Lord Mayoralty of Gotham, an office in which he could lend deductive assistance to the city's constabulary in his crusade to eradicate the scourge of tobacco, salt and trans-fat crimes that so afflicted it citizens. After some fashion he valued my training in legal matters and so frequently requested my aid on those occasion which he saw fit. My heart raced as the coach rumbled over the cobblestones of Chelsea, for I knew from experience that if my friend Lord Mayor Holmes was calling, a great game was afoot.
As his manservant opened the door to Holmes's private chambers I saw only his wing-back chair framed against the flickering light emanating from the great stone fireplace. I sensed it contained him, if for no other reason than the wafting scent of pachouli which permeated the room. I also sensed he was, as was his wont, lost deep in fireside contemplation and unaware of my entry.
"Good evening, Attorney General Holder," he said, not once diverting his attentions from the conflagration.
"By Jove Holmes, I quite believe you are a practitioner of the black arts!" I exclaimed, once again astounded by the man's prodigious powers of observation. "How in blue blazes did you presage it was I?"
"Elementary, my dear Holder," he said, rising from his chair whilst oscillating a glass of cognac in his palm. "Simple logic demanded it could be you and no other. May I offer you a glass of brandy?"
"Not before I have your detailed explanation of this astonishing deduction."
As he proceeded to his answer Holmes decanted another snifter of brandy for himself and poured the rest into the feeder of Cavendish, the pet squirrel he kept in a gilded cage upon his escritoire.
"It was merely a matter of training my ear to the telltale pattern of your foot-fall as you approached my chambers. I made note of their tonal frequency and rhythmic speed, factoring in the distance from the top of the staircase to my door. Simple mathematics determined the length of your gait, and from there it was child's play to deduce my visitor was a man of eleven and one-half stone, five feet and eleven inches in stature, of Afro-Caribbean extraction, a barrister of some sort, quite possibly bearing a handsome moustache. And also, I received a Blackberry message from the doorman."
"I say this ability of yours is almost super-human! But to what do I owe this unexpected invitation?"
"Ah, yes General Holder," he said, reaching into his desk and retrieving a great Meerschaum pipe. "I am in need of your assistance in the swift indictment of some Greenwich traffickers in contraband sodium."
"Holmes!" I exclaimed at the sight of him lazily tamping down the bowl of his pipe. "Have you not read your own anti-tobacco proclamation?"
"Holder, my friend, have I not more than once cautioned you about jumping to conclusions?" he laughed with that devilish gleam in his eye. "Contrary to your supposition, the contents of my Meerschaum are not tobacco, but merely the dried leaf of the genus cannibis sativa. Its medicinal qualities are quite renowned throughout Mexico and our finest university dormitories. I myself have found it invaluable in focusing my deductive powers."
"You may consider my relief complete," I said as watched him inhale a long steady hit from the Meerschaum, flickering his thumb against its carb. "I was afraid I would be forced to apprehend you on felony tobacco charges."
As Holmes shotgunned his hit into Cavendish's cage, our discussion was summarily interrupted by the filthy urchin boy.
"Guv'na! Guv'na! Come quickly, sires! There's been an attempted murder in Times Square! Some sort ov' bomb! The constables need you now!"
Holmes let out a piercing scream as Cavendish, startled by lad's entrance, lunged through his bars and bit him on the thumb. "Confound it, you impudent jackanape!" I exclaimed, raising my swagger-stick to the cowering ragamuffin. "Holmes, are you alright? Stay here while I summon medical attention. That squirrel may well be rabid."
"Cavendish? Nonsense!" snapped Holmes, reaching for his Inverness and houndstooth cap. "I've been bitten by him dozens of times, just today. If he were rabid I daresay I would have exhibited the symptoms. As of now we've more pressing concerns, General Holder. Quickly! To Times Square!"
In the coach ride to the crime scene, I could discern that Holmes' mind was already at work digesting the facts of the case and constructing a list of suspects. Silently he withdrew a small mirror and straight-razor from his Inverness.
"Odd bodkins, Holmes! Shaving, at a time like this?"
"Quite to the contrary, Holder," he said, emptying a small vial of white powder onto the mirror. "In a recent scientific trip to study the horticulture of the Andes, I discovered the medicinal properties of the powdered extract of the species erythroxylum coca. I have since found it invaluable in concentrating my crime-solving faculties, especially when fortified with small doses of d-lysergic acid diethylamide. If we are to get to the bottom of this crime, I suggest we take a double dose. Care for a line?"
"No thank you, Holmes," I said. "I'm afraid passers-by might mistake it for salt."
"Suit yourself," he replied, snorting a huge line through a McDonald's straw confiscated in one of his celebrated trans-fat raids. This was followed by another, and another, until we reached the bright gas lights of the Times Square theater district. The area had been cordoned off by the Gotham Constables Department, ringed by a curious throng of theater-goers who looked on through opera glasses.
"What have we here, officer?" Holmes inquired of the chief constable on the scene, pausing to alternately suck in his left and right nostrils and shudder in deep contemplative satisfaction.
"Open and shut case, you lordship," said the man, whose badge bore the name Sainsbury. "Roight. Now if you look here, this is a late model Nissan sport utility brougham, registered to a man what goes by the name of Faisal Shahzad, and what soaped up these signs in th' windows that says 'death to those who insult the prophet,' all written up in the Arabic nice-as-you-like. Now if you look, the vehicle is parked pretty-as-you-please in front of Parker & Stone's..."
"Parker & Stone? Do you mean those ghastly men who produce the South Park penny dreadfuls that have so offended the city's peaceful Muhammedans?" I inquired. "I thought they were to be taken in for questioning."
"Patience, Holder. It is the next item on my agenda after shutting down the sodium dens," said Holmes. "Go on, officer."
"Roight. It seems our Mr. Shahzad is a member of the mosque of the cleric what read him a death fatwa against Parker & Stone. Now sir, if you look inside the brougham you'll see what is some wires that is set up to this bomb, ready to go off with this mobile telly, and a basket of baklava and a note what says 'Dear Faisal, good luck with the big infidel cartoonist killing, Love, Mum.' Ah, there's our suspect now!"
Our discussion was interrupted by another constable, an affable Chinaman by the name of Ming, accompanied by a swarthy ululating young man whom he had entrapped in handcuffs.
"Pinched 'em sarge!" enthused the man's captor. "An' just in th' nick of toime. Just as you said, the scoundrel was down at the docks tryin' to stow away on a tramp steamer to the Suez."
"Well well well, what 'ave we here?" said Constable Sainsbury, reaching into the man's pocket without so much as a warrant. "A mobile telly what has the number of the bomb telly on the old speed dial. Book 'im, lad!"
"Unhand this man at once, you incompetent fools!" exhorted Bloomberg Holmes, angrily smacking the Nissan with his magnifying glass. "He may be speaking and gesticulating in a tongue strange to our ears, but it is quite obvious he is protesting his innocence!"
"...but sir..." stuttered Sainsbury.
"But nothing, Sainsbury. Why would a guilty man so vehemently maintain his innocence, particularly one who is a devotee of the religion of peace?"
"but sir, I assumed..."
"And quite obviously assuming makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'Ming.' With its own constabulary engaged in such blatant racialist profiling, is it any wonder our city's peaceful Mohammedans are occasionally driven to piques of frustration? If nothing else, that cavernous hole in lower Gotham should stand as a monument to the consequences of such blithe and ignorant bigotry."
"I... I don't know what to say, your Lordship," said Ming, head held low in shame.
"Say nothing more," said Holmes. "Release this man at once, and turn in your badges. On the morrow, you shall report for mandatory diversity training. Consider yourselves fortunate if you are reassigned to the anti-sugared drink enforcement squadron. As for you, Mr. Shahzad, please accept my sincerest apologies for interrupting your evening activities, and my personal invitation to serve as Grand Marshall in the gala Macy's parade. If you would like to file a discrimination suit over this unfortunate incident, my friend General Holder will be delighted to assist you."
I tipped my silk hat to the young man and handed him my calling-card.
"Allahu Akbar!" he shouted in gratitude.
"And an Allahu akbar to you, good sir," replied Holmes bowing deeply.
As the young man shouted off into the night, I turned to Holmes. "So we now have established who didn't perpetrate this heinous crime," I said, perplexed. "But dash it all, Holmes, who did?"
"Bear with me for a few moments, friend Holder, as I focus all of my deductive powers on unraveling this conundrum," said Holmes. He reached inside his Inverness and withdrew a small can of aerosol paint. After vigorously shaking it, he emptied its contents into a small paper sack which he then raised to his face, deeply inhaling its fumes. After stumbling one or twice, a look of realization dawned on his Krylon green-stained visage.
"I've got it!" he shouted, foaming at the lips with enthusiasm. "Quickly, Holder, what group of deranged conspirators now constitutes the greatest potential threat to the republic?"
"I believe you are alluding to the anarchists of the Tea Party," I said.
"Precisely, Holder!" he shouted, amorously embracing a rubbish bin. "Look at the facts all around -- they square only with one conclusion -- that this was the handiwork of Tory extremists, driven to blind violent rage by His Majesty's Heath Care Reform Act. I would wager my last farthing on it!"
"By Jove, you're right Holmes!" I replied, finally catching on to his brilliant syllogism. "The proverbial dogs who did not bark. It's all right there in the report of Lady Napolitano."
"Lady Napolitano?" Holmes asked, momentarily stunned. "Never mind that for now, time is of the essence. Constables -- you, you, and you -- gather 'round. The man we are looking for will be light in complexion, displaying loud and exaggerated symbols of extremist right-wing patriotic fervor; American flags and so on. He will have a strange aversion to taxes and will likely be clad in the rustic garb of the Confederate South, pointed boots, perhaps a ten-gallon hat. He will envince affection for that region's music, perhaps even performing it. Sweep the area at once, and arrest any man fitting this description. This will be our culprit."
The constables fanned out into the crowd and true to Holmes' word they returned, within minutes, holding a manacled Caucasian desperado in their custody.
"The Naked Cowboy of Times Square!" I exclaimed. "How could I have been so blind to the obvious? Good work men. And to you, Holmes, may I express the undying gratitude of His Majesty's Government for solving another mystery. Would you like to accompany us to police headquarters for the interrogation?"
"No time, my dear Holder," said the triumphant mayoral sleuth. "I'm off to Duane Reade to secure a supply of ephedrine and drain cleaner for my next experiment!"
