Sherlock Holmes In America

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE QUARTERS by Jon L. Breen

Jon L. Breen, the winner of two Edgar Awards in the biographical/ critical category, has contributed to six previous Sherlock Holmes anthologies. He is the author of eight novels, including the Dagger Award-nominated Touch of the Past, and around a hundred short stories. His reviews appear regularly in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Mystery Scene, and frequently (and non-politically) in The Weekly Standard. His latest books are the comic courtroom novel Probable Claus (Five Star) and A Shot Rang Out: Selected Mystery Criticism (Surinam Turtle).

Although I was a freelance American correspondent for several English newspapers, joining the crowds of ink-stained wretches attending the latest famous personality’s arrival in Chicago was never part of my usual regimen. So it was purely by chance that autumn afternoon in 1907 that I was at Grand Central Station on West Harrison Street to see Sherlock Holmes’s unheralded arrival. I had known him years before, and apart from my pleasure at seeing him again, I had hopes of an exclusive story to impress my Fleet Street masters.

“Clive Armitage, Mr. Holmes. We met-”

“I remember you well, Armitage, and I am pleased to greet a fellow Londoner. You are fully Americanized, I see.”

“It’s true I’ve been here several years now, and some say I’m developing an American accent, though I can’t hear it myself. Why do you think me Americanized?”

“Your tiepin and cufflinks identify you as member of some sort of baseball supporters club, and the handle of your walking stick depicts an ornate American eagle. You appear to be chewing gum, a habit that has not yet infected British journalists in my experience.”

“A representative of the Wrigley Company gave me some samples when I was working on a feature article about them,” I said somewhat defensively. “Wrigley is something of a Chicago success story, and I was assured their products will one day span the globe, so be warned.” Then, like a thespian belatedly remembering his lines, I exclaimed, “That was a truly amazing demonstration of your undiminished powers.” It wasn’t actually so amazing once he explained it, but I was not above flattery in search of a journalistic coup. “When I came to America, I feared I would miss reading about your adventures in The Strand, but Collier’s Weekly has filled the breach. Didn’t I hear that you had retired, though, beekeeping in Sussex or some such thing?”

“That is essentially correct.”

“And how is Dr. Watson?”

“Well. I see little of him since his most recent marriage.”

Finally, I reached the obvious question. “What brought you to America?”

The answer proved frustrating: “A matter too delicate to reveal. Perhaps one day the full story can be told. For now, consider me an ordinary tourist, hoping to see some of this invigorating young city before returning home. I seek no publicity of my presence here, and in fact explicitly discourage it.”

“Do I gather though that you still do some detective work?”

“On rare occasions. A problem with truly singular elements is difficult to resist.”

I immediately offered to be his guide to the city of Chicago, and he readily accepted. In the days to follow, we saw (and smelled) the stockyards, visited the site on De Koven where Kate O’Leary’s cow kicked over a lantern and started the great fire of 1871, viewed such towering architectural masterpieces as the Rookery and the Schiller Building, rode the “L” trains, marveled at the great collections of the Art Institute, attended a concert of the Chicago Orchestra, and sampled the varied cuisines that immigrant populations offer a great city’s diners. On his third morning in the city, I suggested a visit to the site of the World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago’s 1893 world’s fair, and casually asked if he would consent to meet a friend of mine while we were in the area.

“I am too much in your debt to refuse,” he said, “but I trust I can rely on your friend’s discretion.”

“Absolutely. He’s an interesting chap. Athletics coach. I met him when I was in France seven years ago covering the Olympic Games. A man of unshakable moral principles.”

“They can only be deemed unshakable if they have been put to the test.”

“Oh, his have. He was planning to bring several runners to the Games but cancelled the trip when he learned the finals of all their events would take place on Sunday. Then a cablegram from Paris said the French had decided to change the finals to a weekday, so he made the trip with his athletes after all. But when he got there, he found the original schedule still in place. He withdrew his team from the competition. Americans take the Sabbath seriously, you see. Don’t ask my friend his opinion of the French. But he’s a splendid fellow, really, has played and coached nearly every competitive sport under the sun. At present, he is most renowned for football.”

“Is that Association football or rugby?”

“Neither. American football. Closer to rugby but different. It’s a college game primarily, but some institutions have banned it on grounds of excessive violence, including fatalities. In response, the coaches keep adjusting the rules, whether to save the sport or outfox their fellows, I’m not certain, but it is enormously popular and draws huge crowds.”

Conveniently for my ulterior motive, the former site of the World’s Fair overlapped the campus of the University of Chicago, a highly experimental, daringly coeducational institution established only a few years earlier thanks to a series of gifts by John D. Rockefeller. For all the university’s modernist innovations, its buildings were of a traditional gothic design, combining with the artistically landscaped quadrangles to create an aesthetically stimulating environment for learning.

“That gymnasium resembles a cathedral,” Holmes remarked at one point of our walk across the campus.

“That’s what Rockefeller thought. But in a way it’s appropriate. One of the new ideas that enliven this place is a well-funded Department of Physical Culture and Athletics. It’s given equal status with other academic disciplines and headed by an athletic director with professorial rank. And he, it happens, is the man we are going to see.” As I pointed out to Holmes the buildings and other landmarks, I had been following the most direct route to the office of Amos Alonzo Stagg.

Stagg was a large, powerfully built man in his forties with chiseled features and a steady, penetrating gaze. Though he already had a visitor, he waved us into his office with a broad smile. As he walked around the desk extending his hand, he seemed to be moving somewhat gingerly, but his handshake was firm as ever. His younger companion, slight, pale, and alight with nervous energy, was Perry Garth, a reporter for one of the Chicago dailies. Respecting Holmes’s desire for privacy, I introduced him as Mr. Benson. Shaking hands with Stagg and Garth, he nodded amiably but said nothing.

“Not given up, Perry?” I twitted my colleague.

Garth shrugged. “One can only keep trying.” As always, his manner had a studied nonchalance, as if nothing in the world mattered, but I sensed an undertone of desperation.

Stagg explained, “Mr. Garth would like me to write some articles for his newspaper, and every time he darkens my door, he increases his offer. I have repeated over and over that it’s not a matter of money, but apparently he subscribes to the notion that every man has his price. As the athletic director of the University of Chicago, I must make myself available to all of the city’s daily newspapers equally. It would not be appropriate for me to favor one over the others.”

“Sure, I can understand that,” said Garth. “But with all the scandals and bad publicity visited on your sport in the last few years, I thought you would welcome the chance to defend it against the hordes of bluenoses. My editor agreed, and I sort of went out on a limb promising your cooperation.”

“That’s the danger of going out on a limb without testing its strength first.”

“Maybe. But writing something for us about the character-building you do out on the practice field might be in service of a higher good, don’t you think?”

Stagg smiled. “I hope I always act in service of a higher good, Mr. Garth.” I knew they had rehearsed this argument many times before, and the journalistic grapevine suggested enticing Stagg to write for his paper was crucial to Garth. Some said his job depended on it.

But now Garth shook his head in comic resignation. “Anyway, before I leave, you can at least give me a good quote on the Carlisle game. You’ve already won the Big Ten. You’ve said this year’s team is your best ever. Now you’re up against Pop Warner and his Indians. You’re not going to let a bunch of redskins take your scalp, are you?”

“I saw their game against Minnesota, and they are impressive indeed. Their speed is dazzling. Our men will need to play their very best to beat them.”

“What do you think of Warner as a coach?”

After a moment’s pause, Stagg said, “He’s certainly a fine coach.”

“I’ve been to Carlisle to interview him. Would you like to hear what he says about you?”

“Nothing profane, I hope. Glenn Warner can say what he wants to my face, and I don’t take secondhand reports of anyone’s comments too seriously. Not all journalists are as scrupulously accurate and professional as yourself, Mr. Garth.”

Turning toward Holmes and me, Garth said, “You fellows caught the sarcasm there, didn’t you? Was ever a man so misjudged as this humble scribe? Seriously, I don’t know why I bother. Coach Stagg always says the same thing. Good day, gentlemen!” And with that, Garth was out the door.

Stagg, not fooled for a moment by my subterfuge, said to my companion, “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

“I congratulate you, Mr. Stagg,” Holmes said. “We’ve never met, and I’ve managed to avoid publicity while in your country. Surely, you could not identify me from the idealized images conveyed by Mr. Steele in the magazines, or Mr. Gillette on the stage. I am innocent of that calabash pipe or that countrified deerstalker with which I am so often depicted. I haven’t uttered a word since I entered your office, so you heard no accent to indicate my nationality. How, pray tell, do you know who I am?” As he spoke, Holmes cast a suspicious glance in my direction, which I returned with a show of injured innocence.

“No, Armitage didn’t say you were coming. But he has mentioned that he knew you, and when he telephoned this morning that he was bringing to campus someone I would want to meet, your name immediately sprang to mind. Now, what can you deduce about me?”

“Apart from the fact that you are suffering from sciatica and are troubled by some sort of mystery, I can deduce little.”

“How in the world do you know I have sciatica?”

“My friend Watson has schooled me in the diagnosis of limps.”

“Maybe if the good doctor were present, he could suggest a cure,” Stagg said ruefully. “I have covered the map of the United States seeking treatment, from Colorado to Arkansas to Indiana to Florida, with no lasting result. Laying that painful matter aside, what about this mystery you believe is troubling me?” Now it was Stagg’s turn to look pointedly in my direction. “What has Armitage been telling you?”

“I’ve told him nothing,” I said, “apart from the population, mean temperature, and annual meat-packing production of the city of Chicago.”

“Then how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”

“Armitage must have mentioned many of his friends and acquaintances to you at some time or other. Why would the name of a detective spring to your mind if you were not in need of one?”

Stagg nodded. “It’s true I could use your help. But I haven’t adequate money to pay for your services, and anyway, time is too short.”

“My time in your city is short as well. But I charge no fee for a brief consultation, and perhaps I could make some suggestions toward solving your problem.”

“That’s very kind of you. Please sit down, gentlemen, and I’ll tell you about it. You know a bit of this, Armitage, but not the most recent development. When that reporter was here, he asked me my opinion of Glenn ‘Pop’ Warner, my opposite number at the Carlisle Indian School. You may have noted some hesitation in my answer. Glenn and I are unlike in many ways. I once planned to become a minister, changing course only because I couldn’t preach for sour apples and believed I could serve God more effectively as a coach. Glenn by contrast trained as a lawyer. He is profane in his language. The strongest word my players ever hear from me is jackass, though I’ll confess they hear that all too frequently.

“While I have tried to improve our game with my colleagues on the rules committee, Glenn has given us little help, but when we do change or introduce a rule, he is quick to exploit it. Last year, we allowed the forward pass for the first time, and no one has made more effective use of it than Glenn Warner. Sometimes, we have to make another new rule to close whatever loophole he has exposed.

“No one in coaching will soon forget Warner’s hidden-ball trick against Harvard in ’03: The Carlisle players pulled closely together to receive the kick-off, and the Harvard men could not tell who had the ball. One player-Dillon was his name-put his empty arms out in front of him as he ran down the field and was ignored by the Harvard defenders, who concentrated on searching among the other Carlisle players for the ball-carrier. Dillon crossed the Harvard goal line, produced the ball from the back of his sweater, and scored an unimpeded touchdown.”

“Surely that’s not cricket,” I said.

“Obviously not,” Holmes said humorously. “But is it American football?”

Stagg said, “Mr. Holmes, in that famous expression about cricket, your countrymen express a devotion to sportsmanship that goes beyond the importance of winning. To us in America, winning is the thing. We will honor the letter of the law, but not always the spirit. Glenn Warner will do anything to win within the rules, and I cannot in good conscience criticize him for that. I have always respected him as a coach and as a man, but now something has shaken that respect.

“I was pleased at your hearty endorsement of amateur sport in Dr. Watson’s account of the ‘Missing Three-Quarter.’ Despite our minor differences in philosophy, in my country as in yours, the teamwork and ideals of sport mold boys into men, making my profession of coaching a sacred calling. Did not Wellington say, ‘The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton’?

“But when I read that story of a missing rugby player, I never imagined that a similar situation might confront me. It has. A young man named Clayton Cumberland enrolled this year at the University and turned out for the team. I knew immediately he could be a player of great ability and versatility. He has shown in practice that he can do everything our game requires-run, block, punt, pass, tackle-and I have had the luxury of developing his potential slowly. Others did the job for me through the Big Ten season, but I believed I would need more in our upcoming game against Warner’s Carlisle team. I was planning to unveil Cumberland as a sort of secret weapon.

“But the day before yesterday, a mere three days before the game, Cumberland suddenly vanished from his dormitory. His roommate had sensed something was worrying him but could provide no clue to where he might have gone. His professors say only that he had been diligent in his studies. With no evidence of violence, I could hardly enlist the efforts of the police. I was not so much worried about the game, Mr. Holmes, as the welfare of the young man. Then in this morning’s mail, I received this.”

He passed over a plain envelope addressed to him at the University. There was no return address. Inside was a crumpled sheet of paper that Holmes and I looked at in turn. It had a Carlisle Indian School letterhead, and a typewritten message was crowded into the top half of the page, followed by a handwritten signature.

Dear Mr. Cumberland:

As we discussed, there will be no problem in obtaining documentation of your Indian blood. We are delighted you will be joining our team here at Carlisle.

Sincerely yours,

Glenn “Pop” Warner

“You see the implication,” Stagg said. “Warner is now stealing players from other coaches by nefarious means. I don’t believe Clayton Cumberland has any Indian blood at all. It seems Warner will do anything he can to gain an advantage. This goes beyond bending the rules. This is flat-out cheating.”

“This is Warner’s true signature?” Holmes said.

“I have seen his signature, and I believe it to be authentic. Mind you, I am no expert in handwriting analysis. But if this were merely a matter of Cumberland leaving Chicago to go to Carlisle, why would the young man not simply come and tell me what he was planning to do, or at least write his decision to me in a letter? Why just disappear one day?”

Holmes turned to me. “Armitage, if I may impose upon your time for a few hours more, it is possible we can make some sense of this.” I readily agreed. For who would decline the chance to be substitute Watson?

We were fortunate to find the roommate, a young ministerial student named Chad Armbruster, in his dormitory room, and eager to talk to us. While Holmes continued to use the alias Mr. Benson, we made no effort to conceal that he was a detective.

“Are you English, Mr. Benson?” Armbruster asked. “Cumberland’s parents were English.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Are they living?”

“No, I believe they’re both dead.”

“You told Coach Stagg that Cumberland was worried about something.”

“He certainly wasn’t himself the past week or so.”

“Did he say nothing to suggest the source of his worry?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he say anything out of the ordinary that might help us?”

“There was one very odd thing, now that you mention it, but I can’t imagine how it will help you. I returned to the room late one evening to find Cumberland sitting at his desk, just staring into space. I heard him say to himself, speaking in a low voice but very clearly, as if unaware I had entered the room, ‘It all comes down to the missing three quarters.’”

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. “Could it have been the ‘Missing Three-Quarter?’” I ventured tentatively. “There was a story in Collier’s Weekly by that title. I can’t recall the author.”

“Can’t you really?” Armbruster said with a laugh. “That was a Sherlock Holmes story, and a corker at that, but I doubt Cumberland read it. He is far too serious for any light literature. Anyway, he distinctly said ‘missing three quarters.’ Plural.”

“Did you ask him what he meant?” Holmes asked.

“I did. He looked rather startled. He obviously hadn’t known I’d heard him. He tried to laugh it off. ‘I carelessly left three quarters on this table last week,’ he said, ‘and they’ve disappeared. I know you’re too pious and holy to be a thief, Armbruster, but one of our visitors must be light-fingered.’ Then he claimed he was hungry and suggested we go hunt down some sustenance. He was very eager to change the subject.”

“So you didn’t accept his explanation,” I said, rather obviously.

“Not for a moment. But what could it all mean?”

“Did Cumberland ever typewrite his papers?” Holmes asked. An odd question, I thought, and Armbruster seemed equally nonplussed.

“No. I don’t believe he knows how to typewrite. He has a beautiful hand, though. Perfectly legible.”

With Armbruster’s permission, Holmes looked through the books and other papers on Cumberland’s desk. I saw him slip a sheet of paper and an envelope into his pocket, not ostentatiously but not with any obvious furtiveness either.

As we were leaving, Armbruster asked, “Mr. Benson, as a detective yourself, have you learned anything from reading about Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not a thing,” declared Holmes. “A most inferior fellow. Dupin and Lecoq were both far more capable.”

Ensconced in a cab that would take us back to Holmes’s hotel, I ventured to ask, “What could the reference to the missing three quarters refer to? Cumberland’s explanation was obviously a clumsy improvisation.”

“I agree. But you have the advantage over me in these matters, Armitage. Does the expression have any significance in American football?”

“Well, the game is played in four quarters, but I don’t know how you could be missing three of them. There is a position in American football called quarterback, but there is only one on the field at a time.” Sudden inspiration struck me. “What about that reference in the note from ‘Pop’ Warner about Cumberland’s supposed Indian blood? Perhaps Cumberland was one quarter Indian and Warner can only recruit fullblooded Indians, making the missing three quarters problematic.”

My exultation at the brilliance of my theory was short-lived. Holmes shook his head. “It leaves too much unexplained,” he said. “But there may be a clue in this letter. Also a clue to his present whereabouts, assuming, as I believe, his disappearance was at least semi-voluntary.”

He handed over the letter and envelope, which I perused quickly. The envelope bore the address in the city of one James Gustavson, but the letter was unfinished, as if Cumberland had been interrupted in its writing. As Armbruster had proclaimed, his roommate had an attractive and easily readable hand.

Dear Oscar,

Thanks for your encouraging letter. Your old pal Saucy knew he could rely on a teammate. You are right that it was a breach of contract, and no one knows that blackguard O’Hara better than you. Don’t know how you lasted out the season. But does receiving less than promised really mean what we would like it to mean? For now, I am staying on here, but if events make it necessary, I shall certainly avail myself

And there it broke off in midsentence.

“What does it mean?” I wondered. “He addresses the envelope to James and writes a letter to Oscar. And who the devil is Saucy?”

Holmes told me, “I have an idea about that, but time is short. We must go our separate ways for the next few hours.” He instructed the cabby, then instructed me.

My assigned task was a puzzling one.

“You want me to do what?” I exclaimed. “But why?”

“There’s no time to explain. Simply get it done and meet me back at my hotel at seven this evening.”

Now I knew how Watson felt when kept in the dark. I grumbled a bit, but of course agreed to the mission.

The next morning, we were once again in Stagg’s office, and this time young Clayton Cumberland, clearly unharmed but shamefaced, was present as well. I still did not know the entire story yet, and listened closely to Holmes as he explained it to Stagg.

“To begin with, that message from Warner was obviously faked. The signature was positioned right in the middle of the page, suggesting that Warner’s secretary-I hardly think the great coach typewrites his own correspondence-is singularly lacking in the rudiments of his profession. Surely the body of the letter should be centered on the page, with the signature nearer the bottom. The implication was obvious: someone had obtained Coach Warner’s signature on a sheet of Carlisle Indian School letterhead, probably on the pretense of being an autograph collector, then added the typewritten message after the fact. Every typewriter has its own peculiarities. The one used for the bogus Warner letter had a small letter ‘e’ that struck slightly above the line and a small letter ‘o’ that was filled in because of a dirty key.”

“But, Mr. Holmes, who would do that, and why?” Stagg asked.

“Though I was puzzled as to his motive, I suspected Cumberland might have composed the message himself. However, his roommate told me that Cumberland does not typewrite, and I found no typewritten sheets among his papers that shared those characteristics.”

“Then who was responsible for the false message?” Stagg demanded.

“Armitage came up with a good idea.” (Had I? Not that I could remember.) “Could the person who faked the message be the reporter, Perry Garth? He told us that he was under pressure to recruit you as a writer, but you had spurned all his overtures. If he could make you angry enough about abuses by one of your coaching brethren, perhaps he believed he could get an exclusive story for his paper, and a lively one. We knew he had interviewed Warner at the Carlisle Indian School, so he could have obtained his autograph then. I asked Armitage to visit Garth’s office and obtain a sample of his typewritten copy. The peculiarities of the type proved the same machine had produced the supposed letter from Warner.

“But to make his plan work, Cumberland had to vanish. How could Garth manage that? What hold did he have over Cumberland? An unfinished letter on the young man’s desk gave me a clue. Stagg, you are well-known as a champion of amateur sports. Are your athletes allowed to play professionally?”

“Certainly not!” Stagg was outraged at the idea. “Playing professionally carries a stigma. It could result in disqualification and perhaps expulsion.”

“And if a college player were to play professionally as well, could he cover his tracks?”

“He might play under an alias,” Stagg said reluctantly, disgust in his tone.

“Exactly. Cumberland had addressed the envelope to James Gustavson, but the salutation of the letter was ‘Dear Oscar.’ In the third person, he referred to himself as Saucy.”

Holmes turned to me. “Cumberland sauce, Armitage. I’m sure you’ve enjoyed it on game dishes many times, as have I. Any Englishman would know it, including Cumberland as the product of an English family, thus the odd choice of alias. As teammates, the two young men called each other by their assumed names, and other clues in the letter suggest that they were paid for their efforts. The words ‘I shall certainly avail myself’ I suspected might refer to an invitation from this Oscar to stay with him should Cumberland feel the need to leave the University abruptly.”

Holmes gazed for a moment at Cumberland, who was looking more miserable by the moment.

“While Armitage was performing his errand at Garth’s office, I went to the address on the letter, found the two young men, and got the whole story out of them,” Holmes resumed. “Two summers ago, Cumberland briefly played professional baseball for a suburban team managed by a tight-fisted fellow named Brian O’Hara.”

“O’Hara promised me twenty dollars but paid me only five,” Cumberland muttered. “He claimed the box-office receipts had only been a quarter of what he expected.”

“Thus,” said Holmes, “the missing three quarters referred to by Cumberland. He asked some other players, including Gustavson, whom he knew as Oscar, if they had been similarly shorted, and learned they had not, but also that O’Hara was an unscrupulous employer who would cut every corner he could, and would often test new men by reneging on promises.”

Cumberland turned to Stagg. “I was so mad, Coach, I quit the team then and there. I never thought of myself as a professional, and after that experience I never even wanted to be a professional. I found another job, and as soon as I could, I sent O’Hara’s lousy five bucks back to him.”

“And how did Garth come into it?” Stagg asked him.

“He’d heard about my mistake some way and approached me one day after practice.”

“Blackmail?”

“That’s not how he put it. Oh, no, he was my friend. He was going to help me out. He claimed O’Hara was threatening to go to you with the truth. Garth said he knew a way to deter O’Hara, but it would be dangerous for me to be on campus. Not dangerous to me, Coach! Garth convinced me that if his plan failed, and O’Hara made his information public, my presence on campus would destroy University of Chicago football, and your own reputation with it.”

“And how was that to happen?” Stagg demanded skeptically.

“I don’t know. I was confused. Gustavson is studying law and had it in his mind that O’Hara’s breach of contract, plus my return of the one quarter he did pay me, somehow removed the taint of professionalism from my record.”

“That’s nonsense, boy!”

“I wasn’t convinced either,” Cumberland said ruefully. “I was working on that letter to Gustavson when a message came from Garth to leave the campus immediately. Coach Stagg, all I wanted was to play football for the University of Chicago!”

Stagg’s features hardened, his stare intensified, and we glimpsed for that moment his practice-field visage. “You jackass! You should have come to me and explained what was happening! Perhaps I could have helped you.”

“I didn’t think you’d understand. Everybody knows how down you are on professionals. Of course, I know now that Garth never meant to help me. He just wanted me out of the way until after the Carlisle game.”

“And he did all this to convince me to write for his newspaper?” Stagg said incredulously.

Holmes shook his head. “Garth was heavily involved in illicit gambling on college football games. He was depending on his wagers on the Carlisle Indians to erase a large debt to the bookmakers, needed Cumberland out of the way, and had uncovered the means to do so. Implicating Warner was secondary. His two aims fit neatly together, but his indebtedness to the bookmakers was the more dangerous problem.”

Stagg shook his head sadly, his anger dissipated as swiftly as it had come. “We’re all of us imperfect sinners. God willing, this incident made you grow as a man, Cumberland.”

“You know, Stagg,” I said tentatively, “once Holmes and I confronted Garth, he promised to destroy the evidence he had of Cumberland’s secret, and leave town for points west. To make sure, Holmes and I accompanied him to the railroad station to bid him farewell, and he has every incentive never to return to Chicago. As for O’Hara, the man had no role in Garth’s plans for the definitive reason that he died last winter. Thus, no one ever need know any of this. I shall be discreet, and I’m certain Holmes will.”

“What are you suggesting, Armitage?” Stagg demanded.

“That Cumberland can still play for Chicago.”

“But you did play professionally, didn’t you, Cumberland?” Stagg said.

“Technically I suppose I did,” Cumberland replied sadly, “even if what I got barely covered my carfare.”

Stagg shook his head. “Then I’m sorry. Once you crossed the line and accepted money, even if you returned it, there was no going back. I sympathize with your desire to play, but I cannot knowingly violate a rule. If you had played any games for me in the regular season, I would have had to notify the Big Ten conference that we would forfeit our victories.”

Cumberland nodded, accepting the coach’s verdict. “Were you ever tempted to turn pro yourself, Coach?”

“Back in the eighties, six National League teams offered me pitching contracts. The highest bidder would have paid three thousand dollars for one season’s work. I declined because of my loyalty to Yale and the low moral character of professional ballplayers. I am thankful football will never emerge as a professional sport, based as it is on school spirit and manliness and teamwork, everything that professionalism destroys.” He extended his hand to Clayton Cumberland. “Good luck to you in your future endeavors.”

When Cumberland had left the office, Stagg said to us, “I regret most of all that this scheme caused me to doubt my fellow coach Glenn Warner. While he will bend the rules at every opportunity, I should have known that he would never break them. It is good to know he is not a cheat.”

“Can you defeat the Carlisle team without Cumberland?” Holmes asked.

“It will not be easy, even though their superb quarterback Mt. Pleasant was injured in the Minnesota game and may not be able to play. They are very fast, particularly a most talented end named Exendine. Some say one of their newer players, a young man named Thorpe, will be even better, though that is difficult to imagine. If Exendine breaks free of our defense, he will catch passes all afternoon. My plan is not to let him. My defenders will knock down Exendine and their other ends at the outset of every play, and not let them up until the play is over.”

“And that is within the rules?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Wouldn’t it be fairer,” I ventured, “if only the man with the ball could be brought down? It would certainly reduce those grievous football injuries I’m constantly reading about.”

With a slight smile, Stagg replied, “Perhaps I’ll suggest that to the committee. But for now, I must take advantage of the rules as written if I expect to outsmart Warner. Mr. Holmes, you must be my guest on the sidelines, and you too, Armitage. It is the very least I can do to repay you for solving my mystery and easing my mind.”

The University of Chicago’s football stadium is called Marshall Field, a pun on the name of the real-estate developer who donated the land. On the day of the game, the skies were clear, the weather pleasantly cool, the grandstands filled. Someone estimated the crowd at between twenty-five and thirty thousand. At either end of the field, hundreds of spectators unable to get a seat watched standing on wooden platforms. Stagg had welcomed us cordially, but once play began, his focus was entirely on the game.

The plan to knock down the Carlisle ends proved quite effective for most of the game. Pop Warner was beside himself, smoking cigarettes incessantly as he prowled the sidelines. Probably (though I’m no lip-reader), smoking was not the only way he violated Stagg’s purist standard of proper coachlike behavior. The injured Mt. Pleasant had been replaced by a chap named Hauser, and for much of the contest it seemed unlikely we would see his throwing arm tested.

Early in the fourth quarter, Carlisle had an eight to four lead, much too close to satisfy Warner. He called Hauser and the star end Exendine to the sidelines and gave them some quick instructions, as Stagg watched suspiciously from our side of the field. The center snapped the ball to Hauser, but Exendine, instead of running toward his inevitable knockdown, ran off the field and behind the Carlisle bench. Hauser evaded the Chicago tacklers as long as he could, then delivered a long throw downfield. Exendine, having run some twenty-five yards behind the Carlisle bench, ran back onto the field of play, and caught the pass with no Chicago defender near him. The Carlisle Indians went on to win by a score of eighteen to four.

“An admirable piece of misdirection,” Holmes remarked in a low voice. “But is that stratagem within the rules?”

“I daresay it won’t be after the next rules committee meeting,” I said.

Amos Alonzo Stagg, who had come perilously close to violating his personal ban on profanity, had his own opinion. “That’s unethical, unprofessional, dishonest, and dishonorable! Pop Warner is a cheat!”

Note: Two books were useful in verifying details of Armitage’s account: Touchdown (Longmans, Green, 1927), by Amos Alonzo Stagg and Wesley Winans Stout; and Carlisle vs. Army (Random House, 2007), by Lars Anderson.