Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets (3 page)

Haus launched himself out of his chair, and in two long strides he was out the door.

“Crash!” Trenet called after him. To me she muttered, “Come on.”

We followed him at his blistering pace—well, I hobbled as quickly as I could all things considered—as Haus led us back toward the siren song of the carousel and hawkers. He swept the folds of a tent apart with his long hands and barked to the assembled crowd.

“Everyone out.”

Though there were murmurs and complaints, no one dared argue with the glare Crash passed. Of course, his painted face was rather ghoulish, which might have had something to do with their compliance.

Haus had led us into the sideshow tent. Tables and ramshackle shelves were covered in little curiosities. Jars of amber fluids and specimens—two-headed lizards and the like, as well as fetuses—were caked with dust. One such jar contained only a thumb. A wooden box on a table nearby held a bit of rock. The card in front of it heralded the item as the Mazarin Stone. There were other such relics; a beryl coronet, a tree branch from Tunguska, the stake used to kill a vampire.

“What’s this about, Sanford?” Trenet asked.

He led us to an empty bell jar and plucked the card from its display. “The Devil’s foot is missing. Tell me, did the paw you found look anything like this?”

I eyed the photograph. “To a tee.”

Haus tossed the card and hissed another black curse. Flipping his hand toward an ornate jewelry box, he snarled, “And the Borgias’ torque is missing as well.”

I padded to the box and read the card. Apparently, the necklace usually kept there was the property of that most notorious family. The card said that Lucretia used it to deliver poison to her rivals. And it was modeled after a scarlet snake.

“Matches the one found at Watson’s scene,” I muttered. “Right down to the speckles on the snake’s head.”

“What did they say?” Haus snapped at me.

“The snake?”

“The letters, damn you! The letters found with my stolen property?”

“Just the same two words, every time:
memento mori
.”

Haus seethed with palpable rage. The tendons in his fists popped as he clenched. “Arty.”

A grizzled old bearded lady joined us. “Boss? There a reason no one been by my stall in five minutes?”

“Where’s Arty?” he bellowed.

Agent Trenet took Crash’s temper in stride, but the bearded lady jumped back, startled. “Ain’t seen ’im tonight. He never showed up for call. He’s probably drunk behind the wheel.”

Crash growled and spun on his heel. Over his shoulder he called, “Tell the talkers to let the towners back in. Business as usual.”

He was a hound on the hunt, leading Trenet and me back into the strange back alleys of the circus. The equipment housed here had seen better days. Trunks of props were open. I saw a few performers grab what they needed, then dash back into tents. Though my thigh ached with the fire of Hell itself, I felt the old rush of excitement that came with having a mission; a goal. Hadn’t felt that surge since a time when I had both legs, but that night—stomping through the carnival’s backlot—I felt more whole than I had in damn near twenty years. This might have been my first case for Pinkerton, but I was hardly a greenhorn.

That swell of confidence helped to mask the pain and lit a fire that let me keep up with Crash and his spidery legs.

“Where are we going?” Trenet called.

Crash had no time for explanations as we came up on a looming disc. Small metallic triangles glinted from its surface— the points of knives. We were looking at the back of a knife wheel. And one of the exposed blades—this one exceptionally long—was red with blood.

Crash was the first to round the wheel. He spat a few salty words, then kicked up a cloud of dust.

Arty sat in a reeking puddle. The sword—Excalibur, I presumed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.

“Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”

Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”

I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”

“Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”

“Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”

I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”

“And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”

“Jim,” Trenet said, her voice nasal as she pinched her nostrils shut, “you stay here with the body and Haus. I have to call the local police.”

“No!” Crash barked. “No police.”

“Sanford, I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s my job!”

“Locals get sight of coppers on my lot, they’ll assume the worst.”

“They’d be right!”

“They’ll stop coming and my people will lose money. If word carries too far, we could lose the rest of the season.”

“You can’t seriously think I’ll just let a murder—the latest in a string of them, I might add—go unnoticed.”

“He’s not a towner, Adele. He’s not even a gaucho like me. Arty ��Chloed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.

“Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”

Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”

I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”

“Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”

“Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”

I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”

“And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”

“Jim,” Trenet said, her voice nasal as she pinched her nostrils shut, “you stay here with the body and Haus. I have to call the local police.”

“No!” Crash barked. “No police.”

“Sanford, I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s my job!”

“Locals get sight of coppers on my lot, they’ll assume the worst.”

“They’d be right!”

“They’ll stop coming and my people will lose money. If word carries too far, we could lose the rest of the season.”

“You can’t seriously think I’ll just let a murder—the latest in a string of them, I might add—go unnoticed.”

“He’s not a towner, Adele. He’s not even a gaucho like me. Arty ��Chloed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.

“Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”

Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”

I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”

“Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”

“Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”

I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”

“And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”

“Jim,” Trenet said, her voice nasal as she pinched her nostrils shut, “you stay here with the body and Haus. I have to call the local police.”

“No!” Crash barked. “No police.”

“Sanford, I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s my job!”

“Locals get sight of coppers on my lot, they’ll assume the worst.”

“They’d be right!”

“They’ll stop coming and my people will lose money. If word carries too far, we could lose the rest of the season.”

“You can’t seriously think I’ll just let a murder—the latest in a string of them, I might add—go unnoticed.”

“He’s not a towner, Adele. He’s not even a gaucho like me. Arty ��Chloed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.

“Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”

Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”

I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”

“Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”

“Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”

I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”

“And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”

“Jim,” Trenet said, her voice nasal as she pinched her nostrils shut, “you stay here with the body and Haus. I have to call the local police.”

“No!” Crash barked. “No police.”

“Sanford, I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s my job!”

“Locals get sight of coppers on my lot, they’ll assume the worst.”

“They’d be right!”

“They’ll stop coming and my people will lose money. If word carries too far, we could lose the rest of the season.”

“You can’t seriously think I’ll just let a murder—the latest in a string of them, I might add—go unnoticed.”

“He’s not a towner, Adele. He’s not even a gaucho like me. Arty ��Chloed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.

“Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”

Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”

I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”

“Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”

“Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”

I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”

“And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”

I met Glen through mutual friends at various London publishing events, and have had the good fortune to appear alongside him in two anthologies; Glen’s a thrilling new talent, and you’ll be seeing more from him. ‘Half There/All There’ a
beautiful
story set in the bohemian world of Andy Warhol’s ‘Factory,’ and perfectly grounded, not just in the mood of that crowd, but in the events of the time. It also imbues Holmes with a sort of fierce sadness and regret that took me by surprise, and which will follow you long after the story’s done.

T
HE WORLD KNOWS
Sherlock Holmes through these pages as a calculating machine, seeking justice with cold logic, but I know another side of him. A soft side, a less serious side. Playful. Actually funny, even, if you can believe it, and one of the best friends a man could ever have, if you could get past his weirdness.

I first met Sherlock Holmes at the closing party of the first Factory, that silver box filled with pills and people, covered in tin foil, mylar, and plexiglass. He walked in, this tall, rail-thin man, white skin and black hair slicked back, cut short, like a banker or lawyer or something. Not my type, but I couldn’t stop watching. He was the opposite of hip, but people noticed when he walked in and stood in the corner, smoking cigarette after cigarette, rolling each one himself. He watched everyone watching him, and, after an hour, came over to me, offering me a roll-up.

“It’s only tobacco. That’s all you smoke. You had enough of marihuana and opium In Country after you hurt your shoulder. You’re more involved with things that are a bit more imaginative, something that might spur you to get up and do something, aren’t you?”

His voice was low, with an accent that was hard to place, his flat vowels and clipped consonants emanating effortless cool. A strange way of talking, too. Educated. Erudite, rejecting the language of the street, but also avoiding the affected language of the Factory pretenders, claiming European authenticity as a tiny bit of recognition. Style was the thing, convincing others that you were brilliant. Andy had a shotgun approach to catch whatever outstanding people happened to fall into the orbit of his ragtag collection of sexual deviants and junkies.

I didn’t like him coming up and telling me things about myself.

“How’d you know I was In Country? And just what do you think I’ve got for you? I don’t have anything to do with grass, or mushrooms, or any of that hippy shit.”

I watched his thin face while he spoke, his jawbone etched out of granite there, though long and delicate, not like the ad men. I couldn’t stop looking at him, listening to his talk. “You’ve got a shoulder wound, that’s apparent from the hitch you had leaning against the wall, but you didn’t grimace, so it’s something you’re used to. New Yorkers don’t get much sun, but you’re brown, with malaria scars. The way you move and stand shows a streetwise city upbringing. You watch other people around you, keeping an eye out for customers and the police, yet you’ve rolled your eyes at two deals, grass and heroin. So: you were in Vietnam, bored with common drugs. You’re looking to sell something. I need something to occupy my mind and time. Something beyond even the delights manufactured in this Factory.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I took the cigarette he offered and lit it. It was a strong blend, thick, pungent smoke pouring out of the end, but nice. I looked up at him.