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Authors: Conrad Voss Bark
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the square changed direction. He noticed this in the same way that he took in the movement of other people, part of the pattern of the scene in front of him. He turned and went through the arch, across the cobbles, through the ornamental gates, into Whitehall. He crossed over a little farther up the road, near Trafalgar Square. As he turned to look out for traffic the man he had seen change direction had just come out of Horse Guards’ arch and was looking up Whitehall. Holmes crossed over and stayed by the window of a bookshop, apparently engrossed in the display of books and magazines. He watched the man come up Whitehall, hesitate, cross the road where Holmes had crossed and walk past him. The man did not look at him. He walked on, round the corner, out of sight. He was an African.
‘You’re imagining things,’ said Holmes severely to himself and hailed a passing taxi to take him to his flat.
Floral Street was nearly empty, a dark ravine of an eighteenth-century street alongside Covent Garden. Holmes let himself in through the street door, closed it behind him, switched on the light in the narrow hall, and ascended the stairs to his flat. His flat door had its peculiarities. It had two locks. They had been installed for him by a gentleman known as Fred Smith who worked for the MI5 technical branch and was as near a genius as they made them. Inside the door was a panel of six light signals let into the wall. This was Fred Smith’s panel and one of the lights was on.
Holmes frowned and went out through the door and examined it on the outside. There was nothing to be seen. He looked at the panelling where the scanner was which had operated the light signal but there was nothing to be seen there either; no marks, no scratches.
He went inside again and considered the message of the lights. Three different coloured lights meant that there was somebody inside the flat; a single red light an attempt to enter by the door and a single green an attempt by the windows. The light that was on was red.
The attempt to enter had been made but had not succeeded. Someone might have tried to use a skeleton key. Holmes smiled at the thought of how frustrating it must have been. Or they might have been trying to take a wax impression of the lock. That was a possibility.
He was glad he had been persuaded to allow Fred Smith to put up the electronic curtain, as Fred called it. Not only would ray barriers inside the flat ring an alarm in the main CID room at Bow Street police station but automatic cameras would be brought into action to take photographs of the intruders ready for the police when they arrived. The ray barriers, however, were still inactive. No one had entered. But nevertheless an automatic camera by the door had worked because when Holmes went into his sitting-room there was a small light on in the console by the bookcase.
Holmes went back to the front door and slipped a miniature polaroid camera from its housing in the wall. It had taken only one picture. Holmes took it out.
It was a photograph of the African who had followed him up Whitehall. Holmes turned the print over. On the back was the time check. It had been taken that afternoon, about six hours previously.
Holmes recharged and replaced the camera and put it back into its housing. There was a click as the panel closed. It appeared to be wood but was hard steel and could only be opened now by activating a switch on the console in the sitting-room. On the panel, painted the same colour, looking like a knot in the wood, was the micro-lens.
The sitting-room was warm and comfortable. Holmes put on one of his Piaf records, poured a sherry, and put his feet up. He studied the photograph while he drank his sherry and listened to Piaf. The husky, yearning voice of the singer seemed to add a particular poignancy to the face of the African that lay under his fingers.
This man knew where Holmes worked, he knew where his flat was, and it was not unlikely that he knew a
‘You’re imagining things,’ said Holmes severely to himself and hailed a passing taxi to take him to his flat.
Floral Street was nearly empty, a dark ravine of an eighteenth-century street alongside Covent Garden. Holmes let himself in through the street door, closed it behind him, switched on the light in the narrow hall, and ascended the stairs to his flat. His flat door had its peculiarities. It had two locks. They had been installed for him by a gentleman known as Fred Smith who worked for the MI5 technical branch and was as near a genius as they made them. Inside the door was a panel of six light signals let into the wall. This was Fred Smith’s panel and one of the lights was on.
Holmes frowned and went out through the door and examined it on the outside. There was nothing to be seen. He looked at the panelling where the scanner was which had operated the light signal but there was nothing to be seen there either; no marks, no scratches.
He went inside again and considered the message of the lights. Three different coloured lights meant that there was somebody inside the flat; a single red light an attempt to enter by the door and a single green an attempt by the windows. The light that was on was red.
The attempt to enter had been made but had not succeeded. Someone might have tried to use a skeleton key. Holmes smiled at the thought of how frustrating it must have been. Or they might have been trying to take a wax impression of the lock. That was a possibility.
He was glad he had been persuaded to allow Fred Smith to put up the electronic curtain, as Fred called it. Not only would ray barriers inside the flat ring an alarm in the main CID room at Bow Street police station but automatic cameras would be brought into action to take photographs of the intruders ready for the police when they arrived. The ray barriers, however, were still inactive. No one had entered. But nevertheless an automatic camera by the door had worked because when Holmes went into his sitting-room there was a small light on in the console by the bookcase.
Holmes went back to the front door and slipped a miniature polaroid camera from its housing in the wall. It had taken only one picture. Holmes took it out.
It was a photograph of the African who had followed him up Whitehall. Holmes turned the print over. On the back was the time check. It had been taken that afternoon, about six hours previously.
Holmes recharged and replaced the camera and put it back into its housing. There was a click as the panel closed. It appeared to be wood but was hard steel and could only be opened now by activating a switch on the console in the sitting-room. On the panel, painted the same colour, looking like a knot in the wood, was the micro-lens.
The sitting-room was warm and comfortable. Holmes put on one of his Piaf records, poured a sherry, and put his feet up. He studied the photograph while he drank his sherry and listened to Piaf. The husky, yearning voice of the singer seemed to add a particular poignancy to the face of the African that lay under his fingers.
This man knew where Holmes worked, he knew where his flat was, and it was not unlikely that he knew a
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