Read Online Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets by David Thomas Moore (ed) - Free Book Online

We’ve had a few visitors, mainly families with kids, or some retired couples taking a break from the canasta tables. Though, come to think of it, Wednesday was busier than normal. For one thing, my brother Louie turned up.”
    “And this was unusual?”
    “Not as much as it should be,” said Mr. Lowe, grimly. “He seems to think that if he only harangues me enough, I’ll give up the waxwork business and join him in his investments in Reno. We got into an argument and it ended up with him storming out.”
    “In your opinion, were his feelings high enough to justify his stealing your waxwork collection?”
    “Louie’s never been a big one for hard work, to be honest. I can’t imagine him renting a truck large enough to hold the collection, let alone hunking all the figures into it. I had fifty-six of them, and though they’re made of wax, they’re not light.”
    “But he knows your habits, and presumably has a motivation to put you out of business, if he wants the support of your investments?”
    “I suppose so. But if he had twenty grand, why wouldn’t he use that?”
    “Do you have the envelope with you?”
    “I do. It’s been checked for fingerprints.” Mr. Lowe extended the article in question.
    “Pity.” Holmes examined it with his glass. “A standard manila envelope, no marks, unsealed. The bills are all hundreds, nonsequential. Any evidence will have been destroyed by the police when they handled it.” He handed it back to Lowe, who tucked it into his denim jacket. “Besides your brother, were there any other visitors of note that day?”
    “There was, actually. An old white guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt. We get a lot of retired people, so he wasn’t all that unusual, but he was alone, that was one thing. And the other thing was, he hardly spent any time at all in the museum. Normally people come in, they wander around, take some photos, ask some questions, maybe. Not this guy. He paid for a ticket, walked in and through and out in about thirty seconds.”
    “Singular,” commented Holmes. “Did he seem to take a particular interest in any waxwork?”
    “I couldn’t tell. I was too busy arguing with my brother.”
    “And you spent that night working on your Annie exhibit. Where is your workshop? Is it on the premises?”
    “No, it’s about two miles away, in an old garage on the outskirts of town. I have a small apartment at the back, where I live.”
    “So your museum was empty at night. Unguarded?”
    “There’s security outside the casino, but the only entrance to the museum is down a side alley.”
    “This side alley—is it big enough to drive a truck or van down?”
    “I’d say so.”
    “Any witnesses?”
    “I haven’t found any, Mr. Holmes, and nor have the police.”
    “Were the doors forced?”
    “No. They were locked from the outside when I came to work this morning, as usual.”
    “Does anyone but you possess a key?”
    “My brother does.”
    “You walked in and discovered the place empty?” I asked. “You called the police, I imagine. Did they find any fingerprints?”
    “They dusted every inch, but even a museum as unfrequented as mine has a lot of fingerprints in it. As soon as I discovered that my life’s work had gone, you can imagine that I was anxious to find any clues that I could. When we couldn’t find anything, and the police seemed not to have the slightest idea, I jumped on the first plane I could get to, to ask your advice, Mr. Holmes, before the trail was cold. Will you come out to Vegas with me?”
    “It would give me a great deal of pleasure,” said Holmes. He saw his client out, arranging to meet him at the airport in two hours’ time.
    “You will come, Watson? I may need an extra pair of eyes.”
    “Ashcroft will be happy to take on my practice for a few days.”
    “Excellent. If we put aside the question of the money in the envelope, the chief suspicion falls on the brother. It seems clear that if one Mr. Lowe is forced out of