Read Online Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets by David Thomas Moore (ed) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Thomas Moore (ed)
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and within half an hour we were heading out into the desert in a rented Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.
“Mr. Louis Lowe wanted money,” explained Holmes as I drove. “He wanted it badly enough to argue with his brother on Wednesday. And yet by Friday morning, he is no longer looking for investment in his Reno time shares. What do you suppose has changed his circumstances?”
“The possession of a key to Lowe’s House of Stars, and the ability to look the other way.”
“So much seems obvious. The question is why, Watson? Who would pay Mr. Louie Lowe to betray his brother?”
“A jealous waxwork museum owner, who wants to steal Kevin Lowe’s masterpieces?”
“Possibly. And yet why would they give Kevin Lowe twenty thousand dollars?” Holmes tailed off into silence, breaking it only to direct me. His memory was photographic, and he recalled the location marked by the greasy fingerprint without having to consult another map, although it took us nearly three hours’ driving to reach it. It was a featureless expanse of desert next to Route 267. The sand and gravel baked in the midday sun when we stopped. The air wavered with heat, and as soon as I opened the door of the air-conditioned car and stepped outside, sweat sprang onto my skin. Sherlock Holmes, however, looked cool as ever as he pointed at the ground.
“Observe, Watson, the same Goodyear tread with the wearing on the back offside tire as in the alleyway.” He set off at a pace over the sand and I followed, wiping perspiration from my brow.
The ground was cracked from the sun, uniformly flat and bare other than the very occasional scrub. Although the tire tracks were invisible to my untrained eye, Holmes followed them with the skill of a bloodhound. When he stopped short, however, I didn’t need his superior senses to know why.
I let out a cry of dismay. The light-coloured ground before us was blackened with soot in a radius of about fifteen feet. Clearly there had been a large fire here, and in the centre was a grey substance that was neither ash nor sand. Holmes stooped and put his hand into it.
“It’s wax,” he said sadly. “The figures have been melted down.”
I touched it. It was unmistakably wax; the ash that lay around it in clumps was undoubtedly the remains of the mannequins’ clothing and hair. With a sickening thrill, I spotted a glass eye gazing at me out of the mess. It was bright blue.
“So much for a jealous waxwork owner,” I said, straightening. “Do you think it’s revenge, Holmes? Or some sort of spite?”
“I think it’s...”
Holmes trailed off again, but this time it was not because he was thinking. He had spotted something. He took off at a run across the baked earth, and I followed.
It was a scrap of fabric, fluttering from the branches of one of the rare scrubby bushes. Holmes caught it up, but he only glanced at it for a moment before he was again scanning the featureless landscape around us.
“What do you make of it?” He passed me the fabric. It was white, a sort of scarf or bandana, still crisp from an iron. Otherwise pristine, it had been speckled with ash from the fire.
“Left behind by one of the thieves?”
“Dropped as he was climbing into the plane.”
“Holmes!”
“Can you not see the airstrip, Watson?”
I had to squint, but I saw it eventually: the ground had been packed down in a wide strip. We stood near the foot of it, and it stretched past the melted wax into the distance.
“The sequence is clear from the marks on the ground. There were two thieves, one over six feet in height and a shorter one who was heavier and less active than the other—most likely our man in the Hawaiian shirt. They drove a van packed with mannequins to this spot. They were met by a small plane; I’d say a Piper Cherokee Arrow, from the tire marks. The man in the Hawaiian shirt boarded the plane and left, and the remaining thief unloaded his cargo and burnt it. The fire was set after the plane took off;
“Mr. Louis Lowe wanted money,” explained Holmes as I drove. “He wanted it badly enough to argue with his brother on Wednesday. And yet by Friday morning, he is no longer looking for investment in his Reno time shares. What do you suppose has changed his circumstances?”
“The possession of a key to Lowe’s House of Stars, and the ability to look the other way.”
“So much seems obvious. The question is why, Watson? Who would pay Mr. Louie Lowe to betray his brother?”
“A jealous waxwork museum owner, who wants to steal Kevin Lowe’s masterpieces?”
“Possibly. And yet why would they give Kevin Lowe twenty thousand dollars?” Holmes tailed off into silence, breaking it only to direct me. His memory was photographic, and he recalled the location marked by the greasy fingerprint without having to consult another map, although it took us nearly three hours’ driving to reach it. It was a featureless expanse of desert next to Route 267. The sand and gravel baked in the midday sun when we stopped. The air wavered with heat, and as soon as I opened the door of the air-conditioned car and stepped outside, sweat sprang onto my skin. Sherlock Holmes, however, looked cool as ever as he pointed at the ground.
“Observe, Watson, the same Goodyear tread with the wearing on the back offside tire as in the alleyway.” He set off at a pace over the sand and I followed, wiping perspiration from my brow.
The ground was cracked from the sun, uniformly flat and bare other than the very occasional scrub. Although the tire tracks were invisible to my untrained eye, Holmes followed them with the skill of a bloodhound. When he stopped short, however, I didn’t need his superior senses to know why.
I let out a cry of dismay. The light-coloured ground before us was blackened with soot in a radius of about fifteen feet. Clearly there had been a large fire here, and in the centre was a grey substance that was neither ash nor sand. Holmes stooped and put his hand into it.
“It’s wax,” he said sadly. “The figures have been melted down.”
I touched it. It was unmistakably wax; the ash that lay around it in clumps was undoubtedly the remains of the mannequins’ clothing and hair. With a sickening thrill, I spotted a glass eye gazing at me out of the mess. It was bright blue.
“So much for a jealous waxwork owner,” I said, straightening. “Do you think it’s revenge, Holmes? Or some sort of spite?”
“I think it’s...”
Holmes trailed off again, but this time it was not because he was thinking. He had spotted something. He took off at a run across the baked earth, and I followed.
It was a scrap of fabric, fluttering from the branches of one of the rare scrubby bushes. Holmes caught it up, but he only glanced at it for a moment before he was again scanning the featureless landscape around us.
“What do you make of it?” He passed me the fabric. It was white, a sort of scarf or bandana, still crisp from an iron. Otherwise pristine, it had been speckled with ash from the fire.
“Left behind by one of the thieves?”
“Dropped as he was climbing into the plane.”
“Holmes!”
“Can you not see the airstrip, Watson?”
I had to squint, but I saw it eventually: the ground had been packed down in a wide strip. We stood near the foot of it, and it stretched past the melted wax into the distance.
“The sequence is clear from the marks on the ground. There were two thieves, one over six feet in height and a shorter one who was heavier and less active than the other—most likely our man in the Hawaiian shirt. They drove a van packed with mannequins to this spot. They were met by a small plane; I’d say a Piper Cherokee Arrow, from the tire marks. The man in the Hawaiian shirt boarded the plane and left, and the remaining thief unloaded his cargo and burnt it. The fire was set after the plane took off;
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