The Finality Problem

by G. S. Denning

  “Paris. This morning. With a dummy.”

  “Right! So, I teleported to London—don’t say ‘Holmes!’—stripped the toga off the thing, dressed it in a few of my own clothes, used some dark secrets man was not meant to know to give it life—”

  “Holmes!”

  “I just asked you not to do that, if you’ll recall—and began teaching him to be my perfect double! And voila! Here we are.”

  “You are saying ‘voila’ quite a bit today, I note.”

  “Well, I’ve just been to France.”

  “I see,” I said, struggling to regain my composure. “And the curtains? How did you do them?”

  “Hmmmm… I wonder how I should address that question…” said Holmes, tapping thoughtfully at his lips. “Should I give you the 12,000-word explanation you wouldn’t understand? Or should I just say ‘magic’?”

  “Holmes!”

  “Stop shouting that!”

  “I’m trying to! I really am! But this is beyond acceptable, Holmes! Don’t you see? You need me!”

  “Oh, no!” he said, throwing up his hands. “We’re not getting into that again!”

  “No, we are. Look at all this, Holmes. Look how much magic you’ve been using and how many laws you’ve been breaking. You are utterly without governance. This is what Lestrade and Grogsson were talking about!”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Holmes thundered. “This issue has been settled! You are in terrific—”

  But he did not finish, for at that moment came a distinct poot! sound from the street outside, followed by the delicate kish of breaking glass and the solid smack of a hollow-head bullet ramming into the side of Steve’s head. He gave a forlorn “UUUUUUBUU!” and slumped forward in his chair. Billy jumped up and pointed both hands at his fallen brother, as if to say, “Are you kidding? He gets to get shot, too?” I think if there had been any moisture in his little wooden body, tears of jealousy would have been streaming down his face.

  I tell you, it is funny how far instinct outweighs reason. I consider myself a fairly intelligent man; nevertheless, I was halfway to Steve, yanking open my adventuring bag as I elbowed aside invisible curtains, when Holmes caught my sleeve.

  “Watson! What are you doing?”

  “I have to help the—oh…”

  “Yes. ‘Oh’ exactly,” said Holmes. “Spare no thought for him, Watson. He feels no pain and has no self-awareness. Let us instead turn our minds to more important matters. Namely…” Holmes balled up his fists and cried, “…one of my plans just worked! Yes! YES!”

  I rolled my eyes. “All right, Holmes. Let us not give in to self-congratulation.”

  “No. Let’s. Because this is great! This is rare! Oh, I’m so glad you got to see it, Watson! Tell everyone you know! It’s just like I hoped! Maybe I should get a dummy to soak up a bullet or two for me, I thought. And it was no small amount of trouble, let me tell you. Time travel! Teleportation! Three weeks of waiting about outside some Frenchie’s flat! But now, look! Who’s lying about with a hole in the side of his head? Bang! Steve! Not me!”

  Yet Holmes’s cavalcade of compliments for himself was cut short by a loud crash. Someone, it seemed, had just elected to kick open the Baker Street door.

  “He’s here!” cried Holmes in a petrified kind of whisper-gasp. “Quick, Watson! Quick!”

  He grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me over to the Baker Street wall to a small triangular partition formed by two curtains that hung between the two front windows, just in front of Steve’s chair. There was hardly enough room for me in there and my adventuring bag made a notable lump in one of the curtains. With a cluck of disapproval, Holmes stripped it from my grasp and threw it into the corner by Steve. It slid to a halt against the wall, after knocking Billy off his crude, envious little feet.

  “Here! Stay right here, Watson! Make not the slightest sound, or it may mean your life!” Holmes urged, then battered his way through the curtains towards the hallway that led to his room and mine. Or… no. To his room and Count Negretto Sylvius’s, I realized with a sudden wave of sadness.

  From the stairs outside came a gruff voice. “Careful. I don’t trust it. He went down weird.”

  This was followed by a lightly accented Italian voice that said, “Bah! What do you know, Sam? Stay here. Guard the door. And look out for that landlady he’s got. Shoot her if you need to.”

  “Hey!” I heard Holmes mutter. “That’s a bit offsides.” From outside came the sound of cautious steps, creeping up our stairs. When the third step from the top creaked, I heard the Italian voice give a little hiss of self-recrimination. Presently, the door to our chambers swung slowly open and a head peeped through. My view was partly occluded. Holmes’s curtains—though magnificent—were by no means perfect. From the front, they resembled black muslin. From the back, a thin, transparent gauze. From the diagonal I needed to see the entryway, it seemed as if several banks of thin, dark fog hung in front of me. The only thing I could tell for sure was that—yes—Count Negretto Sylvius had exactly the kind of sweeping black moustache his name implied. He jerked back in surprise when he beheld the strange labyrinth of curtains that had appeared since his last visit. Yet, he knew where his target lay. Slowly, silently, he began sneaking through the curtains towards me, seeking his fallen foe. He wore a garish suit and carried an over-ornamented walking stick with a gold-colored ball atop. Clearly not actual gold, for the color had worn off where his grip had rubbed it. As he pushed aside the final curtain, he gave a gasp of pleasure and surprise.

  There lay Steve, collapsed across the near arm of his chair making soft, furtive “Oob. Ooob. Bobo” noises. Approaching what he must deem to be his injured enemy, Sylvius gave his lips an eager, nervous lick and slowly raised the orb of his walking stick over his head. Apparently even Italians who spend enough time here suffer from our deadly-stick delusion. What he hoped to accomplish by thwacking somebody who had just survived a gunshot through the side of the head, I could only guess. Yet as he stepped within stick-smacking range, he was interrupted.

  Holmes’s clear, strident tone broke across the room, saying, “Don’t break it, Count! Don’t break it!”

  The advice was instantly disregarded. Sylvius gave a little “Eep!” of surprise and brought the stick down with all his might. The orb thunked down into the side of Steve’s head, deforming the wax around the bullet hole a little bit more.

  “OHHHHHH!” said Steve, who had either learned something of human speech, or had simply gotten lucky and stumbled across a noise that was somewhat apropos of the situation. I know Holmes had said he had no self-awareness, but his expression made it clear that he did not appreciate Negretto Sylvius’s recent efforts.

  “Holmes? Is that you?” Sylvius spluttered. “Where are you? What are you playing at?”

  “Where?” answered Holmes, in a laughing tone. “Why, I’m watching you. What am I playing at? Is it not clear? I have made a trap to catch a shark. Or, if matters go well for both of us, a room-mate.”

  He then pulled some hidden lever, which loosened a string that ran along the ceiling from the hallway to the front window, which in turn dropped a folder of papers that had been suspended from the ceiling just above Sylvius. The count gave a cry of surprise and caught the falling packet. “What is this?” he cried.

  “Why, that is you,” Holmes replied coolly. “Have a look through. I think you’ll find it comprehensive, if not complete. There lay the real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold, who left you the Blymer estate. And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender!”

  “Who is that?” Sylvius demanded, his voice shaking with fear.

  “Oh? You don’t know her?” said Holmes. “Sorry. Lestrade must have got the files mixed up. But what about the robbery of the Train de Luxe to the Riviera on February 13? Or that check forged on the Crédit Lyonnais?”

  With horror, Sylvius leafed through the pages and gasped as he saw a picture of one of his most illegal and secret acts. But then an insta
nt later, his brows drew together in confusion and he said, “Wait! This is no photograph. Somebody drew this!”

  “Did I get anything wrong?” Holmes asked.

  “Well… no. But I still don’t think it would mean anything in court.”

  “Shall we find out? Or would you prefer to become my living-companion?”

  “Living-companion? Ha!” Sylvius shouted. “You say that is your goal, but your true intentions are clear! You covet the Margarine Stone!”

  “Well… yes… a bit,” Holmes admitted.

  “You will never find it!” Sylvius howled. “I have placed it in a secret vault, far from here, beyond the wit of any thief!”

  No. That was a lie. Unless my powers of observation and deduction had failed in the most spectacular manner, I knew exactly where the stone was. I had observed how his left hand would hover protectively over his jacket pocket from time to time. More to the point, I had noticed a rather prominent lump in said pocket. Even more to the point, I had also not failed to note the gigantic and rapidly expanding grease stain all over one side of Sylvius’s jacket and down one leg of his trousers.

  “You should have a care!” Sylvius said, with a threatening laugh. “I have not come unarmed! Not defenseless! Not alone!”

  The laugh with which Holmes answered him was far more sinister. “Oh, I know all about Mr. Merton out there. Behold: my shark has brought a gudgeon to defend him! Perhaps we should invite your friend up to share in our discussion, eh? Billy! Attend my bidding!”

  The tiny wooden boy pushed aside my adventuring bag and leapt to his feet. Sylvius gave a cry of surprise.

  “Go invite Mr. Merton up to join us, won’t you?” said Holmes. “He’s the large, stupid-looking, heavily armed fellow at the base of the stairs.”

  Clatter, clatter, clop went Billy’s little wooden feet, as he sped across to the door. Say what you will about his lack of size, speech and enjoyment of his existence, but at least he could follow orders better than his compatriot. We heard him rattle down the stairs, then a gruff voice shouted, “Aaaaaaaaaigh! What the ’ell?” This was followed by a loud poot! and the sound of splintering wood. This was followed by a terrible hiss, as of a gas chamber recharging, and a dull metallic ping. The process repeated two more times and for a moment I thought little Billy had received the only boon I’d ever known him to crave. Yet presently, the door creaked open and the tiny homunculus appeared in the presence of a large, crush-nosed gentleman who looked more than a bit rattled. Billy had three new holes though his torso and a hangdog look that basically said, “Oh, I don’t know why I even try…”

  “What’s goin’ on?” Merton wanted to know. Beneath one arm he cradled a device that was… well… clearly not an umbrella. It had been designed to look like one. Or, a bit like one. It was a tasteful pink number of unusual size and weight. Instead of a spike tip, it featured a large, perforated pipe, which must have acted both as muzzle and a suppressor for the noise of the shot. The back end had not only the traditional hook handle, but a trigger, cocking mechanism, and a large brass air tank. I did have to admit the Straubenzee Special was somewhat quieter than a traditional firearm and its deadliness was beyond question. That said, its subtlety left something to be desired. “Where are y’, boss?”

  “Here! By the window!”

  Wearing a face designed to communicate that he did not care for any single part of this whole situation, Sam Merton began pushing curtains aside with the tip of the Straubenzee, working his way towards his employer. Merton was guided in this by the soft vocalizations of Steve, who had softened his tone greatly, for he was engaged in a new exploration. His hand probed the left side of his head as he mumbled, “Mon-mau! Maaaaaaaaaaaau.”

  When Merton at last emerged into the little hollow near the window, he looked down at the damaged wax man and complained, “All right, now. What is that?”

  This question was answered by Steve—in his own particular fashion. It seems Merton’s original shot had passed through the right side of Steve’s head, expanded, and lodged on the inside left. Thus, after a few moments of probing, there was a strange thunk sound inside Steve’s mouth. He then opened it, gave a little cough, and expelled a flattened leaden slug, which clattered to the floor at Sam Merton’s feet.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” Merton opined.

  Poot! added his air gun, and the recently removed bullet was replaced with another, right in the middle of Steve’s chest. Though his expressions were a bit rudimentary and not well synchronized with regular human countenance, I must still classify the look Steve gave Merton as “ungenerous”. He slumped forwards and his heavy, waxen hands began to probe randomly about the floor.

  “If you are quite finished abusing my artwork, I have a proposal for you,” came Holmes’s voice, from the depths of the curtain maze. “I am going to step into my room, take up my accordion, and play. I shall try over the Hoffman ‘Barcarolle’, I should think. I encourage you to use the interim discussing the wisdom of waging war against a superior mind as compared to the wisdom of living here and sharing access to the Margarine Stone.”

  We heard the sound of a door closing, and presently, the first few notes of Offenbach’s work drifted through the room. It was an unusually diplomatic move for Holmes and I was just beginning to wonder what he was playing at, when he spoke again. “Watch this, Watson,” he said. “They think I’m in the other room playing, but I’m not. I have merely bewitched the accordion to play itself. What I’m really going to do is this: I’m going to teleport myself to where the dummy is, at the same moment teleporting him to my present location. Sylvius and Merton are very unlikely to note the change. Thus, knowing nothing of what has occurred, they will then discuss their plans in my presence, alerting me to their intentions and perhaps revealing the location of the Margarine Stone!”

  Sylvius’s and Merton’s brows furrowed. “Who’s Watson?” Merton wondered.

  Holmes gasped, “Oh! Was that aloud? It was supposed to be telepathy! Damn, damn, damn!”

  I shook my head, then laid it down into my palm and massaged my nascent headache. Yet Holmes’s carefully laid, carelessly betrayed plan unraveled even faster than I expected. At that very moment came a delicate glass clink. Looking up, I noticed Steve had his hand in my medical case. I think I was about to shout for him to be careful not to break any medicine bottles and cut himself or stick himself with any of the syringes, but caught myself just in time. He’d not have understood, I realized. And even if he had, how would a creature with no circulatory system have been affected anyway? It was not the medicine I should have been concerned about, in any case, for as he slowly began to straighten up, I saw the gleam of metal in his hand—my pistol!

  At that exact moment came a slight change in the light. Nothing out of the ordinary, I would think. Most likely a cloud passing in front of the sun outside the Baker Street window. Yet this slight change had a great effect on our guests’ frayed nerves. Observing the sudden flicker, Count Sylvius shouted, “That’s it! That’s the teleport!”

  Both men spun their heads back towards Steve, only to behold the creature they now thought to be Holmes, straightening up towards them with a rather impressive gun in his hand. Sam reacted just as one might expect. He gave a cry, raised the Straubenzee, and sent a second shot through the front of Steve’s shirt, right next to the last one.

  “NOOOOOOORP!” Steve protested, then raised my Webley and retaliated by blowing a neat hole right through the center of Sam Merton’s face and one through his chest. I don’t think he knew exactly what he’d accomplished, but he sure did look impressed with himself to have made such loud, important noises. He turned to Negretto Sylvius with an oh-wow-look-what-I-just-did look on his face and fired the remaining four bullets into varying aspects of the good count’s torso. Both men went down like poleaxed pigeons as Steve’s barrage gave way to the gleeful click, click, clicking of a firing hammer on empty cartridges. I felt the instant tug of duty to aid the fallen. Yet, at the same time, my expe
rience as a doctor, an adventurer and a soldier all returned the same verdict: Are you kidding? No way. That’s done it, sunshine.

  Of course, it is very difficult to conceal the sound of gunfire in a residential building in the middle of London. The response we got was exactly the normal and expected one: three thumps on the floor below us and the muffled tones of an angry old woman shouting, “Oi! Noise!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson!” called Holmes and I together, as had become our habit.

  A moment later, Holmes appeared from the curtain maze behind me and hissed, “What happened, Watson? You taught him how to shoot?”

  “I? I taught him no such thing! Apart from your paper trick, I wouldn’t know how to begin. Anyway, if anybody taught him anything about blasting people to death, that honor would go to Sam Merton.”

  “Oh! You may be right, Watson. Perhaps Steve learns best by example.”

  Steve seemed pleased to see his creator. “MOE-NOE-BOE!” he said, as he turned both his joyous, blood-spattered face and the barrel of my Webley directly at Holmes. Click, click, click, went the firing hammer.

  “Oh well, at least nobody taught him to reload,” Holmes reflected. “See if you can’t get that gun away from him, eh?”

  The waxen murder-man was reluctant to give up his favorite new toy, but after a few minutes of prying and cajoling, I got it back from him. I turned to find Holmes looking down at the two corpses with a dejected look on his face. “Do you know the worst thing?” he asked with a sad shake of his head. “This is exactly what Grogsson and Lestrade were talking about. Ah well… can’t be helped… Care to help me hide a couple of bodies, Watson?”

  “Absolutely not! This is your mess, Holmes! Your affair from start to finish, and I am deeply mortified that my pistol and I got mixed up in it!”

  “Well I can’t be to blame for all of it, can I?” said Holmes, huffily.

  “In my experience, Holmes, yes; you usually can.”

  “Very well. Please yourself,” he snapped. “It won’t be the first set of accidental murder victims I’ve cleaned out of this apartment. Nor will they be much missed, I should think. The real tragedy—the gravest loss to mankind—is that with them died the secret of the final hiding place of the M—”