For the Sake of the Game

by Laurie R. King

  I doubted that would ever happen.

  I returned to Sir Reginald and told him her offer of a valuable substitute for the tablet. I presented him with the letter which he tore open, read, then tossed to me.

  “Outrageous! She has no idea who she’s dealing with!”

  I glanced at the message, artful in its succinctness:

  Sir Reginald—

  Regret the inconvenience

  Equanimity is my goal

  Madame de Medici

  At the bottom she listed a time—eight P.M.—and an address. I thought it rather odd that the address was not the lascar’s house but on a neighboring street, one block south.

  When I asked Sir Reginald if he was going to inform the police, he angrily responded that the tablet was his and he would settle for nothing less. He didn’t need the police. He would take two “stout men” with him to the address Madame de Medici had given and return with the tablet “come hell or high water.”

  I might have offered to accompany him were he going alone, but since he was not, I informed him that I had discharged my duty in locating the tablet and the rest was not my concern. He grudgingly paid me my finder’s fee and I departed.

  I learned later that Sir Reginald and two other men left his house that evening and were never seen again. When the police questioned me about his disappearance—his household staff had, of course, reported me as a recent visitor—I told them about Madame de Medici and gave the address she had given Sir Reginald, as well as that of the lascar’s house. They found no trace of the Madame in either place. No one in the neighborhood—mostly Han Chinese at the time—would admit that they had ever seen or heard of her. As for myself, I never expected to hear of her again.

  MADAME DE MEDICI NOW

  The hour was late when Davies and I arrived in London but I didn’t think we should wait until morning. I advised him to park his roadster at his home in Belgravia and we’d take an electric hackney into Limehouse.

  “I knew this was not a savory neighborhood,” Davies said as we made our way towards the docklands, “but I never imagined . . .”

  “Not your usual environs, I imagine. Not mine either, I dare say, although I was well familiar with the area before I retired.”

  Limehouse had deteriorated even further since I’d departed for Sussex. Shipbuilding and shipping remained its major industries, but the population was now almost completely Oriental. Even at this late hour the streets were full of Chinamen, coolies, and Malaysians, some obviously under the influence of the poppy.

  When we arrived at the address I had originally known as the lascar’s house, which over the decades had passed to a Eurasian named Zani Chada, the upper windows were lit so I assumed someone was home. Instead of stopping, I told the driver to keep moving and take us around the block.

  “There!” I said, pointing at a dark narrow entrance to a house on the neighboring street. “Mark that address well, driver. After you drop us at our destination, I want you to wait right here and make yourself available to a young woman should she exit and look for a cab. No matter where she tells you to go, bring her around to us. And if she fails to hire you, follow her.”

  The fellow gave me an odd look, but said, “As you wish, sir.”

  The look from Davies mimicked the driver’s. “Holmes, I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll explain later,” I told him.

  The dark house matched the address her mother had given Sir Reginald all those many years ago, and I’d noticed that it backed up to what was now Zani Chada’s house. I had a suspicion . . .

  Soon we stood before the Chada house.

  “This is a long shot,” I told Davies as I hammered the door’s iron knocker against its plate.

  “Surely you don’t expect her to let us in.”

  “Of course not, but this is a place to start. Someone must eventually answer. I’ll keep knocking until–”

  The door swung open. Instead of the tall servant of my previous visit, a squat, turbaned little man met us. He appeared Nepalese.

  “The Madame awaits,” he said in thickly accented English.

  The sense of déjà vu was almost overwhelming. Like mother, like daughter.

  Davies grabbed my arm. “Holmes, this smells of a trap. She could be keeping an army of these little savages ready to overwhelm us.”

  “We are not characters in a penny dreadful,” I told him. “And neither is this woman.”

  I had an advantage of having lived through this before. If she was anything like her mother, the Madame was planning a negotiation. I could see no mutually satisfactory end to this affair, but decided, for the sake of my companion, to let the drama proceed to its predestined finale.

  We followed the waddling Nepalese down the same series of hallways I’d traveled before, ending in the same silk-draped chamber. But this time no languid beauty lounged on a divan. Instead, a raven-haired young woman clad in a snug leather jacket, jodhpurs, and leather boots paced before the low inlaid table. Her frown became a bright smile as her amber gaze found me.

  “Mister Sherlock Holmes!” she cried. “What took you so long?”

  The sight of her rendered me momentarily speechless. Not because of her question, but because . . .

  “You’re her!” I said, finding my voice.

  “Of course I am,” she said. “Who else would I be?”

  “I thought you were her daughter but you’re the same woman—Madame de Medici herself.”

  “Daughter?” she said with a laugh. “I have no daughter, no children at all.”

  “But this can’t be!” I felt the need to sit but steeled my knees. “You haven’t aged a day!”

  “A careful diet does wonders for the skin.”

  She was toying with me. At the very least she had to be in her mid-sixties, yet she had not aged a day since I’d last seen her. And it was her. I pride myself on the ability to pick up on nuances of behavior—they are like a fingerprint. My first meeting with Madame de Medici is etched upon my memory. No question: This was the same woman.

  “Daughter, mother—irrelevant!” Davies cried. “Whoever you are, you stole—”

  “Please, Mister Davies,” she said, aiming her amber stare his way, “you are being rude. I am renewing my acquaintance with Mister Holmes.” She turned back to me. “Our meeting was so brief last time. But I have avidly followed your exploits, courtesy of your friend, Doctor Watson, and so I feel as if we are old friends. You were only locally known back then. Now you are world famous.”

  “And you, Madame,” I said, managing to keep my composure. “How have you spent the intervening years? Here in London, or in Luxor?”

  Her smile widened. “You remembered! No, my Luxor home is but one of many. I divide my time between a dozen locales, all of which provide easy access to remnants of the ancient world.”

  “To sate your love of antiquities?”

  “Quite.”

  I could see Davies chafing to speak but I needed more answers.

  “Sir Reginald disappeared shortly after our meeting. Do you know anything about that?”

  She shrugged her slim shoulders. “He burst into Kwee’s house armed with a pistol along with two men carrying truncheons.”

  “Kwee’s house—would that be where you told him to meet you?”

  “Yes. Sir Reginald came early, before I’d had a chance to tell Kwee to expect him. Mister Kwee is a very private person and does not take kindly to threats.”

  “I see. And what happened to Sir Reginald and his companions?”

  “I have no idea. Mister Kwee told me that they ‘went away’ and would say no more. But enough about Sir Reginald. What about you? I was devastated to learn you had retired.”

  “I decided on a graceful exit.”

  “I gathered that. And I decided to lure you back for a chat.”

  Davies could contain himself no longer. “Surely you didn’t steal the Abu Qir Sapphire just for that!”

  Her voice turned cold. “I di
d not steal it. But I made mention of knowing Mister Holmes so that you would run straight to him when you needed help.”

  Which was exactly what Davies did. A most clever woman.

  “You can’t possibly deny you stole the sapphire.”

  “As I recall, Mister Davies, you placed it in my hand yourself.”

  “Not knowing you had made a switch! Admit you stole it!”

  A smile played about her lips. “My dear Mister Davies, how can one steal one’s own property?”

  He barked a harsh laugh. “You cannot be serious!”

  “I am very serious.”

  “Then you are mad! That sapphire is ancient—so ancient no one can identify the language of the inscription, let alone translate it!”

  The smile returned. “I did both for you a few nights ago.”

  “The ‘Old Tongue’!” he scoffed. “The ‘First Age’! The name of an ancient god of the sea!”

  “Well, that last part is not quite true. Actually the stone is inscribed with my name.”

  “Madness!” he cried.

  “Tell me,” I said. “What name is inscribed on the stone? Surely not ‘de Medici.’”

  She smiled. “Surely not.”

  “What then?”

  “You’ve already seen the transliteration.”

  Had I? When?

  “Never mind names,” Davies said. “The sapphire can’t be yours. It has been lying on the bottom of Abu Qir Bay for longer than any human has been alive. It most likely washed out of Heracleion after it sank, and that was over two thousand years ago!”

  “Yes,” she said. “It sank quite quickly, I was told. They built it on a sandy island and all the weight softened the sand, taking everything down. Those who were there at the time escaped with only the possessions they could carry. Residents who were elsewhere in the world lost everything.”

  “You speak as if—never mind. I demand you return the sapphire immediately!”

  Her expression hardened. “I maintain my claim of prior ownership.”

  Davies turned to me with his hands raised in frustration. “Holmes! What am I to do?”

  I did not have an answer for him. I would have called her mad too except for the fact that this woman had not aged a day in nearly three and a half decades. I could not for an instant accept that she had been a resident of Heracleion, but how old was she?

  “La belle dame sans merci,” I said. “The Madame appears more concerned with objects than people.”

  “Because people are transient,” she said. “They invariably depart. Things, on the other hand, are more loyal. Things remain. However,” she added, “I am not without sympathy for your plight, Mister Davies. I am willing to offer objects of similar antiquity and value to ease your pain.”

  “I am afraid that is un–” Davies began, but the woman cut him off.

  “Do not be too hasty, Mister Davies.” Moving with feline grace, she stepped to the rear wall and slid back a panel, revealing a lighted closet lined with shelves. “You may have your choice.”

  When she stepped inside, I slipped closer, suspecting it might be more than a closet, but she reemerged almost immediately with a handful of bright yellow disks.

  “These, for instance,” she said, holding them out. “Ptolemaic coins—solid gold.”

  “I cannot settle for less than the Abu Qir Sapphire. The Society will accept nothing else.”

  “Very well, then . . .”

  She stepped back inside and I was already moving forward when she slid the panel closed behind her. My fingers were mere inches short of the edge when the panel merged flush with the surrounding wall.

  OUTFLANKED

  “Davies!” I cried. “Help me find the release!”

  He seemed frozen in shock for an instant, then shook it off and leaped forward.

  “She’s mad!” he said. “Locking herself in a closet proves it!”

  “Don’t talk like a fool! It’s the entrance to a tunnel.”

  “How can you be sure? Where can it go?”

  “To the place she calls Kwee’s house. Now stop talking and find a way to open this panel. There must be—here!”

  My fingernails had found a shallow groove along the edge. I pulled and a tiny lever angled out, releasing the panel. Sliding it aside, I stepped into the empty closet, only to be met with another barrier.

  “One of these cabinets must move. Find it!”

  We wasted a good half minute pushing and pulling on the shelves until one of them levered downward under Davies’s pressure and a section of the wall, shelves and all, swung back. Utter darkness faced us.

  In our rush from Sussex, I had neglected to bring a torch, so I eased my foot forward and down until I found a step.

  “Careful, Davies. These will lead us down to an underground passage to Kwee’s house.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “Follow me but watch your footing.” After we had descended ten steps and were inching our way along a narrow passage, I explained. “As soon as I saw the relative locations of the two houses, I knew there had to be a hidden passage. I assume Madame de Medici is the true owner of both. She told me once she likes to come and go as she pleases, ‘with no one caring and no one the wiser.’ This passage allows her to enter one house and depart from another—with no one the wiser.”

  The light from the room behind us provided scant illumination, but was better than nothing. I moved carefully, taking long but slow strides until, after perhaps twenty yards, my leading foot caught the lowest step on a new stairway, leading up.

  “Stay close,” I whispered. “We don’t know what awaits.”

  I led the way up to find our path blocked by a sturdy wooden door. Finding the knob, I gave it a twist. It turned but the door would not budge.

  “We must break through, Davies!”

  She was getting too far ahead. The manner in which she had been dressed gave me an uneasy feeling, and I had no idea whether our driver would follow her as directed.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Davies said as he squeezed beside me on the top step.

  “No time! Put your shoulder to it. We’ll have at it together on my count. One-two-three!”

  On the first try I heard the door jamb crack. On the second we broke through and stumbled into a pantry. Its door stood open. As we stepped out into a dank hallway, I heard the faint clatter of a horse’s hooves from the side of the house.

  “She’s outplayed us, Davies!” I’d suspected she had a horse ready when I spied her jodhpurs, but by then I’d committed to a course of action that did not allow proper adjustment. “To the front! Perhaps we can still catch her!”

  We burst through the front door and reached the sidewalk just as she galloped past our waiting car. I saw her toss something through the rear window on her way by.

  “That’s her!” I said to the driver as we jumped into the car. “After her!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the driver said as he put the car in gear. “I assumed she’d be on foot.”

  “So did we. Go!”

  It proved a brief pursuit, lasting no more than two blocks, at which point she guided her mount into a narrow, crowded side street. The pedestrians parted for her, then closed behind her, blocking the way. Despite our driver sounding his horn and shouting at the top of his lungs, the throng of Orientals would not let us pass.

  “What are we to do, Mister Holmes?” Davies said.

  I could only shrug. “Pursuit is hopeless. She has homes all over the world, and perhaps all over London. She will be aboard a ship today or tomorrow or in two weeks, bound for the continent or the Middle East or the Americas.”

  “We found her today!”

  “Only because she allowed it.”

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Then I am ruined!”

  “Not so, Mister Davies. We shall return to the Chada house and empty her closet of antiquities, which you shall transport to the Egypt Exploration Society. I’m sure their total val
ue—especially those Ptolemaic gold coins—will equal or even exceed the worth of the sapphire. You will admit you were duped and offer the Madame’s horde as recompense.”

  He straightened, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I think that will work. Oh, thank you, Mister Holmes! How can I ever repay you?”

  “Never fear, you will receive an invoice for my services.”

  As the driver returned us to the Chada house, I noticed an envelope made of familiar silk paper on the floor. I retrieved it and immediately recognized scarab seal on the back, and the quill strokes of the squared-off script forming my name. I tore it open.

  Sherlock Holmes—

  Regret we could not linger longer

  Elsewhere calls me as always

  Madam de Medici

  She’d told me I had already seen the transliteration of her name, and I believed here I was seeing it again. I’d thought knowing her true name might make her less mysterious, but it succeeded only in making Madame de Medici more so.

  THE WALK-IN

  by Harley Jane Kozak

  It’s not every day that you walk into your apartment and find that your cat has turned into a dog.

  Okay, it was London, so it wasn’t an apartment but a flat; and neither the flat nor the cat was mine, they were my brother Robbie’s. But the dog was unequivocally a dog.

  It was my second day in town, and because my brother’s flat was new, and lacking pretty much everything—including my brother—I’d been out buying random moving-in things: toilet paper, dish-drainer, red wine. I was in the hallway juggling these and trying to get his door open when I heard a clickety-clack on the wood floors on the other side of the door. Inside the flat.

  Clickety-clack?

  I glanced at the gilt number near the keyhole: 2B. Right flat, wrong sound. Touie, Robbie’s annoying cat, padded around on silent paws. So who was this? Setting down my packages—parcels, as the Brits would say—I worked to get the door unlocked. At which point I was assaulted by the dog. A twenty-pound bulbous-bellied dog.

  He—the gender was glaringly obvious—was corpulent, gunmetal gray and so hair-free he appeared to have been skinned. His legs were stubby but his ears were large, and sticking straight up, rabbit-like. His face was all frowns and folds, a canine Winston Churchill digesting bad news. But he greeted me like a giant dog biscuit: when I bent to rescue my stuff from the floor, he launched himself at my chest, tangled himself in my crossbody bag and slathered me with saliva. For a small dog, he had a lot of saliva.