“What the hell’s the matter with you, man?” he said between his teeth. “An eight-year-old child comes to you for help because the only person she knows in the country has disappeared, and you tell her to go away! Who’s in charge here?”
The color rose up the desk sergeant’s cheeks. “I’m in charge . . . sir! And I won’t have some cheap actor coming in here, wasting our time to promote his miserable career. We have real crimes to attend to. Lying to the police and wasting police time is a crime. And if you don’t get out of here and stop holding up the line, I’ll charge you. How will that look in the newspapers . . . Mr. Holmes?”
Sarah did not move.
“And involving a child in your cheap stunts. That’s low, even for one of you.” The sergeant peered more closely at Sarah. “I suppose you are a child? You’re not some kind of freak, are you?”
Marcus drew in his breath to tell the man what he thought of him; one or two choice phrases came to mind. Then he felt Sarah’s hand slide into his, and remembered what this was about. He did not matter; she did.
“I would like your name, Sergeant,” he said quietly. “And I would like you to make a note that twenty-five minutes past nine this morning, I brought Sarah Waterman, aged eight, to this station to report that her mother, Maria Waterman, has disappeared, leaving obvious signs of struggle and search in her hotel bedroom. You turned her away as some publicity stunt, and sent her back out into the street again, to fend for herself.”
The sergeant was scarlet in the face now. “But I’m not sending her out alone, am I? Mr. Sherlock Holmes! I’m sending her with the most famous detective in the world! What more could I do than that?”
“We can manage without him, can’t we?” Sarah asked in a small voice.
“Yes, of course we can,” Marcus said firmly, wondering just how big a fool he was making of himself. “Come on.” He turned to leave, taking her hand again.
“Damn actors!” the sergeant said between his teeth. “That’s the third idiot this month.”
“Fourth, if you count the clown who thought he was Superman,” the constable replied.
Outside on the pavement Sarah stopped and looked up at Marcus, waiting. How long before the trust in her face turned to doubt, and then fear? What on earth was he to do? Sherlock Holmes was about as real as Hercule Poirot! Why had he not had the sense to tell her that in the first place? He had no idea how to detect anything at all.
She was waiting, the light fading out of her eyes.
“We must begin,” he said. “Unfortunately it seems we will have to do it without any technical help, just our brains.”
She took a deep breath, and tried a very small smile.
“We will go across the road to the café over there, and you will tell me everything you know. Then we shall proceed accordingly.” He took her hand again and walked to the crossing. As soon as they had sat down, he to an appalling cup of tea, she to a dish of ice cream, he began.
“Tell me about Raffa. How big is he? What is he made of? Who gave him to you? And why would anyone want him badly enough to ask for him as ransom for your mother? That is a terrible thing to do!”
She nodded, and answered with solemnity.
“Raffa is about this big.” She held one hand about eighteen inches above the table. “But of course half of it is his neck.”
“I see. So he is quite big. What is he made of?”
That was harder. “I don’t know,” she said at last.
“Is he hard or soft? Does he bend?”
She smiled properly this time. “Of course he bends! He’s sort of like . . . cloth, on the outside. I don’t know what’s inside him.”
“Good. We are progressing. Who gave him to you?” Please heaven she did not say it was Father Christmas!
“Wayne. I think he’s going to marry my mother. But that won’t make him my father, will it?”
“Not if you don’t want him to be.”
“I’m not certain . . .”
“How long ago did he give you Raffa?”
“A long time, when I was too little to remember. But he had him mended last Christmas.”
“I see. So in a way he was new again less than a year ago?”
She nodded. “Does that help? Is it a clue?”
“Too soon to say.” His mind was racing as to why anyone would want a child’s stuffed toy. Was there something hidden inside it? Drugs? Gemstones? Or was it wishing to get the child as well, because she loved the toy? The violence and the thoroughness of the room’s search ruled out the possibility of any sort of prank. That was serious, and ugly.
“And you think you left Raffa in the taxi?” How on earth was he going to find one cab, in London? He felt a rising desperation inside himself. He looked at her plate. The ice cream was melting.
“You had better eat that,” he said. “I have to think for a while.”
“Is it a three pipe problem?” she asked.
“It may be,” he answered. “And I haven’t got Watson with me, so I am going to have to rely on your help.” That was a stupid thing to have said! Now she would think it was her fault if this turned into a disaster.
“Was it a black taxi, or like an ordinary car?”
“A black taxi.” She sounded certain.
“Where did you get it? Do you remember?”
“Of course I do. At the railway station.”
“Do you know which airport you landed at?”
“Heathrow.”
“Then it was Paddington. We are progressing.” He felt appallingly guilty for lying to her, building up hope he could not possibly fulfil. He should tell her the truth now: Sherlock Holmes is make-believe! There is no such person!
“Mummy called the company last night, to see if they had found Raffa,” she said, watching him intently. “But they didn’t say.”
A wave of relief welled up inside him. “Excellent! Then we will go back to the hotel and if we ask the right questions, we will be able to trace the call. If we can find Raffa then the people who have taken your mother will find us. Come.” He stood up.
“Is the game afoot?” she asked, scrambling to stand up as well.
He found himself smiling at the grown-up reference. “Yes, I rather think it is. Come on.”
“Yes, sir,” the receptionist said in reply to Marcus’s question. “Mrs. Waterman made a call yesterday evening. I have the number on her account. I’ll look it up for you.”
Sarah was watching Marcus with wide eyes, almost as if the problem were on the brink of solution. If the mother had spoken to the cab company last night, why had she not told her kidnappers the truth, that the giraffe had been left in the cab? Why risk being kidnapped? And above all, why leave Sarah alone? There had to be some other major factor that he did not know.
Maybe the giraffe was not in the taxi? Or maybe it wasn’t about him at all. But he must not tell her that. He needed her to be calm and thinking, remembering. He would have no idea what to do with a frightened and weeping child.
Also, he did not want to hurt her.
He thanked the receptionist, took the address of the cab company, and, holding Sarah by the hand, went out to the foyer to find a cab of their own.
As they sat side by side in the back, seat belts fastened, he began to ask her more about herself, her mother, where they lived and how long they were going to stay in England.
Most of it was just talk, to stop her sitting motionless and afraid. From what she said, she had a very nice house, plenty of space, always enough to eat, nice clothes and nice toys. It formed a picture of comfort and innocence. Then why the stolen toy giraffe, the kidnap and ransack of the hotel room? The real Sherlock Holmes would have a major clue by now—but there he was again! There was no “real” Sherlock Holmes. The whole thing was a good storyteller’s invention.
“Tell me more about Wayne,” he said with a note of desperation. “Do you like him?”
She hesitated. “Mummy likes him.” An answer in itself.
&nb
sp; “What does he do?”
She stared straight ahead of her at the road jammed with traffic.
“He’s some kind of a banker. I asked him, but he said it was too complicated for me to understand. I don’t know why he said that. I know what banks are. They look after people’s money, and keep it safe. I told him I’m nearly nine, and I understand things, but I don’t think he believes me.”
“Maybe he’s not very good at explaining,” he suggested. “Some people aren’t.”
“My daddy was.”
He did not know how to answer.
“What did your daddy do?” He had to think of something, or it would sound as if he did not care.
“He was a diplomat.” She said it with pride. “That’s how we met Wayne, I think.” She sniffed. “He would know what to do. But he’s dead.”
More to think about. And it made the situation more complicated.
“How long ago was that?” he asked aloud.
“Two years,” she answered. “I suppose it’s all right for Mummy to marry Wayne now.”
“Well if it isn’t, I expect she won’t do it.” The moment the facile words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.
“I don’t think I want her to,” she said gravely. “We’re all right just the two of us.”
He had no answer to that at all.
“I suppose he is in Malaysia now?” he asked.
“Yes. This holiday is just for us.” She gulped. “When we find Raffa and get Mummy back.”
The taxi swung wide around a corner, dodging a motorbike, and Marcus spotted another black taxi with a light blue advertisement on the side. He had seen it before, far closer to the hotel. He saw it again a couple of blocks later, but when they pulled up at the taxi company offices it went on by. Had it been following them? Oh, if only he had a script written for this adventure!
“Do you think they will have found Raffa?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“It’s very likely,” he replied, pulling his few ideas together. He was used to tension, to being watched with a highly critical eye, at times to carrying the show. Time to be professional. “And it seems they want Raffa very much. Do you know why?”
“No. Why?”
“I think Raffa must have something inside him that is very precious. I will ask if they have him, but I don’t think we should take him with us now. We wouldn’t want to . . . to lose him before they keep their end of the bargain.” He did not want to frighten her, but he could not shake the memory of that blue advertisement.
She nodded, lips tight, fighting not to cry. “They’re bad people, aren’t they?”
“I think so.”
“Are they here?”
“I think they might have followed us.” That was another stupid thing to say! It would only frighten her. If that damn policeman had only believed him he wouldn’t be in this ridiculous position!
“In the taxi with the blue picture on it,” she agreed, still gripping his sleeve.
“You noticed it?” he said with surprise.
She nodded.
“Let’s go in.” He pushed the door open.
The man behind the counter looked at him curiously. Perhaps a memory stirred, recognizing his face but not recalling from where. It happened now and then, people thought they knew him.
Then the man smiled. “Sherlock Holmes. Right?” He was pleased with himself.
Sarah’s face lit up and she nodded vigorously.
Marcus took a deep breath. “I am trying to trace a lost giraffe,” he said, knowing he sounded ridiculous. “About eighteen inches high. My friend, Sarah, left him in one of your taxis by mistake. He matters rather a lot. Has he been turned in?”
“Oh, yes. I know the one you mean. If you can just give me Sarah’s full name, and the time and route of the taxi, for identification purposes, sir.”
“Of course. The journey was from Paddington to the Ritz Hotel, at about seven o’clock yesterday evening. The passengers were Mrs. Maria Waterman, and Sarah.”
Sarah nodded, her eyes bright.
The door outside opened and a middle-aged woman came in.
“Please!” Marcus said urgently, “could you just keep the giraffe for the moment? We will return to pick it up later. But it is of the greatest importance that you don’t give it to anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The man glanced at Sarah.
“Please!” she said intently. “Please look after him!”
The clerk looked at Sarah, then at Marcus. “Of course I will,” he promised.
Sarah gave him a beautiful smile that lit her whole face. “Thank you.”
When they were outside in the street she leaned towards Marcus. “I nearly asked him to tell Raffa we’d be back for him, but he would think I was silly, wouldn’t he? I know Raffa’s just a . . . a toy.”
“The things we love matter, whatever they are,” he answered her. “They wouldn’t mean the same to anyone else. They keep our dreams and our secrets and never tell anyone, but we always know. If the man had any sense, he’d understand that.”
She looked at him unblinkingly. “I think you are a lot nicer for real than you are in the stories that Dr. Watson writes about you.”
He felt the warmth rise up inside him. It was absurd. “Actually Watson is a very nice man.” He said it instinctively, thinking of Peter Cauliffe, who played the part. Then he thought again. “You know, it might be a good idea if we brought him into this. We could use his help.”
She nodded vehemently, but she did not let go of his sleeve.
“Let’s get another taxi.”
When he had her seat belt fastened, he pulled out his mobile phone and called Peter Cauliffe’s number. Please heaven he answered. Marcus was guilty rather often of ignoring calls, but Peter was usually pretty good. He hoped the man would not choose now to demonstrate how annoying it was to be ignored.
It was ringing; Sarah was watching. She couldn’t know that this “Watson” was Marcus’s own man, and would do whatever he pleased? Peter owed Marcus no favors.
“Hello, Marcus,” the voice said at the other end.
“Oh! Watson. Thank God you’re there.” Marcus rushed on before Peter could hang up, thinking he was playing a practical joke. “Look, I have a rather important matter. Please! My friend, Sarah, she’s nearly nine, has a problem of a very grave nature, and needs our help. Don’t . . . don’t hang up!”
“You’d better be sober, Marcus,” Peter said warningly.
“As a judge. Where are you?”
“At my flat. I’m going out to lunch with a friend . . .”
“We’ll be there,” Marcus cut him off, then leaned forward and gave the taxi driver new directions.
Peter Cauliffe was about the same age as Marcus, but a milder, gentler-looking man.
The thing that made him distinctive was the wit in his face, and the warmth of his expression. Marcus admitted, very occasionally, that he was also the cleverer actor of the two of them, because he could play a wider variety of people. The Watson he played on screen was almost his natural character, perhaps just a little more patient.
Marcus gave Peter a long, steady look, then introduced Sarah Waterman to Dr. Watson, and added, “Sarah is in trouble and has come to us for help. Her mother appears to have been . . . kidnapped and the ransom for her is Sarah’s toy giraffe, Raffa. We don’t know why, but since they landed from Kuala Lumpur last night, we think there may be something stitched inside him. The threat is quite clear. And she is very alone.” He needed Peter to believe him without doubt, and without sowing even more fear in Sarah’s mind.
Peter stared at Marcus, noticed his unusual gravity, and perhaps a difference in his manner. A sincerity he rarely carried off set, at least recently.
“Yes,” Peter agreed slowly. “It sounds very grave indeed.” He looked at Sarah. “We will do all we can to help, Miss Waterman. May I call you Sarah?” He held out his hand.
She took it very solemnly. “How d
o you do, Dr. Watson.”
“The first thing,” Marcus went on, “is to get Raffa back from the taxi company, er, Watson.” He felt ridiculous calling him “Watson” off set, but he met Peter’s eyes very steadily, hoping he would understand, and call him “Holmes.” “Will you do that for us . . . ?”
But Sarah pulled on his sleeve. Both men looked down at her.
“They won’t give Raffa to Dr. Watson,” she reminded him. “You said to give it to no one but you.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Now what . . . Holmes?”
Marcus knew in a moment of utter certainty that part of Peter was enjoying this. He believed the reality, but he also saw a kind of poetic justice in it.
There was no honorable alternative. “Sarah is quite right. Keep her safe here and I will go back for Raffa.”
Sarah gave a little cry of protest.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently, looking straight at her. “But this . . . this ‘case’ is serious. We must get Raffa back before we can do anything else. The police don’t believe us. We’ve no time to waste.” He looked back at Peter. “Watson, have you got an attaché case, or some sort of bag I can put Raffa inside? I may be gone a little while. Look after Sarah.”
“I have a lunch!”
“Sorry, old chap,” Marcus said. “But both Sarah and I think we were followed for a while. They may well be waiting at the taxi company office. I will have to lead them off the trail before I get back here. Don’t let anyone in.”
Sarah let go of his sleeve, but her eyes were wide and brimming with tears.
What would Holmes have done? Nothing warmhearted, and she must know that. She might well know Holmes better than he did. She needed belief now more than comfort.
“Do whatever Watson says,” he told her. “He’s looked after me all these years, and saved my neck a few times, as you know. He will look after you. Right, Watson?”
“Surely, Holmes,” Peter replied without a flicker.
Marcus left the house and walked quite casually to the taxi stand a quarter of a mile away. There was no one else in the street except a woman walking her dog, and a couple of youths joking with each other. But once he was in the taxi he felt oddly closed in. He asked to be dropped a block away from the office, then wondered if he was actually making himself more vulnerable.
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 17
