The Curious Case of the Purloined Hard Drive (Sherlock Holmes in Silicon Valley)

by CP Haus

  “That’s very kind of you to remember, Dr. Watson. No trouble at all about the lateness--I had a second scone this morning with my tea.”

  “Any telephone calls while I was out,” I asked as I scanned her desk for the little pink tickets upon which she recorded telephone messages.

  “No, I’m sorry. You do, however, have a visitor. He’s waiting in your office,” she said with a curious smile. “Someone who I think you will be very interested to meet.”

  “A prospective patient, I hope?” I asked expectantly, peering towards the office door.

  “No, just a visitor. A simply charming fellow,” she said.

  With an air of disappointment as the loss of the income, I opened my office door. Seated upon my couch was a tall, thin man of approximately my age, dressed in the style currently in vogue in London.

  “Doctor Watson, I presume?” he asked with a smile. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Good heavens, this sounds just like the novels of my youth!” I exclaimed. “What an extraordinary coincidence that you should have the name of my great grandfather’s best friend, for indeed, I am a direct descendant of the Doctor John Watson in Connan Doyle’s stories.”

  “Curiously enough, I am also a direct descendant of the famous detective,” said Holmes.

  “How can that be?” I enquired. “Holmes was never married...” I began.

  “You recall,” interrupted Holmes, “that after the sad events at Reichenbach Falls, where my great grandfather finally did away with the infamous Professor Moriarty, he determined to disappear from society? It was during this hiatus that he decided to seek physical companionship with the only woman, I believe, he respected and thus loved--Irene Adler. My great grandfather was the result of this union.”

  “But did Holmes ever acknowledge his paternity in the case?” I enquired.

  “It was never a matter of discussion. Irene and Holmes understood each other perfectly. I believe that they decided it would be best if the child was not publicly acknowledged by Holmes for fear of his life--Holmes had made so many enemies during his conquest of Victorian crime. No, my great grandfather took the name Holmes but never met his father. Instead, he and Irene travelled the world, funded no doubt by Holmes. My great grandfather was married in Vienna, and one of his sons is my grandfather. My father was his child, and thus the line continues to this day,” he said with a wry smile.

  “This is quite unbelievable, yet strange things do happen in the world. Imagine: Watson and Holmes together again. Quite extraordinary,” I said, taking a seat behind my desk as Holmes returned to the couch.

  “Yes, it is rather peculiar, no?” said Holmes. “I gather you have continued the family practice and are a physician?”

  “Of a sort--psychiatry. I had the doctoring gene in my system but could not stand all the blood of the surgeon. Hence I chose a less invasive practice,” I said. “What line of work are you embarked upon?”

  “Curiously enough, a situation developed in which I have entered into the same metier of my great grandfather. I should explain: my father was born in Lausanne, but determined to return to his ancestral home. He established a successful practice as a solicitor in Radlett, north of London. After many successful years, he took silk and was a presiding judge in the Old Bailey.

  “Father was extremely well regarded by all for his fairness and complete lack of bias. It was to him that the most difficult, and indeed, sometimes the most hazardous cases were assigned. Hazardous because there can be recriminations for judges who do not show the leniency that the criminal underworld considers fair.”

  Holmes shifted in his seat to get more comfortable and continued.

  “It was after a truly brutal case in which an organized crime family member had killed a rival family’s leader that they went after my father. I was, by this time, engaged in scientific research at a major pharmaceutical company in England when I received word that my father had been blown up in his car....he was dead and my whole world collapsed around me,” Holmes said, with a sadness I had heard all too often coming from that couch.

  “I take it you were close?” I enquired gently.

  “I am an only child--my mother having died shortly after my birth--so my father was extremely close to me. He encouraged me in all aspects of my life and I understood what an extremely valuable contribution he was making to society.”

  “It must have been terrible,” I said, rather blandly. I was at a loss for words.

  “Indeed. My first thought, after the funeral, was to go after those responsible for the crime. The police were extremely cordial, but given the nature of organized crime in Britain, they were at a loss to determine guilt. It was then that I decided to redirect my life and follow in the footsteps of my grandfather.

  “I had acquired, through study or genes, I know not which, an uncanny ability to observe and deduce. These abilities had been of tremendous use in my job as a research chemist at the lab; I determined to put my energies and life to a greater good: To become, as my namesake, the greatest enemy of crime.

  “For one year I studied all aspects of my father’s murder. I met with people, used disguises, aliases, phone-taps and all the accoutrements of today’s crime fighters. Above all these tools, I used observation, deduction and reason. It all came to fruition three years ago. You now recall the case?” Holmes said with a steely smile.

  “Of course--the Hatton Cross and Tottenham Court Gangs trials!” I exclaimed. “The entire fortunes of both families were destroyed and all accused were found guilty. It was given out that the police had had some extraordinary luck in collecting all the evidence against the criminals. It was you all along?” I asked.

  “Precisely, my dear Watson,” said Holmes. “I gathered the evidence and presented it to Sir Henry Mosley of Scotland Yard. He was dumbfounded at first, and yet readily agreed to my request that my name be kept out of the papers once he understood the value of my work. It was agreed that all the evidence was to be seen by the public as the fruit of successful police action.

  “Out of the public eye, of course, I was honored as a hero and am now eagerly consulted by all the major crime fighting organizations around the world. I am currently on a case for Interpol investigating the increasing traffic in illicit drugs around the world. Since the San Francisco Bay Area is a major entrepôt for such drugs, I am here.”

  “It’s truly a remarkable story,” I said. “Have you really got all the skills I used to read about in the old novels?”

  “Oh, you mean Holmes’s ability to look at a person and tell amazing facts about them?” Holmes asked. I nodded in the affirmative.

  Holmes gazed at me for a moment, his eyes seemed to haze over, and then he abruptly began.

  “Let me see: I can tell that you are not married, nor living with anyone at the present, but that you would like to be better acquainted with a certain lady; that your business, while sufficient for survival is not the thriving enterprise you would wish; that you have had Mexican food for lunch and, finally, that you drive a 1970 Morgan Plus 8. Will that suffice?” Homes said.

  “This is astonishing,” I replied, collapsing into the back of my chair. “How can you possibly know all of that about me by just looking at me?” I was flabbergasted.

  “Tut tut, my dear Watson. As my esteemed namesake would say, it’s all elementary. Observation and deduction.

  “As to the first, the absence of a wedding ring is normally sufficient for not being married. However, to confirm that fact and the fact that you are presently living alone, I point out the tiny blood stain on your shirt collar. No wife or partner would permit their man to leave the home in that state.”

  I rose to a mirror near my desk and, indeed as Holmes had pointed out, there was not a tiny stain but a rather large one from my inept shaving exercise of the morning.

  “All very good, but how about all the other aspects of my life? For example, how do you know about Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “I do apologize if I appear t
o be snooping into your life,” started Holmes, “but during the time I have been waiting in your office, I could not help but notice the framed photograph on your desk. It is a rather informal picture of you and, I gather, Elizabeth. The fact that it is not a formal photo indicates a currently friendly relationship and not one of being as yet engaged. The lack of a family photograph is also, by the way, a clue to your current bachelor statue.

  “Excellent, Holmes, I must say you are right. This photograph, of Elizabeth and me on the biking trail near Lexington Dam was from our second date. I do hope to have more opportunities to get to know her better. But how the devil do you know my business is not prospering?” I fumed.

  “Your jacket, while of the finest material that Daks of Piccadilly can offer--yes, the cut is unmistakeable--you have had to recourse to having elbow patches added at a recent date. This tells me that you have sense enough to purchase the finer things in life, yet are forced to be prudent in your current expenditures. Am I correct?” he added with a wry smile.

  “Spot on,” I grumbled. “I had high hopes of striking it rich here in Silicon Valley, but the money has not, as yet, begun to flow in. I fear to appear ignorant, but how the duce did you know about my luncheon?”

  “As to that, there were two clues: first, I noticed you handing a bag to your receptionist upon entering the office. Printed upon it was the name ‘Jalisco’, which, from my investigation of area eating establishments, I understand to be a Mexican food restaurant. The second clue is the unmistakeable aroma of cilantro that appeared in the room as you entered. Only a Mexican restaurant would leave that scent,” smiled Holmes.

  “The car--how can you know what car I drive?” I asked with a tiny sense of petulance.

  “That, my dear Watson, is something for which I do not like to take too much credit. You see, I was gazing out your office window when I saw your rather unique car arrive in the parking lot. Coupling what you look like from the photo with Elizabeth and your smiling visage leaving the car made it quite simple to establish what car you drive. For this one, I do apologize,” said Holmes with a hearty laugh.

  “Amazing. Truly amazing. It’s all so simple after you explain it, any fool could see how you arrived at these conclusions,” I said with embarrassment.

  “One sees but does not observe. It is a cardinal rule of the true investigator. Now, with your permission, I must take my leave...”

  “Of course, I understand you are busy and must go, but it would be a great pleasure for me if we might get together for drinks or perhaps dine some evening in the future?” I enquired, rising from my chair.

  “I will be in the Bay Area for quite some time,” replied Holmes. “I am currently staying at the Hotel De Anza in San Jose. If you provide me with your particulars, I too would enjoy your company.”

  I took one of my business cards and hastily scribbled my home address and telephone number on it and handed it to my new friend.

  Holmes took it and said, “A bientôt, Watson. It will be good to reconnect a friendship too many generations in absence.”

  With a courteous bow, Holmes took leave of my office and I considered my afternoon appointments with less enthusiasm than I had previously regarded them in the morning.

  IV: The Team Reunited

  In the coming weeks, the association that had germinated in my professional offices bloomed into a steady friendship. Holmes was a treasure chest of information, having a wide knowledge of many topics. His original assignment, of investigating the illicit trade in drugs, was of an ad hoc nature, which permitted him the freedom and flexibility to take on other seemingly impossible crimes and malfeasances that occurred in the Bay Area. Indeed, several seemly hopeless cases were solved by this mastermind in the cause of justice. The cases of the Maynard Abduction, the Six Fingered Thief and the gruesome murder of a local mayor were all solved with the assistance of Holmes. His demands were few: That his name be kept out of the media and that any rewards offered were to be paid half to him and half to a charity of his naming.

  My professional affairs were steadily improving, albeit at a slow pace. However, rather than being disappointed by this, I found solace in the fact that my lack of patients permitted me the freedom to enjoy the delights of my adoptive home. Holmes was the instigator of my new found sense of exploration: the San Francisco Opera, the various cultural activities that Stanford University offered and the vibrant jazz culture that flourished in the San Jose area were but a few of the new found cultural discoveries.

  We frequently dined out at the many excellent restaurants in the area: Holmes was a favorite at Edna Ray’s Chinese restaurant, where his excellent Mandarin endeared him to the owners. The many fine dining establishments of Saratoga were explored, as were the less decorous but equally excellent locations such as the previously mentioned Jalisco.

  Holmes had long since abandoned the Hotel De Anza, and found an apartment in the same complex as mine--the swank El Gato Penthouse Apartments. This delightful establishment was excellently located next to the hiking and biking trail to the Lexington Reservoir, and offered the added pleasure of walking to downtown Los Gatos without having to resort to driving.

  Even with all the gustatory, cultural and social activities we embarked upon, one event that continued to be sacrosanct for me was my Tuesday Quiz Nights at the Britannia Arms. After some little encouragement, Holmes found himself similarly addicted to the event and quickly became the star of our team whenever his hectic travel schedule permitted him to attend, for he was frequently traveling to investigate the drug sources in Bangkok, Vietnam and China. The good natured competitiveness of the quiz night, the excellent beers on offer and the ability to exercise the mind were all, I think, attractive to him. Unlike his famous namesake, Holmes was an excellent team member, having a broad knowledge of many obscure topics--many of which his great grandfather would have considered things that cluttered the mind.

  It was on one pleasant Tuesday evening in March that dramatic events of worldwide proportions began to unfold.

  Chapter V: A Fascinating Case

  This particular Tuesday found me in the happy company of Holmes, who was slightly jet-lagged having returned that morning from Singapore.

  During the first break, which found us in an admirable lead over the local Hewlett Packard team, Professor Wright brought over a tray of freshly poured bitter and stout.

  Wright said, “So, Holmes, how are you doing? Dr. Watson here tells me you’ve just returned from Singapore. A wonderful place, Singapore. Did you have a Singapore Sling at Raffle’s Bar? I personally find them a bit sweet and stick to the Tiger beer.”

  Holmes smiled and, taking a sip of his bitter, replied, “Thank you for the beer, Professor. Yes, Singapore was delightful. Not only the Tiger beer, but the crab is wonderful. I prefer the black pepper crab to the chili crab, but the locals tend toward the latter.”

  I enthused, “Can you tell us of any details about your case? I know that it might be a work in progress, but can you give us any particulars?”

  Holmes took another sip of his bitter and looked up ruefully. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the delicacy of the case I’m working on rather precludes any revelation of the details. However, if it would be of interest, I might be able to regale you with another case? One in which all the parties have, to put it delicately, left this mortal existence. Would you all like to hear it?”

  There was a murmur of approval around the table, for Holmes rarely revealed the secrets of his cases. Perhaps it was the jet lag or the fine beer, but this was an opportunity to see into the workings of a mastermind of crime. I moved closer to Holmes as to not miss a word.

  Holmes began after looking around the assembled teammates. There was a quiet hum of other conversations around the pub.

  “This case dates back several years, and, as I said, all of the participants are no longer with us. Nevertheless, I’ll change a few names so as to protect the innocent.

  “Sir James Malloy was the Chief Constable
in Singapore in those days. Singapore had recently declared independence from the rest of the Malay Peninsula and he was the last of the nonnative Chief Constables--future constables coming from the local populace. I might add that they are all topnotch policemen and women--leaders in their field.