“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,” said the toy duck, and it began to whir and move its feet.
“Yes, guv,” said Meachem. “Just human nature to open up a card when someone hands it to you, I guess.”
“You’re not a human; you’re a member of the Metropolitan Police,” said Wembley. “Try to remember that.”
“Yes, guv.” Meachem tucked the card inside a Ziploc bag.
The duck continued to whir, waddling up against the shelf where Wembley and Reggie were standing.
“Damn, that thing’s annoying,” said Wembley. “Can’t you make it stop?”
“You press its bill to make it start,” said Reggie. “It tends to stop if you throw it against a wall, but maybe there’s a better way.” Reggie picked up the whirring duck and put it on the workbench. “Ah, here’s the switch.”
Reggie clicked the switch; the duck stopped moving and went completely silent.
“Good job,” said Wembley.
“I’ve seen a duck like this before,” said Reggie.
“Of course you’ve seen it before. We’ve all seen toy ducks before. I don’t recall them being so bloody noisy when I was three, but we’ve all seen them.”
“I mean, this is the toy that Mr. Liu was translating instructions for. I saw one like it at Mrs. Winslow’s house earlier, before she asked me to come to the warehouse.”
“And so you’re thinking it means something?”
Reggie shrugged.
Wembley motioned for his assistant to return.
“Meachem!”
“Guv?”
“Take this duck to Forensics, too.”
Meachem hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” asked Wembley.
“I don’t have a bag that big,” said Meachem.
Wembley sighed. “Just put it in the car and take it along.”
“Yes, guv.”
Meachem gingerly picked up the duck by its yellow feet and carried it away.
Reggie checked his watch again.
“You got somewhere else to be, Heath?”
“Yes, I have … an appointment with Laura,” said Reggie in a tone that suggested something more fun than was actually going on at the moment. He didn’t want to say that he was just going to drive back to her place, camp out in his car, and keep watch again.
“At this hour? Things heating up, are they, Heath? You’re free to go, then. I won’t stand in the way.”
“Cheers,” said Reggie, turning to leave. “You’ll let me know when Forensics finds something?”
“If and when,” said Wembley.
25
Laura’s phone rang.
She almost leaped out of her chair. Her teacup was still in her lap, and what remained in it spilled out onto the floor.
She looked at the clock. Five in the morning.
She had no idea how many times the phone might have rung; she knew she’d been asleep.
She picked up.
“Are you alone?”
This time, it wasn’t Reggie.
This time, the voice on the phone was the one she had heard in the boat at Regent’s Park. It sounded muffled, possibly an attempt at disguise, possibly a bad connection, but she recognized it.
“Yes,” said Laura immediately, and then she was angry with herself. Probably she would have given that answer regardless, but she resolved to try to answer such questions more slowly if they came up again. Probably it was better to lie to kidnappers, or at least consider doing so each time, rather than reflexively tell the truth.
“Are you being watched?”
“No,” said Laura after just a moment’s thought in light of her new rule.
“You’re lying,” said the voice.
Damn, thought Laura.
“Or else you’re unobservant. The security team is parked two doors down.”
“Oh,” said Laura. “Thanks. Good to know.”
“You will have to evade them. Can you do that?”
“Possibly, “said Laura. “But as you see, I’m not terribly good at this. You can’t hold me responsible if someone manages to follow me without my knowing.”
“I can and do,” said the voice. “You must bring the letters and come alone. If you are followed, Lord Buxton dies.”
Laura took a longer moment to answer now.
“I will try not to be followed,” she said.
“Do you have the letters?”
Bloody hell. Now what could she say to that?
“Not yet.”
There was silence from the other end.
Then the voice said, “If you cannot get the letters for us, then we have no need of Buxton. If we have no need of Buxton, he dies.”
“I know where to get them,” said Laura quickly. Another lie, pretty much, but this time she had no choice. “It will take some time.”
“You have three hours.”
“I need more time than that.”
“Three hours. We will call with your destination. You will come alone. If no letters, then he dies. If you are followed, then he dies.”
Then the voice was gone and the line went dead.
For a moment, Laura didn’t move.
The letters had to be somewhere at Baker Street. They simply had to be. She and Reggie must have overlooked something in their search. If not, there was no other hope.
Suddenly, and too late, she wondered whether she had closed the drapes enough that no one on the security team could have seen her pick up the phone.
She looked toward the living room window. It was all right. She had left only the slightest opening. No one from the street had a line of sight in.
It was still dark out. There was no moon. She went upstairs and put on her navy blue jogging suit, the darkest thing she could find. She turned on no lights.
Then she came back downstairs and went into the kitchen.
She put food in Tabasco’s dish. Who knew when she’d be back.
She looked out the little kitchen window to be sure she had a concealed path mapped out before stepping outside.
And then she sneaked out the kitchen’s side door.
26
Nigel Heath got to Baker Street just after six in the morning.
He came directly from the airport, and the red-eye had lived up to its name. He’d been in the middle of the center aisle on the plane, with a squalling baby on one side and a snoring man on the other, and he had not slept for a moment.
His eyes and body wanted to sleep now, but his mind and internal clock wouldn’t let him.
But from what Reggie had told him, there was no time for that anyway.
The Dorset House lobby was almost completely empty as Nigel entered. To the right, the glass doors to the bank’s offices were still locked.
But the white-haired lobby guard was present, his chin on his chest, looking down at the Daily Sun, either asleep or engrossed. Nigel decided not to disturb him and crossed directly across the guard’s path toward the lifts, on the left.
The man’s head jerked up.
“Pardon me, sir, but may I ask who it is you wish to visit? That is to say, where are you going?”
Nigel turned and said, “Good morning to you, too, Hendricks.”
Hendricks squinted. Nigel took several steps toward him to help out.
“Oh,” said the man finally, when Nigel was within about three feet of him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Heath. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Understandable,” said Nigel. “It has been a few months. And I expect I’m looking Americanized, so you’re quite right to be suspicious.”
“It’s not that, sir,” said Hendricks. “Although you are a bit sunburned. It’s just that I’ve been told I’ve been a bit careless of late, and to look out better in the future.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your brother.”
“Ah. He is a stickler, isn’t he?”
Hendricks leaned in, with a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between ourselves? Yes. And more than a little
tense lately. He never worried in the past about who made it up to his floor; seemed quite eager for just about anyone, as a matter of fact.”
“I think he was hoping for the occasional client,” said Nigel.
“Ah.”
“Now I expect he’s begun to find them annoying. Anyway, it’s best to keep us informed these days. Especially if it’s not daylight when someone arrives.”
“Exactly what he said, sir. That’s why I challenged you.”
“And right to do so,” said Nigel. “Cheers.”
Nigel took the lift up to Baker Street Chambers.
He got out on the quiet floor and walked toward the opposite wall from the lifts.
The place looked the same, but it did not feel the same.
Months ago, if Reggie had asked him to come out and investigate anything at all regarding the letters, he would have eagerly jumped at the chance. And, in fact, he had done.
But this time, he had come only because of the danger to Laura. A very different thing.
Maybe it was because of the pressure of studying for the American bar. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe just the jet lag. But he felt different.
He passed Lois’s desk. It was much too early for her to be here.
He reached his old office. The door was closed but not locked.
He opened it and looked inside.
It didn’t seem to have gotten much use while he was gone. No pens or pencils on the desk. The green felt blotter was still there, with its residual coffee stains from his earlier tenure. There was still a phone. But no yellow Post-it notes or paper clips tucked in the leather corners.
Just one thing of significance was still on the desk—the metal In basket that he had used for the Sherlock Holmes letters.
On the front of it was the hand-printed note that Reggie had attached to it months ago, when the letters first began to be an annoyance—at least in his view: “For Nigel.”
Nigel grinned at that.
But the basket itself was empty.
On some reflex, Nigel looked immediately from the empty letter basket to the dark corner at the far right of the room.
The one distinguishing feature of the room—a nineteenth-century four-drawer oak file cabinet more than five feet high—was also still there.
Nigel peered into the dark space behind it, just to be sure: No, there was no one crouching.
Not like the event last summer that had caused him to rush off to Los Angeles.
Nigel laughed at himself over the precaution. Probably someone should just shove the thing flush with both sides of the corner; that way, no one could lurk in the future. But who arranges furniture with the concern that someone might hide behind it?
Nigel knelt down now in front of the cabinet where he had kept letters months ago, when he had occupied the office.
Of course, no one would be putting letters there now—but he had to at least look.
He unlocked the bottom drawer and looked inside. There was one green folder.
And it was empty.
“Damn,” muttered Nigel.
And then there was a voice from behind him.
“Mr. Heath. Good to see you. What brings you to London?”
Nigel shut the drawer and whirled around.
He was facing a smallish man in a conservative but expensively tailored gray suit.
It took a moment, but Nigel recognized him.
“Rafferty, is it?” said Nigel.
“Yes. Dorset Leasing.”
“What brings you to—” began Nigel, but then he stopped, because the desk phone was ringing. He picked up without taking his eyes off Rafferty.
It was Hendricks on the phone.
“Mr. Heath?”
“Yes?”
“You asked me to let you know if anyone went up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then. I thought you’d want to know—a short man in a gray suit is on his way up. I don’t know to which floor. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. Second floor. I know that because of the elevator light. That’s where it stopped, you see.”
“Yes,” said Nigel. “Clever. Thank you for the alert.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Heath. I’m keeping my eye out.”
“Yes,” said Nigel. “Carry on.”
Nigel hung up the phone and then said to Rafferty, just a little suspiciously, “I realize that you’re responsible for leasing at Dorset House. But how does that bring you into Reggie Heath’s chambers at—what is it, quarter after six in the morning?”
Rafferty cleared his throat. He looked about uncomfortably.
“May I sit down?”
“For a moment,” said Nigel, surprising himself at his own rudeness. “I am rather busy.”
“I’ll be only a moment, then. This is rather awkward. I had thought to have this conversation with your brother, but he’s been difficult to get hold of lately.”
Nigel knew it would not do to explain why that was.
“I’m not always a reasonable substitute for my brother,” Nigel said instead.
Rafferty seemed to consider that for a moment; then he gave a slight shrug and sat in the chair across the desk from Nigel.
“May I ask—do you plan to remain in London? That is, have you returned to stay?”
Nigel could see no reason for Rafferty to be asking this. But he also couldn’t think of any particular reason not to answer.
“No,” he said.
Rafferty nodded, clearly disappointed.
“Why do you ask?” said Nigel.
“You know your brother does not like it that letters to Sherlock Holmes are delivered to this chambers.”
Alarm bells went off in Nigel’s head. Of course he knew this. He also knew he should not acknowledge that Reggie was sending the letters to him in America.
“Doesn’t he?” said Nigel.
“No,” said Rafferty. “He has said as much, more than once, and just recently.”
“Oh,” said Nigel.
“Which would not bother me too greatly,” said Rafferty. “Under usual circumstances. He is, after all, sending them to you.”
Nigel held his breath. Rafferty wasn’t supposed to know that at all, but now he continued in a way that Nigel had not expected.
“And we find that perfectly acceptable,” said Rafferty.
That was a relief.
“‘We’?” said Nigel.
“I mean,” said Rafferty quickly, “that I think two Heaths for the price of one is, in effect, not a bad deal. But there is another problem.”
Rafferty paused now. He looked over his shoulder, saw that the office door was still open; he reached back and pushed it shut.
“I’m listening,” said Nigel.
Rafferty took a deep breath and said, “An offer has been made on Dorset House.”
Nigel took a moment to process that. “You mean someone wants to buy this building?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that can’t be cheap,” said Nigel.
“No,” said Rafferty.
“Who is making this offer?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal that, of course. But it is so great an amount that the leasing board is indeed mulling it over.” Rafferty sighed unhappily as he said that, and he slumped in his chair at the prospect. “This is something that we—I—never thought would happen.”
There was that “we” again, and it was not clear whether he was still referring to the leasing board. Nigel was about to ask for clarification, but Rafferty continued.
“It is not a done deal in any respect, and I am doing my best to fight it. But I need an assurance.”
“What sort of assurance?”
“That if the offer is turned down, and this building remains Dorset House, the letters can still be received here. That the current leasing tenant—that is, your brother—will not reject them. That he will not call the Royal Mail and halt delivery, or offer them to the museum down the street, or any such foolish and irresponsible thing as that.”<
br />
Rafferty actually seemed to be getting a little heated about the situation.
Nigel tried to take a moment to think it through. He wanted to say this was a bad time for this discussion, but he couldn’t possibly let Rafferty know about the kidnapping.
“You say that you have no objection to how things work now—that Reggie sends the letters on to me in the States?”
“No,” said Rafferty. “We’ll allow that, despite what it says in the lease. We have allowed it, though your brother has never acknowledged that it takes place.”
“Then reject the offer.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. The letters will not be turned away from Dorset House. I will see to it.”
Rafferty looked skeptical.
“How will you do that?”
“Reggie will change his mind,” offered Nigel, and then, as Rafferty did not seem immediately persuaded, he added, “Or I will find a way to change it for him.”
Rafferty looked squarely back at Nigel for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, then,” he said, and he stood to go. “I’ll do what I can with the board.
“But just one thing,” said Nigel.
“Yes?”
“Tell me who made the offer for Dorset House.”
“You know I can’t.”
Nigel drummed his fingers on the desk. Probably there was no connection between the offer and the missing letters. Surely no one would buy Dorset House just for that.
But in any case, he could see that Rafferty wouldn’t budge.
“All right,” said Nigel. “If you can’t, you can’t. Cheers.”
Nigel swiveled in his chair, away from Rafferty and back toward the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.
Rafferty stopped in the doorway.
“I suppose,” said Rafferty, “that I ought to just move that cabinet upstairs, given it’s not in use. Your brother sends all the letters to you, so he has nothing to store in it.”
“Not yours to move, though, is it?” said Nigel, not looking back. “It belongs to Reggie.”
Rafferty smiled slightly and shook his head.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I provided it to him when he moved in, as the new tenant, but he does not own it.”
“Then this is your file cabinet?” said Nigel.
“Well, no, I don’t own it either, personally. I have custody, I suppose you might say. For all of them.”
The Baker Street Translation Page 14
