The Baker Street Translation

by Michael Robertson

  Nigel turned toward Rafferty and stared. “I think you should explain.”

  Rafferty grimaced, as though he had said too much. But then, after studying Nigel for a moment, he nodded. “All right,” he said. “The others are upstairs. I may as well show you. Top floor.”

  Then Rafferty turned and headed for the lift.

  27

  Nigel caught up with Rafferty at the lift and rode with him to the top floor.

  The doors opened onto a bare, shining wood floor. To the right, it stretched some hundred feet, but with no office partitions or tables or chairs or anything else in that space—just empty floor, with windows at the far end that looked out over the street.

  Immediately to the left was the only office on the floor; a small one. Nigel started in that direction as they exited the lift.

  “No,” said Rafferty. “This way.”

  Nigel followed Rafferty to the corner at the far end.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the theory,” said Rafferty as they walked, “that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, a real person, that the stories and novels chronicled actual events, and that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was merely Watson’s literary agent in getting them published.”

  “Of course,” said Nigel. “I mean, of course I’ve heard that.”

  “And you may also have heard the second theory: that although Sherlock Holmes was fictional, Scotland Yard did what it could to encourage belief in that first theory, so that the criminal element then running rampant in London would have reason to pause and reconsider their activities.”

  “I may have heard that one,” said Nigel.

  Rafferty nodded. “It is astonishing what people will believe.”

  Now they had reached the far corner, and there—surprisingly, not apparent at all when they’d stepped off the lift—was a single unmarked door.

  Rafferty unlocked and opened the door. He went inside and pulled the chain on an old metal ceiling lamp at the front of the room.

  The lamp illuminated—not quite adequately—a very narrow storage room.

  One wall was bare. Against the opposite wall was a row of tall nineteenth-century wooden file cabinets. They looked very much like the one in Nigel’s office, but much more imposing, lined up in a formation that extended some twelve feet to the back wall.

  Nigel stepped into the room. It was like entering a walk-in safe. The air was still, and the cabinets along the wall seemed to deaden the street noise that was so evident in the main room.

  “These go back some years,” said Rafferty. “Oldest ones first—starting from the late 1930s—and then decade by decade as you work your way back. The last two cabinets are empty—for future work. The third from the end has this year’s archives. It includes whatever was stored recently in your office cabinet. It also includes the files accumulated by the wonderful woman we had working here prior to you—and prior to Mr. Ocher, who was just a temp. I believe you actually met Mr. Ocher?”

  “Yes,” said Nigel. “Especially if by ‘met’ you mean I discovered his body with his head bashed in.”

  “Yes,” said Rafferty. “Not everyone works out equally well.”

  “I had no idea the letters went so far back,” said Nigel. He began to walk slowly down the row of golden oak cabinets, perusing the date labels in the little metal frames on each.

  “Few people do.”

  There was a cabinet for a range from 1935 to 1936. Another for 1937 to 1938. In 1939, there was apparently an unusually high volume; it had a cabinet all to itself.

  And so it went, year by year or groups of years, until near the far wall.

  Nigel stopped at the third-to-last cabinet.

  “This one’s for this year, then?” said Nigel.

  “Yes,” said Rafferty. “Including copies of the letters currently in progress. With your brother shipping them across the pond every couple of weeks, I can hardly take the chance that they might disappear in transit. So every week or so, I wait until everyone has left the floor, and then I pop down and make copies on the sly of the ones your brother has put on the cart for the outgoing mail. It’s a bother, of course, and I’d love to tell your brother to copy them himself, but if I did, I’d be acknowledging that I know he’s breaking the lease by sending the letters to you.”

  Nigel tried the top drawer of the cabinet as Rafferty spoke. It was locked. Nigel immediately took out his key.

  “No,” said Rafferty.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not allowed. These are archives. No one is allowed to view the archives, except under emergency circumstances.”

  “But my key will work for these cabinets, will it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then surely I am allowed to view the contents?”

  “Under emergency circumstance only.”

  “I see,” said Nigel. He paused, looking from Rafferty to the cabinet, and considering what to do.

  “If there is an emergency, I have authority to allow you to look at specific archives, under my supervision,” said Rafferty.

  “I see.”

  “Is there an emergency? If not, I need to be on my way. I have an appointment in the City.”

  “No,” said Nigel. He stepped back from the cabinet. It simply wouldn’t do to let Rafferty in on the kidnapping. Not unless there was absolutely no other way.

  And there was probably another way.

  “No emergency,” said Nigel.

  “Shall we go, then?”

  “Of course,” said Nigel.

  They both walked toward the lift. Nigel hoped this meant Rafferty was leaving the building immediately.

  But when they reached the lift, Rafferty just kept walking, on past the lift, to his little office.

  Damn.

  The lift doors opened, and Nigel got in.

  “Cheers,” said Rafferty, and he went into his office.

  Nigel knew he would have to wait. He remained in the lift, allowed the doors to close, and it descended.

  28

  Nigel exited the lift on the law chambers floor and went directly down the corridor toward his old office again.

  He slowed before he quite got there.

  The lights were still off, as he had left them. But the door was open now, and he was sure he had left the door closed.

  As he walked to the doorway, he caught a whiff of Chanel.

  He looked in.

  An attractive—but very untidy—figure of a woman stood at the side of the desk, bending toward the old oak cabinet, so completely focused on it that she did not turn as Nigel stepped in.

  “Empty, I’ll bet,” said Nigel.

  The woman turned and straightened.

  It was indeed Laura, as Nigel had suspected—but looking so unlike herself that he had not been completely sure.

  Her red hair was unwashed and darker than usual and it hung limply; she must have intended to tie it back, but then either forgotten or just not had time. She was wearing what Nigel knew was her version of a tracksuit, but it looked as though she had already run the marathon and then slept in it after.

  “You look well,” said Nigel.

  Laura laughed; then she sighed and sat on the edge of the desk.

  “Don’t lie,” she said. “I know how I look. That nice Mr. Hendricks in the lobby stopped me and insisted on ID and I had to show him a pic in an old version of the Daily Sun and strike a pose, just to prove I’m me.”

  “Reggie’s fault,” said Nigel. “He told Hendricks to be more cautious.”

  “Reggie told you about what’s going on?” she said.

  “Only about the missing letters. And Buxton. And that we need to find one to get the other.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then. We can’t have the whole world knowing, but I think it’s all right that you do.” Laura paused for a moment, then said, “I have a legal question. I mean a law question. Sort of.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If there’s a will floating around somewhere that’s worth pretty much a
ll the money in the world, and it gives it all to someone other than you, and you’re afraid it will turn up and cause you to lose what you think is your rightful inheritance, what would you do?”

  Nigel thought about it. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem like an entirely theoretical question.

  “I don’t know,” said Nigel after a moment. “Possibly kidnap Lord Robert Buxton, hold him for ransom, and demand a set of documents that I think will include that will, but without naming the will itself, so that no one will suspect me as the kidnapper?”

  “Well, yes, that might be one approach,” said Laura. “But suppose you are unsuccessful in locating that nasty will that gives all the money to another person instead of you, the rightful and natural heir? What would you do then?”

  Nigel gave that one some thought.

  “Probably the traditional thing,” said Nigel after a moment. “Cleverly murder the person who is named in the new will, so that with him unavailable to receive the inheritance, it will all revert back to me, the rightful heir.”

  Laura nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That occurred to me, as well.”

  “Or,” said Nigel, “for good measure, I might want to both get the will back and permanently dispose of its intended beneficiary.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Laura said, “You must help me find those bloody letters.”

  “Will do,” said Nigel. “But seems unfair we should do all the work. I’ll call Reggie, wake him up.”

  “You might let him sleep. I’m sure he’s still camped out half a block down from my house, watching to make sure I don’t get in trouble, and also watching, I presume, Buxton’s security team, which is also camped out half a block from my house, but on the other side. I had to leave my house through the kitchen, hop the fence, and then sneak along behind the neighbors shrubbery to the next street to get away from them all.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “I don’t know what’s wise lately. I do know Reggie regards my fight as his fight”—she sighed—“which is rather sweet. But I’m not about to risk his life for this. It’s enough that I made him feel he must help out. All the help I want now is to find the bloody letters. I can do the rest on my own.”

  Nigel nodded, though he had no intention of complying with the last part of that request.

  “Let’s get on that, then,” said Nigel.

  “I thought the letters might be in this cabinet, where you used to keep them. But as you can see, it’s empty.”

  “Yes,” said Nigel, “but there are other cabinets, in an odd little room upstairs.”

  “Are you saying you know where the letters are?”

  “Possibly,” said Nigel, “or at least copies of them.”

  “I’ll take what I can get,” said Laura. “If the kidnappers want to be picky, they can complain about copies after they show me Robert still alive.”

  “But getting them is a bit of a process. Rafferty protects them like the crown jewels.”

  “I don’t have much time, Nigel.”

  Nigel nodded. He picked up the phone and rang Hendricks in the lobby.

  “Hendricks. Staying awake, are you?”

  “Of course, sir. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason at all. In fact, every reason to the contrary. Have you noticed whether Mr. Rafferty has left the building yet?”

  “Mr. Rafferty?” said Hendricks uncertainly.

  “The smallish chap in a gray suit? Comes in pretty much every day, I think. Did you see him leave in the last minute or two?”

  “Ah, sir, yes. He did walk out just now. But I might be able to catch him, if my heart stands for it. Do you want me to chase after?”

  “No, not at all. But call and let me know when he returns, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. Now, there’s also a woman named Lois comes in pretty much every day as well, and claims she works for Reggie.”

  “Yes, that would be Reggie’s secretary.”

  “She’s allowed up, then?”

  “Yes,” said Nigel.

  “And do you want me to notify you when she returns, as well?”

  “No, not necessary. And Hendricks?”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s almost seven A.M. What I said earlier about challenging folks arriving after hours?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You can stop doing that now. But do let me know if Rafferty returns, will you?”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Nigel hung up the phone.

  “I’ll just sneak upstairs and get the letters while Rafferty is out,” he said to Laura, “and then I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll sneak with you,” said Laura, starting to get up, though just a bit wearily.

  “No, sneaking is properly a one-person operation,” said Nigel. “But if I’m not back in ten minutes with a boxful of letters, you can lead the search party.”

  “Fair enough,” said Laura. “Anyway, I’m famished. Do you suppose you left any of those chocolate Smarties in the top drawer?”

  “I might have done,” said Nigel “They’d be several months old by now.”

  “Perfectly fine,” said Laura.

  She opened the top drawer and saw a letter opener, a blank scrap of notepaper, a pencil nub—and one last package of chocolate Smarties.

  “Ah,” she said. “All the essentials.”

  Nigel left Laura in the little office and took the lift to the top level.

  The floor was dead quiet when Nigel got out, as he had hoped.

  There were no overhead lights on. Daylight had begun to seep in through blinds on the street windows, and that was enough to show that the broad expanse of polished wood floor was still empty; there was no one to see Nigel about to break and enter, if indeed he would need to do that.

  Nigel looked to his left to verify that Rafferty’s little office was still closed and dark.

  It was.

  Nigel turned to his right and walked quickly to the storage room at the far end.

  Locked. As expected.

  He’d brought a couple of large paper clips along just in case, but he was hoping not to need them. He tried his first hunch—he took out the same key he had been given for the filing cabinet in his office. He tried it in the door.

  It turned.

  Nigel opened the door, stepped just inside, and instinctively started to reach for a light switch—and then he changed his mind. This was a very minor transgression he was committing, just barely breaking a rule—or what Rafferty had said was a rule—and it was an unreasonable rule at that. Still, the deep shadows felt better at the moment than a bright light.

  He went to the back of the narrow storage room, to the cabinet that should have all the more recent letters.

  He opened the top drawer and saw one olive green hanging folder, enclosing perhaps a score of letters and their original envelopes. He checked the folder label—yes, these were the right dates.

  He tried to peek inside at one of the letters immediately, but the room was too dark. Now he wished he had turned on the lamp.

  No matter. He removed the entire folder and its contents; then he bent down to check the lower drawers in the same cabinet to make sure he wasn’t missing something. He wasn’t. They were all empty. He had in his hands a folder of the only set of letters for the past month. He declared a minor victory for himself, and stood.

  Or almost did.

  Something solid struck him on his right temple.

  He slumped involuntarily to his knees.

  Now, in the narrow room, there was someone trying to force his way between Nigel and the file cabinet; Nigel instinctively tightened his grip on the folder of letters and got enough strength in his legs to push himself up and back, so that now he was standing again, flat against the wall opposite the cabinets.

  His assailant—a couple of inches taller and at least sixty pounds heavier than Nigel—shoved with thick arms, pinning Nigel by his collar against that wall.

  “I want the le
tter,” said the man.

  The voice was obviously American, so cliché American that it almost sounded fake. Nigel had heard an accent very much like this a couple of years ago when he attended an unfortunate West End production of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

  “Can you be more specific?” gasped Nigel.

  Apparently not. The man just muttered—or growled—something in a low tone in response, and he let loose with one arm to grab for the folder in Nigel’s hand.

  Nigel knew just one self-defense move, from an extension class during a boring summer years ago; it was only applicable when an overconfident assailant made the mistake of grabbing you by the collar—exactly as the American had just done—and with just one arm.

  Nigel rotated his own left arm sharply from the elbow, breaking the grip of the assailant’s right hand; at the same instant, he let go of the letter folder and thrust his right hand, fingers extended, into the man’s throat.

  To Nigel’s amazement, it worked. At least for a moment. The man gasped and staggered back. Nigel reached down to the floor, grabbed the folder of letters again, and ran.

  Out of the storage room and onto the shining, just slightly slick floor. Nigel ran for the far end, hoping there would be emergency stairs. Surely the place was up to code, but they weren’t at this end, so they had to be at the other.

  As he passed the lift, Nigel saw from the lights that it was in motion. Someone was on the way up. But Nigel knew from the loud footsteps behind him that he couldn’t wait. He ran on to the far end, and there in the corner, just past Rafferty’s office—which was open now, Nigel realized; what an idiot he had been not to check more closely—was the door to the stairs, thank God.

  Nigel opened that door. He managed to take one step in before getting yanked rudely back and thrown on his arse onto the floor, with such force that he slid up against the wall of Rafferty’s office.

  The American stomped one heavy foot onto Nigel’s right arm, pinning it to the floor, and then he began to reach down for the folder.

  That was a mistake. The man had not paid attention at all to what was happening at the lift.

  Suddenly, he cursed in pain, and his hand dropped the folder and went to the back of his neck instead. He twisted around, and then received another jolt.