Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(84)
Squelch Waller left the Five Note bar in Harlem and, after a cab ride, got out on a quiet block in Queens. He looked up and down the dark street and then went up the steps to a nondescript row house. He tapped his knuckles on the screen door. The porch light came on. The door’s peephole swung inward and the front door opened thereafter. Waller entered and the door closed. Dock Watson witnessed this from the LTD he had parked up the street on the opposite side.
Sherlock Holmes shoved the woman away, twisting his body, taking a glancing blow from the nunchuk on his shoulder. He winced and, finishing his pivot, delivered an uppercut to his attacker’s jaw. The bearded man rocked back but employed his weapon again as he did so. Holmes went low, the stick missing his head. He whipped his leg around and upended the kung fu fan.
The man went down hard on his back. “Get his ass,” he blared. The bearded man began to rise and Holmes rammed stiffened fingers under his heart, momentarily stunning him as he held onto the man.
The blonde produced a small-caliber automatic from a garter holster on her inner thigh. For Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, had not only smelled the gun oil on her hand when he’d kissed it in the bar, he’d felt the weapon while pretending—or at least, semi-pretending—to be lost in lust. He tensed for the bullet to strike him, but she hesitated.
Holmes shoved the bearded man into her. The gun went off impotently, plaster falling onto his hair as he snatched up the nunchuks and expertly used them to disarm her. Holmes retrieved the gun and leveled it on the two.
“Now, let’s chat about the Council, shall we?” he said.
Glaring at him, a false eyelash askew, she said, “Go to hell.”
Holmes smiled wickedly.
On the front page of the Amsterdam News, a black weekly, a story ran. The article alleged that Tony “Squelch” Waller was an FBI informant, and had been one for a number of years. It was further alleged he’d first been pressed into this role by a combination of factors, including an assault charge from a picket line incident in Brooklyn. The piece went on to say that he’d been confronted by a high-placed member of the Freedom Now Coalition and had confessed his sins. Waller was said to have disappeared to parts unknown.
“You noted the marks where the base of the door’s chain guard had been,” Holmes said to Dock Watson.
“I’m sure you saw those the first time you were in the library,” Watson responded. Reviewing the photos he’d taken in Barrow’s library, he’d finally noticed the gouges and returned for a second look. Once he surmised the chain lock had been pried off with a flat head screwdriver, and not broken away as Waller claimed, he began tailing the man.
The two sat at a table in Francine’s Southern Cantonese Style Café having lunch. Harlem was electric with the discussion about Waller and the implications of that.
“The professor must have found out Waller was a snitch and Waller killed him, terrified he’d be exposed,” Watson said.
Holmes sipped his tea, saying nothing.
“But then again,” Watson added, “that meant Martin had to speak out to calm things down. So was he the real target all along? The Peoples Clinics sponsored by the FNC have been effective in battling the drug scourge. Then there was the voice on the phone making the cameraman drive the van away. The imposter on the roof not being found. The two masked men who planted the remote-controlled machine gun in the van.” He sat back. “But your brother and MI6 didn’t send you here about what us poor ole’ black folks are up to, now did he?”
“Not precisely, Watson. But as it happened, the Council, this entity that arose from the remains of the infrastructure Nicky Barnes created before he was put away, now that was of interest.”
Watson considered his companion’s words. “Using dope money to fund other activities.”
“Yes, sadly, heroin and cocaine addictions yield millions in broken lives and shattered families, and dollars and pounds.” Holmes had also mentioned the woman had hesitated shooting him the other night as no doubt her orders were to take him alive until they could beat out of him where his supposed cache of heroin was hidden.
Watson tapped the table. “The exchequer was caught up in some kind of hooker and blow scandal earlier this year.”
“Tip of the iceberg and all that. But I’m heartened to see you keep up on news from your once-adopted environs.”
After mustering out of the service, Watson had landed in London, like a number of ex-pats. That was where he’d met Holmes and where later, both of them pursued Irene Adler.
“How deep are the tentacles of this Council, Holmes? Into the American halls of power. The CIA for instance?”
Holmes took a forkful of fried noodles. “I honestly don’t know, John. I do know there’s a hidden hand at work. A, shall we say, an international Napoleon of Crime who is moving the pieces around. Was it the mayor’s current fixer who told you about the FBI operations house where you trailed Waller?”
“Yes, but come on, Holmes, we both have reasons to dislike him, but are you suggesting he’s this mastermind? Then why tell me about the FBI pad and blow up the operation?”
Holmes gestured. “You asked him about the house because a man like him, a man who moves back and forth on both sides of the Atlantic, who has a hand in American and British politics and circles of influence, would know such things. Your suspicions would be raised if he didn’t produce an address.”