Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(85)

Watson cut off a piece of his smothered steak with fried rice on the side. “That fine pretend junkie chick, she’s one of your Irregulars isn’t she?”

“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed. “She and I were shadowing Martin X’s rally as we surmised some chicanery might be in the offing. When the imposter appeared on the roof as a distraction, and seeing you had Mr. X safe, I went after the van.” Holmes sampled his rib tips.

At that moment in an Upper East Side penthouse, U.N. Special Ambassador Irene Adler was also sipping tea. The dark haired, sharp-featured woman was in her dressing gown, looking out the large window. Moriarty came up behind her. He slipped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her fragrant neck.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said.

“No more than I’ll miss you.” She turned and raised her head to kiss him.

Back at Francine’s, Holmes paid the bill and they walked outside.

“What if this Napoleon of yours was a woman?” Watson said.

His lunch companion slowly nodded his head. “You might have something there. . . . Dock.”

“See you around, Holmes.”

“Indeed.”

As Dock Watson walked away, he idly put a hand in his jean jacket pocket. There was an object in there and he took it out. In his hand was a fortune cookie. He frowned, concluding Holmes must have surreptitiously slipped it on him. Watson cracked the cookie open and read the fortune.

The game’s afoot, the message read.

He chuckled and ate the bits.





THE PAINTED SMILE

by William Kent Krueger



He was an odd child to begin with. After he received the book as a Christmas present, things only got worse. Eventually his aunt was beside herself and sought my help.

I have an office in Saint Paul, in a building that was grand about the time Dillinger was big news. It’s long been in need of a facelift. One of the things I like about it is that I can see the Mississippi River from my window. Another is that I can afford the rent.

Although she’d called ahead and had explained the situation, when she brought in the boy, I was still surprised. He was small, even for a ten-year-old. But his eyes were sharp and quick, darting like bees around the room, taking in everything. I welcomed the woman and her nephew, shook their hands, and we sat in the comfortable easy chairs I use during my sessions.

“So, Oliver,” I said. “I’m very curious about your costume.”

“My name is Sherlock. And this is not a costume.”

“Your aunt has told me that your birth certificate reads Oliver Wendell Holmes. You were named after the great Supreme Court justice.”

“I prefer Sherlock.”

“All right. For now. Tell me about your attire. That hat is pretty striking, and your cape as well. Tweed, yes? How did you manage to come by them?”

“I made them myself.”

I looked to his aunt.

She nodded. “He taught himself to use my sewing machine. And he does a fine stitch by hand, too.”

In our initial phone conversation, she’d told me her nephew had been tested in school and had demonstrated an IQ of 170. I’m generally leery of quantifications of this kind, but it was clear the boy was gifted.

“When did you become Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’ve always been Sherlock Holmes. I just didn’t realize it until I received the volume of Conan Doyle at Christmas.”

“Always?”

“Just as you’ve always been Watson.”

“But I’m not. You know that. My name is simply Watt.”

“Are you not the son of Watt, therefore Watt’s son?”

“Clever,” I admitted with a smile.

“I’m not crazy, Watson,” he said quite calmly. “Not delusional. I’m well aware that Sherlock Holmes is a literary fiction. I’m simply the mental and emotional incarnation of that fictional construct, the confirmation that the literary may sometimes, indeed, reflect a concrete reality. The name Sherlock feels suited to me. But all this is something my aunt has difficulty accepting. I understand.”

“You get made fun of,” his aunt said to him, a situation that clearly caused her distress. “The other kids at school pick on you. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I’m the object of ridicule because they’re not comfortable with who they are. They work hard at creating just the right image, and I threaten that. It’s the same with adults. If you weren’t so insecure in your own circumstances, Aunt Louise, you would see me for who I am instead of who you want me to be.”

“That’s a rather harsh judgment, Oliver,” I said.

“Sherlock,” he reminded me. “And I would say the same about you, Watson.”

“Oh?”

“Your office is on the third floor of a building that houses enterprises of a less than robust nature. Your shelves are full of books on psychology that haven’t been read in a good long while. You spend a lot of time sitting at your desk and staring at the river, wishing that instead of becoming a child psychologist you’d gone to sea. You’ve recently separated from your wife. Or perhaps divorced. And you’d like desperately to find a woman who understands you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The building speaks for itself,” he explained. “The dust on your shelves is evidence that you seldom reference your reference materials. You’ve arranged your office so that the best view—the river—is in front of you, and only a very dedicated individual wouldn’t be constantly seduced by that wistful scene. Your walls are filled with photographs and paintings of great ships at sea. Your left ring finger still bears a strip of skin much paler than the area around it, indicating that, until very recently, you wore a wedding band. And in your wastebasket is the latest issue of City Pages folded to the personal ads section.”