and demented relics of the war. The music lamented with impatience. Soon, she stood before me smelling faintly of roses.
Without a word, I obeyed, thrusting the knife upwards, carefully avoiding the kidneys and liver. Drink had never passed her pristine lips.
Into the dark passages the music rushed, sinuously sliding and scheming, violating the walls of reason.
I heard a saxophone bleat from a saloon across the street.
Yes, I accept applause.
The next morning dawned blurry, like peering through a veil of snow that would never melt. I wallowed in the luxury of knowing that time had conspired to bring my emotions and desires to this day. If I knew my brother’s nemesis, he would be awake. Heavens! He might even be afoot already.
I arrived too late at the Tate Hotel. A tall man in a disreputable tweed coat and reeking of pipe tobacco had hailed a carriage not five minutes ago. Holmes had assumed his natural appearance, although the doorman did not know it as such.
“Which direction did he go?” I asked, with a coin visible between my fingers.
The doorman snatched it away, flipping it into the air. “You mean the hop-head old Limey? He told the cabbie to take him to the Orpheum.”
Ah. I dropped an extra coin between his shoes and disappeared.
From the other side of the brick wall, I could see the top of Orpheum’s sign. With peeling paint and broken windows, the theater looked as frayed as an elderly dance hall queen in the light of early morning. I lay still, able to hear quite clearly the conversation from the other side of the wall.
“…Certainly I did, Mr. Holmes. The chief heard from the mayor too. Bless his heart.”
Sounds of footsteps, then a match scratched the bricks and lit. The smell of sulfur is pleasant in the morning.
“Sergeant Gordon?” Holmes asked. The man must have nodded, because he continued, “In the envelope in your pocket, you’ll read of my credentials. You’ll also read why we are most likely not dealing with a cannibal.” His voice turned disdainful. “No matter how romantic the thought.”
“I’ve read them,” came Gordon’s grudging reply.
A cockroach crawled from an empty tin in the refuse at my feet. When it reached the ground, I plucked it like a blueberry. Did you know their legs tickle and wiggle all the way down?
Holmes’s voice sounded dry as he continued: “Moriarity is dead. But his brother is not. Jacob Moriarity is a highly trained scientist. He has lived in Seattle for years. Are you aware of that, sergeant?”
“Humph. I’ll take yer word for it. We’ve never collared him for anything.”
I could imagine Holmes’s shrug as he answered, “I doubt that he will give you a chance. He is… By the way, would you be so kind as to ask your men not to trample the area leading to the doorway there?”
“Why?”
“Footprints.”
I smiled and the music soared. Holmes was taking the bait perfectly.
Gordon grumbled, “Maybe so. I’m not so convinced that tells you anything.”
“Tell me about the victims. Specifically their backgrounds,” Holmes requested.
In the pause that followed, I could hear the traffic from the street, the squeaking wheels of the carts, and clop of horses’ hooves.
“What are you doing there, Mr. Holmes?” Gordon asked.
“Examining the body. The other victims?” Holmes prompted.
“Well,” Gordon hesitated, or perhaps he was just observing the great detective. Either way, it was a careful moment before he spoke. “There’s been two college boys. One local, strong as an ox. Captain of the track team-”
“If I remember correctly, his legs were missing?” Holmes interrupted.
“They were, and half his ass too.”
“Ah ha!” Holmes exclaimed quietly. I could barely hear him as he said, “Give me that bag, would you?”
“Here. What is it?”
“A clue,” Holmes replied, probably to Gordon’s consternation. Holmes added, “It’s half of a pay bill from Fisher’s Butcher Shop.” He grunted. “Where is that establishment located?”
“Southwest of here, over by the docks.”
“Interesting,” Holmes murmured.
Gordon retorted, “I am sure it is to you, Mr. Holmes.” After a moment, he added, “I’m more interested in where our fool photographer has got to.” I heard Gordon walk up the alley a few steps, then return in time to hear Holmes’s remark.
“No matter. The body speaks, as it were, from the grave.”
“Pardon me?”
“Observe,” Holmes said. “No, don’t block the light… There.”
“All I see is where an animal tore this woman’s guts out.”
“It was not an animal. Look under this flap,” Holmes instructed. “Do you see the precise cuts? The liver and kidneys were removed. Surgically.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sergeant Gordon murmured.
“Perhaps,” Holmes commented.
I felt a brief flash of rage. Then the music soared once more; a beautiful distraction to dispel the anger.
Holmes continued: “He used something to tear the flesh and other organs, camouflaging the ones he removed.”
“I can see that now,” Gordon replied. “Like what you dig with in the garden?”
“Possibly. Hand me that bag, would you?”
“Never saw anyone really use a magnifying glass,” Gordon said. “What do you see?”
“Particles of rust. Excellent observation, sir. This could have been done by a garden claw,” Holmes said. “Now, I’ll hold back the flesh. The tweezers are in my pocket… Ah. Thank you.”
Silence. Then I heard them get to their feet.
“Satisfactory,” Holmes announced. “I want to go over the ground here. Would you be so good as to ask your men to obtain dirt samples from along the alley and the other side of this wall? Have them beware of footprints. I would like to know if he entered the alley any other way than from the street.”
I had deliberately dropped the other half of the pay bill from Fisher’s where I hoped a bleary-eyed copper would find it.
Following clues like a bloodhound with blinders, Sherlock Holmes entered the docks later that day.
I followed him, driving a coal cart and blending in with the neighborhood roughs. By the time he approached old Wayland Billings, chief gossip and drunk of the neighborhood, I had urged my nag into a trot and arrived before him.
Shoveling coal down the shoot next to Billings’s shack, I bent my ear to their conversation. Doubtless, the owners of the residence next to Billings would feel fortunate at their unexpected windfall.
“Good afternoon, my dear sir,” Holmes addressed the disgusting form of Billings as if he were the mayor.
Billings grunted at him and scratched his privates.
A fine dusting of snow blurred the scene between us as Holmes removed a pint from his pocket. “No matter the afternoon, if we can warm it up, eh?” He offered the rye to Billings. Faster than he could blink, old Billings guzzled half of it. Then he cast a doubtful eye on the detective. I resumed shoveling coal as the sweat on my face froze in the air.
“What wassit you wanted?”
Holmes wheeled to point a long finger at Fisher’s Butcher Shop. “By chance, have you seen a man of short stature, who drags his left leg, enter that establishment? He would weigh approximately 130 pounds and be somewhat, ah… ill kept.”
I watched Holmes. He observed Billings like he would an insect in one of his experiments. When the rye had trickled down Billings’s neck and his Adam’s apple bobbed for the fourth time, Holmes said, “Well, sir?” Billings just returned the stare as the detective continued, “The man I seek most likely wears a blue watch cap and habitually eats fish and chips. Do you know of such a man?” Of course Billings did. He knew who gave him enough pennies for
