“You’re welcome,” he said. Then to my surprise he exited his cab and came round to retrieve my garment bag himself. As I stood there on the pavement, he looked me in the face and shook my hand. “Very pleased to have made your acquaintance,” he said. “You be sure to go safe, now.”
I nodded my thanks and stood there as he returned to his cab and drove off, soon to be lost in the steady flow of traffic down Baker Street. I turned and quickly walked back up Baker Street and within minutes had come to my lodgings. I let myself in with my key. I closed the front door, locked and bolted it, dropped the walking stick in the rack in the hallway, the garment bag on the floor, and raced up the stairs, removing my leather gloves as I did so.
My companion hardly glanced up as I entered and all I received by way of a greeting was a single nod of acknowledgement and a long bony finger that pointed toward the much-abused, oversized partners’ desk, covered as it was with stacks of produced and yet-to-be produced screenplays and TV adaptations; piles of books, book proposals, and uncorrected proofs; and boxes galore of graphic novels and video games; even the latest action figures of Downey and Law as they appear in Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Transmedia to the max, as the trade papers would have it. I let slip my overcoat and dropped my shoulder bag onto a chair, hurriedly retrieving my Canon EOS 600D digital SLR camera and attaching it to the USB cable already plugged into the iMac, so that all the photos and video clips I’d taken of the taxi driver could upload while I was attending to everything else. As I sat down, the iMac computer’s twenty-seven-inch display had already refreshed the IMDb page devoted to Jared Harris, the actor cast as dastardly Professor Moriarty in the new Warner Brothers film. I closed it, quickly scrolled down to the appropriate application in the Dock, launched it, selected “Audio” from the drop-down menu and immediately heard the now all too familiar voice coming from the external loudspeakers. One odd thing, though: the accent seemed to have undergone a remarkable change, with all traces of “Mockney” now fully expunged.
“Of course, I had him picked out in a trice, what with his off-the-rack British warm, ghastly tweed flat cap, cheap brown leather gloves. On sartorial grounds alone, I think we can definitely discount this one; the very idea of him being the real thing is just too fanciful by half. Not sure where you got your intelligence about him, but to my eye he’s a rank amateur who doesn’t know his Conan Doyle, his Sherlock, or his Shakespeare. And limp or no limp, you’d have thought his walking stick was made of rubber; as clumsy a person as ever I’ve met; dropping things, simply everywhere. I tell you, the quality of target candidates has most definitely gone down.”
I took the proffered glass of sherry and continued to listen in as the cab driver reported the day’s events back to his lord and master. The sound quality was rather good, even if I say so myself, and despite the slight static it was clear I’d managed to get all the miniature microphones positioned to optimum effect. My colleague leaned forward and tapped the desk with a long finger to attract my attention. “He deduced you were RAMC?” he asked, quietly.
I nodded. “The regimental tie, of course. He also identified the rod and serpent on the lapel pin. And as for the carefully contrived mufti, the badly scratched Rolex, and the suntan you had me work on these past many weeks, they all proved inspired.”
“So very cooperative of him to have seen what we wanted him to see.”
“Yes, and as you can hear, he’s rather pleased with himself about it. But as you’ve always said, ‘Blood will out.’ ”
My colleague nodded and I opened a second application that brought up a detailed map of London onto the screen. The red dot moving slowly across the display, as if directed by some unseen force, told us that the tiny Hitachi satellite navigation transponder I’d managed to get positioned up under the rear wheel arch was functioning properly. It remained to be seen just how effective the dozen or so specially colour-matched RFID tags of various sizes I’d secreted around the cab would prove to be, especially in conjunction with the Real-Time Location System we’d only recently acquired, but that was work for another day. Meanwhile, our once-friendly cab driver continued to vent his spleen.
“Why on earth the constant need to push Holmes onto an ever-gullible public? You’d have thought everyone would be sick to death of him by now, but there’s a never-ending stream of it and it’s only gotten worse of late. Every damn Tom, Dick, and Harry is dreaming up some new madcap scheme or other to do with Holmes and Watson. There are those dreadful big-budget Hollywood films, the damn TV series, seemingly multiple one-offs; books and audio books and bloody e-books, all coming out of our bloody ears; and that’s not counting those violent bloody video games and all those weird comic books intended for illiterate adults. For the life of me, I can’t imagine what it is everyone hopes to achieve with it all. And I absolutely dread to think where it’s all going to end. They should just bloody well leave well enough alone and stick with the Canon, plain and simple; surely that should be good enough? I know none of it’s still in copyright, but is that any reason for everyone to keep on taking a bite out of the old beekeeping bugger?”
There was a long pause and but for the continued background noise I would’ve thought there’d been a break in transmission. I held my breath, hoping against hope that the “cabby” hadn’t spotted any of the microphones I’d hidden inside his taxi. Thankfully, though, my worries proved groundless, as it soon became very clear he’d simply been gathering his thoughts.
“And you know what really gets my goat, it’s the fact that it’s us who’ve actually done the most to keep his reputation alive. I mean, where would the name of Sherlock Holmes be without your own particular brand of genius? He’d be a mere footnote to detective fiction, nothing more. The plain truth is, whenever his name is mentioned, people always remember you in the same breath; it’s you they remain most in awe of. So if, as they say, a man is truly defined by his enemies, then it’s you that’s most clearly defined him and that should rightfully take the lion’s share of any glory that’s going.”
It was then we heard the voice that once heard can never be forgotten. I glanced over at my companion, who nodded and removed the long cherrywood pipe from his mouth, his eyes suddenly as hard and as black as obsidian.
“My dear young Sebastian,” said the silken voice of the Napoleon of Crime, for it was he, undoubtedly, who was now speaking. “You should not judge by outward appearances alone. Our fiendish would-be nemesis is the very wiliest of adversaries, as too is his seemingly clumsy and bumbling partner-in-crime. Always remember that what is on the outside is always on the inside, but what is on the inside is not necessarily always revealed on the outside. We have no earthly idea when or where the real Holmes will return or in what guise. It could be as bookseller, ornithologist, apiarist, pathologist, or priest, or any one of a thousand disguises. That is why we must remain ever vigilant and seek out and examine each and every one who would play the role of consulting detective and each and every one who would then act as his fawning amanuensis. We must establish who is really who and then determine whether they might prove a future hindrance to our purpose and, if such be the case, to deal with them in the most severe, most expeditious manner possible.”
It was very apparent that a particular hot button had just been pressed again and pressed particularly hard. And I admit I was moved to lower the volume somewhat.
“Fiend is right, the wily, scheming bastard should up, up and play the game and come out and fight like a real man. ‘Steel true, blade straight’? What utter tosh. He’s the one who ruined my family’s good name and brought us all so low, damn him to hell. All I’ve ever asked for, all any of us have ever asked for, is the chance to get a good, clear shot at Holmes’s head, which as you well know is all I really live for. As for the rest of it, as always, dear Uncle Morrie, when you hit the nail on the head, you hit it so very good and hard. And I hear you, I do. I know we have no choice but to continue searching for the cunning swine and I give you my word I’ll keep on doing that. I’m only sorry the day turned out such an utter waste, but there it is. We’ll get him, eventually, though, we will. Anyway, look, I’ll get the taxi garaged and the garb of London cabby put away in the props cupboard until next time. I’ll also make good and sure the VH-V2 air gun, telescopic sight, and hollow-point ammunition are all safely tucked away. After which, of course, I’ll take the usual precautions to ensure I’m not followed. One can never be too careful, as you’re always so very fond of telling me. I’ll report in again in an hour when I’m en route to my club. For now, Sebastian Moran, Holmes hunter, over and out.”
All we could hear then was the white noise of London as amplified from inside the taxicab. And the very last we heard that day was the latest in the long line of Moran progeny humming tunelessly to himself. I couldn’t for the life of me make out what it was, but then a long, thin finger reached out across the desk and, with a double click of the mouse, the sounds from the Harman/Kardon SoundSticks, sited either side of the computer, were eclipsed.
I turned to face the extraordinary man I’d known for what seemed several lifetimes, as his eyes flashed in
