Locked rooms

“You're doing a good job. I only hope you go back to school when this is over.”

“School's a waste of time.”

“That may be so, but university isn't, and you have to get through school to get to university.”

The look of scepticism shooting out of those dark eyes would have given a priest doubt, but Holmes had seen it before. He tipped his hat to the boy, then paused. “What's your name, lad?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because gentlemen do not address each other as ‘Hey, you.'”

“Gen'lmen, huh? Okay, it's Ricky. Rick Garcia.”

“Mr Garcia, it is a pleasure doing business with you. My name is Holmes. I shall try to return this evening, but you know where to find me.”

“Okay. 'Bye then, Mr Holmes. See you later.”

Holmes' eggs had just been placed before him when a bellman came to tell him there was a telephone call for him. It was Hammett, suggesting that they meet.

“I'm just taking breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I'll be there in ten minutes or so.”

Hammett arrived, looking as well-dressed and cadaverous as ever, just in time to see the dignified Englishman half-rise from his chair, eyes popping at some article in the paper before him, and then ball it up and hurl it to the floor. The entire restaurant fell dead silent; the only people moving were the maitre d' and Dashiell Hammett.

“Sir, what is it?” begged the hotel gentleman. “Is there anything—”

Holmes raised his eyes and found Hammett standing in front of him, then looked further and noticed that every pair of eyes was avidly waiting to see what this dignified Englishman would do next. He gave a sharp little laugh, waved away the maitre d', and dropped back into his chair. Hammett scooped up the armful of newsprint and sat across from him.

“Don't like the news?” Hammett asked laconically, straightening the pages.

The older man scowled furiously at the day's Chronicle. “Hammett, if ever you find yourself bound to a literary agent, for God's sake make sure the man isn't utterly barking mad.”

“Literary agent?” Hammett asked.

“I cannot get away from the man. I sit peacefully over my poached eggs and toast, wishing only the gentle news of the latest poisoned-chocolates case or Babe Ruth clouting his homer, and who should stare out at me from the pages of a newspaper from a city halfway across the world from my home but Conan Doyle.”

During this monologue, Hammett had been paging through the crumpled sheets with some difficulty, interrupted by the waitress taking his order and the bus-boy cleaning up Holmes' spilt coffee, but at last he found it:

Conan Doyle Lauds, Hits S.F.

Likes City's Beauty; Abhors Spiritual Void

Hammett read the article with close attention, learning that the writer's recently published account of his Second American Adventure included the lament that he had found San Francisco to be a far less psychic city than Los Angeles. At the article's inside continuation, he read aloud the author's regret over “San Francisco, with its very material atmosphere,” and ending with his judgement that the city left “much room for spiritual betterment.”

By the time Hammett reached the final resounding phrase, he was finding it difficult to control his laughter. Holmes looked storm-clouds at him, until the younger man protested, “Hey, you might have had to come to Los Angeles instead of here.”

Holmes' glare held, then softened, and he relaxed into his ruffled feathers. “That is very true,” he admitted, adding, “I like your town more and more, Hammett. Any town whose people have the sense to laugh at Doyle's infantile philosophy can't be too bad.”

Hammett raised his coffee cup. “Here's to San Francisco.”

Holmes, casting a last disgusted look at the paper Hammett had folded up onto the unoccupied chair, tore his eyes and his attention away from the outrage and asked Hammett if he'd heard anything during the night.

“Not a thing. Looks like she's cutting her losses and I'll end up nailing the envelope onto the front of the building like I told her. But like I said, my wife's taken the kid off to Santa Cruz for a couple of days with friends. I'm at your service.”

“What did your police detective have to say about the Ginzberg death?”

“A fat lot of nothing. Not even any prints on the statue that bashed her. Some kind of bird carving it was, an owl maybe, from Rhodes or Crete or something in the Mediterranean. Seems she collected bird sculptures from all over.”

“If you haven't exhausted your friends' patience there, how would you feel about having the police lab look at a set of prints?”

“From where?”

“I found them on an otherwise pristine toilet-pull in the house. They appear to belong to a woman—ours probably has no record, but just in case.”

“Okay.”

“Then later, why don't you come by the house? I've arranged something that might interest you.”

“Yeah? What's that?” Hammett's plate arrived and he picked up his utensils.

“Oh, I suppose you might call him a Chinese fortune-teller.” Hammett shot him a dubious glance before bending to his food. “There's also this,” Holmes added, and slid Mycroft's telegram across the table.

The thin man read it carefully, then asked, “What are these two stones he's lost?”

“Stones? Ah, that's a British weight measurement; fourteen pounds is a stone. My brother's doctors have him on a slimming diet.”

“Got you. You think that's your gal he's found, that she's followed you all the way here?”

“It would fit. She lives in Paris, sees mention of my name in the Saturday Times, scrambles desperately for a means of getting to Egypt ahead of our boat—the weather was vile, which added to her difficulties. She finds one on Monday for a considerable price and boards the ship in Port Said. While we're sailing down the Suez Canal and Dead Sea, she keeps mostly to her cabin while finding as much about us as she can. Then we get to Aden, when she gets off—possibly having arranged with an associate to meet her there and set up a booby-trap. The bazaar isn't that large, so that if we were going to disembark for the afternoon, there was a good chance we'd walk past her trap eventually. I have a friend there I can ask to find out, for a fee.”

“But she missed.”

“If it was an attempt in the first place, and not just a shaky balcony,” Holmes added, to be fair.

“As you say,” Hammett noted. “But by that time, she knew you were headed to San Francisco. So while you and your wife were in India, she came on here.”

“Where she broke into the house, found some papers and burnt them, and lay in wait for our arrival. Which, again, seems to have made it into the papers.”

“But what's she after? Other than your dead bodies, that is?”

“That I hope to learn this afternoon at the house.”

“Well, there's an offer I can't pass up. Give me your finger-prints and I'll see what I can do with them, and meet you at the house later. What time?”

“I am not sure, but perhaps four?”

“I'll be there.”

And he was. At ten minutes before the hour, Hammett stood on the door-step listening to the bell fade and the foot-steps approach. Holmes opened the door with a magazine in one hand, an object that caused Hammett to do a double-take: It was a copy of Smart Set from the previous year, an issue containing Hammett's set of brief reminiscences, “Memoirs of a Private Detective.”

Hammett looked from the magazine to Holmes. “How on earth did you find that?”

“A news-agent agreed to search for your stories. I was curious,” he said, sounding apologetic.