Vanishing Girl

the policemen and any members of the public who might be at the station. There would then be many witnesses knowing that he, not Lestrade, had found Victoria Rathbone.

But what if there are only policemen there and every last crusher closes ranks like they’ve done before, saying that it was their boss and no one else who solved this complicated crime.

Irene is a better option. He would only need her for a brief time and then he could distance himself from her again. Perhaps her name can be kept out of this? The villains need never know that she was involved.

He walks down the alleyway, the argument in his head. Is he deceiving himself? Is he weakening? Will he put her in danger again? Does he merely want his friend back?

Happy voices come from behind the house.

He stops and peers around the corner.

Malefactor is in the Doyles’ backyard. Irene is with him, sitting on a stone bench near the dog kennel, looking into the rogue’s eyes, appearing charmed.

“I am thrilled,” he hears her say.

John Stuart Mill barks and the instant he does, Sherlock is lying face-first on the cobblestones at the entrance to the yard, Grimsby sitting on top of him, Crew looming over them.

“Caught a bad guy, boss.”

Irene and Malefactor get to their feet. She colors; he smiles. John Stuart Mill advances, whimpers, and smells Sherlock’s face.

“Bring him here.”

Sherlock thinks his bones may snap, so tight and nasty is the expert grip Grimsby puts him in, twisting his arms behind his back. But Holmes won’t satisfy them with a grimace. He relaxes his face and smiles.

“Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”

“Irene, I want –”

She looks away.

“What you want isn’t germane,” growls his rival. “What you were doing sniveling around here is. You were spying on us.”

Sherlock is in deep trouble. He can’t talk to Irene now, knows it was ridiculous to come – he was being weak.

“Speak!”

Malefactor, to say nothing of his two idiot lieutenants, has appeared at precisely the wrong time. If Sherlock isn’t out of here in minutes, doesn’t devise a plan on his way to the Yard and get back to St. Neots this same day, Victoria Rathbone is dead.

“Maybe we should let him go,” says Irene.

We?

“Not yet. Something you want to share with us, Holmes?”

An idea occurs to Sherlock. Maybe there is, he thinks. Yes. He should tell Irene whether Malefactor hears it or not. It’s his only option if he wants to get to the Yard on time. Maybe telling his enemy what he’s found isn’t a bad idea after all. Perhaps it will impress him, somehow make him back off. And if Malefactor is intrigued, wants to show off, he might even be helpful – he knows the police like no one else.

Sherlock yanks himself away from Grimsby.

“I know where Victoria Rathbone is.”

“But …” begins Irene.

“Please, Miss Doyle, let Master Holmes continue.”

The young crime lord’s expression is disturbing: he doesn’t look angry; something more like amusement comes over his face. Off to the side, Grimsby and even Crew are laughing. Sherlock can’t figure it out, but he goes on.

“I can convey the exact location to the police. I know where her kidnappers can be found and how many there are. There is no time to be lost.”

Irene wants to speak, but Malefactor holds up his hand.

“A most intriguing tale. You have triumphed again.”

Grimsby laughs out loud.

“Shut your gob, you boor.”

Malefactor menaces the little goon with his walking stick and then turns to Sherlock with a smile. “You are in luck, sir. Lestrade, that moron, is about to speak to the journalists at this very hour. You shall have the entire press of London as your audience. I must admit that I have underestimated you, Holmes. This will be an extraordinarily shameful moment for the Force and I shall enjoy it. Here is what I suggest: all five of us should make our way with alacrity to Scotland Yard. We shall even pay your way upon the omnibus, our lady here, of course, ensconced comfortably inside. At the police headquarters, we three shall make ourselves scarce. Miss Doyle’s presence will ensure that you are not evicted from the crowd by the Force: no one can resist the desires of the fair daughter of Andrew C. Doyle. You can then speak up, Holmes, shout your solution for all to hear, loud and clear.”

Irene has a pleading expression on her face as she glances at Malefactor. But he won’t look back.

Sherlock is flabbergasted. Malefactor has come up with a similar, yet more effective plan than his own. The young villain has the means to execute it, too. Why is he being so helpful? Just to shame the police?

They find an omnibus on bustling Oxford Street, the four boys on the knifeboards up top, Irene in more genteel confines below. She won’t look at Sherlock. He tries not to think of her and readies himself for the thrilling task ahead.

The scene at Scotland Yard is not what he expected.

Yes, a crowd is gathering in the square in the center of the Yard, dominated by men bearing pads and pencils, and standing in the same spot they gathered two days ago, but Lestrade is looking alarmingly pleased and so is his son. How can that be? They are running out of time. Lord Rathbone is there too … with a glow on his face. His perfectly groomed, graying whiskers are veritably shining.

What is going on?

Malefactor and his thugs spread out and vanish into the crowd. Irene stands next to Holmes, her head down, not even making a motion to escort him to the front.

The boy is growing uneasy, not sure if he wants to raise his voice to interrupt once Lestrade begins.

“Sherlock, I must tell you something. You know that Malefactor has ways of finding out things, people who can bring him news from even inside Scotland Yard…. Well, he came to see me this morning because … he had just found out that –”

“I am here this fine day,” announces the senior detective loudly, “to revel with you in the solution of the case of the vanishing girl!”

“What?” gasps Sherlock out loud.

“Here she is! Safe and sound!”

An apparition appears before them on the little platform. Victoria Rathbone! She steps forward, smiling, tightly gripping her father’s arm, leaning her pretty head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” says Irene, keeping her head down.

Sherlock scans the crowd. He spots three laughing young thugs in three different places. When he looks up to the podium again, he sees that Lestrade has noticed him, and is beaming.

“We have confounded the fiends,” proclaims Rathbone to a cheer. “We have proved once and for all that one must never give way to villainy. When we find them, I shall have their heads!” The crowd roars.

When they find them? The kidnappers haven’t been found? How can that be?

Lestrade steps forward again and puffs out his chest.

“Our tactics worked perfectly. After we consulted the public about this case, we received several helpful tips. A note came to us early this morning and through it we traced this dear child to the culprits’ lair just hours ago. The cads, having somehow been warned of our approach, had only just vacated the premises. But we shall catch them! I assure you that we are on their trail!”