He chuckled. “How are you going to get anybusiness? I’ve been working in this area for four years, and I’venever seen anyone who looked like he might want to hire adetective.”
“Of course I don’t expect to get any walk-intraffic.”
“Advertise then? Yellow pages?”
“Nobody does that anymore. I’ll use theInternet. Twitter, Facebook, my own website.”
He nodded. “Figures.”
I took small pictures out of the box. “Canyou hang these for me?”
Proving my earlier deduction had beencorrect, he pushed aside his sweater and produced a small hammer.He dug into his pocket for nails.
He grinned at me again. “See, I did a bit ofdeduction myself. I figured you’d want some of these pictureshung.”
After I told him where they should go, Dochung four small pictures and one medium-sized one within a fewminutes. He peered into the cardboard box again.
“There’s lots of small stuff in here, but Ithink you’re going to run out of space. The room looks cluttered tome, but I guess folks liked that a hundred years ago.” He plantedhis hands on his hips. “Did Sherlock Holmes like a cluttered room,do you think?”
“Probably he never noticed his surroundingsbecause he focused on his thoughts. However, in his stories, ArthurConan Doyle depicted him as a somewhat messy man so far as hispersonal belongings were concerned.”
Doc wandered around the room. “I see you havea violin.”
“Yes, I found it in a second-hand musicstore, and I plan to take lessons one of these days.”
“And this little box has the word ‘poison’ onit.”
I rushed over to it. “I bought that in theHolmes museum. Obviously, it’s not the original, but I wanted tohave something like that, along with the chemistry set and allthose bottles that might have held mysterious concoctions.”
“Where’d you get all this furniture?” Hepointed to the horsehair sofa, two velvet-covered chairs, a roundtable in the center, and a roll-top desk.
“From the thrift shop run by the Faith andLove Homeless Shelter. I volunteer in their store two mornings aweek.”
“I’ve seen the place. It’s awfully big.”
“It has to be. People donate all sorts ofstuff. Not just unwanted clothes, which I help sort out when I’mthere, but tools, baking pans, glassware, china, appliances, and,yes, furniture as well.” I hadn’t even mentioned my three largewooden bookcases crammed with old volumes I’d rescued from otherthrift shops, garage sales, and bookstores going out ofbusiness.
I tugged his arm gently. “Be a dear and godownstairs now, hang my sign and bring up another box or two. Idon’t want this job to last all night.”
Watson shrugged and went off, while I pulledout dozens of tiny bottles and placed them on the tall narrowshelves in the corner. He brought up the last box and left, and Ifound places for candle holders, letter openers, and severalpens.
I had just tucked two small ink wells into apigeon-hole on the roll-top desk when I heard a voice behindme.
“What in the world do you think you aredoing?”
I turned and swallowed a scream.
There, not three feet away from me, stood atall, slender man wearing a patterned coat with a shoulder cape anda soft deer-stalker cap.
I managed to squeak out, “You’re....”
“Sherlock Holmes, of course.”
Actually, he looked a little like MichaelCaine.
Chapter 2
Normally a garrulous person, I couldn’tspeak.
“Young lady, did you hear what I said? Whatare you doing here?”
“I live here,” I managed to blurt out.
“Don’t be absurd. It is I who live here. Thisis my flat, and I want to know why you are in it.”
Suddenly forced to explain, I had to thinkfor a moment. I didn’t believe he was British actor Michael Caine,who was, as far as I knew, still alive. But Sherlock Holmes? Theman wore the very clothes I’d expect Holmes to wear, and his wordsconjured up nineteenth century speech. Had I inadvertently made thegreat detective materialize? I decided to await furtherdevelopments.
“Well, unless the world has gone crazy withinthe last few seconds, this is my flat on Baker Street in SanFrancisco.”
“San Francisco? Impossible. I live inLondon.”
“Not impossible at all. You see, I visitedyour flat in London last year, and I decided to decorate mine thesame.”
“In San Francisco? What on earth for?”
I debated explaining all over again—as Iseemed to be doing regularly these days to any number of people—howI came to want to reproduce Holmes’s famous digs, but heinterrupted me.
“Who are you, and why are you dressed thatway?” He pointed to my jeans. “You’re wearing trousers!” He made itsound as if I were a half-naked dancer from the FolliesBergere.
“Yes. This is the twenty-first century, andwomen have been wearing pants for about eighty years.”
“The twenty-first century?” That news senthim—not to collapsing on the sofa as I would have expected, but—tothe window. He pushed aside the drapes and looked out at the view.His head turning from side to side, he glanced down at the asphaltpavement bordered by concrete sidewalks, the Victorian-style housesacross the street, and the cars parked at the curb. Apparently acar drove by just then.
“My word. A motor car. A very strange motorcar. What has happened?”
I pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you sitdown, Mr. Holmes, and let me explain?”
Instead, he strode to the door leading to thestairs. “I shall call Mrs. Hudson and ask her. And where is DoctorWatson, pray tell?”
Apparently suddenly realizing what I’d saidand that he’d have to deal with me, he turned. “Did you saytwenty-first century?”
“Yes, several years into it as a matter offact.”
“I remember the twentieth century. I retiredto become a bee-keeper.”
“Were you alive in nineteen-twelve, the yearTitanic sank? People all over the world commemorated the hundredthanniversary of that.”
Finally, he removed his hat and coat, hurledthem toward the sofa and sat in the armchair closest to thefireplace. He looked down at the floor, staring at the carpet’sOriental design, and sighed. “It is as I feared.”
“What did you fear?”
“I had been asleep, I believe, and when Iwoke I found myself in my old rooms. Yet they weren’t the same.They were crowded with people. Strange people looked through mybooks, touched my belongings. I told them to stop. I told them toget out, but they ignored me as if I were invisible.”
I broke the short silence. “What did youdo?”
He
