There lay Steve, collapsed across the near arm of his chair making soft, furtive “Oob. Ooob. Bobo” noises. Approaching what he must deem to be his injured enemy, Sylvius gave his lips an eager, nervous lick and slowly raised the orb of his walking stick over his head. Apparently even Italians who spend enough time here suffer from our deadly-stick delusion. What he hoped to accomplish by thwacking somebody who had just survived a gunshot through the side of the head, I could only guess. Yet as he stepped within stick-smacking range, he was interrupted.
Holmes’s clear, strident tone broke across the room, saying, “Don’t break it, Count! Don’t break it!”
The advice was instantly disregarded. Sylvius gave a little “Eep!” of surprise and brought the stick down with all his might. The orb thunked down into the side of Steve’s head, deforming the wax around the bullet hole a little bit more.
“OHHHHHH!” said Steve, who had either learned something of human speech, or had simply gotten lucky and stumbled across a noise that was somewhat apropos of the situation. I know Holmes had said he had no self-awareness, but his expression made it clear that he did not appreciate Negretto Sylvius’s recent efforts.
“Holmes? Is that you?” Sylvius spluttered. “Where are you? What are you playing at?”
“Where?” answered Holmes, in a laughing tone. “Why, I’m watching you. What am I playing at? Is it not clear? I have made a trap to catch a shark. Or, if matters go well for both of us, a room-mate.”
He then pulled some hidden lever, which loosened a string that ran along the ceiling from the hallway to the front window, which in turn dropped a folder of papers that had been suspended from the ceiling just above Sylvius. The count gave a cry of surprise and caught the falling packet. “What is this?” he cried.
“Why, that is you,” Holmes replied coolly. “Have a look through. I think you’ll find it comprehensive, if not complete. There lay the real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold, who left you the Blymer estate. And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender!”
“Who is that?” Sylvius demanded, his voice shaking with fear.
“Oh? You don’t know her?” said Holmes. “Sorry. Lestrade must have got the files mixed up. But what about the robbery of the Train de Luxe to the Riviera on February 13? Or that check forged on the Crédit Lyonnais?”
With horror, Sylvius leafed through the pages and gasped as he saw a picture of one of his most illegal and secret acts. But then an instant later, his brows drew together in confusion and he said, “Wait! This is no photograph. Somebody drew this!”
“Did I get anything wrong?” Holmes asked.
“Well… no. But I still don’t think it would mean anything in court.”
“Shall we find out? Or would you prefer to become my living-companion?”
“Living-companion? Ha!” Sylvius shouted. “You say that is your goal, but your true intentions are clear! You covet the Margarine Stone!”
“Well… yes… a bit,” Holmes admitted.
“You will never find it!” Sylvius howled. “I have placed it in a secret vault, far from here, beyond the wit of any thief!”
No. That was a lie. Unless my powers of observation and deduction had failed in the most spectacular manner, I knew exactly where the stone was. I had observed how his left hand would hover protectively over his jacket pocket from time to time. More to the point, I had noticed a rather prominent lump in said pocket. Even more to the point, I had also not failed to note the gigantic and rapidly expanding grease stain all over one side of Sylvius’s jacket and down one leg of his trousers.
“You should have a care!” Sylvius said, with a threatening laugh. “I have not come unarmed! Not defenseless! Not alone!”
The laugh with which Holmes answered him was far more sinister. “Oh, I know all about Mr. Merton out there. Behold: my shark has brought a gudgeon to defend him! Perhaps we should invite your friend up to share in our discussion, eh? Billy! Attend my bidding!”
The tiny wooden boy pushed aside my adventuring bag and leapt to his feet. Sylvius gave a cry of surprise.
“Go invite Mr. Merton up to join us, won’t you?” said Holmes. “He’s the large, stupid-looking, heavily armed fellow at the base of the stairs.”
Clatter, clatter, clop went Billy’s little wooden feet, as he sped across to the door. Say what you will about his lack of size, speech and enjoyment of his existence, but at least he could follow orders better than his compatriot. We heard him rattle down the stairs, then a gruff voice shouted, “Aaaaaaaaaigh! What the ’ell?” This was followed by a loud poot! and the sound of splintering wood. This was followed by a terrible hiss, as of a gas chamber recharging, and a dull metallic ping. The process repeated two more times and for a moment I thought little Billy had received the only boon I’d ever known him to crave. Yet presently, the door creaked open and the tiny homunculus appeared in the presence of a large, crush-nosed gentleman who looked more than a bit rattled. Billy had three new holes though his torso and a hangdog look that basically said, “Oh, I don’t know why I even try…”
“What’s goin’ on?” Merton wanted to know. Beneath one arm he cradled a device that was… well… clearly not an umbrella. It had been designed to look like one. Or, a bit like one. It was a tasteful pink number of unusual size and weight. Instead of a spike tip, it featured a large, perforated pipe, which must have acted both as muzzle and a suppressor for the noise of the shot. The back end had not only the traditional hook handle, but a trigger, cocking mechanism, and a large brass air tank. I did have to admit the
