“The top of what?”
“There are whispers that one man in London, one master, manages all of the crime in the city.”
“Absurd,” Holmes scoffed.
“Nonetheless true.”
“I should like to meet this nefarious genius for myself.”
“That day would be your last.”
“So this man, your insurance agent, goes missing and is replaced by his wife, who presses you for an unsustainable amount of money. All this under the nose of some shadowy villain-general. I shall take the case.”
“What case? What are you talking about?”
“Back in University, I would amuse myself by solving little problems for my fellows. I wouldn’t mind taking those faculties back out of the stable for a little trot.”
“These are dangerous people, Mr. Holmes. Genuine criminals. That’s why I just pay them and go about my business. Please leave and forget all that we spoke of today.”
The bell on the front door rang as someone entered. The blood drained from Wilshire’s face. “Madame Withers, back so soon?” He shooed Holmes away with his hands.
Holmes tipped his brim to the lady as he passed. Her gaze passed over him uninterrupted, her eyes betraying no spark of life. He made sure to jangle the bell on the door loudly and to close it with a definitive bang. He then strolled casually past the front windows and, as soon as he was obscured from the people inside, crossed the street and angled himself so that he could observe their transaction in the reflection of the store window in front of him. The tobacconist was waving his hands in refusal when suddenly Madame Withers seized him by the shirtfront and pressed the point of a blade to his neck. Wilshire relented and the lady released him, letting him drop back down to the floor behind the counter. The tobacconist opened his till and the lady began seizing handfuls of money and shoving them into her dress. It looked a lot less like a payoff and a lot more like a stick-up. Miss Withers brandished her knife at the tobacconist again and then swept out of the shop.
Holmes gave her half-a-block and began following her, fearing she might hop into a passing cab. To his relief, she instead entered the Grand Royal Hotel. Watching her through the entryway, Holmes saw her proceed to the reception desk, where she surrendered much of the money she had just stolen. The manager retrieved, a bit too graciously, one might almost say obsequiously, a key from the cabinet behind him. Holmes carefully noted which hook from which the key came. After Madame Withers disappeared up the lift, Holmes proceeded into the lobby, where he picked up a newspaper and propped himself against a column in easy sight of the key cabinet. A few minutes later, an arriving guest prompted the cabinet to be opened again, and Holmes saw that Madame Withers had received the key for 307. When the manager was free again Holmes approached.
“I say, would it be possible to have a message dispatched to one of your guests?”
“But of course. One of our wait staff would be happy to oblige. May I ask to whom you wish to send a message?”
“To the gentleman in Room 307. We were meant to meet here this afternoon so that we might settle the matter of his boasting in regards to the snooker table. He was an unbearable boor at dinner, and I mean to put him in his place.”
“My apologies, sir, but there is no gentleman in Room 307.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Most assuredly. A woman has been occupying that room alone for a week. She rarely leaves but for brief constitutionals, and the maids say she has a widow’s attire hanging in the wardrobe. I dare say she is in tragic and dire circumstances. She had not paid since the first night, until today when I began, however regretfully, to evict her. Suddenly she was able to satisfy her bill, and pay for another week besides. That ends the matter as far as I am concerned. Listen to me, gossiping away. Perhaps if you described the man to me I might be of further assistance?”
“No matter,” Holmes said. “He’s half-an-hour late as it is, and gave me a false room number to boot. There’s no need to humor a liar and a coward any further. You’ve been a great help.” Holmes tipped his hat and was out the door before the manager even realized the interview was over. On the way home Holmes stopped into the offices of The London Times to place an ad:
Mr. Withers – I have found what you left behind at the Grand Royal Hotel. Please apply S. Holmes, No. 24, Montague Street.
The next day, Holmes was lying in his flat, sprawled across his favorite chair, watching the waning afternoon sun filter through the blue haze that he had spent all afternoon assiduously puffing from his pipe, when the knock came. Really it was more like a slow, steady pounding, set to rattle his door from the hinges should it continue. Holmes released the latch on the window. The drop from an upper story to the street below would be jarring, but it had been of use on previous occasions. He palmed his faithful riding crop from its place on the mantel and prepared to face whatever ogre was battering his ramparts. Puckishly, he timed the opening of the door to coincide with the next pounding so that the assailant would be thrown off kilter when his fist met nothing but air. To his surprise, it was not some hulking lout who stumbled in, but rather the diminutive gloved hand of Madame Withers. Her head and torso followed, but somewhat disconcertingly the rest of her did not, as if every part of her below the waist were firmly bolted to the landing. Her top half
