“I don’t have all day either,” I said. “Can we get back on topic? So the two poisonees, Mirko and Sarah Byrne, went into the tunnel, thinking to get away from you, Igor, because they suspected what you’d done.” I turned to Kingsley. “And you went into the tunnel after them. And my brother Robbie stayed behind in the shop. Not thinking ‘poison,’ just thinking ‘hungry,’ as he always is anytime he goes an hour without food.” I turned back to Igor. “It’s not just possible he’d be tempted by your sweets, Igor; it’s virtually certain. But my brother’s a picky eater. So what I need to know is, did you put polonium in every single thing you baked?”
A silence settled on us, so that I could hear the birds in the garden singing their twilight songs.
“How do you know my poison is polonium?” Igor asked quietly.
“Totally obvious,” I said.
“You are a psychic!” he said, with awe.
“Nobody’s a psychic!” I said. “You take pride in your work, and you like a challenge, and polonium takes talent,” I said. “And experience. You probably trained in Moscow. Lab X. And also,” I went on, “because everyone in this crazy story either is Russian or knows Russian, so everyone, upon feeling sick, thinks ‘poison’ and then they think about Alexander Litvinenko and his teapot of polonium and they’re off to the E.R., screaming ‘radiation poisoning.’ Including Robbie. Which is why he disappeared. So while I feel sorry for the psychic and the opera singer, I need to think about my brother now, so you need to tell me, Chef Boyardee, did you bake polonium into everything?”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “The Flies’ Graveyard, yes, and the Garibaldi Biscuit. But not the—wait!” He stared at me. “What opera singer?”
“Sarah Byrne,” Kingsley told him, “was the alias used by Yaroslava Barinova whenever she was in London. She liked to go incognito. She also wore wigs.”
If Igor had been pale before, he was now the color of toothpaste. The white kind. “Yaroslava Barinova?” he gasped. “I have killed Yaroslava Barinova? The greatest mezzo since Anne Sofie von Otter?” He clutched at his heart, scrunching his windbreaker in his big baker’s hands.
I patted him on the back, but he was beyond comfort. “I deserve to die!” He pointed to Kingsley. “I give you rubles, you give me junk. Yes, I am stupid. I kill Mirko, the fence. Yes, I am sloppy. But now, now—” His voice rose to a scream. “Yaroslava—Barinova!—the pride of Perm!” His screams turned to coughing, and he reached into his windbreaker to pull out a tiny aspirin tin, from which he took a pill. He stuck it in his mouth, swallowing with a grimace. Then he began to cry. And cough. And cry.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, and handed him my bottle of water. He knocked it back, drinking half, and wailed anew.
“Igor!” I yelled. “Toughen up. I’m sorry about your opera singer, but what about my brother?”
But Igor was done talking. A strangled sound emanated from him, an unearthly noise, like someone screaming with a closed mouth, or the braying of a donkey—his head reared back and then he fell forward. Kingsley and I, on either side of him, reached for him, but he dropped from the bench to his knees and into a kind of seizure, his mouth foaming. A dark calm settled over me as I held on to one arm and felt Kingsley holding on to his other, and Gladstone, one paw on the man’s knee, howled. The four of us stayed like that for some moments, arms and legs entwined in a group hug there in the Plantation Garden, until the life drained out of one of us, and we were only three.
“Polonium for the customers,” I said, “but old school cyanide pill for himself. Poor Igor.”
“Before you get all sentimental,” Kingsley said, “consider this: Spartak Volkov had Yaroslava Barinova killed because she jilted him. A slow death, so she could think on her sins. That’s what our Igor did. His life’s work. Just eat your trail mix and try not to romanticize assassins.” We were on the train back to London, side by side, now with Gladstone between us like a snoring armrest. Our adrenaline levels were returning to normal and our fingers and toes thawing.
If Igor’s death was operatic, its aftermath was not. Kingsley had me help him remove Igor’s green windbreaker, from which prints could be lifted.
“Theoretically,” I said. “But practically speaking, unlikely.”
“Don’t argue. Leaving fingerprints scattered about is unprofessional.”
It seemed to me that Igor looked lonely, lying there in a brown polo shirt that didn’t cover his belly, and when Kingsley made a phone call to his mysterious government agency, I found Igor’s iPhone in the grass, clicked on his iTunes and set it on repeat so that “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” would accompany him to the afterlife.
But Kingsley plucked it from the grass on our way out. “Leave it here? Are you mad? A mobile is a font of information.”
Once on the train, Kingston kept up a steady stream of conversation, clearly for my benefit. We tacitly avoided the subject of Robbie. “Shall I tell you what became of the cat?” he said suddenly.
“Touie,” I replied, “is stuffed into Mirko’s freezer. You had to remove a twenty-pound turkey to make room for her. I hope she was dead when you did it.”
“She was. I stopped by Robbie’s flat this morning to drop off the dog—my landlady, an excellent woman, claims she’s grown allergic to him. I must’ve just missed you. You, on the other hand, did not even see a dead cat on your brother’s bed.”
“I saw her. It didn’t occur to me to check her for signs of life.”
“Ah. You see, but you do not observe.”
“Why’d you give her collar to Gladstone?” I asked.
He looked at me, surprised. “Dogs need tags. She had no use for it anymore.”
“Well, anyway,” I said. “It was kind of you to spare me the ordeal of a dead cat.”
“It was curiosity, not kindness. I’m interested in cause of death; I plan to test her for butane and benzene, for a monograph on mattress toxicity.” He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “What is the other definition of a walk-in? Other than a client without an appointment?”
“It’s a New Age term,” I said. “It’s someone who’s tired of living, whose soul vacates their body so a more—evolved soul can move in. A spiritual celebrity.”
“What nonsense.”
I shrugged. “Some souls don’t want to waste time with birth and childhood. They’ve been here before, and they’ve got work to do. But after the trade happens, the new souls generally forget they’re walk-ins. Which means you—or I—could be some kind of historical figure and not even realize it. DaVinci. Michelangelo. A dead Beatle.”
“Right,” he said. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all day. And it’s been a long day.”
“Whatever,” I said. “But next time you impersonate a psychic, you might want to notice the sign outside your shop.”
“I saw the sign. All my senses are excellent. Evolved, even.”
“You saw, but you did not observe,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I observe that you are picking out the sultanas in that trail mix I bought you. So you dislike sultanas. Does your twin share this aversion?”
I looked down at the small pile of dark, withered rejects, swept aside on the table in front of us. “What’s a sultana?”
“A dried grape. Ingredient in sultana cakes, scones, Garibaldi biscuits, and the like.”
“Ah—squashed flies?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, yeah. Robbie hates them. Raisins, currants, all dried fruit.”
Kingsley blinked. And a slow smile spread across his face.
As the train neared Liverpool station the ping! of an incoming text woke me. I’d dozed off, my head against Kingsley’s shoulder. I looked at my phone.
SO LONG STORY SHORT, I’M ALLERGIC TO MY NEW BED, THOUGHT IT WAS SOMETHING MORE SERIOUS AND WENT TO THE ER AND SOME IDIOT GAVE ME PENICILLIN, SO THAT NEARLY KILLED ME, BUT ANYWAY, FINALLY HOME, HOPE U WEREN’T WORRIED AND BTW, WHERE ARE U? AND WHERE THE
F IS MY CAT? XOX, R.
“What does that mean,” Kingsley said, reading over my shoulder, “when you Americans sign ‘xox’? I understand ‘x’ but what’s the ‘o’?
I smiled at him. “I think I’ll just show you.”
THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE
by Alan Gordon
The police station on Wapping High Street was unique among the twenty or so stations of the London Metropolitan Police in that it housed two separate divisions of the force. The first was the regular police, who walked through Wapping with truncheons and rattles, watching for the footpads and pickpockets who attempted to ply their trade. The other was the Thames Division, whose members rowed along London’s aqueous highway in three-man boats for six hours at a stretch, pulling suicides and drunken unfortunates from the currents with their gaff hooks and navigating the maze of docks in search of mudlarks, rat-catchers, light horsemen and the other plunderers of ships, barges and their crews.
There was a friendly rivalry between the two divisions, manifesting itself most frequently in their respective skills in subduing recalcitrant sailors. The Thames lads liked to swing an oar, catching the offender with the flat of the blade. The Wapping boys prided themselves on the precision of their truncheon work, administering taps to the noggin with sufficient force to render instant oblivion without preventing a return to sober employment the following morning.
It was generally a one-night stay in the Wapping Station jail, long enough to recover from the combined effects of watered-down whiskey and the deployment of wood to skull. The Wapping police understood that these were men come in from sea with a month’s wages to spend in only a day or two before shipping out again. The local economy depended upon these marinated mariners, and if word got around that the constabulary was overly enthusiastic in their regulation of public order, then the sailors might very well take their business elsewhere, and no one would benefit from that.
This particular October night had been a quiet one in the annals of criminal behavior. There was a crispness to the air, and the lonely sailors were more apt to find warmth inside, whether it was in the arms of the young (and not so young), female (and not so female) companionship available for a fee, or from the nourishment of meals cooked with ingredients that had been living in recent memory rather than dried and packed in salt, awaiting resurrection through lengthy boiling. The evening’s nefarious activities were so much in decline that the station house found itself to be the temporary involuntary lodgings of only two prisoners.
The one was a giant man, not only taking up the entirety of the jail cell bench but overhanging it at both ends. He snored prodigiously, in deep waves that gathered softly in the distance before crashing into the shore. Each made the iron bars quiver in sympathy.
The cell’s other denizen sat on the filthy floor opposite the Thunderer, his back against the bars. He was younger and leaner than his new roommate, and wore a brown woolen suit with a dark grey waistcoat. The suit bordered on shabbiness, and appearances were not helped by the spattering of mud and blood on the jacket and shirt.
His face was not immediately apparent, due to the bloodied handkerchief he clutched to his nose. He was trying to sleep as well, but every time his eyes began to close, his companion produced another cannonade, jolting him back into semi-consciousness.
This must be what it’s like to be married, he thought, casting a doleful look at the snorer.
Outside of the station, a black brougham halted directly in front of the street entrance. A constable hurried out to remonstrate the driver for blocking it. The driver unhurriedly stepped down from the box seat and casually pulled back the lapel of his greatcoat, revealing a badge that produced an immediate effect on the constable. The latter ceased his demurs and stepped partway into the interior.
“He’s here, sir!” he called.
A moment later, a sergeant came out, hastily buttoning his uniform coat.
The driver glanced up and down the street, then opened the door of the brougham, his free hand casually remaining near the pocket of his greatcoat.
The gentleman who stepped down from the interior was verging on thirty, but conveyed authority beyond his years. He was tall, running to stout, and dressed in evening formal wear, as if he had just come from the opera.
The sergeant hesitated, then drew himself to attention and saluted. The man looked at him, bemused.
“You don’t salute me, Sergeant,” he said. “In fact, you never saw me at all. That goes for you as well, Constable.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Would you like to see him?”
“The purpose of my interrupted evening,” said the man. “Where is he?”
“In one of the cells in back.”
The man sighed, almost happily.
“Lead on, my good fellow.”
The sergeant escorted him inside the precinct and led him to the cells. The man sitting on the floor glanced up past the handkerchief clutched to his nose, then winced.
It wasn’t from the pain.
“How is it?” asked Mycroft.
“Unbroken,” said Sherlock, pulling the handkerchief away so his brother could get a good look.
“Pity,” said Mycroft. “That might have been an improvement. Sergeant, would you let me into the cell, then excuse the two of us? Family business.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I see you’ve come up in the world,” commented Sherlock after the sergeant left.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you came so promptly,” said Sherlock. “Remarkable under normal circumstances, but especially now because I never asked for you to be notified. Therefore, they had my name on a list with explicit instructions to contact you if I found myself in these straits. Given the rapidity of your arrival, I conclude that you are now a man of extreme importance in order to have this co-operation from the police. How did you know I would wind up at this particular precinct?”
“I didn’t,” said Mycroft. “Your name is at all of them.”
“Yes, of course,” muttered Sherlock. “Why the fancy dress? You’re not an opera-goer.”
“Heaven forfend,” said Mycroft. “It was a special occasion. The opening of a club.”
“You went to a club?”
“I am one of the founders,” said Mycroft. “The Diogenes Club. It is intended to be a place of silence. A haven for men who desire peace and quiet after the turmoil of the day. Imagine how delighted I was to be interrupted with the news of my little brother’s arrest for brawling in the back alleys of Wapping.”
“It wasn’t a brawl,” said Sherlock. “A brawl is between two groups. This was one group versus, well, me.”
“How did it turn out, Horatius?”
“Let’s call it a draw,” said Sherlock.
“Was he part of it?” asked Mycroft, nodding toward the snoring giant.
“He was,” said Sherlock. “Once he went down, things became considerably easier. Then the bobbies intervened.”
“And this was where?”
“St. Katharine Docks.”
“You went into the docks dressed like that?” exclaimed Mycroft.
“This is how I dress,” said Sherlock.
“Good God, Sherlock, it’s a wonder you weren’t killed!”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Apparently not.”
“My dear brother—”
“Don’t you ‘dear brother’ me!”
“You forget that I am proficient in many of the martial arts.”
“Oh, really?” laughed Mycroft. “Please, elaborate on your prowess.”
“Well, fencing . . .”
“Did you have a rapier handy?”
“I did not.”
“I see. Proceed.”
“Single stick.”
“Also not handy. Irrelevant.”
“I am one of the best boxers for my weight that you’ll ever see.”
“How about his weight?” asked Mycroft, pointi
ng to the man asleep. “How about the combined weight of many?”
“I survived, didn’t I?”
“I don’t want you to make that the standard for success,” said Mycroft. “And I find myself singularly unimpressed by the argument. I propose a test, young one. If you consider yourself so superb in the pugilistic arts, let’s see if you can conquer me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re the one with blood on your face, boy,” snarled Mycroft. “I’ll wager that you don’t land a single blow. Come on, little brother, you’ve been wanting a chance to do this ever since you were old enough to realize you’d never be more than second best in our family. Take your best shot. You will never have this opportunity again.”
Sherlock rose slowly to his feet and stripped off his jacket, the rage gathering in his face. Mycroft looked at him blandly, infuriating him even more. Sherlock began to bounce lightly on the balls of his feet. Mycroft watched with interest.
“Have you been studying ballet?” he asked. “Perhaps you should consider—”
Sherlock lunged toward his brother, a growl erupting from the depths of his being, then abruptly stopped, well short of his target.
Mycroft stood calmly, a revolver in his right hand, aimed at Sherlock’s heart.
“Bang,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock stood frozen in place, breathing heavily.
“Do I make my point?” asked Mycroft. “If you like, you could run home and fetch your stick. I’ll wait.”
“Put it away,” said Sherlock.
“Of course,” said Mycroft, pocketing it.
“You’ve switched to a Webley,” said Sherlock.
“I like the weight.”
“It has only five shots.”
“I need only one. Shall we go? Put on your jacket. It’s nippy out there.”
For the Sake of the Game Page 6