The Baker Street Translation (6 page)

“That is sad news. But I know he must be quite old. He has died? Is there a new agent?”

“Conan Doyle died in— Well, it doesn't matter, as he was never— Look, there never was a Sherlock Holmes. I'm sorry, but there it is. He was entirely made up. No such person exists or has ever existed.”

The man stared at Reggie, and then he looked at the floor for a moment, and then back at Reggie again.

“In my country, it is necessary that a person first exist, and also that he accomplish great things or espouse great philosophies, and only then would we consider placing a sculpture on a large boulevard to honor him.”

Reggie thought that was a very good point.

“Sometimes we do things oddly here,” he admitted.

The man nodded, and having scored that point, he raised another. “And how would a person who does not exist manage to employ a personal secretary?” asked the man.

“I'm not sure I follow,” said Reggie.

The man gave Reggie a puzzled look. “Follow … where?”

“I mean,” said Reggie, “I do not understand your reference to a personal secretary.”

The man took that in, considered it, and nodded. Then he removed a letter from his coat pocket, and suddenly Reggie knew what he must be referring to.

Reggie waited as the man began to unfold it painstakingly. Reggie's visions of a pint of Guinness were evaporating.

Now the man had the letter open.

“I wrote to you,” he began, and then he paused, gave Reggie a knowing look, and corrected himself. “I mean I wrote to Sherlock Holmes, not to you, several weeks ago because I know that you—that is, he—having traveled so widely all over the world, and being conversant in many languages, and surely an expert in the quaintness of your native tongue, could help me confirm my translation of one mysterious English phrase. Here is the letter that I received from you in response.”

He placed the letter in front of Reggie. Reggie recognized it, and sighed. It was the letter that Nigel had sent, explaining the term
dub-dub
in a nursery rhyme.

“I found your response to be very helpful,” said the man, “even though you are only Mr. Holmes's secretary.”

“No,” said Reggie, “I am not Sherlock Holmes's personal secretary.”

“Ah,” said the man. “Yes. As I thought.” He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “You are, in fact, the man himself. I knew that if I came this great distance to London, I would have the honor of meeting you in person.”

Reggie wanted to object again, but it didn't seem to be much use.

And the man had traveled halfway around the world. Next thing, Reggie feared, he would be saying that he had mortgaged his house to do it.

As if on cue, the man said, “It took all of my savings for the flight. But what are savings for, if not for such an emergency?”

Reggie took a breath.

“Mr. Liu, perhaps you'd best tell me,” said Reggie, “exactly what you hoped Sherlock Holmes could do for you.”

The man nodded and smiled slightly, as if this outcome had never been in doubt. He began to pull more documents out from a deep pocket in his coat.

“That letter helped with my first translation as a professional. But it was only my first. I then received a much larger translation, with many more rhymes. My employer was no doubt impressed at my success in translating the very difficult English word
dub-dub.

“No doubt,” said Reggie.

“And so I did the complete set of translation, and I sent it to my employer here in London. Here, you see: Mrs. Elizabeth Winslow, Standard Translation Services.”

“Yes.”

“But she returned them to me. She said that my translations were incorrect and told me to try again. But I am certain that my translations are correct. They were not nearly so difficult as the first one. And so I informed her that if she did not accept my work and render payment as agreed, I would be forced to send the rhymes to Sherlock Holmes—as I had done with the first one—and you would confirm that I had them right.”

“Let me guess,” said Reggie. “That did not resolve the matter?”

“No,” said Mr. Liu. “It did not. Her most recent response said that she suspects me of being—I remember the words she wrote exactly—‘quite possibly bonkers.'”

Reggie nodded. “Mentioning that you were consulting Sherlock Holmes might not have been the best argument for your case.”

“I don't understand why that would be so. But I am sure that if you will respond regarding the most recent letter that I sent to you, she will believe you that my translations are correct. I know that you are a very busy man, with much more important matters than mine, and that is why you have not responded to me already.”

Reggie drummed his fingers uncomfortably on his desk. The truth, he knew, was that he had simply been a tad negligent and had not been sending the letter packages promptly on to Nigel. And although he resented the letters, that was not an excuse for his own tardiness.

“I apologize for that,” said Reggie. “I'll ask Lois to find your most recent letter, and we'll have a look. It might take her a few moments to hunt it up.”

“That is not necessary,” said the man. “The final translation was such a large piece of work that I took the trouble to make a copy before I sent it, and I have brought the copy with me.”

The man stood, leaned forward just a bit unsteadily, and unfolded a double-wide sheet of paper on Reggie's desk.

The sheet had been laser-printed on the kind of thin, cheap paper used in instruction booklets for small items—toys, electronics, and such—sold internationally. One of the folded sections was in English, another in Chinese, and another in French.

Reggie glanced at the titles: “Rub-a-dub-dub”; “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe”; “Humpty Dumpty”; and several others. Typical of such sheets, most of the typeface was so small that you could hardly read more than the titles, and Reggie didn't try. But each language section contained—so far as Reggie could tell—a set of Mother Goose nursery rhymes.

“So you not only did the translations,” said Reggie, “but you produced the final copy?”

“Yes,” said the man proudly. “On my laser printer. And I did not make errors. I am a good translator. I need help only with the occasional idiot.”

“I think you mean idiom.”

“Yes. And so when she still refused to pay, I had no choice but to come myself.”

“Surely this trip has cost you as much as the payment that was due?”

“I must have honor in my career, Mr. Holmes. I must respect myself, and my clients must respect me.”

Reggie nodded slightly and then said, “Personally, I would have saved the cost of the trip and put the money toward respecting myself with a few pints at my local pub.”

“That is what you say,” said the man. “I do not think it is what you would do. And you are young. When you are older, you will value honor more than beer.”

“Anything is possible,” said Reggie. “Have you spoken to this woman since you arrived in London?”

The man shook his head. “No. I went to her address and found that it was not her home, and not her place of business, but nothing more than a little store that sells stamps and other necessities.”

“I see. So her address is a postal box. That's not unusual.”

“Surely the world's greatest detective can find her for me?”

Reggie laughed. He handed the printed sheet of translations back to the old man.

“You don't need the world's greatest detective, Mr. Liu. And you don't need a barrister, either. You just need a garden-variety solicitor. It's not terribly unusual for some unscrupulous contractors to attempt to cheat their subcontractors out of payment, thinking the subcontractors will simply give up, especially when the distance is so great. But now that you are here, I expect a good solicitor will be able to obtain your payment, and perhaps even reimbursement for your trip. If you will come back tomorrow afternoon, I will find one for you.”

The man shook his head. “I must go home tomorrow.”

“Well,” said Reggie, “this will likely take a few days. Before he can even get started, your solicitor will have to obtain the woman's actual address from the Royal Mail.”

The man shook his head very slightly in disappointment. He began to roll up the document he had brought.

“If you were Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “you would tell me from the weight of the stationery and the manner in which it is cut where it was purchased and the economic and social standing of the person who purchased it, and from the smudges on the edges, you would tell me where the person lives in this city, and from all those things together and other things I cannot think of, you would know where I can find this person. And I brought one of her envelopes to show you as a reference.”

“I'm sorry, I don't think that would help. As I said, I am not Sherlock Holmes.”

“And now I believe you. Do not take offense; it is not an insult.”

The man tucked the document back into his coat and rose very slowly from his chair.

“And now I must go,” he said. “I believe I am suffering the effects of running in a race just slightly behind a jet plane. Thank you for your gracious time with me.”

The man stood, looking wobbly for just a moment; Reggie stood as well and came around to the front of the desk just as the man reestablished his balance. Lois came to the doorway to assist.

The man turned suddenly back to Reggie and said, “I was told I should take in a show before I return home. Do you have a recommendation?”

Reggie was stumped. It was not a question he had expected. And for an instant he wondered if he was being pranked again.

“The standard tourist recommendation,” said Reggie, “based on the fact that it has been running forever, is
The Mousetrap.
All the characters are fictional, of course.”

“Of course,” said the man, “I will consider it. The bellman at the hotel had some other suggestions.”

The man turned away and wobbled on through the doorway. Reggie frantically gestured to Lois to go with him.

“Get him into a cab,” said Reggie, “and pay for it if he'll let you.”

Several minutes went by, during which Reggie turned off his lamp again, picked up his mac, and prepared to leave but did not. He remained seated at the edge of his chair, as if some task remained to be completed.

And now Lois returned. She stood in the doorway of Reggie's chambers, put her hands on her hips, and glared.

“Yes?” said Reggie.

“Well he came quite a long way now, didn't he?”

“Yes. An astoundingly long way, given the money involved.”

“And what does he get in return?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“What he gets is you showing him the door is what I mean. Or me doing it for you.”

Reggie wanted to object to that indictment, but he couldn't. He had been chastising himself over the same thing for the past ten minutes. As annoyed as he was that Nigel had departed from the standard reply in his response to Mr. Liu, it occurred to Reggie that he himself had compounded the problem by not sending the subsequent letters on to Nigel in time. He had just been ignoring all of the letters, letting them accumulate on the corner of his desk. Had he not done so, perhaps the man would not have come all this way.

“I'll call his hotel,” said Reggie. “Perhaps I can do something for him in the morning. This is work much more suited for a solicitor, if I can find him one in time. But if not—well, sometimes a barrister on your side can make a trial seem imminent, and the potential defendant more cooperative.”

“I should think,” said Lois before exiting triumphantly. “Especially if you wear the silly wig.”

9

What woke Robert Buxton was the stench.

It filled his nostrils. It permeated the air. There were familiar elements in it, but it was more intense than any scent he had ever encountered.

He opened his eyes. But doing that seemed to hurt, and he closed them again; it was too dark to see anything anyway.

His head was still throbbing. Not just in the back but in the front, as well—sinuses, forehead, neck, everywhere.

Damn that smell.

He knew he was lying on a flat, hard, damp surface; he was in the dark; and something stunk. Beyond that, he had no clue.

Except that somewhere, water was running.

Somebody call a plumber, he thought, still trying to clear his head.

He opened his eyes once more and tried to raise his head to look around. He put his hands on the cold surface beneath him, then shifted his weight and pushed with his arms, trying to raise himself up.

But the surface he was lying on—whatever it was—was slick, and his hands slipped. He heard something splash.

And then a wave of nausea swept over him; chills ran from the base of his neck all the way down his spine. He lost consciousness, and his head dropped down again onto the hard, damp floor.

10

Reggie arrived at Baker Street Chambers at midmorning the next day, with Laura's ring secured in the inside pocket of his mac.

He had told Lois to set up no appointments for him on the day that Laura returned from her shoot. Today was that day.

In fact, there should be nothing more on his desk than a follow-up to his call from last night to Mr. Liu's hotel. The old gentleman had been out; probably to take in a show, as he had said. But Reggie had left a message, and with luck he might easily wrap the whole thing up in a day. A brief word with the translator's overly picky employer would take care of it.

Reggie stopped at his secretary's desk before going into his chambers office.

“Good morning, sir,” said Lois, cheerily. It had not been possible to keep her in the dark about his plans today; she knew something was up.

“Good morning, Lois. My calendar is still clear?”