The Baker Street Translation (8 page)

“Why should he worry?” asked Lois.

“Well, I don't want him to think that— Oh, never mind, just tell him.”

“I will, but you should know there's someone on his way to Reggie's chambers right now. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him. I was just about to ring you—”

Now there was a heavy, angry knock on the door, and then, with no courtesy pause whatsoever, the door opened.

Laura looked up.

She saw a man wearing cowboy boots. Nicely done cowboy boots, to be sure, in two tones of expensive leather and with fine tooling up the sides—but pointy-toed cowboy boots, all the same. Also a dark brown blazer with a yoke that ran the length of the shoulders, and contrasting tan slacks.

And one of those hats.

An American. Probably from Texas, thought Laura, or possibly Arizona, but quite unapologetic about it either way.

The man was in his fifties, with jet black hair and a strong build, and a surprised look on his face. Clearly, he had not been expecting to see someone like Laura.

He paused in the doorway; his eyes scanned quickly back and forth about the room, and when he had confirmed that there was only Laura, he gathered his bravado again and spoke.

He said, “I want to talk to the idiot here that's pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.”

Now that she heard the accent, Laura made her assessment more precise: a Texan. And an angry one at that.

“I'll handle it,” Laura said into the phone to Lois, “And then I have to be on my way. Don't forget about the leftovers.”

Laura hung up the phone.

Really, this should be easy. She never had any trouble with this type.

“Why, there's no one here like that at all,” she said as she closed up the last takeaway container. She said it with what in her mind was a pleasant American southern drawl. She couldn't help it; she was always trying to get her accents right, and the man's initial attitude warranted some sort of a comeback.

The Texan looked back at her suspiciously. “Are you messing with me?” he said.

“I've no idea what you mean,” she replied, now with no trace of any accent at all. Almost. “But in any case, there is no person here who pretends to be Sherlock Holmes. There never is. And even if there were, I'm afraid I just couldn't be of any help to you at all.”

She slurred those last three words together, and with just a bit of a twang, which made them sound, when run together, like a nautical term. She smiled just slightly when she did it.

Mistake. She saw the man take a moment, his eyes appraising her more fully now, and then she saw the look that crosses a man's face when he's shifting the agenda from business to sex.

“Oh, I don't know about that, ma'am,” he said with a quick grin.

In a flash, he'd gone from annoyed to randy.

Which meant that, as angry as he was, his stake in the matter—whatever the matter was—had its limits.

The Texan sat down at the linen-covered table. “Maybe we can talk about it over dinner? I'd suggest an Italian place that folks have been telling me about, but it looks like you're already set up.”

A lawyer, Laura concluded.

“And don't worry about this,” said the Texan, removing his Stetson. “It comes right off.”

“Now you're messing with me,” said Laura. “And I'm in no position to be messed with.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said the man. “I'll tell you why I'm here, then.”

“You aren't here to see me,” said Laura. “And I don't have the time in any event. You may leave your card, if you like.”

“As you wish,” he said. He stood and gave her a card from his wallet. Laura glanced at it.

Carl Stillman, J.D. Houston, TX.

Yes, a lawyer.

For a moment, the man was all business again. “You can give that to whoever needs to see it; I'll expect to hear from someone at this chambers, and I won't leave London until I do.”

And then he paused at the door. “Or,” he added, “you can use it yourself, at your convenience. In my book, there's no such thing as geographically undesirable.”

“Bye now,” said Laura.

Laura closed the door after Stillman left. Then she picked up the phone and got Lois on the interior line.

“I don't know what he wanted, but be sure he leaves,” she said. “And don't let him back in until Reggie returns.”

“Of course,” said Lois.

Laura hung up the phone. She looked about at the linen and trappings for the nice brunch she and Reggie had not quite enjoyed together. After all his preparation.

She sighed. Then she stepped into the corridor and shut the door to the chambers office.

She exited Dorset House on Baker Street and took a cab for Robert Buxton's headquarters at Tobacco Wharf.

12

Reggie had taken a cab from Baker Street; to find parking in any of the business streets in Piccadilly or Soho at almost any hour was always impossible.

The taxi drove down Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus, where four transportation arteries and the busiest tube stations in the city conspired to dump all manner of people, with all manner of purposes and destinations, into one bright square of neon lights. At any hour, Piccadilly was always filled with black cabs and roaring double-deckers, and a mass of humanity trying to dodge them all and get to Lillywhites, or the Criterion Theatre, or to the Boots pharmacy or the Burger King, or down the side streets that led to something more off-track in Soho. There was street construction under way, as there always was; Reggie had concluded long ago that the only purpose of it was to make the whole place more difficult to pass through, in the same way that department stores position display cases to block any direct route out of the store that might let you escape without a purchase. It was Piccadilly Circus. You were obliged to stop and buy something.

In front of the winged statue of Eros, the driver turned left onto Shaftesbury. Then the cab slowed as they passed the Trocadero, with its throngs and video-game arcades.

Now there were several narrow lanes, all of which ran for no more than a block or two, off the main commercial street and into the more specialized blocks of Soho. The businesses here were more cautiously and specifically lit, like courtesans, brightly enough to attract their clientele, but not so much as to annoy the mainstream establishments on the connecting streets.

On one of these lanes, the cab stopped at the entrance of an even narrower alleyway. Here there were deep shadows and no lights at the moment; nothing in this alley had a midmorning clientele.

Reggie got out and showed his identification to a young and skeptical officer standing in front of the fluorescent yellow crime-scene tape. It took several minutes of persuading, but finally the bobby called out over his shoulder to Detective Inspector Wembley—a fiftyish man, with the shoulders of a former boxer and a coat that was fitting too tightly with the passing years—who was huddled with another Scotland Yard professional over something in the interior of the alley.

Wembley looked up and waved Reggie in.

Reggie stepped over the tape and into the alley. The alley dead-ended at an eight-foot brick wall. Several feet in front of that wall was a Dumpster; at the perimeter of the small space obscured by the Dumpster were Wembley and a medical examiner.

On the near side of the Dumpster, an exterior set of stairs led to a purple door, closed at the moment, with a sign above it that identified the entrance to the Body Shop, a strip club.

As Reggie approached, Wembley stood and looked toward him expectantly, or accusingly—Reggie wasn't quite sure which.

Wembley shifted his position slightly to give Reggie just enough space to see what they had found.

Reggie looked down.

It was Mr. Liu, the old gentleman who had visited Reggie's office the day before.

The wisps of the old man's white hair were plastered against his head with blood. The collar and lapel of his gray coat were saturated with blood, as well; the hem of the coat was damp and soiled from a rain puddle and Dumpster muck. Altogether, the man's frame seemed to be even smaller now than when he had been in Reggie's office, and much too inconsequential in death.

Reggie wanted to turn away. “How was he found?” he asked. He took a moment to mentally focus before continuing. He looked back up the alley toward the street. The foot traffic was fifty yards away, and the body was partly obscured by the sides of the Dumpster. Then he added, “I would guess he could have been here for hours without being noticed.”

“He was,” said Wembley. “We didn't get a call until the cleaning crew showed up this morning for the strip club upstairs.”

“No one leaving the club saw him here when it closed?”

“Apparently not. But the light is poor, and he could have been missed on this side of the Dumpster. From a few yards out, all you see is an old coat on the ground. And the club employees leave by the front entrance when they close.”

The forensics examiner, a woman in her early forties, stood up now.

“I think you've got a four-hour window,” she said. “I'll get you details after I get him back to the lab, but my first guess is between eleven last night and three this morning. Step back, please?”

Reggie and Wembley moved back.

“My theory,” said Wembley, “is that he came here last night looking for some special Soho entertainment and got robbed. I rang you because he had this on him. Have anything to say about it?”

Wembley showed Reggie his Baker Street Chambers business card, already captured in a clear plastic bag.

“He came to my office yesterday,” said Reggie. And then, just out of tactical habit, he changed the subject instead of providing the details he knew Wembley wanted. “Did anyone see him inside the club?”

“Don't know yet, but we're going to check it out.” Wembley turned and gestured for the young officer to come over.

“Meachem,” said Wembley, “This is your lucky day. When the club opens, you get to interview the young ladies. I'd do it myself, but I'm just too damn busy.”

“Thank you, guv,” said Meachem. “I'll do my best.”

“I know you will,” said Wembley.

The officer went back to his position.

“Of course,” said Wembley to Reggie, “it's possible our victim never made it that far.”

“I agree, given the steep stairs,” said Reggie. “Although he might have done, if you gave him all evening to do it. From what I know of him, he was a very determined man. But I think he was a little old for this to have been his destination. Are you sure the body hasn't been moved?”

“Forensics is checking on that. But I don't accept your premise. You can't get too old for a good strip club,” said Wembley. “And the dancers are friendlier when they think you're harmless. Or so I hear.”

Reggie nodded. “They're most friendly when you have cash in your pocket. Or so I hear. Does he have a roll of five-pound notes in his pocket?”

“No. Just seventy-two pence in change.”

“Then either he was misinformed about how strip clubs work or the body was moved. Or perhaps he was in Piccadilly for some other reason.”

“Or he was robbed before he could get inside, as I said. His wallet is gone.”

“The man came all the way from Taiwan on a point of honor,” said Reggie. “It would surprise me if he'd been trying to spend his one evening here at a strip club.”

“Wouldn't surprise me a bit,” said Wembley. “But I'm guessing you know something you haven't told me.”

“He was doing some contract work, remotely, for someone here in London. Translating some mundane nursery rhyme twaddle. But he was having trouble getting paid.”

“And he consulted a barrister for that?”

Reggie shrugged. He wasn't about to tell Wembley that someone had come to him thinking he was Sherlock Holmes.

“Not everyone understands our clever division of labor between barristers and solicitors,” said Reggie. “He just needed a lawyer.”

“So what's your theory?”

“I don't have one yet. He did ask about going to see a show. And I don't mean the kind upstairs. There are theaters nearby; I suppose he might have taken the tube to see a stage play in Piccadilly, then got lost walking back afterward, and ended up here in Soho.”

“Maybe,” said Wembley. “The divine and the decadent do tend to be right next to each other in this part of the city. But I think
Mousetrap
is playing too far away for your theory, if that's the one he saw. Any other ideas?”

“Just one: He confronted his nonpaying client and got killed for his trouble.”

“And they chose an alley in Soho for their business meeting?”

“I can't explain the location. But it's not uncommon for remote workers to get stiffed. Happens a lot. The big companies just stonewall the smaller contractors and tell them to bugger off. Cases that come to me are much higher up the corporate food chain, of course. But it's an annoying sort of behavior, at any level.”

“I think you're making more of it than it is, Heath. But do you have a name for this nonpaying client?”

“When I get back to my office, I can send you both the name and the postal box address his employer was using.”

“Send it on, then.”

Wembley started to turn away.

Reggie hesitated, still staring down at Mr. Liu's body.

“Was there something else?” asked Wembley.

“No,” said Reggie.

“Step back, then. You'll hear from me if we have more questions.”

Reggie turned away and started back toward his cab.

At the entrance to the alley, just past the crime tape, Reggie stopped. The wind had blown a small slip of white paper into a rain puddle by the wall.

Nothing unusual about that. But the item looked relatively fresh. Reggie picked it up.

A receipt from a souvenir store. Cash purchase. And the change back was seventy-two pence—the same amount Mr. Liu had in his pocket.