Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

And then flung himself through it, into thin air.

At the same moment, he yanked at a strap depending from the backpack he was wearing. It was some kind of ripcord, Penchit presumed. There was a parachute in there – so the man was not suicidal.

But a parachute would only carry him downwards, whereas the murderer was headed up.

And then Penchit’s mouth dropped so wide open, if you saw it you’d believe that it would never close again.

It was no great swath of fabric that came sailing from the backpack. It was silvery instead, and blossomed instantly into a massive inverse onion shape.

“Good heavens!” the inspector gasped. “It is some kind of … helium-filled balloon!”

No sooner had those words left his lips than the great detective disappeared from view. And like the culprit, he was heading upward.

The city lurched and swayed underneath Holmes. Kuala Lumpur Central Park was reduced to a postage stamp. There was a slight feeling of nausea in his gut, but otherwise it was a perfectly exhilarating sensation. He was brother to the bird up here. The passing breezes were his friends. He looked down, could see Penchit’s glasses winking up at him. Then he moved his attention higher.

Suvu was no longer visible. He might have travelled around to the far side of the tower, but Holmes thought not. Above him was the crossbar section that linked the two towers. And that was the natural place for such a creature to seek refuge.

The helium balloon tugged at him, carrying him higher. Within less than a minute, he was level with the skybridge. But not over it. This contraption he had cobbled up could not be steered, but Holmes had already considered that.

From underneath his jacket, he produced a different kind of pistol to the one that he had brandished yesterday evening. It was smaller, lighter, spring-loaded, and its ammunition was not bullets but a short pole with a rubber plunger at the top. He aimed and fired. There was a sharp snapping noise as the spring inside uncoiled. The plunger slammed into the roof and stayed there, held by suction. A length of sturdy yarn stretched from it, all the way back to the gun.

And using that, Holmes towed himself along till he’d reached terra firma, or what counted for it way up here. This was the forty-second storey of the building, he already knew. He slipped the backpack from his shoulders and the silver balloon went spiralling away.

Holmes stared around, his instincts baffled. There was still no sign of Suvu, so could he be wrong? He walked as close as he was able to the edge, but then, finding nothing there, turned the other way.

When he heard the sudden scuttling behind him, the detective realised his mistake … too late! The culprit had been off in that direction after all. He had been simply clinging out of sight much further down the wall of the skybridge, still defying gravity.

Holmes tried to wheel around again, but there was not the time. He felt elbows slam against his shoulder blades. The impact sent him sprawling.

Suvu was all over him next instant, those adhesive fingers clawing at his face. It felt to Holmes like they were trying to rip the very flesh from his skull. He tried to struggle back, but was at a massive disadvantage.

And then the man had an arm around his windpipe, and was trying to choke him.

And all the time, he was hollering, “You killed my god! Now I can never go back to my people!”

Holmes felt himself beginning to black out. The man was preternaturally strong. He tried to slam one of his own elbows into the fellow’s face, but Suvu was too fast for that.

The rubber plunger was nearby, with the length of yarn and the pistol still dangling from it. The detective had a thought. He’d not needed to use it, but there was a winding mechanism fitted inside the device, in case he’d not had the ability to employ both his hands. It would have reeled him in if he was unable to do that by himself, in other words. But Holmes could see that it might have another use.

He reached out and detached the plunger. Then he twisted around as far as he was able, and slammed it over one of Suvu’s bulging reptilian eyes. It attached itself with a sucking sound. The murderer wailed, more out of fright than pain, and began clawing at it, trying to get it off.

His grip on Holmes loosened.

And the great detective took full advantage of that, getting both of his hands free and making a loop from the length of yarn.

He slipped that around Suvu’s neck

And then he engaged the winding mechanism.

Which immediately began to draw the cord in, throttling the man. He let go of Holmes completely and went staggering back, clawing at the pressure round his throat, his whole face turning purple.

Holmes was able to roll over on his side and draw in a few gulps of oxygen. Then he lifted himself on his arms, to watch what he supposed would be the murderer’s demise.

He had not counted on the man’s unnatural strength. Suvu was part lizard, and wild creatures – even those kind – are far stronger proportionally than humans.

He managed to get several narrow fingers underneath the cord. And tugged at it until it broke.

An awful rattling noise emerged from his larynx. A normal human being might have fallen to his knees. But Suvu’s reserves were extraordinary. Almost as soon as he had worked himself loose, he charged at Holmes again.

The great detective – among other things in his very long lifetime – had trained with the monks of a Shaolin temple for a while. And knew from them that you did not need to be standing to put up a fight. This roof that he was sprawled out on was good and smooth.

Holmes powered himself forward with his arms, meeting the attack full on. And as soon as Suvu was in range, he drew a knee back, and then slammed his foot as hard as he could into the villain’s chest.

The impact lifted Suvu up into the air.

And they were so close to the precipice that when he started falling again … there was no edge left.

Holmes watched and listened sombrely until the dwindling, howling figure disappeared from view. He only looked around again when he heard his own name being called.

Inspector Penchit and his uniformed men had reached this level, had prised open another window and were calling to him, gesturing. The great detective took a last glance down, then clambered to his feet and walked calmly towards them.

“That is it, then?” Penchit asked, helping his guest inside.

“He chose the wrong lizard to worship,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “If he’d opted instead for draco indochinensis , the Southeast Asian Arboreal Flying Lizard, then he might have survived.”

It was intended as a joke. He did not often make them, and felt faintly peeved when no one smiled.

“We saw the whole thing. Did I hear it right? Was Suvu actually shouting out that he could never go back to his people?”

“It was the kind of thing that people say in moments of inflamed emotion, since the truth is that he never wanted to. He wished to live as a normal human being, albeit a wealthy one.”

“But for how long could that even have been possible?” Penchit hissed. “I mean, he managed to fool his employers for a couple of months, but a whole lifetime? He must have known that eventually the truth would have come out.”

“We all carry strange yearnings in us,” Holmes sighed, “many of them utterly improbable.”

“The bodies disappeared, you say?”

“That’s right, sir. They were examined at the scene, then tagged and bagged and loaded into the coroner’s wagon. Except, when they reached the other end, the body bags were empty. Both corpses had vanished.”

Lieutenant Alden Greaves was a tall, thin man with silver at his temples and a rather dry and pensive manner. He had the slightly irritating habit, too, of clucking his tongue whenever he was thinking, and he did so now.