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

“Do you have photographs, at least?” Holmes asked.

“Of course.”

Greaves handed them over and Holmes inspected them. They’d not win prizes in any competition of the art. But they were perfectly clear representations of a man and a woman in their mid-twenties, lying sprawled out across the same small grassy area on which both detectives were now standing.

The deceased pair in the pictures could have been brother and sister. They both looked to be about the same height and build, and had healthy frames, suggesting they had exercised regularly. They were handsome in a rather artificial way, almost as if they’d been subjected to plastic surgery – at that age? And they both had short blond – practically golden – hair.

There was no damage to either of them that Holmes could make out. But both of them had their eyes closed, and their limbs were splayed at uncomfortable angles. And, presumably, they hadn’t moved a muscle the whole while the homicide squad and the forensics team had been at work around them. Not even when the coroner had thrust the hollow tip of his thermometer into their livers.

“Well, they certainly look dead,” the great detective grunted.

The lighted hills of San Francisco stretched away around him. Chinatown was filled with coloured neon, and the bay out past it glittered in the night. There was a touch of mistiness to the air which suggested that a thicker fog was on its way. Holmes’ gaze hovered for a short while on the famous bridges, before returning to the area around him.

They were at the very summit of Nob Hill, outside the high walls of one of its few remaining mansions. This one, in fact, belonged to Joel McMartin, founder and proprietor of a supermarket newssheet called the International Inquisitor . And Holmes had come across this particular rag several times during his travels across the United States.

It was the kind of publication he could scarcely believe anyone would purchase, and yet it sold by the million, every week. The ‘news’ stories it carried were scarcely deserving of that name. There were lurid tales of scandal centred round this nation’s thousands of celebrities. Allegations of satanic ritual in its quiet and pleasant suburbs. Photographs of flying saucers and two-headed babies, obviously doctored. True confessions of the most bizarre, appalling nature.

Back in his day, Holmes had considered the crude fiction of the ‘penny dreadfuls’ bad enough. But … some people believed this claptrap?

Apparently so, because he’d already taken a glance at this mansion through the gates when he had first arrived, and it was enormous and splendid. There were a Rolls Royce and several Italian sports cars parked out on the forecourt.

The people from the north of his own country had been right when they said, ‘Where there’s muck, there’s brass.’ It meant ‘where there’s trash, there’s money.’ And here was the clear evidence of that.

The surrounding walls were at least ten feet tall. And there were clear signs, scuffmarks and such, that the pair had been attempting to scale it.

But for what purpose? What could they possibly hope to have achieved? No weapons had been found on them. No implements of any kind. McMartin, his wife and their one child had been inside the mansion at the time of the event, certainly. But the place had four security staff, all of them armed and one of them handling a German Shepherd. So if this pair had intended doing any harm, they’d not have got too far.

“You’ve no slightest idea who they were?” Holmes asked.

Greaves clucked his tongue again.

“Not so much as a tram ticket was found on either of them, much less any serious kind of identification. In fact, Mr Holmes, their pockets were completely empty.”

Holmes glanced back at the small wad of photos. Both of the would-be intruders were identically dressed in dark, casual, lightweight-looking suits.

“That’s unusual in itself, in this day and age,” he pointed out

He rummaged through one of his own pockets to prove the point. There were coins in it, pens, receipts, his hotel key card. All the generalised detritus of modern-day living.

“So they came here stripped of anything that might have told us who they were. I have been through several wars, lieutenant. And do you know what that fact speaks of to me?”

Alden nodded. “Espionage of some kind. But what kind? What the hell were they doing here , of all places? And who would kill them?”

McMartin and his personnel – indeed, the entire staff inside this place – had already been interviewed. And none of them – if they were to be believed – had been the slightest bit aware that anything was going on outside the mansion. Holmes could see no reason why they might be lying. The plain truth of the matter was that none of the details of this case made any genuine sense.

He stared out again at the city. In the few days he had been here, he had come to like it very much. It had far more of a European feel than most of the metropolises on this great continent, a rather cultured air about it.

The mist had already grown a little thicker, making the cityscape look just a shade unreal. The gleaming towers rearing out of it, the hills like sleeping dragons and the nearness of the sea … this was a lovely place, and yet potentially a strange one. All types of bizarre things, Holmes believed, could happen here.

“No bodies,” he mused, almost to himself. “No identities. Very little evidence of any kind. There is something that we must do straight away, lieutenant.”

“Being what, precisely?” Greaves asked.

“We must wait and see what happens next.”

Holmes could not shake off the feeling he was being watched next morning, when he emerged from his hotel down near Union Square. Trying to keep his demeanor casual, he cast his gaze around, attempting to discern if anyone was really looking at him.

It was a pleasant, normal day, people hurrying past him on their way to work, a couple jogging and a youth rattling by on a skateboard. No one appeared to be paying him any serious attention. That is, until his gaze swung over to the doorway to his left.

A ragged man was standing up and coming out from it. He’d obviously been sitting on the porch. And Holmes sighed inwardly as the fellow closed in on him. Here was one aspect of this city he’d come to dislike.

“Hey, buddy?” A grimy hand was thrust out at him. “Spare some change for somebody who’s fallen on hard times?”

The colloquial term for men like this was ‘panhandlers’. And Holmes had never encountered quite so many of them till he’d arrived in San Francisco. They congregated particularly around this area, and were extraordinarily persistent.

He waved a hand and then attempted a polite excuse. Tried to walk away. But the ragged chap was having none of it. He actually blocked Holmes’ way.

“Down on my luck, that’s all I am. I’m not a wino or an addict. Trying to get myself back on my feet, pal. Won’t you do a fellow human being a favour?”

Except that there was a bottle in the beggar’s pocket. Holmes could see its outline clearly. And he doubted that it contained water. This whole diatribe was part of a well-practised patter, designed to weasel on his sympathy and extract some money from him.

Holmes finally started walking, feeling vaguely embarrassed as he did so. But the vagrant followed him along.

“I’m not asking for much, my friend. A buck or two is all. Fifty cents? Just to put some food in my belly, man. I’m trying to find a job, so won’t you help me out till then?”

And in the end, it was too much for even the great detective. Holmes sighed, thrust a hand into his pocket and produced two dollar bills. The panhandler grinned, snatching them away as if he genuinely was due them. He was moving off in the next second, without so much as a glance back or a ‘thank you’.