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

“That’s me done. Drinks for everyone,” he whispered to the man.

“That’s me done! Drinks for everyone!” Fred bellowed, to the cheers and applause of the crowd.

Holmes allowed a distance of several yards to grow between himself and Fred as they headed for the bar. He was still an observer to this milieu, and would only become an active participant once that he was certain that he had his felons. Drinks were mixed and passed around. The great detective found himself engaged in conversation with a claims adjuster from Birmingham, Alabama, but kept most of his attention fixed on what was going on around him.

The barkeeper had been absolutely right. The Oriental woman did not close in immediately on her target. Rather, she hung about the edges of the man’s personal space, casting sideways glances in his direction. There seemed to be some large item of jewellery underneath her black blouse; Holmes could see the bulge it made. Why did she not have it on display, like all the other women present?

And one time, when she dipped her head, her collar shifted and Holmes thought he caught a glimpse of a scar. He had no idea what that signified.

It was too much of a coincidence that she had happened to be in the Paris at the same time Fred began his winning streak, which told Holmes that his notion about multiple miscreants had been absolutely right. There had to be eyes everywhere, spies in most of the casinos, looking out for situations such as this. In which case, how large a criminal conspiracy was this? But the detective could make out nobody who might be a confederate.

The Oriental woman reached across and lightly touched Fred’s arm. Holmes excused himself politely, wandering away to a spot in the bar where he could continue to observe without himself being noticed.

The woman engaged Fred in conversation. Holmes could see immediately that she had the talents of a clever, subtle courtesan. She made a little joke, at which Fred smiled. And then, when he made one himself, she burst into uproarious laughter, pretending she needed to hold onto his forearm to support herself.

Her hand had moved to his shoulder a minute after that. And a while later, she was no longer addressing Fred’s face, but murmuring in his ear.

Holmes saw him nod.

The curious thing was, the man had been forgotten by the others by this time. He had been the centre of attention when he had been winning. But the fickle interest of this crowd had already moved on to other subjects. He had become all but invisible. That was how the victims had been spirited away from such busy venues. The mental inexactness of the common herd, its ability to be distracted so easily, never ceased to amaze Holmes, or appal him.

Fred and the woman started ambling towards the exit. The detective followed, taking great care not to close the gap.

Which turned out to be one of the worst mistakes that he had ever made. Just as the couple reached the Strip, some coaches out front began disgorging their passengers. They were elderly to the last. And the sidewalk became immediately snarled up with arthritic doddering and Zimmer frames. Trying to get past without bowling over some frail octogenarian became an almost impossible challenge. Holmes watched desperately as the two figures dwindled away from him. And, as soon as he found a passage through, he ran in their direction.

He was just in time to see the couple reach a corner and a van pull up. The rear doors were flung open. And – as though on some invisible cue – a group of people, maybe eight of them, detached themselves from the passers-by and surrounded Bonner, shielding him from view.

He was bundled into the van. The others followed him inside. The doors slammed shut. The Oriental woman climbed in by the driver, shouting something. And the vehicle roared away.

Holmes, who had his revolver half-drawn, watched it disappear. The only thing he could do now was call Lieutenant Capaldi and instigate a search.

Except he had still not got used to the maintenance of mobile phones, and the battery in his was flat.

“It’s my fault,” he was murmuring at dawn the next morning. “Poor, poor Fred.”

The desert sprawled around them, the temperature of its air already rising. Fred Bonner was lying in his boxers near the foot of a massive saguaro cactus, his skin so robbed of colour that it might be alabaster.

“No use blaming yourself,” said Vince Capaldi. “Wasn’t you that killed him.”

“Wasn’t it?” the great detective barked back angrily. “I should never have used an unwitting man as an instrument of such deception. No, I should have played the role myself!”

“In which case, you’d be lying here, and we’d be no closer to solving this. You say, apart from the Oriental woman, all the rest were ordinary-looking?”

That was not exactly what he’d said. Holmes recalled his brief glimpse of the people who’d abducted Bonner. There’d been nothing outstanding about them, certainly. But they all shared a quality that he had previously perceived in the casino.

They’d been cheaply dressed, their faces drawn. Their brows had been furrowed, their eyes squinting, like they were unaccustomed to the natural outdoor light. Some of them had been sporting pale bands of skin at their wrists where watches had once snuggled. They were, in short, the same kind of gambling addicts Holmes had mentally remarked on in the Paris.

Guilt gnawed at him on the ride back into town. Did Bonner have a family? He did not even know. But finally, a fresh sense of resolve gripped the detective. This terrible death would not be in vain. He would solve the case for Fred’s sake!

Capaldi dropped him off at his hotel. And Holmes, as soon as he was in his room, pulled on a new disguise. An old shirt, which he rumpled up before slipping into. A pair of grey nylon trousers and some old brown shoes. He took his wristwatch off and put it in a drawer. And mussed his hair up in the mirror before taking a wad of cash from the safe and going out.

At the Luxor, he converted the entire sum into chips. Then he went across to the blackjack tables and sat down. And deliberately proceeded to lose every single hand over the next two hours.

Were there eyes on him? He thought yes. Holmes could feel his neck prickling as the cards were dealt, but did not look around.

When practically all his chips were gone, he stood up with a defeated sigh, wandered over to the bar area and ordered a straight scotch.

He was careful to sit round-shouldered, and feigned a melancholy air. A shabby, grey-haired woman eased herself onto the barstool next to his.

“Down on your luck, huh?”

Her tones revealed her as a Brooklynite. Holmes affected not merely an American accent but a convincing Deep South drawl when he answered her.

“Ma savings are all gone. Ma daughter’s college fund. Cain’t even afford a ticket home. What in the Lord’s name am I gonna do?”

A look of understanding filled the woman’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Try this place.”

She handed him a card. It read ‘The House of Good Fortune’ and gave an address, but nothing more.

Holmes frowned. “A-nother casino?”

“Nah, not a gaming house. A house of worship.”

He squinted at her. “How’s that gonna help?”

“If you join in …” and the woman’s lips pursed deviously, “… it might just change your luck a little. Don’t take my word for it, son. Come and see for yourself. Directly after sundown, tonight.”

She was gone from the stool the next instant, with a nimbleness that belied her age.

Holmes was left with hours to kill. Ought he call in the police? But if, as he had already decided, this city was laced with underground informants, then the sudden emergence of conventional law officers might give the game away. Forewarned, the perpetrators might escape. No, he had got this far by himself. So he would have to carry it the rest of the way.