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

Feeling pretty certain that this trio would not hurt him – Holmes stepped forward quietly.

“Can you understand what I am saying?” he asked them.

The one who was obviously the leader nodded.

“You are from a clan of the Lenape people, yes?”

The response was the same.

“I mean you no harm,” Holmes advised them. “And I obviously cannot stop you doing what you want. But it would satisfy my curiosity if we discussed this for a while. Is that agreeable to you?”

The man he was addressing nodded once again.

It was dawn when Mary Ascento walked into Sherlock Holmes’ hotel. He had phoned her, and was waiting in the lobby.

The lieutenant looked not only tired but mightily put out, her face nearly bloodless and her dark eyes blazing.

“What the hell have you been up to?” she demanded. “I’ve been working all night. What have you been doing?”

“Conversing, for the most part,” Holmes informed her, selecting a comfortable armchair and setting himself down in it.

Mary did not follow suit. She put both her fists on her hips.

“Conversing with who?”

“The culprits,” Holmes informed her mildly.

The woman practically exploded.

“Who are where, exactly?”

Holmes could only shrug.

“Nowhere you could ever get at them, I’m afraid.”

“So all that priceless stuff is gone?”

“Yes. The Mazziristan Orb included.”

“But who’s responsible?”

Holmes smiled quietly to himself and tented his fingertips beneath his chin.

“My first clue,” he explained to the distressed lieutenant, “was when I realised that no living people could have got into either the Vanderbruck apartment or the vault at Willem’s in the way they did. And so, if not a living man, it had to be a dead one. More likely several. My second clue lay in the names of all the victims. Not merely Vanderbruck and Willem, but Pieders and Van Engrim too. All of them of Dutch origin. Which goes directly to motive.”

When he saw how bewildered poor Ascento was becoming, his smile grew a little broader.

“Why, detective, I’m surprised at you,” he said. “I took you, by your accent and your manner, to be a native New Yorker. And surely you must have heard this piece of local folklore … how Manhattan was obtained in the first place?”

The woman started looking at him as though quite convinced that he was going mad, so Holmes continued quickly.

“It was purchased from the Lenape people by a group of Dutch settlers led by a certain Peter Minuit. And if the stories are to be believed, the payment made for this whole island was a pile of shiny trinkets, baubles and bolts of cloth that amounted to a cash value of sixty gilders. About twenty-four dollars. For one of the most valuable areas of real estate on the face of this planet. Don’t you see?”

When Mary became totally blank, Holmes shook his head wearily.

“It is indisputably the case that the Lenape were cheated. That knowledge must have weighed down on them very heavily during their sojourn in the spirit world.”

And then he got back to his feet again, for dramatic effect as much as anything else.

“So they’ve returned. And they are finally exacting proper payment.”

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the terrace of his grand hotel, sipping at yet another pina colada, enjoying the sunshine and the view, when he noticed the formally dressed Chinese man walking steadily towards him.

Hong Kong whirred and racketed around them. The tall skyscrapers caught the light and gleamed, as did the spread of water out in front of him. A jetliner went overhead, coming in to land. A pair of the famous Star Ferries were plying the bay, one of them heading outward to Kowloon Peninsula, the other coming back this way.

The great detective had not felt quite so comfortable for many years. He loved this fascinating town, but there was more than that. The water he was perched above was Victoria Harbour. The mountain behind him was Victoria Peak. Not far from here was a large, lovely stretch of parkland called Victoria Park, which had a statue of the great lady herself. He had finally arrived in a part of the world where the glories of his age were not forgotten, and Holmes couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t come here sooner.

The man stopped in front of his table. Holmes looked him quickly up and down. Mid- to late-sixties. Thin and slightly haggard, but from overwork rather than malnourishment. A plain charcoal suit. A plain white shirt. But those shoes, if he was not mistaken, were handmade by Capaveldi of Milan. His interest was slightly piqued.

“Mr Holmes, may I introduce myself? I am Simon Pang. Would it be any trouble if I joined you for a minute?”

And this was not merely an admirer. The man had a rather anxious air, which he was trying to hide.

Holmes nodded his assent, and then continued watching the fellow carefully as he sat down, taking note of the way he ran a hand across his brow, the way he rearranged his cuffs. The great detective soaked in every detail.

Simon Pang brushed his hands together quickly. “Could I tell you a little about myself?”

“Certainly not. I’ll tell you.” And Holmes smiled broadly. “You are a wealthy man, but from humble origins, and you never let yourself forget that fact. There are old scars on your palms that speak of heavy manual labour far back in your past. Your hair is expensively barbered and your fingernails immaculately manicured, yet you tend to fiddle with them. Your clothing is tailor-made and of the finest cloth, but you have allowed not the slightest touch of ostentation to it. Your wristwatch is worth about a thousand dollars; by your wardrobe, you could afford something considerably more pricey, but have opted against it.

“You are a good Christian man,” the detective continued. “Most Hong Kong Chinese, on converting to that faith, take on a Western first name. Hence the Simon. And your manner and your bearing are reminiscent of a devout man in church. I’d say you’ve made your wealth …”

And Holmes paused for a bare couple of seconds.

“… from shipping. When you first approached me, I noticed something of the mariner to your gait. And your watch – yes, the watch again – displays time zones from right across the globe, so that you are able to keep track of where your cargoes are.”

Then he settled back into his chair, taking a quiet delight in Mr Pang’s awed expression.

“I was in the merchant navy for twenty years before I set up on my own,” the man admitted. “All the stories that I’ve heard about you appear to be true. I’m very much impressed.”

Holmes waved a hand idly. “No need to be. Simple deduction, that is all. And can I tell you something else?”

Pang waited.

“You have not come to me for fear of your own safety,” Holmes finished up. “Believing in eventual paradise as you do, you’re not afraid of death. But you are afraid for other people. I can see it in your eyes.”

“It started a couple of months ago.”

Pang leant across the table, his gaze boring into Holmes’. A waiter had come across by this time, and there was a tall glass of club soda fizzing at the fellow’s elbow.

“My docks are over to the south. They are active twenty-four hours a day. But it is always the night shift that is attacked.”

He went on to explain. New freighters came in every night. His men would be busy unloading their cargoes. Cranes would whirr. Sinews would heave. A normal working night down at the dockyards. But almost every week so far, at some point in the proceedings, one of his people would go off on some task that separated him from the rest.