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

“Then why are his pupils so dilated?”

That was the main question he needed the answer to. But Sherlock Holmes knew he’d not find it here.

He managed to give van Heuten the slip by feigning tiredness and asking to be taken back to his hotel, which was not all that far from Rokin. But as soon as the inspector’s car had disappeared, Holmes ventured out again.

Evening was beginning to fall across the great, flat city, adding to the place’s atmosphere. Holmes had visited many national capitals, but had never come across one with such a relaxed ambience as Amsterdam possessed. There was not the frenzied bustle here that you found in New York and Hong Kong, nor the short-tempered impatience that you encountered in London, nor the aloof attitudes you came across in Paris. People here were generally calm and amiable, going about their business at a casual pace. The weather had been mild all day, and many of this city’s denizens were seated at the outdoor tables of cafés, enjoying a coffee or a beer and chatting with their neighbours. Bicycles whizzed by, their bells occasionally clanging. In the distance, he could see a flower vendor’s stall, and he could hear a barrel organ ringing out from some direction. There was a slightly ‘Old World’ feeling to the whole milieu, and he suspected he could live quite comfortably in such a place.

But then the canal, Rokin, came in sight, and he was forcibly reminded of the fate of Pieter Hoek and all the rest. It was a wide canal, its water black as tar. A few bubbles came rippling to its surface as he watched, and he momentarily wondered if there might be anything alive down there.

Except that was a fantasy that he immediately suppressed. The real solution had to have a good deal more to do with basic human nature.

All the victims had been men, middle-aged or older. All of them respectable, and all but one in a long marriage. That brought certain facts to mind back from his own Victorian times.

When he lifted his head and peered in front of him, it was the edges of the Red Light District he was looking at, except you couldn’t even tell it from this distance, since it kept its business to itself. It was probably the very oldest part of this whole city, since the walls of its high, closely gathered houses were far more begrimed with soot than those behind him. They reminded him almost of the tenements of Whitechapel, and when he approached them Holmes could feel the faintest thrill of long-remembered dread.

Finding his way across the canal, he headed down a narrow, cobbled street, only to be mildly disappointed. There was not any evidence of the world’s oldest trade round here. He was surrounded with souvenir shops, ‘coffeeshops’ – the stench of hemp and hashish wafting from them – and kebab parlours.

But then he reached the corner of the block, looked to his left, and his perspective altered. Here was the precise type of avenue that he’d been on the search for.

It was called Warmoesstraat, and had another canal – narrower than Rokin but entirely as black – down its direct centre, so that its sidewalk doubled as a towpath. There was a massive row of black bicycles parked along the nearest section of the kerb. But beyond those, he could see faint red lights.

And here – rather unfairly, to Holmes’ way of thinking – was the second thing this fine and charming old city was famous for worldwide. Why not focus on the beauty of the place, its lovely, laid-back atmosphere? But nothing captured the imagination of the general public quite so much as sex.

It could be had here quickly, easily, and for a reasonable tariff. But Holmes started to become rather unhappy and perturbed as he made his way past lit-up windows, each with a single occupant at its centre. Back in Whitechapel, in the olden days, women such as these had offered themselves openly, for sure. There had been certain streets you couldn’t walk along without being accosted. But at least they’d kept their clothes on which, in Amsterdam, was not the case.

They were in their underwear, for heaven’s sake. Which, to Holmes’ mind, was practically the same as being naked. He had been made uneasy in this way before, observing female sunbathers in their bikinis on the Caribbean isle of Santa Augustina. But whereas they had merely dressed that way for comfort, these women were … his fuddled brain searched furiously for the right way to describe it … they were advertising the wares they were selling. He had not expected anything like this, and felt dismayed.

Before he had even walked another block, he drew to a halt and lowered his head. And the following inner dialogue commenced:

Do you want to solve this case or not?

Of course you do, so pull yourself together. The world has changed massively since the olden days, and you are well aware of that. People are more open, nay, more shameless than they used to be, and you have to accept it.

Get a grip, man! These are only human bodies you are looking at. So calm down now and control yourself. Use some of those mind techniques you learned in the Far East.

Which was how the world’s greatest detective wound up in the heart of the most famous red light zone in all of Europe, breathing from his abdomen and chanting ‘Om’ under his breath. He kept on at it till his thoughts were placid and his heartbeat had decreased.

When he finally raised his head again, a strapping brunette in the filmiest of lacy lingerie was staring at him through the nearest window. She smiled when his gaze met hers, and then she raised a hand and crooked her index finger.

“You’re English?” she asked him when he came in through the door. “I’m sure you are, since I can always tell.”

And she began to pull the heavy velvet curtains at the window shut.

“There’s no need for that,” Holmes told her briskly.

She stared at him across one shoulder with an eyebrow raised.

“An exhibitionist, huh? I get a lot of that, but if the police come along they’ll bust me.”

Holmes felt himself starting to panic all over again.

“I’m not here for anything the least like that.”

“Anything like what? You haven’t told me what you want yet.”

And she completed the job of shutting the curtains.

Barely in time, Holmes remembered the photos in his jacket pocket. He had obtained them from van Heuten before they had parted. So he yanked them out, a batch of half a dozen.

“Do you want to look at porn with me?” the woman asked him.

“Good Lord, madam!” was Holmes’ furious response. “Is that all you ever think about?”

She looked perplexed and rather wary, and he saw that he had gone too far.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you,” he explained, lifting up the palm of his free hand to calm her. “But I am not here for any business of that nature. I was simply wondering if you knew any of these men.”

And he held the photos out towards her, but her eyebrows bobbed again.

“You a cop, then?”

“No, madam, I am Sherlock Holmes.”

At which a large and knowing, cheeky grin lit up her pleasant face.

“If that’s the game you want to play, then I’m okay. You want me to be Mrs Hudson, I suppose? But it will still be sixty euros.”

Sixty euros! Sixty euros to be told precisely nothing! She had looked at all the faces he had shown her, and had not recognised a single one of them. But she had kept the money all the same. If he kept on this way down this entire street, then he would be severely out of pocket!

But at the next window that he stopped before, its occupant was not so bold. She listened to what he had to ask her, but then told him, “You want Roxie, six more windows down. She knows everything that happens on this street, and everyone who comes here.”