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

He knew the man was real. But Lieutenant Vince Capaldi could scarcely believe it. That famous narrow face, framed against the background of a hotel window, with its hooked nose and its very watchful eyes.

“My God,” he breathed. “You can’t have aged a day since Victorian times.”

Holmes nodded.

“So you really are immortal?”

“I found it out after the Reichenbach Falls, when I suddenly returned to life with no sensible explanation. A definite case in point, Lieutenant …” and the great detective favoured him with a quirky half-smile“… of the last remaining solution to a puzzle, however improbable, being the correct one. I never thought that I would turn out to be the most striking example of that adage.

“And now,” he went on quickly, “what is this murder you have come to me about?”

Capaldi’s eyes widened. “I never said anything about any—”

“You have been wearing tight latex gloves recently,” Holmes pointed out. “I doubt that you would do that for a mugging. There is a smear of luminol on the edge of your left shoe – a substance for detecting blood. And the gravity of your expression speaks of no lesser a crime than murder most foul.

“In fact,” he continued before the policeman could break in, “I would hazard you have come to me about a fourth in the series of killings that began last week. I’ve naturally been following them on the TV news and in the press. And let me hazard at something else. Something you have contrived to keep from the newshounds and the general public. All the victims so far have been completely drained of their vital essence.”

The colour disappeared from the lieutenant’s features, his mouth falling open.

“Luminol, my good fellow, is used to find mere trace elements of blood. And so why would you use it around a freshly murdered human corpse except to discern if there was any blood at all?”

When he saw that he had rendered the man speechless, Holmes allowed himself another little smile.

“You’re as bad as Lestrade,” he commented. “You mean well, but you do not really think.”

Then he encouraged his visitor to bring him up to date on the whole situation.

Stammering, Capaldi tried to get his thoughts together. He went over what had happened to the first victim – a certain Harriet Ellison, of Boise, Idaho, who was still fresh in his memory. She had won a massive jackpot from a slot machine ten days ago. Been photographed with her reward, and then become surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on with whom she had been partying. Halfway through the evening, she had headed off to the restrooms, only to mysteriously vanish. Her corpse, clad merely in its underwear, had been found in the desert on the edge of town next morning.

Lawrence Mark of Trenton, New Jersey had been the next one. And his case followed the same pattern. After a huge run of luck at the craps tables, he had disappeared, only for it to prove that he had suffered the same fate.

Daniel Besset of Oxford, Maryland, had been the third. He had recently won sixty thousand dollars by means of his skill at Texas Hold’em.

This much, Sherlock Holmes already knew.

“And the last?” he prompted.

“Just this morning. Hasn’t even made the papers yet. Kyle Monoghan from Boston.”

“And he had won at?”

“Blackjack. According to the witnesses, it was a pretty amazing run of luck.”

“Do you have a picture of the fellow?” Holmes enquired calmly.

Capaldi was aware of the detective’s reputation, and had come prepared. He took a glossy photo from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it over. Watched with quiet awe as Holmes studied the thing. It had been taken at the crime scene, Monoghan sprawled out in the desert dirt.

One of Holmes’ narrow eyebrows lifted just a touch, but that was all.

“Let me make sure that I have got this straight. Nothing whatsoever connects the victims, not in terms of gender, age, hometown, occupation or ethnicity. They were not even kidnapped from the same casino. The single thing that does connect them is that Lady Luck smiled on them beneficently shortly before they met their fate.”

“That’s right.”

“And were their winnings taken?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Every time.”

“Which would mark these cases as a simple string of murder-robberies. Except that …”

Each of the victims had been stripped practically naked. And been drained completely of their blood, by means of punctures at the throat and wrists. They’d already established that.

“My guys are calling them ‘The Vampire Killings’,” Capaldi let slip.

“There are no such creatures,” Holmes assured him. “Reports that have tried to pit me against Mr Stoker’s Transylvanian count are much exaggerated.”

Then he paused for a few moments, lost in thought.

“Very well, then. I shall take the case. But I’ll require a fee.”

“My chief has already okayed it.”

Holmes grunted approvingly before turning his attention from Capaldi to the scene beyond his window. The flashing lights, the dreamlike outlines of the different hotels, the churning throng on the sidewalks below.

“Just out of interest, Mr Holmes,” he heard Capaldi venture, “what exactly do you think of Vegas?”

“Even by the standards of modern day America …” and the great detective lowered his tone, aware that honesty required being rude, “… it is utterly preposterous.”

Holmes wove through the dense crowds on the Strip. The heat and noise seemed to lash at him like whips. He missed London. He missed his flat over Baker Street. And most of all, he missed Watson, although that final emotion was tinged, as ever, with a faint colouring of guilt. The poor old fellow had finally succumbed to a pulmonary canker. And had voluminous doses of secondary pipe-smoke been the cause of that?

Holmes was in disguise, realising his normal garb would draw too much attention to himself. He needed to blend in. And so he had on a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, canvas shoes, a beige baseball cap and a pair of chinos. It was the best compromise that he could manage. He would rather die a hundred deaths than resort to jeans or shorts.

He had come here for two reasons only. First, to see the place with his own eyes. And secondly, to visit Star Trek: the Experience . He had become a devotee of the original show and its movie spin-offs, since he felt a great affinity with the character called Mr Spock.

And he’d intended to spend two or three days here at the very most. But then the murders had begun – he had immediately suspected his assistance might be called upon. In fact, he had already been making some enquiries of his own.

Most of the people around him were tourists, here for the shows, the restaurants and bars, the dolphins and white tigers and only a little flutter on the side. They interested him not a jot. At the heart of this case lay gambling in the serious sense and the caprices of fortune; he was utterly certain of it. That commodity could be found in any place here, any time of day and night. This was a town where the game was constantly afoot.

He headed for the Paris, the setting of Kyle Monoghan’s triumph and the last place that he had been seen. There was one thing Holmes was convinced of: whoever was behind this, there were more than one of them. Harriet Ellison could have been abducted by a single individual. And Daniel Besset had been elderly and slightly built. But Monoghan and Lawrence Mark were both robust and burly. No drugs had been found in the toxicology, so there were at least two murderers involved.