Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [120]
I let him rant.
“John never believed a word of it, of course. But, you know, it’s fascinating that he was completely taken in by that whole fairy business a few years later, which is the most extraordinary thing. Of course those photographs were faked! A child could see it.”
“Sure,” I humored him.
“I’m of the opinion that images will provide our greatest deceptions in years to come. Imagine, a society that looks instead of thinks. Have you seen those ridiculous moving pictures supposedly based on my life? And I accused John of being lurid. And that actor is ridiculous. Imagine people thinking my nose is that big.”
“Edgecombe is about three blocks away.”
“Wonderful. Please stop the car here. We should walk the remaining few blocks.”
I circled around once and found a spot. When I helped the old man out, he wheezed deeply, leaning on his cane for support. His bones popped like a car backfiring.
We slowly made our way down to Edgecombe. The night was hot and damp, the mean streets slick and dangerous in the light mist. The old man would sometimes bump against my arm, and it was then that I could feel the lump of my .45 in its holster. It made me feel good.
I saw the house we wanted up ahead. “Stop. Landau is here.”
The old man was all attention. “How do you know?”
“That’s his car.” I pulled out a matchbook on which I had made a note of his plate number. The numbers on the black sedan matched. “Yeah, that’s his.”
“Capital,” the old man said. He let go of me and hobbled over to the car, moving faster than I expected. “Now, I understand you can lift the bonnet and disable it?”
It took five minutes to pull out the sparkplugs. “Capital. All of that stuff about bats is nonsense, you know. But, still, we should cut off all opportunities for escape.”
“What about bats?”
“Never mind. Let’s see if there is anything else here to be learned. Must you break the window to get inside of this thing, or can you pick the lock? My specialty is safes, and I’m afraid I’m a little rusty.”
I started working on the lock while the old man talked, something he liked doing a lot. “Of course, I have had a somewhat limited experience with motor cars, but I do believe that they can be invaluable to the logician. Don’t you agree? Fewer things offer more opportunities for deduction, except, of course, boot laces and belt buckles. Wrist watches will never be as instructive as pocket watches, I daresay, but they too have points of interest. Can I help you with that, young man?”
Fortunately the door opened and he shut up. The old man gingerly lowered himself into the driver’s seat and ran his hands along the wheel, reached into the ashtray, poked and prodded the door pockets. He pulled his pince-nez from under his vest and peered at the neighboring seat and then, to my surprise, sniffed it.
“Interesting,” he said, “and good news, as well.”
“What?”
“No blood. The contagion could not have gone very far. Possibly no farther than Landau. My friend is biding his time.”
“What contagion? And what friend? You said something before about renewing an acquaintance.”
He only smirked in reply and I called him an infuriating old bastard. He pretended not to hear. I helped him out of the car and traveled up to the brownstone. I reached for my lock pick, but the old man simply turned the door handle and let us in.
“He has nothing to be frightened of,” he said, stepping inside. “Of course, I doubt he knew that I was in America. Fascinating how these Continental types underestimate their foes. Rather like Herr Hitler, right? A ludicrous figure, of course, but never, never underestimate the incalculable damage one unstable personality can do.”
The hallway was dark. The old man took a pocket flashlight out of his coat and aimed it toward the living room. Like a lot of old houses, it had a high ceiling and lots