Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [107]
Coincidence, or deliberate? Watson's information could easily lead to the first conclusion: an old foe who boarded the ship, happened to spot Holmes before he saw her, and spent the rest of the voyage hiding in her cabin, leaving the ship at the first possible opportunity—though not without first making an attempt at murder-by-balcony. If that was right, the spectre of an organisation of considerable size and expertise receded considerably.
Mycroft's news, however, rather complicated the issue, introducing the remote possibility that a person had seen the name Sherlock Holmes in the Times Saturday morning, then spent the next three days (and considerable resources) racing to Port Said before the boat put in there. It would have been very difficult, but possible.
However, no matter if she came to be there by coincidence or talent, once on board the “Montera” woman had enquired specifically about them, and knew that California was in their plans. Putting aside for the moment the question of how she came to be there, he would work under the hypothesis that, once aboard, her enquiries had not been the sign of some casual and self-effacing acquaintance, but purposeful. And as a corollary thesis, that she had come before them to California, awaiting their arrival, where she intended to take action.
He had a great deal to do before Russell returned Wednesday.
Not the least of which was to decide which of his two potential allies, Hammett or Long, he could trust the furthest.
He retraced his steps to the telegraphist, and wrote out a second telegram to Mycroft:
HIGHLY URGENT NEED KNOW IF WOMAN ARRANGED EMERGENCY TRANSPORT TO PORT SAID JANUARY SIX SEVEN OR EIGHT. HOPE YOURE WELL. SHERLOCK.
He hesitated over that last, unwonted burst of sentiment, but allowed it to stand. He did, actually, hope that his brother was well.
Outside the telegraphist's office, he pulled out his watch. Just gone two o'clock, which gave him six hours before meeting Hammett. He took a bus down to the hotel and found two messages waiting for him. One was from the hospital where Russell had gone Friday, with the information that Leah Ginzberg had died on January 26, 1915, and that the investigating officer had been one James Roley. He started to pocket it, thinking to give it to Hammett that evening, then stopped and copied the information instead, leaving the original on Russell's dressing-table. The other was a list of four names written in a hand so spidery and feminine he did not need the embossed address at the top of the paper to know it had come from Hermione Adderley.
This one he did pocket, then spent the rest of a frustrating afternoon trying to chase down the four individuals.
Shortly after eight o'clock, Holmes walked wearily into the Ellis Street grill to find Hammett looking even wearier, a half-full bottle on the table before him. Holmes accepted a glass of the raw whiskey without comment, and allowed the fire to warm his bones for a few minutes. When the waitress came to their table, Hammett ordered, and Holmes told her he'd have the same, although he couldn't have said what it was the man had ordered. Hammett sat back with his second drink, lit a cigarette, and exhaled.
“You look like your day's been as lucky as mine,” he told Holmes.
“What universal law, I wonder, determines that all potential witnesses be either missing, amnesiac, or comprehensively stupid?” Holmes reflected. “The retired milkman is off visiting his sister in San Jose; one of the Russells' old neighbours took an hour to decide that the ‘nice Jewish girl' he remembered was not actually Judith Russell but one of the good-time girls who moved into the park in early May; another of the neighbours insisted