Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [153]
Under the force of those sparkling eyes and sensible words, even Hammett had to withdraw his scepticism. He pulled back his outstretched legs and sat nearer upright in his chair, and Dr Ming went back to his notes.
“The difficulties—your difficulties—arise with the question of whether the item you seek was considered important, or if it was valuable. If he was seeking to protect a thing of monetary value, the adjustments made would reflect that, whereas if, for example, the thing he concealed could be detrimental to the public reputation of the family if it were found, then the adjustments would stem from an entirely different set of considerations.”
Holmes controlled his impatience, for scholars must be allowed their full explanations. However, it seemed that Dr Ming's caveats were brief.
“I believe, looking at what Long Kwo has done, you will find he shared with his employer the attitude that the matter's importance lay not in its monetary value, but in how it affected the family's welfare and social standing—what is called ‘face.' If it is a thing merely worth money, you may find it in this area.” His silver pencil darted out to add a neat little square to the drawing he had made of the garden's bones. “However, if its power lies in its preservation of face, it should be in this place.” The second square was on the other side of the drawing. Just where the worst of the bramble thicket lay.
Holmes saw Long and the scholar of feng shui out to the car that had waited at the kerb for them all this time. He bowed to the old man, thanked him, asked Long to have the bill for the services sent to the St Francis, and went back inside.
“Too bad Conan Doyle didn't meet that man,” he muttered. “It might have made him think differently about San Francisco's psychic energies.”
Russell looked up from the desk where she was collecting the journals and scraps of paper. “Sorry?”
Holmes shook his head to indicate it was nothing of importance, and began to transfer the used cups and glasses onto a tray. With an armful of journals, Russell paused in the door-way and said, “It is too dark to go bashing around in the garden.”
“I agree,” he said to her obvious relief. “We shall return at first light. However, let us bring the good doctor's treasure maps with us.”
If their opponents were so set on whatever might or might not lie out in that wasteland that they would tackle it in the dead of night at the cost of much bloodshed and injury, Russell would almost have been inclined to let them have it. Almost.
When she had returned her mother's journals to the front parlour, she folded Dr Ming's map into her pocket. They walked back to the hotel by a circuitous route of Holmes' devising, reached it without interruption, and took their leave of Hammett.
Early in the morning, Holmes dressed and went to see to his Irregulars. He found their interest flagging, but they bounced back with an infusion of cash and the reassurance that it would be either that day, or not at all. Young Mr Garcia assured him they wouldn't take their eyes off the place, an assurance rather spoilt by his subsequent discovery that the very young lad who was supposed to be watching at that moment was instead standing at his elbow, unwilling to miss anything. However, as Hammett had not yet left the apartment, no harm was done.
By seven o'clock, the two detectives-turned-archaeologists were at the house. Both were dressed in their toughest, most impenetrable clothing, but the bramble thicket laughed at them, inflicting a thousand