Page 33 of Holmes Is Missing
“I’m Margaret Marple. This is my partner Auguste Poe. We’re private investigators from New York, working a kidnapping case. Six babies went missing from a Manhattan hospital almost three nights ago.”
One of the cops from the first car spoke up. “Well, what we’re missing here is a school bus. Not babies. Third graders.”
“How many kids?” asked Poe.
“Five,” said the female cop. “Plus the bus driver. They were near the end of the run.” She stood with her legs apart, hands on her hips. Power stance. She jutted her chin out as she spoke. “How’d you two find out about this so fast, all the way down in the city?”
Suddenly, the country air filled with the sound of sirens. Everybody looked to the south. A pair of state trooper SUVs appeared over a crest, bracketing an unmarked blue sedan. They pulled to a stop on the other side of the road. The sedan door whipped open.
Poe groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding…”
Captain Graham Duff crossed the road in three long strides and stopped in front of the two PIs. “How in the name of hell did you two get here first?” he asked.
Marple smiled. “In case you haven’t heard, Captain, we’re very good at what we do.”
Poe looked across the road to see if Helene Grey was in any of the vehicles. She wasn’t. He felt partly guilty, partly ashamed, and partly relieved. He wasn’t quite ready to face her yet.
Duff turned to the quartet of local cops. “Graham Duff, NYPD,” he said. “Whatever information you have to share about this case, you share it with me.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Marple and Poe. “And whatever you do, keep them away from the parents.” Poe wasn’t surprised at Duff’s final dig. “Folks up here can’t afford them anyway.”
CHAPTER37
TWENTY MINUTES AFTERleaving Oliver Paul at the luncheon, Holmes was still wandering Times Square. The shooting galleries and garish porn shops it had been known for were purged decades ago. Theater lights and massive LED displays instead blinded him as he walked.
After a while, Holmes headed east along 45th Street. He was a creature of the city. As he walked, he navigated without thinking. He turned north, walked a few blocks, then east, then north again, dodging cabs and delivery bikes by instinct.
He was in a dark mood. As he walked under yet another skeleton of scaffolding, he angled his body to let a couple with a stroller ease by. He thought about the missing babies, and about the message Poe had received, but felt totally useless and out of touch. In his mind, his career was over. He could accept that his partners were furious with him, but he hated that they were disappointed in him. He felt he’d let them down in every possible way.
When he looked up, he found he was on Park Avenue, approaching 59th Street. At the corner, he looked right. In spiteof his depression, he felt a small lift in his chest when he noticed he was by one of his favorite places on the planet.
Holmes crossed the street and opened the front door of the Argosy Book Store. Unlike Times Square, it hadn’t changed much at all since his first visit as a child. Same patterned ceiling. Same cozy clutter of desks, shelves, and bins—all crammed and overflowing with books. Same posters and framed artwork leaning against desks.
Even the scents were the same, only more intense. Worn leather, wood polish, binding adhesive, aging paper. Absolutely intoxicating.
Holmes wound his way past the tourists and aficionados until he found himself in a small alcove behind a worn maple table. He ran his hands across the densely packed shelves, tapping the rounded spines as he went. Melville. Austen. Dickens. Tolstoy. Joyce.
At one point his hand simply stopped, like a divining rod over hidden water. When he glanced up at the shelf, the book was staring him right in the face. His heart jolted. He hadn’t even been looking for it. But there it was.
Holmes pulled the volume off the shelf. The cover was blue buckram, finely textured, with an inset illustration of a downcast figure in formal clothes, holding his hat loosely behind his back. He had the expression of a man visiting a sick friend, or attending a funeral.
Below the illustration, in thin lettering, sat the title:Adventure XXIV. The Final Problem. By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.Holmes looked down to the bottom of the inset. His eyes widened. “FromThe Strand Magazine. Vol. VI: December 1893.” A collector’s edition!
Holmes tucked the volume under his arm and carried it to thecheckout desk in front. The clerk was a young man with stringy blond hair and a pale complexion.
“How much?” asked Holmes.
The clerk took the book and entered some digits into the computer.
“One hundred,” he said.
One hundred?Holmes was almost hurt. “It’s worth more than that,” he said.
“You’re probably right,” said the clerk, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Holmes reached into his wallet and pulled out his Amex card. He handed it to the clerk, forgetting that it was an unnecessary step. Force of habit. The clerk glanced at the card before reaching over and sticking it into the device on the counter.
“Interesting name,” he said. “Coincidence?”
“Not quite,” said Holmes.