The Baker Street Translation Page 5

  “No,” said Mr. Liu. “It did not. Her most recent response said that she suspects me of being—I remember the words she wrote exactly—‘quite possibly bonkers.’”

  Reggie nodded. “Mentioning that you were consulting Sherlock Holmes might not have been the best argument for your case.”

  “I don’t understand why that would be so. But I am sure that if you will respond regarding the most recent letter that I sent to you, she will believe you that my translations are correct. I know that you are a very busy man, with much more important matters than mine, and that is why you have not responded to me already.”

  Reggie drummed his fingers uncomfortably on his desk. The truth, he knew, was that he had simply been a tad negligent and had not been sending the letter packages promptly on to Nigel. And although he resented the letters, that was not an excuse for his own tardiness.

  “I apologize for that,” said Reggie. “I’ll ask Lois to find your most recent letter, and we’ll have a look. It might take her a few moments to hunt it up.”

  “That is not necessary,” said the man. “The final translation was such a large piece of work that I took the trouble to make a copy before I sent it, and I have brought the copy with me.”

  The man stood, leaned forward just a bit unsteadily, and unfolded a double-wide sheet of paper on Reggie’s desk.

  The sheet had been laser-printed on the kind of thin, cheap paper used in instruction booklets for small items—toys, electronics, and such—sold internationally. One of the folded sections was in English, another in Chinese, and another in French.

  Reggie glanced at the titles: “Rub-a-dub-dub”; “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe”; “Humpty Dumpty”; and several others. Typical of such sheets, most of the typeface was so small that you could hardly read more than the titles, and Reggie didn’t try. But each language section contained—so far as Reggie could tell—a set of Mother Goose nursery rhymes.

  “So you not only did the translations,” said Reggie, “but you produced the final copy?”

  “Yes,” said the man proudly. “On my laser printer. And I did not make errors. I am a good translator. I need help only with the occasional idiot.”

  “I think you mean idiom.”

  “Yes. And so when she still refused to pay, I had no choice but to come myself.”

  “Surely this trip has cost you as much as the payment that was due?”

  “I must have honor in my career, Mr. Holmes. I must respect myself, and my clients must respect me.”

  Reggie nodded slightly and then said, “Personally, I would have saved the cost of the trip and put the money toward respecting myself with a few pints at my local pub.”

  “That is what you say,” said the man. “I do not think it is what you would do. And you are young. When you are older, you will value honor more than beer.”

  “Anything is possible,” said Reggie. “Have you spoken to this woman since you arrived in London?”

  The man shook his head. “No. I went to her address and found that it was not her home, and not her place of business, but nothing more than a little store that sells stamps and other necessities.”

  “I see. So her address is a postal box. That’s not unusual.”

  “Surely the world’s greatest detective can find her for me?”

  Reggie laughed. He handed the printed sheet of translations back to the old man.

  “You don’t need the world’s greatest detective, Mr. Liu. And you don’t need a barrister, either. You just need a garden-variety solicitor. It’s not terribly unusual for some unscrupulous contractors to attempt to cheat their subcontractors out of payment, thinking the subcontractors will simply give up, especially when the distance is so great. But now that you are here, I expect a good solicitor will be able to obtain your payment, and perhaps even reimbursement for your trip. If you will come back tomorrow afternoon, I will find one for you.”

  The man shook his head. “I must go home tomorrow.”

  “Well,” said Reggie, “this will likely take a few days. Before he can even get started, your solicitor will have to obtain the woman’s actual address from the Royal Mail.”

  The man shook his head very slightly in disappointment. He began to roll up the document he had brought.

  “If you were Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “you would tell me from the weight of the stationery and the manner in which it is cut where it was purchased and the economic and social standing of the person who purchased it, and from the smudges on the edges, you would tell me where the person lives in this city, and from all those things together and other things I cannot think of, you would know where I can find this person. And I brought one of her envelopes to show you as a reference.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think that would help. As I said, I am not Sherlock Holmes.”

  “And now I believe you. Do not take offense; it is not an insult.”

  The man tucked the document back into his coat and rose very slowly from his chair.

  “And now I must go,” he said. “I believe I am suffering the effects of running in a race just slightly behind a jet plane. Thank you for your gracious time with me.”

  The man stood, looking wobbly for just a moment; Reggie stood as well and came around to the front of the desk just as the man reestablished his balance. Lois came to the doorway to assist.

  The man turned suddenly back to Reggie and said, “I was told I should take in a show before I return home. Do you have a recommendation?”

  Reggie was stumped. It was not a question he had expected. And for an instant he wondered if he was being pranked again.

  “The standard tourist recommendation,” said Reggie, “based on the fact that it has been running forever, is The Mousetrap. All the characters are fictional, of course.”

  “Of course,” said the man, “I will consider it. The bellman at the hotel had some other suggestions.”

  The man turned away and wobbled on through the doorway. Reggie frantically gestured to Lois to go with him.

  “Get him into a cab,” said Reggie, “and pay for it if he’ll let you.”

  Several minutes went by, during which Reggie turned off his lamp again, picked up his mac, and prepared to leave but did not. He remained seated at the edge of his chair, as if some task remained to be completed.

  And now Lois returned. She stood in the doorway of Reggie’s chambers, put her hands on her hips, and glared.

  “Yes?” said Reggie.

  “Well he came quite a long way now, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. An astoundingly long way, given the money involved.”

  “And what does he get in return?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What he gets is you showing him the door is what I mean. Or me doing it for you.”

  Reggie wanted to object to that indictment, but he couldn’t. He had been chastising himself over the same thing for the past ten minutes. As annoyed as he was that Nigel had departed from the standard reply in his response to Mr. Liu, it occurred to Reggie that he himself had compounded the problem by not sending the subsequent letters on to Nigel in time. He had just been ignoring all of the letters, letting them accumulate on the corner of his desk. Had he not done so, perhaps the man would not have come all this way.

  “I’ll call his hotel,” said Reggie. “Perhaps I can do something for him in the morning. This is work much more suited for a solicitor, if I can find him one in time. But if not—well, sometimes a barrister on your side can make a trial seem imminent, and the potential defendant more cooperative.”

  “I should think,” said Lois before exiting triumphantly. “Especially if you wear the silly wig.”

  9

  What woke Robert Buxton was the stench.

  It filled his nostrils. It permeated the air. There were familiar elements in it, but it was more intense than any scent he had ever encountered.

  He opened his eyes. But doing that seemed to hurt, and he closed them again; it was too dark
to see anything anyway.

  His head was still throbbing. Not just in the back but in the front, as well—sinuses, forehead, neck, everywhere.

  Damn that smell.

  He knew he was lying on a flat, hard, damp surface; he was in the dark; and something stunk. Beyond that, he had no clue.

  Except that somewhere, water was running.

  Somebody call a plumber, he thought, still trying to clear his head.

  He opened his eyes once more and tried to raise his head to look around. He put his hands on the cold surface beneath him, then shifted his weight and pushed with his arms, trying to raise himself up.

  But the surface he was lying on—whatever it was—was slick, and his hands slipped. He heard something splash.

  And then a wave of nausea swept over him; chills ran from the base of his neck all the way down his spine. He lost consciousness, and his head dropped down again onto the hard, damp floor.

  10

  Reggie arrived at Baker Street Chambers at midmorning the next day, with Laura’s ring secured in the inside pocket of his mac.

  He had told Lois to set up no appointments for him on the day that Laura returned from her shoot. Today was that day.

  In fact, there should be nothing more on his desk than a follow-up to his call from last night to Mr. Liu’s hotel. The old gentleman had been out; probably to take in a show, as he had said. But Reggie had left a message, and with luck he might easily wrap the whole thing up in a day. A brief word with the translator’s overly picky employer would take care of it.

  Reggie stopped at his secretary’s desk before going into his chambers office.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Lois, cheerily. It had not been possible to keep her in the dark about his plans today; she knew something was up.

  “Good morning, Lois. My calendar is still clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Pretty much for the entire week.” She giggled slightly, then stifled it.

  “And the other preparations?”

  “Everything is set up. The caterer will return at the top of the hour.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Reggie went into his chambers and closed the door behind him. He looked about at the advance preparations—the small round dining table, the white linen, the silver service. Yes, it would do.

  He sat down behind his desk and reviewed the plan one more time: Transfer the ring from his mac into his suit pocket. Done. Office rearranged. Done. The best caterer in all of London delivering an early lunch at the top of the hour. Done.

  Everything was ready.

  Now he had a quarter of an hour before Laura would arrive. Nothing on his calendar. Nothing to do.

  He picked up the phone and rang Lois.

  “Did I get a message back from Mr. Liu?”

  “No, sir. Do you want me to try his hotel?”

  “No, no. Not now. We’ll try him again later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reggie hung up the phone. He still had several minutes before Laura was due to arrive. He took the ring box out of his pocket and opened it on his desk to take another look.

  And then—sooner than expected—there was a distinctive knock on the chambers door: Laura’s knock.

  Reggie scrambled to get the ring back in the box and into his pocket.

  “Come in,” he said. He was still behind his desk; there wasn’t time to come around to meet her.

  The door opened. Laura stepped just inside and hovered, Bacall-like, in the entryway, tall and slender.

  Reggie caught a slight scent of coconut and oranges; either she had adopted a new perfume or she had come directly from the airport and hadn’t yet washed off all the sunscreen. She had picked up only a little sun, just enough to darken the freckles that had already been visible and highlight a tan line in the front. That was good. Reggie liked tan lines; they were the major thoroughfares that led to the freckled side streets, which led, pale and enticing, to interesting places to visit.

  Laura paused, looking first at Reggie and then at the fancy dining arrangements he had imported into the chambers.

  She raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth tweaked up.

  “When you said brunch at chambers,” said Laura, “I quite thought you meant tandoori takeaway.”

  “It turned out that my calendar is open this afternoon. So we have time for more than one course. Perhaps even three of four.”

  “I’m surprised,” said Laura, clearly pleased. “Everyone says clients are quite charging through your doors.

  “Yes,” said Reggie. “Ever since the Black Cab case, I have become known as the barrister who did not, in fact, kill his client. Who knew that by itself would constitute a positive recommendation?”

  Laura smiled and sat down. “Or that appearing in the Daily Sun could actually be a good thing?”

  “Yes, that, too,” said Reggie. “How was the location shoot? Was it, as they say, a wrap?”

  What Reggie wanted to hear was that the far-off location shoots for this particular film were, in fact, now done, and that Lord Robert Buxton hadn’t been dropping in on her on the slightest pretext, as he had managed to do on the first round.

  “The weather got a bit sticky,” said Laura. “And little orange-and-black beetles kept getting through the mesh on my tent and popping up in the oddest places. But everyone else tells me the shoot itself was boffo. I’ve been so looking forward to using that word. And yes, I do believe this wrapped it up.”

  “Word of a sequel?”

  Laura laughed. “There’s some sort of a publicity do tonight that I’m supposed to attend. Along with Robert as the principal financer. Perhaps he’ll hint at something.”

  “Ah,” said Reggie very carefully, with no inflection whatsoever. But bloody hell, he thought. Would the man never go away?

  Laura continued. “I need to talk with him anyway, and he’s been difficult to reach the last couple of days.”

  Now that sounded better. But Reggie resolved to make sure the name Buxton did not come up in the conversation again at all.

  “Why do you keep putting your hand in your coat pocket?” Laura asked.

  “No reason,” said Reggie. He smiled slyly, or at least hoped it was sly. He let go of the ring box—just for the moment—and put both hands back on the table.

  “I expect the main course will be arriving any moment,” he said. “And for dessert, I understand they do something very special with chocolate and raspberries.”

  Reggie saw her eyes light up. Perfect. According to plan.

  And now his desk phone rang. That would be the caterer, arriving with the first course.

  Reggie felt very much in command. He punched the speakerphone button to let Laura hear the caterer announce the menu directly.

  But it wasn’t the caterer.

  “I’m glad I caught you, Heath,” said a male voice over the phone.

  It was Inspector Wembley.

  “I was just about to have lunch,” said Reggie.

  “Bring it with you,” said Wembley. “I need a word. You can eat it on the way. Or after you get here, if your stomach is cast iron.”

  “What I meant,” said Reggie, “is that I have an appointment for lunch.”

  “Heath, courts are not back in session until two, and the thing I’ve got here takes priority over any business lunch you have scheduled.”

  “It’s not a business appointment,” said Reggie. “It’s social.”

  “You don’t have a bloody thing of social importance in your life, Heath.”

  “Hello, Inspector,” said Laura now, quite cordially, through the speakerphone. “How are you today? You sound tense.”

  There was a pause. Then: “I’m quite well, Miss Rankin. Thanks for asking. And sorry to interrupt. But Heath, I’m in an alley in Soho, looking down at a freshly dead body—and the only thing the recently deceased has on him that would explain his presence here in London is your business card. That and a playbill for The Mousetrap.”

  Reggie made no i
mmediate response. He remembered the recommendation he had made to the old man the night before, and his diaphragm tightened in apprehension of what else Wembley might have to say.

  “It is a very popular play,” said Laura into the phone, covering Reggie’s silence.

  “Agreed,” said Wembley. “But I wouldn’t come here all the way from Taiwan for it.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Reggie.

  He looked across at Laura.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Perhaps I’ll go with—” began Laura.

  “Heath only,” commanded Wembley through the phone. “No disrespect, Miss Rankin, but this is not for civilians and you have no stake in it.”

  She smiled slightly, nodded, and sat back down.

  “As you wish, Inspector,” said Laura. “I’ll just stay and have both Reggie’s lunch and my own.”

  “Cheers,” said Wembley.

  Reggie was still clutching the ring box in his pocket, and for a brief moment he thought about bringing it out right then and there.

  But surely he could time it better than to propose on his way to a murder scene.

  Reggie let go of the ring and stood.

  A look of disappointment flashed across Laura’s face. Reggie assumed it was because of Wembley’s refusal to let her ride along to the crime scene. After all, she had no idea what he’d been up to with the lunch.

  “Very sorry,” said Reggie. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Laura as Reggie picked up his mac. “I’m going to eat your dessert while you’re gone.”

  11

  The moment after Reggie exited the chambers, Laura took out her list.

  She had written it down during the flight from her South Seas location shoot. It had been a long flight, but it was a short list.

  Item one: “Say yes to Reggie.”

  Well. She could hardly cross that one off now.

  She had been quite expecting the proposal to happen as soon as she returned; even before she flew out for the shoot weeks ago, she had been sure it was coming. Her best guess had been that it would be at dinner on the weekend.