Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #12 Page 3

  “Which Miss Addison could still do if I haven’t paid her in two days or recovered the evidence,” said Count.

  “Our advantage,” said Kelly, “is your wife’s very isolation.”

  “How so?” said the CEO.

  “To carry through on her threat,” Kelly elaborated, “Abby Addison would have to get the evidence to Olivia. You could, however, screen all her mail, packages, and visitors.”

  “Couldn’t our adventuress just call your wife?” said Matt Locke.

  “My wife does not take calls. In fact, she’s one of the few women in this country who doesn’t even own a cell.”

  Matt Locke persisted. “Addison could announce it on TV or the Internet.”

  “My wife does not watch TV and has no idea what the Internet is.”

  “Addison could hire a crop duster to tow around a banner or a blimp to show it on its side.”

  “But with your contacts,” said the CEO, buying into Kelly’s idea of splendid isolationism, “you could probably get Homeland Security to ground all such aircraft.”

  “Parkour,” said Matt Locke desperately. “You know, those urban acrobats who think every city building is a starter course for K2.”

  “I’m sure a security guard or two with a rifle could discourage that kind of social climbing,” said the CEO. “But Abby’s nothing if she’s not innovative. With the high rises surrounding this building, she could probably project an image on the side of one that would be visible from Olivia’s apartment.”

  Matt Locke stroked his chin. “Even Abby doesn’t have the juice or the funds necessary to secure and set up the projection equipment needed for such an undertaking in the middle of town.”

  Kelly chuckled to herself as she sensed her father and her boss were engaged in a contest of one-upmanship—who could come up with the weirdest ploy for getting the damning video to Olivia.

  “What about some sort of remote-controlled glider or plane to fly into the window?” pressed the CEO.

  Why not steal a military drone, thought Kelly.

  “You know,” said Matt Locke, “not all drones are Predators. I bet—”

  “The building is climate-controlled with sealed windows and hurricane-proof glass,” countered Count with a tone of victory.

  “The more I think about it,” said Kelly, having enough of their absurd duel. “There’s a fundamental flaw in this isolationist’s approach—time. She can outwait us. And sooner or later when your wife goes out for something as simple as a trip to her psychiatrist, a desire to vote, an annual checkup, she’ll strike.”

  “Then what do we do?” said Matt Locke.

  “I think with my isolationism approach I was on the right track,” said Kelly. “I just need a little perception shift.”

  IV

  The next night during The Six O’ Clock News Kelly waited patiently while her co-host, Chuck Mann, droned on about how many franks he had downed at the ballpark that afternoon. Her eyes were patiently glued to “Professor Backwards,” the clock that was suspended below the lens of camera one and ran in reverse to inform them how much time remained before the cut-away to network news.

  When the clock indicated 01:00, Kelly turned to her co-host and interrupted him with a quip. “Gee, Chuck, I wonder who the real hot dog is in that story.” Then, staring intently into her camera, she said, “On a serious note, I would like to make an important personal announcement. As tomorrow is our tenth anniversary, I want to publically declare something that we have kept private for all these years because we didn’t want it to look like I had advanced from beat reporter to news anchor at the city’s largest station through nepotism. After ten years I think I have established solid credentials on my own.”

  “Nepotism?” said Chuck Mann skeptically. “You’re related to someone here? Don’t tell me you’re really Bruce Count’s long-lost daughter?”

  “Nope. I can’t, but I can tell you that the woman you’ve been hitting on every night the past few years is really Olivia, the wife of your boss, Bruce Count.”

  As the newscast faded to network, Chuck Mann looked like he was going to throw up every one of his hotdogs.

  V

  The next day Kelly chose to lunch at the very public Baker Street Pub, a trendy bistro in the ground floor of the BO Media Building. She was staring at the reproduction of a Sidney Paget illustration of the Great Detective entering his abode when someone sat down at the table across from her. The figure was dressed in a gray pin-stripe suit complete with a navy-blue club tie and bowler. Despite the short haircut, Kelly could tell her “guest” was a woman.

  “So you are actually the elusive Olivia,” said the woman across the table.

  “Guilty,” said Kelly, “and you are…?”

  “A person I promise you will never see again. I have been looking for you, and now that I have found you, I would like to present you with a gift.” She pushed a small box that resembled a jeweler’s case across the table.

  “But we hardly know each other,” said Kelly, taking the box in hand. “What is it?”

  “A jump-drive complete with a short action movie.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t pay you for it,” said Kelly, “or the sequel.”

  “I’m not asking for payment,” said the figure, “and there will be neither sequels nor copies. This is a one-of-a-kind objet d’art.”

  “To guarantee its uniqueness,” Kelly said matter-of-factly, “I have taken the liberty to have my personal photographer record this entire transaction.” She glanced over her shoulder to a table in the back to indicate where her cameraman was indeed recording everything.

  The figure stood up, seemingly a bit confused. “It doesn’t matter. I am true to my word. While you will never see me again and I have given away my only copy,” she said, flashing just the hint of a smile, “I will always have the satisfaction of knowing that you will have to look at what I have given you and that I will indeed have kept my promise to a dear friend, your husband.”

  “And, Miss Addison,” said Kelly, “should you violate your word, I will be forced to turn over my cameraman’s footage to Matthew Locke, the city’s Chief of Detectives, who will arrest you for blackmail.”

  VI

  That evening Kelly concluded The Six O’ Clock News by admitting to her hoax of claiming to be Olivia Count.

  “But why?” asked a confused Chuck Mann.

  “Yesterday,” Kelly reminded him, “was April Fools’ Day.”

  Chuck Mann had a look on his face, Kelly thought, as if he had just discovered fire.

  VII

  Immediately after the newscast, Kelly met her father and her boss in the penthouse. She handed the jump-drive to the CEO, assuring him, “I am certain it’s the only record of your indiscretion.”

  “You rushed out of here so fast the other night,” said Matt Locke. “What did you mean by perception shift?”

  “We were playing defense against Abby Addison, and, Dad, how many times have you told me the best defense is a good offense?”

  “I saw that,” said Count. “I was confused by your surprise announcement on the news last night. I’ve spent the day telling reporters ‘No comment’.”

  “I didn’t know what exactly you were doing, honey,” said her father, “but since I trust you, I convinced your boss to be non-committal.”

  “I…I cannot thank you enough,” said Count. “You are even better than your reputation. In fact, it almost makes me wish you were Olivia.”

  “Careful,” warned Kelly. “You’ve already been too far down that road once.”

  “And, believe me,” said Count, “once is enough. And about the real Olivia, you might say she is the woman for me.”

  CHALLENGER’S TITANIC CHALLENGE, by Gary Lovisi

  Challenge Begins:

  McArdl
e had Malone on the ropes once again. This time, sending his young reporter to visit the man he called “the angry brute” because of their previous Maple White Land adventure. Malone had written that up in a series of articles in The Chronicle last year under the title The Lost World—now the thought of facing that most difficult of men once again was certainly daunting. For the world was coming upon the one-year anniversary of the Titanic tragedy. The ship had gone down in icy north Atlantic waters with approximately 1,500 passengers and crew lost. McArdle wanted a feature article on the reason behind the sinking of that most “unsinkable” of great ocean liners upon its maiden voyage after hitting an iceberg the night of April 14, 1912.

  Now, one year later, Malone was to visit Professor George Edward Challenger once again. His mission this time to challenge Challenger, England’s foremost scientific mind, to obtain his very particular theory upon the scientific reason behind the sinking. Malone was sure he was in for a most difficult and unusual situation, surely nothing he could have expected, and the Professor would once again prove him correct. So Malone set off to see Challenger and accept what fury would come.

  “I must admit that I am rather incompetent in this area,” Malone candidly told the Professor upon his visit to his home at Enmore Park. He was a newspaper reporter, and a good one—but certainly no scientist.

  Challenger smiled indulgently, “Why, that is the most incisive comment you have made since I have known you, Malone. I am gratified when the incompetent admit their incompetence and acknowledge the superior intellect of a truly first class mind.”

  “Which, of course, you possess in avid abundance,” Malone dared reply, but it was in all seriousness, for he took care not to show the least bit of criticism, since he was well aware of the Professor’s volatile personality.

  “Certainly, young man,” Challenger boomed in a blustery voice, pointing his huge black beard at his guest when he lifted his head as if it were a weapon. “So what is it you want to know? Not another article for your Fleet Street rag, I pray.”

  Malone swallowed hard, for he had come to Challenger precisely for that very reason, which he knew would surely cause the stunted Hercules before him to explode into anger and blind rage. Rage that could end in violence. The two men had come to blows once before. Two years previously, upon the beginning of their Lost World adventure it had happened, but then Challenger’s wife intervened and thankfully saved Malone from her husband’s lordly anger and those great hairy gorilla hands upon his throat. Challenger did not suffer fools—nor anyone else for that matter—lightly.

  Malone grew nervous, his mind recalled those memories with grave concern. He knew he must seek a more nimble approach—however, the Professor would not allow him that way out.

  “Malone! You rascal!” The Professor’s voice bellowed in a throaty roar as if reading his mind. Now the newsman grew fearful, for he well knew this is how it began with Challenger; working himself up into a frenzy of anger, then rage. The professor was well known for having assaulted various impertinent persons in his career and had been the subject of numerous court cases, so the newsman did not take his volatile anger lightly nor frivolously.

  “No, not I, Professor Challenger, I assure you, sir.”

  “Then get to it, Malone! My time is valuable, you know! Genius waits for no man.”

  Malone nodded, quickly explaining that his editor had tasked him to write a feature article about what Challenger saw as the scientific causes of the Titanic tragedy—if there were any. It was the one-year anniversary of the great disaster.

  Challenger seriously considered the premise for a moment, then suddenly boomed in agreement, “I have thought upon that very subject since it first occurred, and have collected evidence that will shed new light upon the disaster. So I accept your request, Malone. When do we get to work?”

  “Well, ah, Professor, that is the one caveat, for I will not be working with you this time. Not until I return. Professor Summerlee and Lord John Roxton are also not available.”

  “What! Well explain yourself, young man!”

  “Mr. McArdle is most insistent that I leave at once from Liverpool tomorrow to take ship to New York, where I am to interview the American president. Professor Summerlee is incommunicado, doing research in some corner of darkest Africa, while Lord John is off hunting in the faraway jungles of Siam.”

  “I see,” Challenger blurted unhappily. “So I am to do all the work, spend all my time and energy and then present to you my findings, information I researched so hard to complete? Then you write your article upon your return and take all the credit?”

  “Absolutely not! No, it is not like that at all, sir, I assure you, but if you do not mind…”

  “Hah! I most certainly do mind! You abuse me, my young friend!” Challenger growled and Malone could see the rage brewing in the older man’s beetling brows, his twisted mouth and his blustery manner growing dangerously close to the red zone.

  “Of course not, sir! I would never be party to such a thing. Since Summerlee, Lord John and I will not be available, I have arranged a new team to join you in this endeavour.”

  “A new team? I need no “team,” Malone, I am my own team! I am not asking for any team, simply some competent assistance. I have my research notes all prepared upon this subject and have formulated my theory. Do you think I have not thought upon the roots of this tragedy since the very moment I heard of it?”

  “Of course, Professor,” the newsman replied demurely, but with all earnestness.

  Challenger looked at Malone carefully, showing his imperious and insufferable lordly manner, as his wondrous mind thought over the implications.

  “Malone?” Challenger asked his guest in a quiet voice loaded with dangerous suspicion, “by the by, my lad, just for curiosity’s sake, if nothing else, who have you engaged?”

  Malone thought quickly; this would be a most delicate explanation. “Well, Professor, they are three good men of note.”

  “I am waiting, Malone!”

  The young man swallowed hard, blurted, “You know them, sir, or know of them surely; Doctor John H Watson…and the Holmes Brothers.”

  “Hah! Well, that is just impossible! I mean, this Watson is a medical man and may be of some use, but the others…The Holmes Brothers, you say? I know of Mycroft certainly, a superior mind without doubt, but he will surely never leave the confines of his beloved Diogenes Club, so he is a non-starter, but that younger Holmes brother…?”

  “Sherlock.”

  “Yes, that pompous, arrogant mountebank Sherlock Holmes!” Challenger boomed in rough rage. The young newsman feared the man might turn violent any moment.

  Malone spoke quickly, pleadingly, “They are all worthy fellows, Professor, I assure you, and each one has much to offer you in your great work. They are all onboard and agreeable, and only await your assent for them to join you here.”

  Challenger grunted, then surprisingly shrugged his mighty shoulders, “Well, I can stomach Mycroft Holmes and Doctor Watson well enough, I have heard both are intelligent and scientific men, after all, but this Sherlock Holmes fellow? Why is he interested in this project? I propose to you the man has some ulterior motive for his involvement. In fact, I am certain of it.”

  “It does not matter, sir, for he is willing, and so are the others, and all three I am sure will be of inestimable help to you.”

  “Inestimable help? Malone, you are a clod, you arrange this fiasco just as you disembark these shores by steamship on the morrow. You disappoint me, young man. Nevertheless, I am a most magnanimous fellow, as all can surely attest, so with reluctance I will agree to your offer. Very well, you may tell these men to come here tomorrow, then I shall see what their true game is!”

  Holmes and Watson Are Drawn In:

  “Well, Holmes, I say, you look rather grim this evening. I gather you have heard fr
om Malone?” Doctor Watson asked, noting his friend’s intense demeanour.

  “Malone and Mycroft,” Holmes replied sharply. “This is a dangerous game. Of course, you know my brother has taken himself out of the picture, so you and I are on our own for this one.”

  “Well, that is certainly not quite cricket of him,” Watson said, his feathers a bit ruffled. “I mean, Malone enlisting Mycroft’s aid in something or other that he and you will not divulge to me; then Malone sails off across the Pond to New York. Now your brother opts out as well and leaves us holding the bag.”

  “I know nothing of Malone, but that is Mycroft, for good or ill, I am afraid.”

  “Well, I don’t like it, Holmes. We do not even have any idea why we are to see this Professor Challenger.”

  “I have some idea, good Watson, and it may be of the utmost importance. Malone has engaged us, ostensibly to help the Professor in some scientific research, something pertaining to the Titanic tragedy, but Mycroft has told me of a more pressing issue.”

  “Ah, so now we get to the nub of the story.”

  “Indeed, Watson. You are perhaps familiar with the reputation of this Professor George Edward Challenger?”

  “Yes, of course. I have heard the stories and they abound. He is said to be a man of incredible intellect and just as incredible temper. He is a brawler.”

  “More than that, he is a misanthrope, a man not born out of his century—but born out of his millennium,” Holmes added.

  “It is no secret even his colleagues hate him,” Watson responded.

  “And with good reason, my friend. Professor Challenger, though a brilliant man, is certainly the most insufferable fellow in all of England. He beats the world for offensiveness. Nevertheless, we must find a way to deal with him.”

  “Why is that, Holmes?”

  “Because there will be an assassination attempt made upon his life in the next day or two and we must prevent it at all costs.”