“That’s not fair, Amy,” he murmured, sounding hurt. “I told you last week it wasn’t what you thought. She was just a model I was using to work out a new concept for a—”

  “Don’t start with that,” I snapped. “Just tell me the truth about today!”

  “I swear to God, Amy, I don’t know any Mrs. Hudson or anything about the crazy story you just told me. Honest.”

  “Coming from you, that’s not a reliable word.”

  “But it’s true. I had nothing to do with any of what you said happened to you today.”

  He sounded unusually sincere, even contrite. Like a shamed little boy. His voice was almost a whisper as he said, “And listen—I miss you so much. Can’t sleep. I’ve been thinking about you every second. I promise that—”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Amy, wait! Please just . . .”

  I listened for a second with annoyance to what sounded like his anguished breathing. I was about to click off, when I heard another sound. Even over the phone, it was unmistakable: it was the distinctive sound of an aerosol can applying whipped cream onto something.

  I flared up and laughed angrily. “Never gonna happen. You’ve been busted !” Suddenly envisioning his voluptuous model, I chuckled at my unintentional pun. “And I can hear you’re about to be again. Go enjoy your banana split! We are done.”

  I clicked off, then banged the counter again, hurting my fist. I gritted my teeth. As much as I just wanted to go firebomb his studio, I made myself stop and examine the important aspects of the call more carefully.

  Personal bullshit aside—and there was plenty of it—he had nonetheless seemed genuinely confused and baffled when I confronted him about my Mrs. Hudson adventure. Maybe he wasn’t lying—about that, anyway.

  I walked into the living room frowning, my brain twisting in turmoil, my eyes flitting around distractedly, searching for some kind of tangible answer. I found myself looking at the old valise that the Brit had brought in with him.

  I walked slowly over to it and, for the first time, examined it carefully. It had seen much use. I lifted it and set it onto the couch. The black leather covering the surface was battered and scratched and cracked from years of wear and tear. There were two light brown straps that encompassed it and buckled in the front. They were as weathered as the rest of the case. I sat beside it and undid the buckles, then eased up the lid.

  A musty aroma arose from inside it. Everything within the case was from a time long past. Fastened to the underside of the lid, facing me when it opened, were half a dozen false mustaches, sideburns, and two beards. Stuffed into a special compartment within the lid were four wigs of varying colors and lengths. Like all the hairpieces, the wigs were professionally and finely woven. I was sure that if properly applied by someone skilled in the art of theatrical makeup, they would be completely convincing.

  There were seven different styles of eyeglasses, most of them the thin wire frames so popular in the Victorian era.

  There was a beautiful antique brass microscope and a compass. There were several pipes, including one made of black clay and another of cherrywood. There was a small leather pouch with tiny tools, almost like you’d see in a dentist’s office. It occurred to me that they might be for picking locks. There was a pistol: a classic nineteenth-century revolver. It was loaded. I carefully extracted the cartridges and put them in the back of a nearby drawer.

  What startled me the most was within a small, finely tooled wooden picture frame displaying a fading Victorian photograph of a striking woman.

  She wore a lace blouse and a dramatic hat with a lengthy feather in it. Her dark hair was drawn back, but a long serpentine wave of it came around her from behind and down in front of her right shoulder. This woman seemed to gaze right into my eyes. Her enigmatic expression made her appear much like a real Mona Lisa. The light in her eyes conveyed a strong spirit. Perhaps it was my romantic nature, but I had the distinct notion that she and I could have been cut from the same cloth and would’ve liked each other if we’d had the opportunity to meet. I looked into her eyes and wondered who she was. What secrets did she keep behind those intelligent, entrancing eyes? And what had she meant to this man who carried her picture?

  Continuing my investigation of the valise, I lifted a Moroccan leather pouch, which could be opened like a small book. The wear on it showed that it had been opened and closed hundreds of times. Inside was a surprise: an 1890-vintage hypodermic syringe, several needles, and a stoppered vial of honey-colored liquid.

  I took out the vial and held it up to the light. I had only seen it in this liquid form once before, but I recognized it as cocaine. I was pondering it, when the trill of my cell phone made me jump.

  I saw that the caller was Mrs. Hudson. I took a breath, then quietly answered. She said, “Dr. Winslow? Is that you, dear?”

  “Yes,” I said warily, still unsure about her role in this bizarre drama.

  “I called to apologize.”

  What? Was she going to admit having done something nefarious? Being part of a hoax?

  Her Scottish voice continued, “I should have told you about that old laboratory from the beginning, lass, but I was so frightened by what had happened in there all those years ago.”

  She sounded completely sincere and penitent, but still, I had to know for certain. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m sorry, but this is very important to me: have you told me the absolute truth now? About that man in your cellar? Told me the whole truth about everything?”

  “Why yes, Amy, I have. What do you mean?”

  “Please forgive me”—this was really tough—“but would you be able to swear to everything you said in a court of law?”

  The lady paused an instant, likely considering the consequences she might face, then she said firmly, “I would, Amy.” And added, “I’d swear to it on my Dougy’s grave.”

  Whoa. Her response had been so thoroughly heartfelt that I released a huge sigh. But then my throat tightened with concern. It seemed I’d made a gigantic mistake by kicking that man out of my house. I could hardly breathe.

  “Amy, lass? Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. And thank you. You’ve taken a huge weight off me. It’s just all been so hard to believe.”

  “For me too, lass! Dear God, I never dreamed that anyone could possibly be alive inside that, that whatever it was!”

  “Yeah.” I was still trying to breathe. “Who would have thought it was possible?”

  “What an experience today was! My heart starts pounding whenever I think about it.”

  “Yeah.” My own heart had started pounding now too.

  “And I haven’t been able to stop worrying about poor Mr. Holmes. Is he alright?”

  The sincere concern in her voice made me feel so unbearably sheepish that I found myself lying to the dear old lady, “Oh. Yes. He’s just fine. He’s, uh, resting just now but seems to be doing okay.”

  “Well, please give him my regards.”

  “Oh, I will, Mrs. Hudson. Just as soon as . . . as I see him.” I thanked her again, hung up, and bit my lip. My heart was positively fluttering. Along with my nerves.

  All I could think was, Oh my God. What have I done?

  I quickly pulled on some jeans, grabbed Lucie’s leash, and rushed out the door. She was confused about taking a walk so late. But walk we did. I circumnavigated the entire park and the Palace of Fine Arts itself, but the few people I encountered were very un-Holmes-like.

  Lucie and I headed south on Lyon along the Presidio as far as Lombard, then crisscrossed the entire neighborhood back up to Marina. There was no sign of him. I inquired of the few people we passed, but no one had seen the unusual man I described.

  With great frustration at our lack of success, Lucie and I headed home, making one last pass along Baker Street. A police car was cruising slowly around the far side of the park on their usual rounds as I looked again into the now dark greenery. All the park benches were empty, including the one directly opposite my house.

  Lucie and I went inside, where I sat in the living room, feeling miserable. I considered calling the police, then remembered that a missing-persons report couldn’t be filed until twenty-four hours after someone disappeared. I was at a total loss.

  I was not aware at the time, but behind the shrubbery near that last bench across from my house were two men crouching. They were an odd couple: one in the mismatched garb of the homeless and the other in Victorian day clothes and a bowler. They hadn’t seen me either. Instead, their eyes were fixed upon that police car in the distance. They were both intent upon avoiding unwanted contact with the law.

  Lefty smiled at Holmes regarding the police car. “It’s okay, the heat’s past. They won’t be back around this way until about 4:45 in the morning.”

  “Thanks for your help, Lefty.”

  “No problem, mate.” He indicated the vacant bench. “Make yourself at home. Or if you prefer, you’re welcome to join me in my small suite across the park.”

  “Ah!” said Holmes, looking across at the glorious old classical rotunda and appreciating Lefty’s wry humor. “Tempting, but no. I need to remain hereabouts, Lefty. Very kind of you to offer, however.” Holmes placed his bowler on the bench and then shook Lefty’s hand with a formal bow. “Bon voyage, my friend.”

  Lefty smiled and gave him a comradely little punch on the shoulder. “Ya ever need any more help out here, you know where t’find me, mate.” Holmes nodded, and Lefty sauntered away.

  Holmes turned to look at my house across the street. I normally turned the porch lamp off at night, but I’d turned it back on, in hopes he might return. I had already gone up to my room and pulled down the shade. Had I been looking out, I might have seen Holmes sniff scornfully in the direction of my house. He parted his frock coat and took a seat once again on the bench. He drew a breath of night air, stretching out on his back, and arranged his bowler as a pillow.

  As his head came to rest, he was looking skyward and chanced to see among the stars overhead something he’d never seen in his life. It would have been a commercial airliner about two thousand feet directly above him, outbound from San Francisco International for Seattle. He watched the big jet craft with intense fascination and pleasure and found himself quietly quoting Miranda from The Tempest. “O brave new world . . .” A satisfied smile developed on Holmes’ face as he again considered the huge accomplishment he had achieved. Even he was impressed.

  At that moment, I was up in my bedroom, lying in my four-poster, wearing the faded blue plaid flannel man’s pajama top I like to sleep in. But I wasn’t sleeping. I was staring at the ceiling. I was going over the extraordinary events of the day, the horrifying moments as well as the comically absurd ones. I was disappointed with myself for not being more open-minded about the prospects and possibilities of a genius scientific intellect. Wherever this remarkable man had come from, he was certainly a singular character. And I had thrown him out. I was feeling very guilty.

  About two o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by a noisy row outside my window. I later learned exactly how it had transpired.

  Unknown to me, Holmes had still been camped out on the bench across the street from my house. He’d been unable to sleep, perhaps in part because he’d just awakened from the longest nap in human history.

  At any rate, he was reclining on the bench, with his head on his bowler. That spring night was balmy and clear, and Holmes was enjoying the air. He had relit his briar pipe and was reading a copy of the Chronicle that Lefty had left behind.

  Holmes scoured it, digesting all manner of new ideas, products, attitudes, personalities, and statistics. He was gathering “data, data, data” as I would so often hear him say later on. More particularly, he was examining the articles regarding crime in San Francisco. And most specifically of all, he focused on the small amount of knowledge available regarding the two recent murders. The front-page headline—mysterious murder by phantom tiger—most definitely prompted an echo for him of his adventure with that equally mysterious and monstrous Baskerville hound.

  He had just begun thinking over yet again those details I’d given him about Lieutenant Ortega when his attention was diverted by an electronic chirping sound. He looked up to see a gang of five teenage street toughs moving down Baker Street toward him. They were being systematic, proceeding car by car. One of them, a sixteen-year-old, particularly caught Holmes’ attention.

  Holmes felt the boy clearly had Hispanic blood in him, but, like his mates, he also represented the melting pot that was America. They each had varying degrees of Anglo, African, and Asian heritages. The boy in question combined an appealingly innocent face with an Artful Dodger grace and dexterity. He wore a black BLM baseball cap backward atop thick curly black hair. His eyes were brown, large, and expressive. He had dark eyebrows and a strong forehead. His nose was small, and his features were fine, almost delicate. His rounded face and the deep dimples in his cheeks gave him a particularly innocent, boyish appearance. In his left ear was a tiny gold stud.

  He was the smallest and likely youngest of the group, only about five feet eight or nine. Like the others, he preferred to make his fashion statement with the latest hip-hop, hodgepodge look. He wore baggy pants and an oversize tee shirt, with a blue, hooded, zipper-front sweatshirt on top. Like his compatriots, he wore a large backpack.

  Holmes retreated into the shadows as, with silent admiration, he observed the carefully orchestrated operation of this clever gang of young thieves. Despite his smaller stature, the Artful Dodger boy seemed to be the focal point of the group. He operated a small remote control, adjusting and transmitting chirps until he was able to neutralize the alarm system of each car they approached.

  Then another beefy teen, with slicked-back, wet-look hair and shoulders like a rhinoceros, used a thin, flat metal jimmy strap to pop open the car door. His size alone indicated that he had probably muscled his way to overall leadership. Once he had opened the car’s door, the others swarmed into the vehicle like scavenging hyenas. In about twenty seconds, they emerged with the radio or whatever else of value was inside. After slipping these items into one of the backpacks, they continued on to the next car. Holmes heard them speaking in urgent whispers to each other, and later related their dialogue to me.

  “Awright, man! Cool!” said mountainous Slick. “A Blaupunkt! We strikin’ it, Rancho!” He was speaking to a tall, wiry youth with light brown hair and bad skin. Slick held out the radio to the smaller Artful Dodger type. “Check it out, Zapper!”

  The Artful Dodger, whom Holmes deduced was called Zapper, spoke up sharply. He had a streetsy, Latino-tinged dialect. “Yeah. But we ain’t takin’ this haul to Pavon’s guys.”

  “C’mon, Zapper,” Rancho urged, “Pavon’ll cut us the best deal in town.”

  “That’s bullshit, man,” Zapper snapped. He used his adjustable remote to chirp open the next car, and his partners in crime dove in to strip out any worthy prizes. Zapper continued angrily, “Pavon stiffed us royal last time.”

  Rancho came out of the car, waving a leather jacket that the owner had left behind and a half-full bag of ranch-flavored Doritos. “Lookie! My favorite flavor! We got leather and munchies!”

  But Zapper was still under a dark cloud. “And I told you before about Pavon, man—it was Pavon had ’em do the hit-and-run on Billy.”

  Rancho munched on the Doritos, crumbs falling out of the corners of his mouth, as he shot back at Zapper, “C’mon, bruh, you don’t know that for sure.”

  Zapper was hovering beside the next car, which happened to be my poor, defenseless Accord. “Hell I don’t. It was Pavon called the hit, and Billy was blood.”

  Slick was impatient, hopping from one foot to the other. “Okay, okay, we won’t fence it with Pavon. Just zap the car, will ya?”

  Zapper leaned down and looked in at my Accord’s dashboard, saying, “That radio ain’t worth it.” And was he was right.

  Rancho, however, had spotted something else in the back seat of my little red car. He dropped his Doritos and focused the beam of his heavy flashlight to see in more clearly. “But hey, check out the case o’ booze! Looks like primo vino, man!”

  “May be worth lots more than a radio. C’mon, Zapper,” Slick whispered, prodding urgently, “zap it, man!”

  Zapper grunted, adjusted his remote, sent a signal, and got my car to chirp unlocked. It was at that point that the gang was startled to hear a proper English voice speak up loudly saying, “I beg your pardon, gentlemen.”

  The teens jumped, quickly turned, ready to fight or fly, and saw an elegantly dressed shadowy figure silhouetted against the distant lights of the park, who said, “I can see from your profession that you might have contact with a man I’m looking for.”

  Slick puffed up. Not only did he have his four comrades around him, but he could hold his own in a fair fight with almost anyone—because Slick never fought fairly. He sneered at this man in the ridiculously antiquated costume. “Who the hell are you, rando?”

  His face shadowed and unseen, he replied, “You would likely know me as Holmes.” Then he took a dramatic step into the streetlight so they could see his lean face. “Sherlock Holmes.”

  All the boys laughed.

  “Yeah?” snickered Slick. “Well, I’m LeBron James. Pleased t’meet ya, mofo. But just turn your skinny ass around and get outta here before I bite your head off!”

  Holmes continued as if Slick hadn’t even spoken. “The man I am seeking would be about seventy years old, an archcriminal.” He strolled over to the street gang, “And he would walk with a pronounced limp.”

  Holmes had eyes sharper and more foolproof than a polygraph. He caught the slightest trace of reaction from Zapper. Holmes was about to pursue it, but Slick crowded him. “You better move on, Jack, ’fore you walk with a limp.”