“Yes, and unfortunately it had not been ‘the War to End All Wars,’ as promised. Millions lost their lives.”

  He was appropriately aghast. When I told him that the second was even worse, he bowed his head slightly, shaking it slowly, saying, “How monumentally tragic. I’m so sorry, Winslow, to hear how the drumbeats of such wars continued across the twentieth century.” Then he drew a breath and looked at the city around us. “I trust there also have also been brighter, more positive developments that offered some counterbalances.” He spotted a jetliner outbound from Oakland climbing into the blue sky. “Like the flying machines I’ve glimpsed. Simply marvelous!”

  “Yes,” I said smiling. “I’ve had breakfast in London, hopped on a plane like that, and gotten home to San Francisco in time for tea. The same day.”

  His fascinated eyes followed the jet. “Remarkable!”

  “But imagine this: two very clever bicycle mechanics hand-built the first powered airplane, which they flew in 1903. And only sixty-six years later we landed men on the moon.”

  His jaw actually dropped in pleasant amazement. Then he needled me. “What? No women?”

  “A lot of females have been to space.” I smiled. “There are a couple up on the International Space Station right now, orbiting two hundred twenty-seven miles above the Earth every ninety minutes.” His eyes widened. “Astronauts of both genders have been the norm for decades. We haven’t returned to the moon in forty years, but the Artemis mission with a standard female/male crew will soon be back on it walking around together.”

  “My, my,” he begrudged, “So, there’s just no stopping you ladies.”

  “You’re right. It’s taken us longer than it should have to catch up because of”—I shot him a pointed glance—“old-fashioned attitudes.”

  He received the barb, responding, “Well, I must salute your fortitude, Doctor.”

  “And speaking of: medicine is just one of many areas where humankind has made great leaps. We’ve conquered many diseases; created artificial hearts, replacement legs, arms, hands. I perform dozens of operations nowadays with minimally invasive robotic surgery.”

  “‘Robotic?’” He was puzzled. “Robota is an old Slavic word meaning drudgery, and the root of their word for serf or servant.”

  “Ha.” I smiled, admitting, “I never knew that. But servant makes sense because robots today are engineering devices that ‘serve’ in thousands of ways: they can be remotely controlled to assemble automobiles, explore other planets, or in my case, perform complex surgery through an incision the size of a pea instead of cutting the patient wide open or—”

  “‘Explore other planets?’”

  “Ohh, yeah.” I smiled. “I’ve got a whole lot of videos to show you.”

  He gazed back out at the city, seeming to ponder the enormity of all the myriad developments and events he had missed by being unconscious over a hundred years. It wasn’t merely this present-day “future” he must acclimate to but also so much history he had yet to discover.

  I told him, “I do have concerns that your head might explode with such a fire-hosing of input.”

  “Not likely,” he snickered confidently. “I have a rather large storage attic in my brain, which I generally endeavor to keep uncluttered by useless material. But at this juncture, Winslow, I am still gathering the threads with which to weave tapestries. I am allowing more absorption than usual so as to best determine what is valuable then dispense with what isn’t. And I’m quite enjoying the process. I would, however, like to focus more specifically on my overriding interest: criminality.”

  “Unfortunately, that is not my strong suit, but I will help you dig deeper into the internet, which holds a goldmine of law enforcement data.”

  On foot after reparking my car, we dodged past a cable car at Hyde and Lombard, and I asked what Professor Moriarty had looked like.

  “He was slightly taller than me,” Holmes responded. “Very lean, clean-shaven, pale, and ascetic looking. His shoulders were rounded from much study. His forehead domed out into a white curve. His face narrowed triangularly with hollow cheeks and protruded forward, slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He had thin lips that gave the impression of a permanent haughty sneer.”

  “What about his eyes? I’ve always felt they display the most hints about a person’s character.”

  “And indeed, his did. They were pale and deeply sunken, but with sinister pinpoint pupils that seemed to lacerate whatever they gazed upon, Winslow. His overall demeanor presented an air of subtly malicious danger that demanded respect and extreme caution.”

  “Clearly not someone to trifle with.”

  “Only at your own peril,” Holmes said with deadly seriousness. Then he had a startled reaction to something just ahead, mumbling, “Good lord!”

  We reached our destination on the top of Russian Hill, where Holmes was definitely getting an eyeful of the twenty-first century. He wasn’t the only one. The eyes of many other people passing by the photo shoot location were pausing to focus on eight nubile female and male models who were wearing—barely—undergarments you might see in trendy fashion magazines, on the Victoria’s Secret website, or almost any giant billboard nowadays.

  If Holmes had raised his eyebrows at my bare legs that morning, I could just imagine how he was inwardly reacting to his first exposure to real exposure. I must say he presented a remarkably coolheaded and detached attitude after his initial exclamation, though I did catch him sneaking peeks at the well-supported and blooming breasts of the striking female models.

  At one point he leaned in to me, privately asking, “And the authorities have no problem with allowing this sort of . . . this lack of . . . ?”

  “Holmes,” I said with a smile, “this is tame. Believe me.”

  Between lighting setups, we were able to speak briefly to the photographer, Maxine Moriarty, who bore no resemblance to Holmes’ description of the professor. She was a wiry, alpha-personality woman in her early thirties with short black hair teased straight up as if she’d stuck her finger into an electrical outlet. Though preoccupied with the details of her photo session and answering questions from several crew people simultaneously, she did manage to also field our questions about any relative she might have who would be a seventyish male with a deformed foot and a scar on his right hand.

  Unfortunately, Maxine could give us no lead, so we headed for the next Moriarty on our list.

  We tracked him down in the seedy, adult-theater section of Broadway below Russian Hill. En route, we came upon an alley in that downtrodden area where a number of makeshift tents had been clandestinely set up by homeless folks. Holmes noted them with an uncharacteristic touch of melancholy, saying, “I see that in spite of a century of advancements, the poor are still with us.”

  I nodded, sighing. “Sad to say, despite our best efforts.”

  As we walked past, Holmes carefully eyed the alley’s inhabitants, many wearing shoddy, ill-fitting clothes. “Reminds me of people I encountered in Benthal Green—a dismal area which had not the slightest bit of greenness. It was like so many of the decrepit streets I traversed in London’s East End.” I studied him as his eyes lingered on the unfortunate people. Though I’d accepted the bizarre reality that was walking around with the actual, original Victorian Holmes, I was still trying to fathom him being right here beside me yet also having walked those Dickensian streets—perhaps even alongside Dickens—over a century ago. Sometimes I needed to pinch myself.

  We arrived outside a small run-down theater that we’d learned was owned by Charley Moriarty. The burly, red-faced, long-haired man looked like a sixty-five-year-old Hell’s Angel, complete with forbidding tattoos and a black leather Harley-Davidson vest.

  But Charley proved to be an entirely friendly, approachable guy. I’d learned over my years in medicine—particularly working the ER—how deceiving first impressions can be. Charley was helping to unload amplifiers from a rock band’s tour bus for a one-night benefit stand at his theater. He was happy to talk to us, even shared his business card for the theater and the small twenty-four-hour storefront mission he operated next door, where he lived and also fed, clothed, and ministered to the destitute. As we talked, a well-dressed woman dropped off some used clothing, setting it atop a small pile of similar clothes on a nearby collection table.

  We were disappointed to learn that Charley had never known or heard of a Moriarty matching our description.

  “Sure sorry I can’t help y’all,” Charley said in his gravelly voice as he took a pack of gum out of his pocket, “but if you guys wanna come back for tonight’s concert, I’ll give you the house seats.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but we’re kind of on an important mission.”

  “Well, consider it an open invite.” When he noticed Holmes eyeing the gum, he asked, “Wanna stick?”

  I smiled, watching Holmes take and scrutinize the wrapped piece. “Uh, thank you, Charles, but what exactly is it?”

  “Juicy Fruit.” Charley popped a stick into his own mouth and started chewing. “My fave.”

  Holmes glanced at me, saw my encouraging nod, then delicately unwrapped the little stick. He sniffed it, let the tippy-tip of his tongue taste it, then somewhat awkwardly folded it sideways into his mouth. Charley found the performance a bit odd, and when he glanced at me for some guidance, I provided a little shrug and tried to say with my eyes, Yes, he is a little odd, but all is well.

  Holmes chewed slowly a moment, murmuring a noncommittal “Mmmm.” He forced a wan smile, saying, “Much obliged, Charles.”

  I shook his hand. “And thanks again for talking to us.”

  “Anytime.” Charley grinned and turned back to thank another woman for her donation.

  As we walked away, I whispered to Holmes, “Congratulations. You got your first piece of chewing gum.”

  “Is chewing all that one does with it?”

  “Yes. It’s preferable not to swallow, so—” I said just as his chin lifted and his Adam’s apple bounced out from peristalsis as the gum went down. “Ooop. Too late.” Then I said very seriously, “Now I’ll have to rush you to the emergency room!”

  He went pale. “What?”

  “Just kidding.”

  He glanced at me with annoyance. “Not humorous, Winslow, for a man in my circumstances: unfamiliar with current mores and good manners. I thought perhaps it had all been part of a peculiar ritual that people nowadays sometimes engaged in when parting.”

  “Nope.” I giggled. “Just a stick of gum, Holmes, which—let me guess—was far too sweet for your refined taste?”

  “Indeed it was,” he responded stiffly as he swallowed again, trying to disperse the disagreeable flavor. “Let’s just get on to our next interviewee.”

  Visits to three subsequent Moriartys also did nothing to advance our search for Holmes’ clubfooted prey. As we walked past a small bookstore on Sacramento Street across from Lafayette Park, a newspaper headline caught his eye, and Holmes reached for the door handle, startled once again when the door opened automatically.

  He rushed toward the newspaper rack but was momentarily distracted by the bargain book cart near the door, snatching up a small volume to glance at it. With an amused little puff, he dropped the book back onto the cart and moved on to the papers.

  In his wake, I paused to examine the book: a used paperback of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I looked up from it toward the living, breathing subject of the book, complete with his nineteenth-century clothing, now embroiled in checking the latest details about the murder involving piranha.

  As we left the bookstore, I asked why that newspaper headline attracted his attention.

  “Because,” he responded, “Judge Louisa Chang’s murder by piranha is obviously connected to Donald Keating’s death by the tiger.”

  “What? How could you possibly—”

  “I prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak,” he said dismissively as he indicated the book in my hand. “Curious, are you?”

  “Actually, yes.” It was the battered copy of Doyle’s stories. “Looking for some additional data about you. And how could I go wrong for only five dollars?”

  “Why on earth is that ear-flapped traveling cap on the cover?”

  I was confused. “It’s the deerstalker cap that you were famous for wearing.”

  “Ha.” He was genuinely amused. “I only wore one a handful of times, mostly to please Watson’s wife, Mary, who gifted it me on Christmas in ’90, shortly before we investigated the Boscombe Valley mystery.”

  I laughed. “Really? Only a few times? Then why in the world does everyone think— It must’ve been the movies.” I clicked on my iPhone, saying, “Siri, show me Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes.”

  Siri’s voice came back, “Here’s what I found for Basil Rathbone.”

  On my screen appeared the classic image of the actor in his tweed deerstalker, which had a bill on both the front and back and ear flaps that folded up from the sides and were secured together at the top. He was holding a large pipe.

  Holmes looked closely at it, asking, “Siri is . . . your secretary?”

  “Sort of, yeah. Anyway, Rathbone was a wonderful actor who played you in a dozen movies made in the 1930s and ’40s—”

  “And still available on TCM or streaming,” he interjected.

  I blinked with surprise, but before I could form a question, Holmes said, eyeing Basil’s face, “From his keenly intense gaze and the native intelligence present in his sharp eyes, I should judge him to have been quite an effective actor. Not a bad choice for me. And the cap looks rather becoming.” He stood up straight. “But one thing I can tell you assuredly: I never smoked that style of pipe.”

  At that moment, my text alert sounded. I read it and told Holmes, “The hospital needs me to check on one of my patients.”

  “Well,” he said dryly, glancing away with his nose slightly upraised, “if you find your cases more interesting than mine . . .”

  “What?” I was astonished, glaring at him. “Listen, Mr.—”

  “Just ‘kidding,’” he said mischievously, as I tried to hold on to my mad. “Come, come now, Winslow, ’twas merely a jest.”

  He smiled sincerely and I couldn’t help but relent, admitting. “Good one, Holmes. You really got me.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.” He nodded graciously. “And allow me to return one: I’m truly grateful for your mentorship, Winslow, and especially for your assistance today. But of course, when duty calls, you must adhere to your Hippocratic oath and respond, Doc-tor.” This time he spoke that formerly arch word with something bordering on respect. I nodded with an expression that acknowledged I had noticed the difference.

  Then he took an expansive breath, saying, “By all means, see to your patient. I shall carry on our investigation on my own and—”

  “No, no, no.” I wagged my head. “I’m not comfortable with that.”

  “But I am completely comfortable, Winslow,” he said with confidence. “Rest assured I am familiar with the basic street layout of downtown San Francisco, which, I have ascertained, has not altered drastically since 1899. I often utilized the cable cars and trams back then, and I’m convinced I will be perfectly fine on my own.”

  I studied him with trepidation, then fished out my backup iPhone, showing him how to call me if he encountered difficulties. I gave him twenty-seven dollars, all the cash I had, saying, “Cable cars are six dollars now, and when you’re finished you can catch a cab back to Baker Street.”

  Holmes glanced at me curiously, then around busy Sacramento Street. “I haven’t seen any hansom cabs, Winslow. Do they still—”

  I smiled. “No hansoms anymore, but they’re still called cabs.” I pointed out a passing taxi. “Like that one. They won’t all be yellow, but if the roof light is on, that indicates they’re available. And you should pay about fifteen percent more than the fare as a tip. A ‘tip’ means—”

  “Gratuity.” He nodded. “I’m familiar with the concept.”

  I headed for my car and Saint Francis Hospital—so naturally, I missed the excitement that ensued and was later described to me in exacting detail. Additionally, as previously noted, I had ample opportunity later to interview other participants in this unfolding drama.

  After we separated, Holmes headed back south on Larkin to revisit city hall, just to be certain there was nothing else we had overlooked. He was puffing contentedly on his briar pipe when his keen eyes chanced to spot the street kid Zapper walking north on Larkin toward the Main Public Library with a book in hand. Holmes was delighted with the opportunity to question Zapper further about why the boy had reacted so noticeably to Holmes’ mention of a limping archcriminal.

  Unfortunately, at precisely the moment Holmes saw Zapper start up the library’s front steps, the boy also spotted him—and instantly took off, running back the way he had come.

  “Zapper! Wait!” Holmes shouted, but the boy kept running full tilt.

  Holmes gave chase.

  Zapper cut across the vast civic center plaza on the west side of city hall, and turned right onto Grove Street, dodging pedestrians with a well-practiced athletic grace.

  I later had the opportunity to see Holmes running and that his style was very different from Zapper’s. If running could ever be described as formal, then that’s how Holmes does it. His back was held straight, his chin up, and his fists pumped in careful synchronization with his pistonlike legs. It’s somewhat comic to behold, but believe it or not, he’s quite fast.

  Holmes was gaining ground on Zapper when the boy artfully dodged through the heavy traffic that had stopped, awaiting a green light at the corner of Grove and Van Ness. Holmes saw Zapper aim a small remote device at the box above the stoplight—which bus drivers can use to activate a change in the light—and the light instantly switched from red to green.