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As the first tendrils of dawn stole across the sky, Holmes crossed to the grimy window and studied the leather-bound journal beneath the pale wash of light that dared invade the gloom.
"Dead?" said I, shaking my head in amazement. "However did you arrive at such a fantastic conclusion?"
"Elementary, my dear dipstick," replied the world's greatest detective. "Observe how the pickpocket's body lies on one side of the room and his head on the other. I cannot help but wonder if this is Moriarty's villainous handiwork..."
"By Thunder, Holmes!" uttered I in a fulsome state of moistened breeches. "Whatever makes you say that?"
"I believe they're called vocal chords, Watson."
I didn't exactly self-destruct in Berlin. Think of it as a controlled implosion. We all have bad days. Some are just more pre-determined than others.
"No," he said, "you won't need your gun. Just in and out, find out how he does it and report back. That's all. No heroics. No bodies littering his workshop. You got that?"
I said I had but Control didn't look convinced. He was reaching for the phone even before I closed the door. I never got to finish the coffee.
What did I know of Joe Workman? Only what I'd read in the papers, seen on TV. He was a recluse. Made his fortune in real-estate and then ventured into stacks. Was now rumoured to be angel-funding some new internautical startup, all strictly hush-hush. Three years in his file that were unaccounted for, a black hole in his life no one wanted to talk about. No wonder Control was concerned.
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