I’ll be back in town tomorrow.
“I thought you had another two weeks on the shoot.”
“There’s a short break. A good time for us to talk, I think.”
Now she did not sound flustered; now she just sounded tense and formal. Chills went down Reggie’s spine.
“Of course,” he said. “Just give a ring.”
“I will,” she said. “Have to go. Must pack.”
That was all.
When Reggie returned to the Baker Street building after that call, he once again went straight to his chambers as a refuge.
There was something wrong in Laura’s sudden need to visit. He did not want to think about what it was, but in any case, he had a great excuse not to do so. He had a hearing to prepare for.
He pulled the police files and the private investigator’s report out of his desk and pored over them once again. All of it confirmed his initial impression: it just didn’t make sense that a dedicated Black Cab driver would jeopardize his career by committing a string of low-yield robberies—much less a murder.
But Reggie’s gut feeling carried no weight in court, and he knew he did not have enough to get the charges tossed at the preliminary hearing. As overeager as the Crown Prosecution Service appeared to be, it only needed a prima facie case to get an indictment. And if Reggie contested that indictment at tomorrow’s hearing and failed, he would not only annoy the court, he would be prematurely revealing and seriously undermining the defense that he would need to present at trial.
Reggie got up from his desk. He would sleep on it. In the morning, if no other strategy came to mind, he would have to call Langdon and initiate a retreat, and accept a trial date.
Reggie exited chambers, but he had to pause at Lois’s desk; the fax machine was screeching and blinking.
Reggie picked up the fax as it creaked out. Perhaps Darla had come up with something.
But it wasn’t from her. It was from Nigel, and it said:
READ THE BLOODY THING!
Reggie picked up the next page that came through, and when he saw it, he had to laugh.
It was a fax of the same typewritten letter that had fallen from the top of the stack the day before. The letter from Moriarty. Apparently, Nigel was taking it seriously.
Which Reggie found amusing—because any halfway decent evil genius wouldn’t use a manual typewriter, which might well be traceable and reveal your location. He would go to the library and use a common laser or ink-jet. Even ink analysis could reveal no more than which brand.
Reggie crumpled the fax and tossed it into the wastebasket. He had no time to deal with a letter from a fictional villain to a fictional detective, threatening or otherwise.
6
Reggie returned to chambers the next morning and saw Rafferty, just ahead of him, heading for the lift.
Reggie slowed his pace, but it was too late—Rafferty had seen him. Rafferty held the doors open, and Reggie could not turn away without seeming to flee.
“Hear you have a new brief,” said Rafferty.
“Word travels fast,” said Reggie, not adding that it was also traveling farther than he preferred.
Rafferty just smiled and nodded—and he said nothing more, until the doors opened on Reggie’s floor.
“Letters under control, I presume,” said Rafferty then.
“Of course,” said Reggie.
Rafferty nodded, as if to indicate that perhaps he would take Reggie’s word for it. Reggie quickly exited the lift with no further discussion.
As he approached his secretary’s desk, Reggie looked back over his shoulder. At least Rafferty wasn’t actually following him. That was something.
“Any new posts this morning?” he asked Lois.
“Um … by new posts , do you mean, well … addressed to whom, exactly?”
“To me, of course.”
“No. Sorry.”
Reggie nodded and proceeded toward his office.
“But there was this,” Lois called out.
Reggie paused and came back to her desk, puzzled and hopeful.
“Yes?”
With some trepidation, she handed Reggie the one letter from the
“I thought you had another two weeks on the shoot.”
“There’s a short break. A good time for us to talk, I think.”
Now she did not sound flustered; now she just sounded tense and formal. Chills went down Reggie’s spine.
“Of course,” he said. “Just give a ring.”
“I will,” she said. “Have to go. Must pack.”
That was all.
When Reggie returned to the Baker Street building after that call, he once again went straight to his chambers as a refuge.
There was something wrong in Laura’s sudden need to visit. He did not want to think about what it was, but in any case, he had a great excuse not to do so. He had a hearing to prepare for.
He pulled the police files and the private investigator’s report out of his desk and pored over them once again. All of it confirmed his initial impression: it just didn’t make sense that a dedicated Black Cab driver would jeopardize his career by committing a string of low-yield robberies—much less a murder.
But Reggie’s gut feeling carried no weight in court, and he knew he did not have enough to get the charges tossed at the preliminary hearing. As overeager as the Crown Prosecution Service appeared to be, it only needed a prima facie case to get an indictment. And if Reggie contested that indictment at tomorrow’s hearing and failed, he would not only annoy the court, he would be prematurely revealing and seriously undermining the defense that he would need to present at trial.
Reggie got up from his desk. He would sleep on it. In the morning, if no other strategy came to mind, he would have to call Langdon and initiate a retreat, and accept a trial date.
Reggie exited chambers, but he had to pause at Lois’s desk; the fax machine was screeching and blinking.
Reggie picked up the fax as it creaked out. Perhaps Darla had come up with something.
But it wasn’t from her. It was from Nigel, and it said:
READ THE BLOODY THING!
Reggie picked up the next page that came through, and when he saw it, he had to laugh.
It was a fax of the same typewritten letter that had fallen from the top of the stack the day before. The letter from Moriarty. Apparently, Nigel was taking it seriously.
Which Reggie found amusing—because any halfway decent evil genius wouldn’t use a manual typewriter, which might well be traceable and reveal your location. He would go to the library and use a common laser or ink-jet. Even ink analysis could reveal no more than which brand.
Reggie crumpled the fax and tossed it into the wastebasket. He had no time to deal with a letter from a fictional villain to a fictional detective, threatening or otherwise.
6
Reggie returned to chambers the next morning and saw Rafferty, just ahead of him, heading for the lift.
Reggie slowed his pace, but it was too late—Rafferty had seen him. Rafferty held the doors open, and Reggie could not turn away without seeming to flee.
“Hear you have a new brief,” said Rafferty.
“Word travels fast,” said Reggie, not adding that it was also traveling farther than he preferred.
Rafferty just smiled and nodded—and he said nothing more, until the doors opened on Reggie’s floor.
“Letters under control, I presume,” said Rafferty then.
“Of course,” said Reggie.
Rafferty nodded, as if to indicate that perhaps he would take Reggie’s word for it. Reggie quickly exited the lift with no further discussion.
As he approached his secretary’s desk, Reggie looked back over his shoulder. At least Rafferty wasn’t actually following him. That was something.
“Any new posts this morning?” he asked Lois.
“Um … by new posts , do you mean, well … addressed to whom, exactly?”
“To me, of course.”
“No. Sorry.”
Reggie nodded and proceeded toward his office.
“But there was this,” Lois called out.
Reggie paused and came back to her desk, puzzled and hopeful.
“Yes?”
With some trepidation, she handed Reggie the one letter from the
Similar Books
