Page 37

CHAPTER 37

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER leaving Oliver Paul at the luncheon, Holmes was still wandering Times Square. The shooting galleries and garish porn shops it had been known for were purged decades ago. Theater lights and massive LED displays instead blinded him as he walked.

After a while, Holmes headed east along 45th Street. He was a creature of the city. As he walked, he navigated without thinking. He turned north, walked a few blocks, then east, then north again, dodging cabs and delivery bikes by instinct.

He was in a dark mood. As he walked under yet another skeleton of scaffolding, he angled his body to let a couple with a stroller ease by. He thought about the missing babies, and about the message Poe had received, but felt totally useless and out of touch. In his mind, his career was over. He could accept that his partners were furious with him, but he hated that they were disappointed in him. He felt he’d let them down in every possible way.

When he looked up, he found he was on Park Avenue, approaching 59th Street. At the corner, he looked right. In spite of his depression, he felt a small lift in his chest when he noticed he was by one of his favorite places on the planet.

Holmes crossed the street and opened the front door of the Argosy Book Store. Unlike Times Square, it hadn’t changed much at all since his first visit as a child. Same patterned ceiling. Same cozy clutter of desks, shelves, and bins—all crammed and overflowing with books. Same posters and framed artwork leaning against desks.

Even the scents were the same, only more intense. Worn leather, wood polish, binding adhesive, aging paper. Absolutely intoxicating.

Holmes wound his way past the tourists and aficionados until he found himself in a small alcove behind a worn maple table. He ran his hands across the densely packed shelves, tapping the rounded spines as he went. Melville. Austen. Dickens. Tolstoy. Joyce.

At one point his hand simply stopped, like a divining rod over hidden water. When he glanced up at the shelf, the book was staring him right in the face. His heart jolted. He hadn’t even been looking for it. But there it was.

Holmes pulled the volume off the shelf. The cover was blue buckram, finely textured, with an inset illustration of a downcast figure in formal clothes, holding his hat loosely behind his back. He had the expression of a man visiting a sick friend, or attending a funeral.

Below the illustration, in thin lettering, sat the title: Adventure XXIV. The Final Problem. By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Holmes looked down to the bottom of the inset. His eyes widened. “From The Strand Magazine . Vol. VI: December 1893.” A collector’s edition!

Holmes tucked the volume under his arm and carried it to the checkout desk in front. The clerk was a young man with stringy blond hair and a pale complexion.

“How much?” asked Holmes.

The clerk took the book and entered some digits into the computer.

“One hundred,” he said.

One hundred? Holmes was almost hurt. “It’s worth more than that,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” said the clerk, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Holmes reached into his wallet and pulled out his Amex card. He handed it to the clerk, forgetting that it was an unnecessary step. Force of habit. The clerk glanced at the card before reaching over and sticking it into the device on the counter.

“Interesting name,” he said. “Coincidence?”

“Not quite,” said Holmes.

As the clerk slid the book and receipt into a bag, he leaned over. “You know Sherlock gets killed off in this one, right?”

Holmes nodded and took the package. “Maybe Sir Arthur had the right idea.”