“I agree to the deal,” interrupted Frankie Statten. “Just so I don’t have to listen to any more of this rubbish!”
“Thank you.” I turned to Watson and smiled. “Well done, old fellow. Well done. So, while you clean up and Mr. Blake and Mr. Tompkins discreetly return the jewelry to their respective owners, Mr. Collier, Mr. Statten, and I shall repair to the cruiser and sort out a few final details.” I held out my hand toward the stairs. “Gentlemen.”
As I followed Collier and the dog up the dungeon stairs, I heard the Labradoodle ask him confidentially, “This Holmes and Watson thing those two got going. An act, right? An act?”
“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Collier. “I simply don’t know.”
The cruiser rose from Powderham Castle in an arc that took us over the River Exe, giving us a good view of Lympstone’s Bay Tower red in the afternoon sun. I could see Mama Bimbo’s Cat House on The Strand being fitted out for some other kind of shop. A flight of gulls crossed below us and made wing for chips or fingerlings, whichever were more plentiful as the tide changed. Watson put us on autopilot and settled back in his couch.
“Holmes, what about Frank Statten and Songbirds?” He pointed toward the mech chip in the envelope on the dash clip. “Are you simply going to let him go without even a day in court?”
“I am going to take this chip to his stasis bed at Songbirds, update his natural, and leave, inquiry closed.”
“Memories of every crime and crooked deal Statten ever pulled, everything he has in the works right now, is in his memory recall bank. I cannot believe you won’t at least make a copy of that chip for the constabulary.”
“I won’t do it for two reasons, Watson. First, I gave him my word. Second, I don’t think Statten will believe either that I won’t copy his memory. Unless I’m terribly mistaken, every iron he has in the fire will be yanked out within hours of getting his engrams back into his nat. The deals he has going with any number of undesirable personages will be cancelled, and they will be after him to know why. Think he’ll stick around to try and explain how he had to make a deal with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?”
Watson chuckled. “Not much to show on our records, though.”
“Small price to pay for ending a one-man crime wave and doing a good cop a favor, don’t you think? It should make absolute excrement of Frankie’s criminal life and reputation, which will settle his account with Loretta nicely.”
“I suppose.” We rode along silently for a while, then Watson said, “Holmes, what is going to happen to Clarice Penne’s body—the one in stasis? Sooner or later the owner of the stasis bed is going to have to put the body up for payments due, correct?”
“I’m surprised at you, Watson,” I said. “Surely you recall our visit to that fair seaside cultural center you insisted on pronouncing Limp-stone.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Of course I remember.”
“Do you also remember the woman who constituted one hundred percent of the clientele of Mama Bimbo’s Cat House?”
He chuckled at that. “Yes. Petting Place. Absurd name. Maddie girl, she was. Madeleine Wallingford. She brought in the hapless jewel thief now inhabiting Timmy the Tortoise over at Powderham Castle. Our first catch and release. What of her?”
“Remember the card Madeleine Wallingford had us place in the shop window? The one for the meeting of the Order of St. Trinians?”
“Vaguely. Theater group, wasn’t it?”
“I’m shocked, Watson. Absolutely shaken to my very nucleus. An old movie buff such as yourself? You yourself remarked how Clarice Penne’s natural body resembled actor Alistair Sim, he who in his heyday played the headmistress of St. Trinians girls’ school in The Belles of St. Trinians to such perfection—”
“The Order of St. Trinians,” Shad interrupted. “That theater group does scripts based on the Ronald Searle cartoons!”
“Indeed, old fellow, indeed. Madeleine Wallingford is paying off the stasis estate agent and collecting the suit for Trinians new star performer as we speak. You know, possibly going without a proper hat has chilled your brain, depriving its cells of much needed oxygen, increasing your brain-bumble factor.” I reached back and took a round box from the hands of the large walking mech. “In return for our services, I received this from my friend Ian Collier.” I handed it to my partner.
“I didn’t know we were allowed to accept gifts, Holmes.”
“Nothing of value. This is just an old hand-me-down of Ian’s grandfather’s. It ought to keep your brain toasty.”
He lifted the lid from the box, placed it aside, opened the tissue paper, and took the gray homburg from it. “Why … why this is quite thoughtful, Holmes.” He placed it on his head with both hands and faced me. “How do I look?”
“Very handsome, Watson. Distinguished. The very picture of Dr. John H. Watson.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Why not?”
His face grew long and troubled. “Now, this makes me feel terrible.”
“How so, Watson?”
“Well, I’ve noticed, Holmes, that you seem to be enjoying our Holmes and Watson thing quite a bit more than I have.”
“I’d noticed it myself. Now that I reflect upon it, I haven’t felt this perceptive in decades. I feel as though I could untie the Gordian Knot one-handed, blindfolded, and play multiple games of championship chess with my toes at the same time.”
“Feeling rather sharp, eh, Holmes?”
“As a tack, dear fellow. Why?”
“I have a confession to make. You know how I dislike reading instructions of any kind.”
“Quite. As I recall DS Guy Shad’s famous dictum: ‘If the damned program or machine isn’t intuitive to operate, it’s crap.’”
Watson chuckled. “Yes. Very amusing.”
“Come, Watson. What about it?” I prompted.
“Brochure came with my Watson suit, you know, from Celebrity Look-alikes.” He reached into his side coat pocket with his left hand and pulled out a leaflet folded into thirds. “You were correct, Holmes, about what you called my bumble factor. There’s one built in. Slows things down and fuzzes up thoughts while mixing them in with the vocabulary, vocal mannerisms, and so on of the Nigel Bruce Watson.” He waved the leaflet idly in my direction. “Something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Bit of a cost-cutting measure, I fear. Makes sense if you look at it from their end. Celebrity Look-alikes, that is. You see?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see. What are you talking about, Watson? What cost-cutting measure?”
“Oh. Well, usually both suits are rented at the same time: Holmes and Watson. You see? Symbiotic relationship.”
“Ye-e-es,” I answered warily.
“They had to have the Nigel Bruce as Watson suits made, you see. For the Basil Rathbone as Holmes suits, though, they simply used the same model fallen officer replacement suit that you have yourself.”
“That makes perfectly good sense. Why reinvent the wheel?”
“Exactly, Holmes. So you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“When my Watson suit came in close enough proximity to your model suit, my Nigel Bruce-Dr. Watson bio program asked permission to insert a wireless patch through your bio receiver. You must have seen it. You agreed to the terms.”
“Ever since I went wireless I must get a half dozen of those things a day. I never read them—who has the time? What—well, what does it do?”