Free SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK by Braven Page A

long-established custom of making things clear to me, and for the moment virtually ig nored Irene Adler, whose gaze remained bent steadily upon him. He strode to the centermost of the three windows fronting on Gramercy Park, and pointed to the drapes that concealed it. "This curtain hangs un tidily. Again and again, someone has thrust it aside —like this—so that the street below— Aha! The win dows leading out on to the balcony—which I am sure you noticed, Watson, as we entered the house—are unlatched!"
    He flung open the center window, which I could flow see was more like a glass-paneled door, and stepped onto the balcony.
    "As I say," he continued, "someone has repeatedly stepped out here to look in all directions! Waiting. Waiting for what? "
    Holmes stepped back into the room and continued his exposition. A sweeping gesture took in the chairs and cushioned sofa.
    "Not a single piece of furniture in this room shows the imprint of a human form! Irene, you have spent the time since at least eight tonight pacing this floor, sitting only at that desk in the corner to write your note to Mr. Furman! Ah! What's this?"
    His aquiline nose seemed almost to sniff the air as if picking up the scent of crime as he strode to the sofa and lifted up a framed picture lying on its face. Turn ing it over, he gazed at it long and inquiringly.
    Determined not to distract him, but consumed with curiosity, I made my way to Holmes' side and had a look for myself. It was a sepia-toned photograph of a boy of some nine years of age, thinner of face, per haps, than a healthy lad ought to be, yet with an appearance of vigor and an inquiring cast of counte nance.
    "Who is this child?" said Sherlock Holmes.
    Irene Adler was silent for a moment, then said evenly, "His name is Scott. He is my son."
    I stirred uneasily. As a doctor, I have seen much of the unconventional side of life—and much more of it as a result of joining Holmes in his work—and I am also aware that Mr. Bernard Shaw and Herr (if that is how Norwegians style themselves) Ibsen have in their work raised flouting of the conventions to the status of a positive moral duty. Yet I felt distinctly awkward at hearing Miss Irene Adler speak of her son.
    Holmes looked sharply at her and then back to the picture.
    "Where is the boy now?" he inquired.
    "He is . . . upstairs. In bed." Irene Adler appeared to be looking intently at a point on the wall consider ably to Holmes' left.
    "May I see him?"
    "He is asleep."
    "I shall be very quiet." Something of his old sar donic manner was creeping back into the detective's tone.
    Irene Adler was silent for a moment, and Holmes' lips thinned in an almost mocking smile.
    She sighed deeply and said, "I am afraid I cannot oblige you."
    Holmes nodded.
    "I am convinced that you cannot!" he said.
    He looked at her keenly for a moment, then turned and walked to the delicate writing-desk that stood against one wall. He bent over it, nodded his head, and ran a finger along one corner of the top. As he straightened from his crouching position, Irene Ad ler's eyes were on him, wide with fear.
    "That photograph ordinarily stands here on this desk," said Holmes. "A faint line of dust marks where its base usually rests." He walked slowly back to where the woman stood, holding the framed picture up. "You seized it up while you were pacing, didn't you? I can see you . . . holding it, casting a longing, anxious look upon it, even giving way to a sob of anxiety—and then flinging it to the sofa!"
    He performed the same action as he spoke, and the picture spun through the air to land in the same po sition in which I had first noticed it.
    "The boy is not upstairs in bed, Irene! The boy is not in this house at all! The boy has been kidnapped! "
    Irene Adler raised two clenched fists and struck at his snowy shirtfront, not as if attacking him but as if in a frenzy that demanded some physical expression. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes! He has been kidnapped, and I am out of my