Free The Baker Street Translation by Michael Robertson Page A

video-game arcades.
    Now there were several narrow lanes, all of which ran for no more than a block or two, off the main commercial street and into the more specialized blocks of Soho. The businesses here were more cautiously and specifically lit, like courtesans, brightly enough to attract their clientele, but not so much as to annoy the mainstream establishments on the connecting streets.
    On one of these lanes, the cab stopped at the entrance of an even narrower alleyway. Here there were deep shadows and no lights at the moment; nothing in this alley had a midmorning clientele.
    Reggie got out and showed his identification to a young and skeptical officer standing in front of the fluorescent yellow crime-scene tape. It took several minutes of persuading, but finally the bobby called out over his shoulder to Detective Inspector Wembley—a fiftyish man, with the shoulders of a former boxer and a coat that was fitting too tightly with the passing years—who was huddled with another Scotland Yard professional over something in the interior of the alley.
    Wembley looked up and waved Reggie in.
    Reggie stepped over the tape and into the alley. The alley dead-ended at an eight-foot brick wall. Several feet in front of that wall was a Dumpster; at the perimeter of the small space obscured by the Dumpster were Wembley and a medical examiner.
    On the near side of the Dumpster, an exterior set of stairs led to a purple door, closed at the moment, with a sign above it that identified the entrance to the Body Shop, a strip club.
    As Reggie approached, Wembley stood and looked toward him expectantly, or accusingly—Reggie wasn’t quite sure which.
    Wembley shifted his position slightly to give Reggie just enough space to see what they had found.
    Reggie looked down.
    It was Mr. Liu, the old gentleman who had visited Reggie’s office the day before.
    The wisps of the old man’s white hair were plastered against his head with blood. The collar and lapel of his gray coat were saturated with blood, as well; the hem of the coat was damp and soiled from a rain puddle and Dumpster muck. Altogether, the man’s frame seemed to be even smaller now than when he had been in Reggie’s office, and much too inconsequential in death.
    Reggie wanted to turn away. “How was he found?” he asked. He took a moment to mentally focus before continuing. He looked back up the alley toward the street. The foot traffic was fifty yards away, and the body was partly obscured by the sides of the Dumpster. Then he added, “I would guess he could have been here for hours without being noticed.”
    â€œHe was,” said Wembley. “We didn’t get a call until the cleaning crew showed up this morning for the strip club upstairs.”
    â€œNo one leaving the club saw him here when it closed?”
    â€œApparently not. But the light is poor, and he could have been missed on this side of the Dumpster. From a few yards out, all you see is an old coat on the ground. And the club employees leave by the front entrance when they close.”
    The forensics examiner, a woman in her early forties, stood up now.
    â€œI think you’ve got a four-hour window,” she said. “I’ll get you details after I get him back to the lab, but my first guess is between eleven last night and three this morning. Step back, please?”
    Reggie and Wembley moved back.
    â€œMy theory,” said Wembley, “is that he came here last night looking for some special Soho entertainment and got robbed. I rang you because he had this on him. Have anything to say about it?”
    Wembley showed Reggie his Baker Street Chambers business card, already captured in a clear plastic bag.
    â€œHe came to my office yesterday,” said Reggie. And then, just out of tactical habit, he changed the subject instead of providing the details he knew Wembley wanted. “Did anyone see him inside the club?”
    â€œDon’t