Free The Baker Street Letters by Michael Robertson

was not enough.
    He came to at the bottom of the stairs. His forehead was throbbing, and when he touched it, his hand came away wet with blood.
    As his senses began to clear and he got to his feet, he heard their voices.
    â€œIs he all right?”
    That was the young woman’s voice. Reggie saw her standing halfway up the stairwell. The Saint Bernard was pressing its considerable bulk against her legs, slobbering and grinning.
    Between the young woman and Reggie was the man with the two-tone jacket, and he answered her.
    â€œHe’ll live, Mara. Did he bother you?”
    Mara shook her head, then she turned, and without waiting for more of a response from either Reggie or the man in the jacket, she started back up the stairs.
    Reggie stumbled out to the street, looking for his cab. Thank God, it was still there. And there was the driver, already looking in Reggie’s direction and getting out to help, and—No, nowseeing Reggie’s condition, he was tossing Reggie’s carry-on out of the boot and driving away.
    Bloody hell.
    Reggie pressed a handkerchief against his forehead, staggered over to the one bag he’d brought from London, and took out his mobile to call another taxi.
    No signal. He’d forgotten the damn thing wouldn’t work here.
    He looked about. There was not a public phone in sight, and given the location and condition of the street, he knew he could wait forever and not see another cab.
    But three blocks up the street was a red neon sign for the Roosevelt Arms—a hotel with peeling pink stucco and rusty window air conditioners.
    It was the only option. He picked up his carry-on bag and trudged toward it.
    Several head-throbbing minutes later, he entered the dimly lit lobby.
    He surveyed the floral-print carpeting, the five-dollar prints of waves crashing at sunset, and the purple simulated-leather chairs and concluded that if the cost of the place was like its decor, it had to be the cheapest lodging around.
    Reggie considered that fact for a moment.
    If Nigel was in the area, this would be his affordable choice.
    Reggie approached the bored desk clerk and asked for Nigel Heath.
    â€œYeah. He was here. Checked out.”
    â€œWhen?”
    The clerk shrugged. “Not long, I guess. Do you want a room or what?”
    â€œThank you, no,” said Reggie. “Did he say where he was going next?”
    â€œNo. Promised to write, though.”
    â€œHas the room been cleaned?”
    â€œYou want a room, I got one available on the third floor. Clean as a baby’s bottom.”
    â€œNo doubt. But what about the room where my brother stayed?”
    â€œI don’t know if my staff has gotten to it yet,” said the clerk.
    This was sarcasm. Reggie recognized the tone from weekend holidays in Paris.
    â€œMay I see it?”
    â€œYou can rent it.”
    â€œOf course,” said Reggie. He paid the full day’s rent with his American dollars and climbed the stairs carrying his bag with him.
    In Reggie’s experience, American hotel rooms typically smelled too much of bleached linen and antiseptic cleaners. Unfortunately, the rooms of this hotel did not have that fault; the corridor smelled instead of mildew and substances best left unidentified.
    Reggie found Nigel’s room. For reasons he did not understand, he knocked first. There was no response. Of course there wasn’t. He opened the door.
    He realized now he had half expected that Nigel would still be there, despite the clerk’s assurances that the occupant had checked out.
    But there was no one.
    The bed, small by American standards, apparently had not been slept in. There was nothing lying about on the faded carpeting to prove Nigel had been there, though Reggie supposed the absence of empty beer cans and whiskey bottles might in itself indicate that the most recent tenant had not been of the usual clientele.
    The closet was empty; there were no toiletries left behindin the