The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

William Kent Krueger The Painted Smile

From Echoes of Sherlock Holmes

He was an odd child to begin with. After he received the book as a Christmas present, things only got worse. Eventually his aunt was beside herself and sought my help.

I have an office in Saint Paul, in a building that was grand about the time Dillinger was big news. It’s long been in need of a facelift. One of the things I like about it is that I can see the Mississippi River from my window. Another is that I can afford the rent.

Although she’d called ahead and had explained the situation, when she brought in the boy, I was still surprised. He was small, even for a ten-year-old. But his eyes were sharp and quick, darting like bees around the room, taking in everything. I welcomed the woman and her nephew, shook their hands, and we sat in the comfortable easy chairs I use during my sessions.

“So, Oliver,” I said. “I’m very curious about your costume.”

“My name is Sherlock. And this is not a costume.”

“Your aunt has told me that your birth certificate reads Oliver Wendell Holmes. You were named after the great Supreme Court justice.”

“I prefer Sherlock.”

“All right. For now. Tell me about your attire. That hat is pretty striking, and your cape as well. Tweed, yes? How did you manage to come by them?”

“I made them myself.”

I looked to his aunt.

She nodded. “He taught himself to use my sewing machine. And he does a fine stitch by hand too.”

In our initial phone conversation, she’d told me her nephew had been tested in school and had demonstrated an IQ of 170. I’m generally leery of quantifications of this kind, but it was clear the boy was gifted.

“When did you become Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’ve always been Sherlock Holmes. I just didn’t realize it until I received the volume of Conan Doyle at Christmas.”

“Always?”

“Just as you’ve always been Watson.”

“But I’m not. You know that. My name is simply Watt.”

“Are you not the son of Watt, therefore Watt’s son?”

“Clever,” I admitted with a smile.

“I’m not crazy, Watson,” he said quite calmly. “Not delusional. I’m well aware that Sherlock Holmes is a literary fiction. I’m simply the mental and emotional incarnation of that fictional construct, the confirmation that the literary may sometimes, indeed, reflect a concrete reality. The name Sherlock feels suited to me. But all this is something my aunt has difficulty accepting. I understand.”

“You get made fun of,” his aunt said to him, a situation that clearly caused her distress. “The other kids at school pick on you. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I’m the object of ridicule because they’re not comfortable with who they are. They work hard at creating just the right image, and I threaten that. It’s the same with adults. If you weren’t so insecure in your own circumstances, Aunt Louise, you would see me for who I am instead of who you want me to be.”

“That’s a rather harsh judgment, Oliver,” I said.

“Sherlock,” he reminded me. “And I would say the same about you, Watson.”

“Oh?”

“Your office is on the third floor of a building that houses enterprises of a less than robust nature. Your shelves are full of books on psychology that haven’t been read in a good long while. You spend a lot of time sitting at your desk and staring at the river, wishing that instead of becoming a child psychologist you’d gone to sea. You’ve recently separated from your wife. Or perhaps divorced. And you’d like desperately to find a woman who understands you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The building speaks for itself,” he explained. “The dust on your shelves is evidence that you seldom reference your reference materials. You’ve arranged your office so that the best view — the river — is in front of you, and only a very dedicated individual wouldn’t be constantly seduced by that wistful scene. Your walls are filled with photographs and paintings of great ships at sea. Your left ring finger still bears a strip of skin much paler than the area around it, indicating that until very recently you wore a wedding band. And in your wastebasket is the latest issue of City Pages folded to the personal ads section.”

Though I was shaken by the accuracy of his observations, I did my best not to show it. From that point on, I conducted a fairly standard intake interview. The boy’s parents were deceased, killed two years earlier when their car slid off an icy road while they were returning from a New Year’s Eve party. His parents had both been successful attorneys.

At the end, I spoke with his aunt alone. I told her I thought I could help the boy, but that it might take some time. She agreed to bring him back for sessions twice a week.

I walked her out of my office to where the boy sat waiting in the hallway. I explained what his aunt and I had decided. He didn’t seem upset in the least. I bid them goodbye, and the woman started away. But the boy held back and, before catching up with his aunt, whispered something to me in a grave voice.

I returned to my office and stood at the window, looking down at the street, watching them get into the woman’s old sedan and drive away. The whole time, the final words the boy had spoken to me ran through my head: One thing you should know, Watson. Moriarty is here.

I’m a bit of a dreamer. That’s why my wife left me. Well, one of the reasons. And so, truthfully, I was inclined to be sympathetic toward Oliver Holmes, who, like me, and despite his protestations to the contrary, was someone wanting to be someone else. I found myself looking forward to our next visit three days later. When Oliver showed up, his aunt simply dropped him off, saying she would be back in an hour. She had errands to run.

We sat in my office, and I asked how his days had gone since I last saw him.

He cut to the chase. “I’ve been worried about Moriarty.”

“Tell me about him.”

“You know who he is, Watson.”

“I’ve read my Conan Doyle,” I said.

“Then you understand the evil he’s capable of.”

“Is this really Moriarty or another instance of some kind of — what did you call it? ‘A concrete reflection of a literary reality’?”

“Moriarty is not the source of all evil, Watson. But his malicious intent here is quite real.”

“So he’s up to something?”

“What a stupid question, Watson. Of course he’s up to something. The real question is what?”

“You’ve seen him, then?”

“Of course.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“I’ve never seen him except in disguise.”

“If he was in disguise and you’ve never seen him otherwise, how do you know it was him?”

“A wolf may don sheep’s clothing, but he still behaves like a wolf.”

I sat back and considered the boy.

“Do you play chess?” I finally asked.

“Of course. Since I was four.”

“Care to play a game?”

“On my aunt’s nickel? Isn’t that a bit unfair to her, Watson?”

“Tell you what. I give every client one free session. We’ll count this as your free one.”

He shrugged, a very boylike gesture, and I went to a cabinet and brought out my chess set.

“Carved alabaster,” he said, clearly impressed. “Roman motif.”

“I take my chess seriously.”

We set up the board and played for half an hour to a stalemate. I was impressed with how well he conducted himself. I’m no slouch, and he kept me on my toes. Mostly, however, it afforded me an opportunity to observe his thinking. He was aggressive, too much so, I thought. He didn’t consider his defense as carefully as he should have in order to anticipate the danger inherent in some of his bolder moves. He was smart, beyond smart, but he was still a child. I could tell it irritated him that he didn’t win.

“Tell me more about Moriarty,” I said.

“I believe he killed my parents.” It was an astounding statement, but he spoke it as a simple truth.

“Your aunt told me they died in an automobile accident.”

“Moriarty was behind it.”

“To what end?”

“I don’t know. Ever since I realized he was here, I’ve been observing him. I haven’t quite deciphered the pattern of his actions.”

“Observing him how?”

“How does one normally observe, Watson? I’ve been following him.”

This alarmed me, though I tried not to show it. His brashness, if what he told me was true, was the kind of heedless aggression I’d seen in his chess play. Though I didn’t believe in Moriarty, whatever the boy was up to wasn’t healthy.

A knock at the door ended our session. His aunt entered the office.

“Could I speak with you alone?” I asked.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she said. “Perhaps next time. Come on, Oliver. We’ve got to run.”

When they’d gone, I was left with a profound sense of uneasiness. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t help thinking that the boy was heading somewhere dangerous, dangerous to him and perhaps to others. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to do except bide my time until our next visit.

“Would you care to see him, Watson?” the boy asked. “Moriarty.”

His aunt had dropped him at the door to the building, and he’d come up alone. He’d insisted on a chess rematch, and while we’d played I’d probed him more about his obsession with that fictional villain.

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Meet me at six this evening at the corner of Seventh and Randolph.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you want to see Moriarty or not?”

“I do.”

“Then meet me.”

“I’ll have to discuss this with your aunt.”

“No.”

“Oliver—”

“Sherlock, damn you!”

“Oliver,” I replied firmly, “there are lines I won’t cross. I can’t connive with you behind your aunt’s back.”

“I’ll make a deal with you, Watson,” the boy said, having calmed himself. “Meet me tonight, this one time. If you’re not convinced that there’s danger afoot and that Moriarty is the source, I won’t insist anymore that you call me Sherlock.”

I considered his proposal and decided there was nothing to lose. I certainly didn’t believe in Moriarty, and so this might be a way to crack through the boy’s wall of resistance.

“Six,” I agreed.

He was there to meet me and got into my car when I pulled to the curb. He directed me a couple of blocks away to an apartment building in a working-class section with a view of the old brewery. We parked well back from the entrance, sandwiched inconspicuously between two other cars.

“What exactly are we watching for?” I asked.

“At six-fifteen you’ll see.”

I talked with him while we waited, asked him about his aunt.

“She’s a bit dull,” he said. “Not like my mom and dad were. She feels trapped, but I believe she does her best.”

“Trapped?”

“In her life, in her marriage.”

“She’s married?” This was a piece of new information. His aunt had said nothing during the intake interview, and the boy had been silent on the subject until now.

“Of course. I assumed you saw the ring.” He frowned at me. “Really, Watson, you need to pay closer attention to the details.”

“Tell me about your uncle.”

“He drives a semi truck. He’s gone most days of the week, but usually makes it home for the weekends. It’s better when he’s not around. He’s got a mean streak in him.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be coming out any minute now.”

There she was, right on time, pushing out the front door of the apartment building at six-fifteen sharp. She crossed the street and got into the old sedan I’d seen her driving before.

“Follow her,” the boy said.

I pulled out and stayed behind her for the next ten minutes.

“Now watch,” the boy said. “This is where it gets interesting.”

The street ran past a large entertainment center called Palladium Pizza. On the big sign out front was a neon Ferris wheel and below that a lit marquee that proclaimed FOOD, FUN, AND GAMES FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY. The parking lot was quite full. The place was clearly a popular enterprise. The boy’s aunt pulled into the lot and parked. I pulled in too but stayed well away. She left the sedan, glanced at her watch, then stood looking expectantly toward the double glass doors of the establishment.

Lo and behold, a clown appeared. He wore a big red wig and his nose was tipped with a little red ball. His clothes were a ridiculous burlesque of elegant evening wear, complete with a large fake flower on his lapel that I was certain shot water. The shoes on his feet were a dozen sizes too big. His mouth was elongated with red face paint into a perpetual and I thought rather frightening grin. He approached the woman. To my amazement, they kissed.

“Who’s that?” I asked. But no sooner had I spoken than the light dawned. “Moriarty.”

The boy gave a single, solemn nod. “Moriarty.”

They walked arm in arm to a van at the other end of the parking lot. The vehicle was decorated with brightly colored balloon decals, and floating among them were the words “Marco the Magnificent: Magic and Buffoonery for All Ages.” They got in, the van pulled onto the street, and it quickly disappeared amid the traffic.

“Your aunt is having an affair with a clown?”

“With Moriarty,” the boy said.

“Your uncle doesn’t know?”

“Clueless.”

“Okay,” I said. “If this is Moriarty, what’s he up to?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it, Watson? I hope to have an answer soon.”

He continued to stare down the street where his aunt and the clown had gone.

“Did you see his face? The painted smile? Such a grotesque mockery of goodwill.” His eyes narrowed in a determined way and he said grimly, “Pure Moriarty.”

When his aunt dropped him off for his next session, I caught her before she rushed away and asked to speak with her privately a moment. She seemed a bit put out, but stepped into my office while Oliver waited outside.

“You’re seeing someone,” I said.

She was clearly startled. “What do you mean?”

“Marco the Magnificent.”

“How—” she started, then her eyes shifted to the office door. “Oliver.” She looked at me again, and I could see that she was trying to decide on a course of action. She finally settled on what seemed to me the truth.

“I don’t love my husband anymore. Morrie makes me feel special. Makes me feel young. Makes me laugh.”

“Morrie? That’s his name?”

“Morris Peterson.”

“When did Morrie enter your life?”

“A while ago.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Just before Christmas.”

“About the time you gave Oliver the volume of Conan Doyle stories. Look, I believe your nephew is threatened by Morrie. He’s lost his parents. I think he might be afraid of losing you too. You’re all the family he has now.”

“He’s never said anything.”

“You’re having an affair. What could he say? But it comes out in this fantasy of his that he’s Sherlock Holmes. He uses it to justify his feeling of being threatened. And also, I believe, as a way of trying to have some control over the situation.”

She looked again at the door, beyond which her nephew sat, a lonely, orphaned boy dressed in a deerstalker hat and matching cape. I saw the pain in her eyes. But I went on, laying it all out for her.

“Although your nephew claims to understand that he is not in fact Sherlock Holmes, I think that deep down he really believes he is. He’s not just emulating that literary creation, he sees himself as the flesh-and-blood incarnation. He can rationalize it all he wants, but he’s not acting truly rational.”

“And I’m responsible?”

“No. Or at least, not entirely. But your current situation certainly isn’t helping.”

“So you’re saying I have to break it off with Morrie? That will fix Oliver?”

“It’s not a question of fixing. Oliver’s not a broken machine. He’s simply a child, brilliant but lost.”

She looked truly lost herself, and I could tell that pushing her at this point would do no good.

“Take some time to think it over,” I advised. “But not too long. In the meantime, I’ll work with Oliver and do what I can to help him face the truth of the situation.”

“He can’t tell my husband,” she said, and now her eyes bloomed with fear. “He would kill me.”

“I’ll talk to him,” I promised.

When she’d gone, I called the boy into my office and we sat together.

I said, “Moriarty isn’t his real name, you know. His name is Morris Peterson.”

“That’s simply an alias,” the boy said. “He’s using a name similar to his own. A common ploy. Look, Watson, I know the true nature of his interest now.”

I thought I had a pretty good idea of the true nature of his interest myself. The boy’s aunt was a woman desperate for attention. She wanted to feel loved, young, special. And she would probably do almost anything to please the man who made her feel that way. Even a clown.

“You know, of course, about sexual attraction, Oliver.”

“Sherlock,” he said in an icy tone. “My name is Sherlock.” He took a moment to settle himself, then said, “Of course I know that sex is a part of his attraction. Will you just listen to me for a moment, Watson? Let me explain everything to you.”

“You?” I said evenly, after he’d laid it all out for me. “He’s after you?”

“I present a threat to him. And a challenge. I’m the only person alive who is his intellectual equal and moral opposite.”

“And you believe he wants to do you harm?”

“Not just harm, Watson. He wants me dead.”

And there it was, the full manifestation of his delusion. Against my best judgment, I’d come to care about the boy, and this paranoia troubled me greatly.

“I can see that you don’t believe me,” Oliver said. “Just listen to me for a moment, Watson. Moriarty is in fact a fugitive on the run. He has warrants for his arrest in California, Oregon, and Colorado. Any other common criminal would have been taken into custody, but Moriarty is not your common criminal.”

“Warrants for what?”

“Theft, fraud, and one for a particularly nasty incident in Denver.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because of the greatest boon to the modern detective, Watson. The Internet. You know the game of poker?”

“Of course.”

“An experienced poker player watches for what’s called a tell, an unconscious gesture that gives another player away in the heat of betting. Moriarty has a tell.”

“And what would that be?”

“The clown costume. It’s an unusual disguise, to say the least. But it’s clearly one he’s comfortable with. I merely did an Internet search for crimes that involved clowns. I came across a case in California several years ago. A clown who called himself Professor Perplexing. He traveled with a small circus as one of their sideshow offerings. He entertained the children with his clown antics and their parents by appearing to read their minds. He also managed to read their credit cards and charged up a hefty sum. He skipped just ahead of the police. According to the circus folks, Professor Perplexing’s real name was Martin Petters.

“The next case I found was in Portland. A clown working for a nonprofit called Smile A Day. The organization provided entertainment for nursing homes and senior residential facilities. In addition to offering the old people a few laughs, he offered to invest their savings. Again, he left town just before the police caught up with him. The nonprofit reported his name was Mark Patterson.

“Finally Denver. A little over a year ago. A man working for a service that provided entertainment at children’s parties was accused of molesting a child during one of these parties. He vanished immediately thereafter. His name, according to the service, was Milton Parks.”

“That’s quite a leap from Denver to the Twin Cities.”

“There’s one more connection, Watson. Moriarty, or Parks, as he was calling himself then, was involved with a widow. Before he fled town, he’d stolen much of the money she’d received from her husband’s life insurance.” Oliver counted off on his fingers. “M. Petters. M. Patterson. M. Parks. And now Morris Peterson. All Moriarty.”

“I still don’t understand why he would want you dead.”

“The insurance money that came from my parents’ deaths is quite a tidy sum — over a million dollars. My aunt isn’t just my legal guardian. In the event of my death, she inherits the money. If Moriarty gets rid of me, he not only eliminates his greatest foe, but all that money becomes available to him.”

“There’s your uncle,” I said. “He’s an obstacle.”

“If she doesn’t divorce him, I suspect Moriarty will find a way to deal with him too.”

“Why would a villain as brilliant as Moriarty stoop to such petty crimes? Even a million dollars, I imagine, would be a paltry sum in his view. If he is Moriarty, why hasn’t he set his sights on grander schemes?”

Young Holmes seemed not at all perplexed by the question. “I’ve wondered that myself, Watson. But I believe he’s simply been biding his time.”

“Until what?”

“Until he could get to me. When I’m out of the way, who’s to stop him from whatever grander design he has in mind? Something needs to be done about Moriarty, Watson, and soon.”

I realized the boy’s delusional behavior had taken a sudden, more troubling turn. “You wouldn’t act on this belief, would you?”

“I already have, my dear fellow.”

Alarm bells went off.

“What have you done, Oliver?”

He gave me an exasperated look and wouldn’t reply.

“Sherlock,” I said. “What have you done?”

“I’ve simply set the wheels in motion, Watson. Moriarty’s own inertia will carry him to his just end.”

“Indulge me. What exactly do you mean?”

“Reichenbach Falls,” the boy said.

“Where Holmes and Moriarty struggle?”

“More importantly, where Moriarty falls to his death.”

“But Holmes falls to his death there too.”

The boy arched an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“There is no Reichenbach Falls in Minnesota.”

“No, Watson, there is not.” He gave me a smile, but so tinged with sadness that it nearly broke my heart.

Our time was up, and a knock came at the door. I desperately wanted to speak with the boy’s aunt alone, but when I opened up, a man stood there. Big, bearded, wearing a ball cap with PETERBILT across the crown. He looked quite put out. “I’ve come for my nephew.”

“Uncle Walter?” the boy said at my back. “Where’s Aunt Louise?”

“She’s too upset to drive. So I’m here to get you.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Family business,” Uncle Walter said to me, much on the surly side. “Come on, Ollie. Let’s go.”

I knelt at the door and looked into the boy’s face. “Promise me you won’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to your aunt.”

“It’s too late, Watson. The great mechanism of fate has been set in motion.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, dear friend. I can take care of this.”

I was overcome with a deep concern for the boy. I knew that despite his intellect — or maybe because of it — he was living a profound delusion, one that seemed more and more to promise harm to himself and to another.

Because I had a session immediately afterward, it was quite a while before I could sit down uninterrupted at my computer. I conducted an Internet search in the same way that I imagined young Holmes had. It took me no time at all to find the story he’d referenced in our session about one Milton Parks, still wanted in Denver, Colorado, on a charge of fraud stemming from the scamming of a widowed woman and also a charge of child molestation. I found a picture of him in the clown costume he’d worn while working at children’s parties, a costume very similar to the one I’d seen Morris Peterson wearing. I could find no photograph showing me what he looked like without face paint and ridiculous clothing. In short order, I also found the other incidents the boy had referenced, in Portland and California. But still no photographs of what Moriarty looked like beneath the face paint.

And that’s when I caught myself. I’d begun to think of the clown as Moriarty.

I drove to the building where Oliver lived with his aunt and uncle. I buzzed their apartment. A moment later I heard the gruff voice of Uncle Walter through the speaker in the entryway.

“I need to speak with Oliver’s aunt,” I said.

“It’ll have to wait.”

“It’s rather important,” I said. “It’s about Oliver’s safety.”

“A little late for that,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ollie’s gone. Run away, looks like.”

Reichenbach Falls. There was nothing like that in the Twin Cities or anywhere near. But there was a rather famous waterfall in a park across the river in Minneapolis: Minnehaha Falls. It was a thin prospect, but the only one I had.

It was nearing dark when I arrived at the park, and I was greeted with an amazing sight. Near the falls stood a pavilion with a bustling restaurant and outdoor patio. The pavilion was surrounded by tall trees, and on the grass between the trees a multitude of colorful tents had been set up. A huge banner strung between two of the trees declared SOUTH MINNEAPOLIS NEIGHBORHOOD CIRCUS. Temporary floodlights lit the scene. Carnival music blared. On a little stage, a man in a jester’s costume was juggling swords. A tightrope hung a few feet off the ground, and a young woman dressed as a ballerina and carrying a parasol balanced precariously on the line. In front of the tents, local hawkers called to the milling crowd to come inside and see the wonders of two-headed snakes and dogs who did tricks and yogis who could turn themselves into pretzels. There were games of all kinds, and the air was redolent with the smell of cotton candy and mini-doughnuts, and children ran to and fro trailing balloons on long strings. And everywhere there were clowns.

I made my way among the confusion of bodies to the bridge above Minnehaha Creek and its waterfall. We’d had a wet spring. The creek was full, and the water swept in a roaring torrent over the edge of the falls. Laughing children half climbed the stone walls that edged the bridge. Their parents called harsh warnings to them or pulled them back. The bridge was lit with glaring streetlamps that had come on with the dark, and the people on it cast shadows so that it seemed as if the bridge was populated by two species, one of flesh and the other of black silhouettes.

I couldn’t see Oliver anywhere, nor could I see a clown that looked like the one I’d seen coming from Palladium Pizza. But I knew Moriarty had used different costumes in the past, so God only knew how he might have been dressed that night. I searched desperately, overwhelmed with a mounting sense of dread.

A scream shot like a rocket above the chaos of sounds around me. It came from the other end of the bridge. The scream of a child. I turned and pushed through the crowd in that direction. Another scream, and my heart raced as the crowd parted before me. I came at last to a place where a little boy stood near a clown who knelt with a huge boa constrictor draped over his shoulders.

“He won’t bite,” the clown assured the boy. “But he might swallow you.”

The clown leaned nearer, with the snake’s head in his hand. The boy screamed again and danced back, but it was clear he was delighted.

The crowd had formed a little circle and was focused on the boy and the snake. That’s when I caught sight of Oliver Wendell Holmes. He was standing off the bridge, in the shadows next to a tree near the edge of the chasm where the creek ran and fell fifty feet to the rocks below. He wore the deerstalker hat and the cape of his own making. He was alone, and I was washed in a great relief.

Then, from behind the tree next to Holmes, the clown emerged, with that grotesque grin painted on his face, that cruel mockery of good intent.

“Oliver!” I cried.

But at that same moment, the boy near the snake screamed again, and the crowd roared with laughter and gave their applause, and my desperate cry was lost.

I watched helplessly as the clown reached out and little Holmes turned suddenly to face him. The clown grasped the boy and shoved him toward the edge of the precipice. Oliver in turn grabbed the clown, and in the next instant, my heart broke as I watched them tumble together over the edge of the precipice.

“Oliver!” I cried again, though I knew it was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

I shoved my way across the bridge and off the path to the tree where the boy and the clown had fallen. I knelt, leaned over the edge, and looked down at the bottom of the chasm. The streetlamps on the bridge lit the scene below with a raw glare, and I saw the body of the clown sprawled on the rocks where the water crashed and ran on. But I saw no sign of Oliver.

“I could use a hand, Watson.”

The voice startled me. In disbelief, I stared below where young Holmes hung upside down, flat against the chasm wall, his right ankle secured with a rope that, as I followed it, I could see was tied to the base of the tree. I drew him up quickly. When I’d pulled him to safety, I couldn’t help myself. I took him firmly into my arms and hugged him dearly.

“Please, Watson, a little decorum,” Holmes whispered into my ear.

“I took his number off my aunt’s cell phone and called him,” the boy explained to me as we stood on the bridge with the rest of the crowd and watched the body being dealt with below. We’d talked with several policemen already and were waiting for a detective who was supposed to arrive soon to take our official statements.

“I told him I knew who he was and that I wanted to meet him here, and that if he didn’t come I would tell my aunt exactly who he was, and I would inform the police as well.”

“You knew about this neighborhood circus?”

He looked at me with disappointment. “I never do anything without knowing everything in advance. I was certain Moriarty would feel quite comfortable in this setting. Bold and, I speculated, reckless.”

“Why didn’t he just skip town?”

“Because I’m Holmes and he was Moriarty. Just as I thought, he couldn’t resist the confrontation. A simple push, that was all he thought it would take. But because I’d anticipated his move and held to him, my own weight carried him over the edge along with me.”

“Except that you had the rope around your ankle.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just talk to the police?”

“He was a clever fellow. He slipped them in California and Portland and Denver. There was no reason to believe he couldn’t slip them here. No, Watson, this was something I had to take care of myself.”

The detective finally arrived, a tall fellow in an ill-fitting brown suit. “We’ve called your aunt and uncle,” he informed the boy. “When they get here, we’ll all sit down together and talk.”

“May I stay with him?” I asked.

“For now,” the detective agreed.

I looked at Holmes. The crowd had cleared away from him but still stared, as if he was just another of the oddities of the evening. He was a lonely boy, with no friends. But I thought he needed one. Didn’t everybody, even the most brilliant and solitary among us?

“When this is all over, I’ll still expect to see you in my office on Thursday,” I said, then added with a gentle and genuine smile, “my dear Sherlock.”