East of Ealing

20

Professor Slocombe rewound the great ormulu mantel-clock and, withdrawing the fretted key from the gilded face, set the pendulum in motion. The sonorous tocking of the magnificent timepiece returned the heartbeat once more to the silent house.

Sherlock Holmes entered the study through the open French windows. “It has stopped again?” said he.

The Professor nodded sombrely. “The mechanism has become infected, I believe.”

Holmes slumped into a fireside chair. “You have had the electricity disconnected, I trust?”

“As we discussed, we will have to be very much upon our guard from now on. I have taken what protective measures I can, but my powers are not inexhaustible, I can feel the pressure upon me even now.”

Holmes slid a pale hand about the decanter’s neck and poured himself a small scotch. “I have just spent a most informative hour with Norman Hartnell. A man of exceptional capability.”

Professor Slocombe smiled ruefully. “He keeps us all guessing, that is for certain.”

“I discovered the hand of a duplicate replacement at work in his shop and sought to question it.”

Professor Slocombe raised his eyebrows in horror. “That was a somewhat reckless move upon your part.”

“Perhaps, but when confronted by the gun you gave me, the thing took flight, literally, through the ceiling of the shop. To my astonishment the real Mr Hartnell appears from his quarters. The mechanical double was, in fact, something of his own creation. To spare his time for more important matters, according to himself.”

Professor Slocombe chuckled loudly. “Bravo, Norman,” he said. “The shopkeeper does have something rather substantial on the go at the present time. It is of the utmost importance that nothing stand in his way.”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “Your corner-shopkeeper produces an all-but-perfect facsimile of himself with no more than a few discarded wireless-set parts and something he calls Meccano and you treat it as if it were an everyday affair.”

“This is Brentford. Norman’s ingenuity is not unknown to me.”

“And do you know how his mechanical man is powered?”

“Knowing Norman, it probably has a key in its back or runs upon steam.”

“On the contrary,” said Sherlock Holmes, taking the opportunity to spring from his chair and take up a striking pose against the mantelpiece, “it runs from a slim brass wheel set into its chest. Your shopkeeper has rediscovered the secret of perpetual motion.”

“Has he, be damned?” The Professor bit upon his lower lip. “Now that is another matter entirely.”

“Ha,” said Holmes, nodding his head, “and now would you like me to bring you the automaton, that you might inspect his workings at first hand?”

“Very much. Do you consider that such might be achieved in safety?”

“Certainly, I took the liberty of following the ample trail he left, after my interview with Norman. He is holed up on the allotment.”

“Holed up?”

“Certainly, in Mr Omally’s shed. If I can catch him unawares I shall bring him here at gunpoint. Although I must confess to a certain bafflement here. How might it be that an automaton who can leap without effort or apparent harm through ceilings and walls, fears the simple bullet?”

“Ha, yourself!” said Professor Slocombe. “You have your secrets and I have mine. Go then, with my blessing, but stay upon your guard. Take no unnecessary risks.”

“Natcho,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning as he left to make a gesture which all lovers of the New York television cop genre know to be the “soul fist”.

“Natcho?” Professor Slocombe shook his old head and returned once more to his work.