The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Read Online Free PDF Page B

assistant, Dobbs, through the fog-blind streets to the place where they had discovered the corpse of Charlie Higginbotham. Conan Doyle and Wilde trailed behind at a respectful distance.
    “And this lone assassin was somehow able to stagger this far with five bullets in him?” Burke quibbled, releasing a skeptical snort. “Highly unlikely.”
    “No, I’m sure of it, sir. You’ll see. And it’s Charlie Higginbotham, no mistaking.”
    But when they reached the streetlamp where they had discovered the corpse, it had vanished.
    “It’s gone!” Detective Blenkinsop gasped.
    “Gone?” Chief Burke exploded. “What do you mean, gone ?”
    “It was right here. I swear it was.” The young police detective dashed about, frantically searching a widening circle around the streetlamp, but the corpse was nowhere to be found. “This is the spot. It was right here! These gents will back me up, won’t you?” He looked for support from Conan Doyle and Wilde, who hurried to reassure the commissioner that they, too, had seen the body on this very spot.
    “Then where is this corpse now?” Burke demanded. “Dead men are not in the habit of getting up and walking away.”
    “It is difficult to explain,” Conan Doyle quickly put in. “But what the detective says is true. Both Oscar and I would verify that this is the location.”
    The commissioner turned to his adjutant and remarked in a sarcastic tone: “Do you see a body, Dobbs?”
    “No, sir.”
    “And neither do I. Come, let us go.”
    Conan Doyle interjected, “Might I borrow your bull’s-eye lamp, detective?” He took Blenkinsop’s lamp and crouched at the edge of the curb shining the lantern light obliquely across the road. Two thin, silver trails gleamed on the cobbles.
    “Look!” Conan Doyle said. “See the frost that’s forming? If you look at the right angle, you can see hoofprints and the wheel marks of a carriage. Two horses, I’d say.” Conan Doyle stood up and looked at the police commissioner, his face animated. “We need a measuring tape. The gauge of the wheels looks quite narrow. By measuring the wheel tracks we could determine what kind of vehicle removed the body: a carriage, a dray cart, a—”
    “ Mister Doyle,” the commissioner interrupted in a booming voice. “If you please, this is not one of your silly Sherlock Holmes stories; this is a real investigation. We have no time for dazzling and ingenious explanations. This road sees all kinds of traffic—”
    “But the frost is forming even as we speak. These wheel tracks can only have just been—”
    “Enough, Mister Doyle!” the commissioner roared, cutting him off.
    “ Doctor Doyle, if you please—”
    “Forgive me, Doctor, ” Burke corrected sourly. “Your fictions may be filled with inexplicable crimes that warrant fantastic explanations, but I’m afraid in the real world the explanations for most crimes are quite prosaic.”
    Detective Blenkinsop stepped forward, his face earnest. “Sir, I know what I seen. I’d swear to it. The dead man was Charlie Higginbotham. No question.” He tapped the back of his neck. “Charlie had this tattoo of a butterfly—”
    The commissioner silenced Blenkinsop with a raised hand and then crooked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Step closer, Detective.”
    “Sir?” Blenkinsop took a step and the commissioner leaned into his face and sniffed.
    “Do I smell strong spirits on your breath? Have you been drinking on duty?”
    “No!” Blenkinsop shook his head. “I mean, well … I suppose … yeah, but—”
    “I’m afraid that was my doing,” Conan Doyle interrupted, quickly coming to Blenkinsop’s defense. “When I first saw the detective tonight, he was in a state of shock—hardly surprising given the horrific nature of the crime scene. In my role as a physician, I insisted he drink a brandy, purely for medicinal reasons. But I can testify that he only had the one—”
    “Undoubtedly,” the police commissioner