Vanishing Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

bespectacled face, a certain historic flair in the cut of his suit, and great height to his hat; he takes the paper from Dupin with long fingers tipped with the black-smudged nails of someone who often works with ink.
    Sherlock can’t stand it any longer. He approaches to eavesdrop. The two men are engrossed in their conversation.
    “Two faces, you say?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “That
is
interesting.”
    “‘ow so, sir?”
    “Why, it’s the mark of the Fourdrinier Brothers, pioneers in our line, stationers here in London long ago. They used some of the first modern papermaking machines very early in the century, but you can’t get that material now.”
    “Why not, sir?” Sherlock pipes up.
    The two men turn. Dupin regards him with a look that says “Shoo!”
    “Who is this?” inquires the stationer, raising his head and looking down his nose and through his spectacles at the boy in the worn-out frock coat.
    “No one,” says Dupin, glaring at Sherlock.
    “Be that as it may, he has an excellent question,” smiles the man.
    Dupin looks relieved.
    “You can’t get that paper these days, my son, because it isn’t manufactured anymore.”
    “But where was it made in its day?”
    “The town of St. Neots, well north of the city, not far from Cambridge, but …”
    The boy doesn’t wait to hear the whole answer.

K ing’s Cross Station serves those passengers taking the Great Northern Railway to and from London. Though Sherlock isn’t exactly sure where St. Neots is, he certainly knows all about Cambridge, forty or fifty miles north of here, dominated by its famous university. He’s guessing this rail line will take him close to where he needs to go – he’ll find out at the terminus. He rushes through the city, not even stopping at the apothecary’s to tell the old man he is leaving London. All his work responsibilities have fled his mind. So impetuous is he that he barely considers what awaits him at his destination, if it might all be for naught, how long he might be gone, or if he can even get onto a train. He is simply filled with a desire to go.
    He has to pass through Bloomsbury, and decides to slip up Montague Street where Irene lives, not to see her, mind … just … he isn’t sure why.
    A leg wearing a big dirty boot sticks out as he turns the corner onto Montague, knocking him to the hard foot pavement.
    Grimsby
.
    He is Malefactor’s most vicious lieutenant: dark, wiry, and sadistic. Beside him stands the silent Crew: big, blond, and blue-eyed. Grimsby steps over Sherlock, arms folded, one foot on either side of his torso.
    Their boss materializes from behind. Dark-haired and gray-eyed like Sherlock, he sports his black top hat and fading, long tailcoat, and carries a walking stick, which he twirls in the air. His head protrudes as he talks, as if examining others suspiciously.
    “Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”
    There was a time when Sherlock was almost pleased to see Malefactor. They have a strange sort of connection, similar pasts: both were destined for more than fate gave them. But Sherlock hates him now. The young criminal befriended Irene through him and has taken to deceiving her, pretending that he will allow her to reform him. And this summer, Sherlock is sure, Malefactor tried to kill him. He will never trust the rogue again.
    Holmes doesn’t feel particularly threatened as he lies there on the footpath: they are in public, in daylight, and he knows the young boss won’t unleash his thugs where the full force of their brutality can be observed. All the same, when he gets to his feet, he will be careful not to turn his back.
    “Anything I should know?” asks the criminal.
    “Go away, rat.”
    Grimsby accidentally kicks Holmes in the ribs.
    “You aren’t in a position to say such things, Jew-boy. Anything I should know?”
    There is nothing he wants to tell Malefactor. They have nothing in common now. Sherlock is a crusader for justice, the other a thief; they are natural enemies