Vanishing Girl Read Online Free PDF

and shall be forever. That’s why Malefactor wants him dead.
    “You are onto a case, I can see by the look in your eye,” smiles the master crook, examining his fingernails, not even glancing down at his opponent. “I am guessing … the Rathbone kidnapping.”
    Sherlock says nothing. If Malefactor truly guessed his cause by a look, that means that Irene hasn’t spoken to him yet.
Or does it?
    “It is perfect for you. It would gain you the fame you seek, in the cause of …
justice
.”
    Grimsby giggles.
    “Stay away from it. I am warning you. We do not need more detectives about. Let them wallow in their incompetence. This little career you are considering is a fantasy.”
    Sherlock isn’t listening. He’s thinking of Sigerson Bell and his oriental art of Bellitsu.
How does one defeat an opponent while lying on the ground, when he is standing over you? Ah!
    The boy makes a quick move, rolling to his side, forcing Grimsby downward by driving his shoulder into the other’s calf and seizing the outside of his leg with his arm. In an instant, the young tough is on the ground, groaning, Sherlock looming above him.
    There are indeed too many passersby here for the other two to respond with noticeable violence. Sherlock backs up, his eyes on his opponents.
    “The child is learning,” says Malefactor.
    Sherlock nods.
    “I did not try to kill you, you know. Believe me. I am still interested in your progress. I hold out hope that you will come over to our side some day, where the realists are. Your methods are sinister enough. Let me offer some advice as a show of friendship. If you indeed ill-advisedly pursue the Rathbone situation, do so quietly; do it like a thief in the night. Never seek notoriety!”
    But Sherlock is running now, up Montague Street toward King’s Cross, his rival’s raised voice fading in the distance. He doesn’t care a fig for Malefactor’s advice anymore. He is sure that that nasty piece of work will try to eliminate him again the instant he gets the chance.
Never seek notoriety? The rascal revels in it
.
    It was his father who first taught him to be scientific, never rash, never a guesser. And that’s what he has been trying to be over the last few months. But this watermark clue is just too enticing. The only approach now is a bold one. He won’t be deterred or slowed down, not by Malefactor, not even by common sense. He is heading north to St. Neots … where he has no idea what he will find.

    He spots the huge railway station a long way off, on the north side of Euston Road, an imposing building made of yellow-brown bricks. The clock on its tower tells him that London’s busiest hours are nearing: the crowds are growing.That is good, because it will allow him to lose himself in the flow of people and steal onto a train – there isn’t a farthing in his pocket. He rushes inside through one of the big archways. The noise here, contained and echoing in the great hall, is making it difficult for travelers to even hear themselves speak. He observes the many Bobbies walking in the throngs under the arched ceiling, watching for miscreants.
    Just past the front doors he finds a map on a wall, showing the route of The Great Northern. Following its black line up the illustration, he almost cries out when he sees where it goes: just west of Cambridge, right through the little town of St. Neots.
    It leaves from Platform 8, the 4:10 to York. He glances at the clock.
He has two minutes!
He runs. Ticket offices, a dispatch office, and little shops selling newspapers and sweets ring the interior of the station. A brick wall extends its full length to his left, cut with interior archways, separating it from the platforms and their glass-covered ceiling.
Where is number 8?
His heart sinks as he glances toward the first doorway – PLATFORMS 1 & 2 , reads the sign above it. He keeps running, past 3 & 4, then 5 & 6, aware now that his train will leave from the last platform in the building, way down at