The Answering Lamp

Holmes took the lantern from Watson's hand, slid the shutter open, then shut it: one long, two short.

"Whom are you talking to?" Crane asked.

"To the pinholes in your ticket," said Holmes. "They did not merely draw the river; they kept a rhythm. The cipher you wrote for yourself has been read by someone else."

The lamp midstream paused—then answered, one long, two short. The black boat crept nearer, its oars barely whispering. But the figure beneath the arch ran the other way, and what it carried flashed once in the fog: a lamp not yet lit.

"The boy," said Watson.

"He is going to light a fourth lamp." Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Someone wishes the police on this wharf to believe that Crane stepped into a boat here tonight and never came back."

The black boat stopped three yards off. The man in the bow threw back a tarpaulin and showed a young face, his knuckles hard with rope calluses. Crane drew a sharp breath. "Holt."

❦ To be continued.