At the Savoy side door a porter recognised the monogrammed silver case and opened the register at once. "J. Reginald—arrived at seven, river room, cash, do-not-disturb." Wet boot-prints still marked the carpet, straight to three-twelve.
The door stood ajar. The lamp was lit; the same bergamot rose from the ashtray. The wardrobe hung open, the peg empty—as if a coat had just been changed and fled. On the desk lay a playbill for Scene Five, Mrs Crane's name ringed in red ink; beside it a line in pen: "Deliver the living man before dawn—or the river keeps the story."
When Watson pushed the narrow door to the kitchen stair, a grey glove flashed. Holmes lunged and tore only a fingertip of leather; inside it clung a speck of red lead. The service lift roared below, and the night fog swallowed the shadow again. Holmes folded the playbill. "He is not fleeing—he is forcing Mrs Crane onto the stage."
❦ To be continued.
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