Tony Richards
Copyright © Tony Richards 2012.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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The corpse had been lying at the centre of the park most of the night, and had only been discovered come the rise of dawn. A gardener had come across it. It was lying in the same position where it had been found, sprawled out on the neatly trimmed sward like a squashed insect at the middle of the green baize of a snooker table.
The area had been taped off. Crowds had gathered beyond the barriers, uniformed men holding them back.
The city's top detectives - and their famous guest - paced around the body while forensics people worked.
"Do you suppose that this could be," Inspector Penchit suggested, "the work of some gigantic hound?"
"Good Lord, I do hope not," muttered Holmes. "I've had enough of those to last me several lifetimes."
Kuala Lumpur - Malaysia's capital - boiled around them in the stewing heat. This might be one of the most humid cities on the face of this planet, but it was also one of the most vibrant. It was a boomtown, driven by oil and financial institutions. Here in the middle - and this was Kuala Lumpur Central Park - skyscrapers were springing up like mushrooms on a balmy night. Most of them were office blocks, but some of them were homes. 56 new apartments, a nearby billboard announced proudly beside one such a half-built structure, 57 swimming pools.
This was where the new rich were carving their fortunes. An entire Far Eastern young upwardly mobile class was coming into being. Traffic thrummed across the elevated freeways, and the sidewalks and the malls were thronged.
This was also one of the most genuinely multi-cultural venues to be found anywhere, and had been so for centuries. There were dozens of nationalities living here. Christians and Moslems, Hindus and Buddhists all rubbed shoulders amicably. Everywhere that you went, there were churches, mosques, and temples.
An example to us all, Holmes thought. And then he returned his attention to the corpse in question.
It was a young Chinese fellow, barely in his twenties. He had been formally dressed for work, but was now in his shirtsleeves, the jacket of his business suit lying a few yards away. Which suggested that he had recently completed his labours when he'd emerged, and yanked the jacket off. Then dropped it in the course of the pursuit which had terminated with the ending of his life.
Whatever had come down on him, it had been moving fast or else had taken him by surprise. Otherwise, there would be more than a few yards between corpse and jacket.
And it did not look like he had been attacked by any dog. There were heavy rows of tooth marks around his neck, for sure, the fellow's blood coagulating in them. But they were all shallow, none of the wounds suggesting something canine. If anything, the man looked as if he'd been gone at with a pair of blunted hacksaws.
For one gruesome final detail, his neck had been snapped.
"Background information, if you please?" Holmes asked.
Inspector Penchit - in his fifties, grey-haired and with spectacles - looked perturbed for a moment, then figured out what was being required of him.
"His name is Cedric Lam," he told the great detective. "He is from Taiwan originally. Twenty-two, unmarried. He worked for an international bank, over there."
And he pointed to the building that was obviously the wonder of this entire city. And one of the wonders of the entire modern world.
The Petronas Towers, at the north-western end of the park. Two of them, a full one thousand, four hundred and eighty three feet tall, all glass and silvery metal, tapering to Arabic-style crenellated turrets at their peaks. It would have been enough in itself, but that was not all. Between the pair of upright structures was a kind of crossbar called 'the skybridge,' a covered passageway joining them both, so that the entire double building formed a massive H against the sky. What kept it up? Holmes had wondered when he had first seen it. Ah, the engineering miracles of this modern age beat even the achievements of his own.
"He was working late, as is the custom of such institutions," Penchit was continuing. "He finished about ten o'clock. We have witnesses, the building's doormen, who saw him leave, and video footage. And that was the last that we know of him … alive."
"He was going home?" Holmes asked.
"He would have had to cross the park to do so. So, yes, we believe that is the case."
Holmes held it in his mind's eye for a moment. The young, ambitious fellow, grateful that another day's hard toil was at its end. Stepping out into the open air and pulling off his jacket. Mopping at his brow perhaps, before heading away toward his apartment.
And then … this awful thing descending on him, finishing a life that had barely begun its adult phase. Holmes felt indignation boiling up in him. This had to be stopped, before it happened again.
All of this, however, was internal. He showed not a fragment of it to his colleagues around him, maintaining instead his calm, lofty demeanour.
"Is the man's employer here?" was his next question.
A Muslim in a very smart black suit stepped forwards, introducing himself as Mr. Inmarahan of the Global Oriental Bank. He was in his late forties, had a wide salt-and-pepper moustache, and handed Holmes a business card, which the detective placed in his back pocket without looking at.
"It's a great honour to meet you, sir. Fame of your achievements is worldwide."
"I'm sure," Holmes acknowledged. "Is it possible to see the place the victim worked?"
Soon, they were riding up to the twenty-fifth floor of Tower Two.
"Cedric was a fast-track inductee," Mr. Inmarahan was explaining. "We take on some fifty of them every year, choosing only the very best and brightest of the output of this region's colleges."
"A recruitment programme, then," Holmes said. "And how long does the probationary period last?"
"A year," his host answered factually. "After which time, we select the ten who have prevailed above the others."
And Holmes simply said, "Ah."
Cogs were already turning quickly in his mind. He decided to keep his suspicions from the others for the moment. But he already had motive.
The elevator doors slid open onto white walls, fluorescent light, and bustle. There were rows of small desks with computer screens. Every single one of them was occupied by a young man or woman, simultaneously tapping at a keyboard and conversing on a telephone.
The place sounded like Babel running backwards with an a capella soundtrack by the Yoko Ono Band.
"Here?" Holmes ventured.
"No. We keep the inductees in a separate office. It makes them find their own feet, rather than learning from the others."
Business practices in the Far East were thoroughly stringent, Holmes reflected. But then, when you considered the rewards …
56 new apartments, 57 swimming pools. Which meant that every home had a pool out on its terrace, and there was a larger central one. And this within a general section of the globe where deprivation, even poverty, was frequently the norm. It defied imagination.
He was led through to another office which was much the same, but had only fifty desks, and the occupants of them looked even more harassed. Holmes could smell something as soon as he walked in, and it was desperation. Hair was mussed by anxious fingers. Eyeballs were bloodshot, and he could see a great proliferation of chewed fingernails. And none of these hopeful folk had been a year out of college yet.
"How far are they into the programme?" Holmes inquired gently.
"Just two months."
Ten more to go, then. At the end of which, only one in five of them would apply for a mortgage on an apartment with a swimming pool on its own terrace. The rest would be discarded. People had killed for considerably less.
"You must evaluate them regularly?"
"Yes, of course."
"And how was Cedric faring?"
"He was one of the very finest."
"Naturally."
Holmes began to stroll behind the desks. Barely a face looked around at him. Barely a marbled eye took in his presence. When one did, it squinted momentarily, and then looked angry with itself, diverted from the task in hand.
Finally, he reached an empty chair. The screen was filled with financial charts. And there was a pair of headphones lying beside it. Perhaps this computer not only displayed but spoke its information. And why would that be?
He touched the keyboard, noticing that there was something unusual about it too. Then his gaze went to a little dish beside it, filled up with what he thought at first was coloured candy. But it was no such thing.
"These are considered a delicacy in the Far East, are they not?" Holmes grimaced.
"Indeed," replied Mr. Inmarahan.
"And the owner of the desk?"
"He must be on a bathroom break. The fellow is an example to us all. Young Mr. Suvu."
"Mr. Sulu?" Holmes blurted.
But it turned out not to be the case.
Abil Suvu was from the eastern provinces of this emergent nation. He had done remarkably with his exam results, in spite of almost insurmountable personal difficulties. An accident in childhood, some manner of conflagration in his home, had damaged his hands and left him blinded. Which explained the Braille keyboard that Holmes had already noticed, and the speaking device.
But he had battled against those handicaps, and done so well for himself he had finished up with a job here, albeit a probationary one like all the others.
"Ah, but here he comes," said Mr. Inmarahan almost delightedly.
There was the tapping of a white cane. There was the fumbling shuffle of a man whose sight had left him. Mr. Abil Suvu looked no different to the other inductees in this room, except that he had large wrap-around dark glasses on, and a pair of white gloves.
His employer introduced them. Mr. Suvu looked astonished when he learned who he was stood in front of. He extended his right hand. Holmes reached for it, and then dropped his grasp momentarily before their palms connected.
Suvu completed the handshake nonetheless.
"It is such a pleasure to meet you, sir." His tone was sibilant and strangely accented. He was most definitely not from around here. "Ah, that I could see the world through your eyes, and be able to notice things the way that you do."
"Maybe you shall, one day," Holmes answered.
It was such an enigmatic remark that everybody around him looked puzzled. Holmes ignored it, walking to a nearby window, gazing at the thriving city down below. Inmarahan had followed him.
"Can I ask something more of you?" the detective inquired.
"But of course."
"A list. Of your five top-scoring inductees."
If his host was renewedly mystified, he did not let it show.
"And photographs of each of them, for the purposes of identification."
"Yes, right away. Anything else?"
"You have a car park for your employees, I take it?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I'd like to have a look at it."
Each of the ranked vehicles had a cardboard pass in its windshield, identifying the driver as a Global Oriental employee. Holmes marched down past them until he came to a Toyota people carrier.
He stared at the name on the cardboard pass. "How is he able to drive?" he wondered out loud.
"I believe that someone from his building ferries him back and forth on a daily basis. The other man has a job nearby."
"Does the owner of this vehicle have a family, children?"
"No, absolutely not."
"I see," Holmes muttered. And in which case, why such a large vehicle? He took note of the fact that only the front two seats were upright. All the rest were folded flat.
The great detective turned his attention back to Penchit, who had been quietly shadowing him this entire while.
"And what should we do now, Mr. Holmes?" the inspector asked.
"We make sure that we are armed. We wait until nightfall."
Holmes paused, smiling to himself.
"And then we wait some more."
There were restaurants to one side of the Central Park with partially open sections, fans turning in the awnings above them. And the evening was thickening by the time they were ready. People strolled past on the way from work. Holmes and Penchit were sitting at a table with a clear view of the towers, whose illumination had come on by this hour. The colossal glass and metal H shone luminously against the dusky skyline.
Utterly magnificent, Holmes thought. He could not find the words to properly describe the sight. It would take a Nobel Laureate of the powers of Kipling to do that. For all its faults, this modern age he'd found himself in really did produce some breathtaking, heart-stopping spectacles.
He sipped at the pina colada he'd ordered before his meal. One of the Glocks that he had purchased in America was snuggled underneath his jacket, and he knew that the inspector was similarly armed, as were several plain-clothed men at adjoining tables. There were five of them in total. Any more than that and the culprit might take notice, and then flight.
They ate a leisurely dinner, the great detective displaying not the slightest hint of nerves. The food was excellent, the service flawless. The purple of evening succumbed to the deep blue of night. The enormous H continued to burn above them, defying gravity and even imagination.
There were still people about. These restaurants were well patronised, and there were several large hotels nearby, tourists wandering the neat tracks of the parkland.
Holmes had set out on the table the five photographs that Mr. Inmarahan had given him. He had to wait till nine thirty before he took the first one off.
A young woman called Amy Ling. She emerged from the doorway of Tower Two, turned and strolled away with no harm coming to her. There were still too many witnesses about.
But by ten thirty, two more photographs had been removed, and the traffic in the park was a good deal sparser. There were no other remaining diners by this juncture. The seating around them was bare. The tables had been cleared and all the staff had gone inside.
Holmes had taken on a pensive air. Inspector Penchit glanced at him worriedly.
"Only two left. Are you sure it must be one of them?"
"The next prospective victim? Almost assuredly."
"The motive for murder is professional jealousy, then? Thinning down the ranks of the top-scoring newcomers, to give the culprit a better chance at lasting the course."
Holmes smiled gently. "I couldn't have put it better myself."
"And you have someone in mind?"
"'Someone' is for later," the detective told the freshly bewildered policeman. "What we're looking, for at this moment, is better called 'something.'"
And then his head came up. Another of the inductees had emerged from the building. Another woman, Mai Chencup. She had become the highest scoring of the people in the fast-track office, and when she started heading out across the grass, Holmes could see that there was not a single other person near her.
He stiffened, an instinct fastening itself around his bones.
And then looked upward, pointing with his gaze for the inspector's benefit.
"There!"
Penchit squinted. "Mr. Holmes? What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?"
"Tower Two, and yet not the tower," Holmes said dryly. "Quick, man, look again!"
The inspector peered harder, and then let out an astonished gasp. And who would not? Part of the wall of the tower appeared to be suddenly bulging. Appeared to be moving. And how in the name of all the gods could that be possible?
It was a few storeys below the skybridge. But as Penchit watched, it appeared to accelerate. He still couldn't make out its proper shape - it was too much a part of the structure it was moving down. But it scuttled down the tower with a determined fluidity that was almost sickening to watch. There was no doubt of this thing's intention, whatever it might be. It was a predator, now closing on its prey. And fast!
Poor Miss Mai had noticed nothing. She was ambling out across the green turf, one hand rubbing gently at her brow. Glad another day of frantic toil was over. Grateful for the open air and solitude. And if she had been truly alone in this park, how quickly would she have come to regret those facts?
The camouflaged shape reached the bottom. Penchit thought that its true form might finally be revealed. But then he got another shock. As soon as it departed from the building, it no longer took the structure's colouration. Instead, it turned a partially fragmented green, exactly the same colour as the grass.
And it continued forwards.
It was making no sound he could hear. But a sudden realisation must have grasped Mai Chencup. She abruptly stopped and looked over her shoulder. And when she saw that a whole section of the verdant turf had risen up and was pursuing her, she let out a horrified wail and started running. Although it had to be admitted, not nearly fast enough.
At which point, Sherlock Holmes bellowed, "Now!"
He sprang to his feet, drawing his pistol. The inspector and the other police people followed suit. And now the Englishman was leading the charge, rushing forwards, dragging the others along with him. He began firing at the baffling shape, and he was not the only one.
It halted its pursuit of the unfortunate woman. The thing seemed to throw its head back, and it wailed. The sound was so piercing it almost wounded Penchit's ears. What was this apparition?
Sherlock Holmes, apparently, had no time for such questions. He was still going forward, firing another shot with every step he took. His Glock had an extended magazine, so there were plenty of them. One 9mm round after another plunged into its target, as did the ammunition of the plain-clothed men and women around him.
The creature still fought death for quite a while. It thrashed and hollered, then it shivered and it twitched. By the time it finally lay still, more than half an imperial pound of lead must have gone into it.
Mai Chencup had fallen to her knees and was crying hysterically, the pursuit by this mysterious beast and then the cacophony of gunfire overwhelming her. Holmes walked over to her, offering her his hand. And when she took it, getting to her feet, he wrapped an arm around her, hugging her in a paternal, comforting fashion.
"You're quite safe now, madam," Penchit heard him say. "One of the monsters is gone. The other will not last."
One of …?
He still had not the slightest idea what was going on.
The great detective looked at him across the woman's shoulder, then inclined his chin in the dead creature's direction, inviting him to take a closer look.
Penchit walked across to it cautiously. Now that it was done for, the beast had lost most of its ability to conceal its true nature. It proper shape - a muddy brown hue - stood out obviously on the grass.
When Penchit looked to one side again, Holmes had joined him.
"Not a gigantic hound at all," the inspector breathed. "A gigantic lizard."
"Exactly," Holmes nodded. "The most famous - naturally - is the chameleon. But there are several more species of reptilia that are capable of taking on the appearance of their surroundings. It must have been lurking underneath the crosswalk section," and he lifted his gaze again, "for a couple of days."
"But you said two monsters. So there is another?"
Sherlock Holmes became tight-tipped.
"Not like this one. Something else. This is the monster that performed the actual killing. But the worst one by far is the monster that controlled it."
Acting on the great detective's instructions, Penchit had the whole fast-track team assembled by nine the next morning. They were in the same room he had first encountered them, except their computers and telephones were all switched off. They were sitting quietly at their desks. Miss Chencup was not amongst them, since she was quite obviously not a suspect. But the rest of the young forty nine were here.
Holmes was not, which genuinely surprised him. He had entered the vast building to be informed that the detective had not shown up as yet. Penchit, as advised, had brought several uniformed officers with him, who were standing beside the room's only doorway in or out.
And when Holmes finally arrived, the inspector got another mild surprise. The man was dressed the same way he'd been yesterday. And yet he'd added to his garb an intriguing item … a large black backpack, filled to its entire capacity. Penchit's eyebrows lifted when he saw that. He had never imagined that such a legend as Sherlock Holmes would wear such a commonplace and mundane thing. Had the Englishman been out touring the city sights this morning?
"Ladies, gentlemen," Holmes announced to the gathered, waiting people. "I know that you all want to get back to work, so I'll not keep you long. But I feel that this is the appropriate time for … a history lesson."
"Yes," he continued, ignoring the shocked glances that were cast in his direction. "Every nation has its history, which in part defines it. Mine does, and so does yours.
"Kuala Lumpur prides itself on being an extremely modern place, and so it should. You have succeeded, in a few decades, in lifting yourself out of the undeveloped murk of the Third World and transforming this place into a New World city. It is a remarkable achievement, and I heartily applaud it. But the past, like an old scar gained in childhood, cannot easily be left behind."
He was pacing slowly past the desks as he was speaking, the gaze of every occupant fixed on him uncertainly.
"You think of yourself, these days, as Christians, Buddhists, Moslems and Hindus. And perhaps some of you are none of those things, but agnostics or deniers.
But before such beliefs, there were far earlier ones, thoroughly more primitive. Some of which still exist to this very day."
He swept an arm out in the general direction of the Great Unknown.
"Beyond these gleaming towers, out beyond these crowded streets, there are vast areas of jungle that have never felt civilisation's touch. Deep and tangled, foetid places that a clean ray of sunlight barely ever touches. Murky and mysterious places which know nothing of modernity at all. Yet in these places, some people still dwell. They are the ancient tribes.
"These people know nothing of either modernism or monotheism. Names like Jesus and Siddartha, if they ever heard them, would be meaningless sounds tapping on their eardrums. No, their take on the divine is far more primitive that that. They are pagans. And to be more specific, many of their beliefs are animistic."
He paused, seeing that many of his audience were not familiar with the word.
"They believe that creatures have a soul, and in some cases a godly one. Certain creatures become sacred to these misbegotten folk - they come to worship them. A great snake, perhaps. Or a slinking panther living in a nearby cave. Or else, some enormous breed of lizard science has no knowledge of as yet. These childlike tribespeople worship such beasts devoutly. Pray to them, make sacrifices to them. Kneel down and are humble in their presence. And in the course of time - this is not merely my belief, since I have seen it demonstrated - if enough centuries pass, a connection is made between the worshipped and the worshipper. The latter might take on, for instance, some of the physical aspects of the object of its devotion. How, I do not know. Perhaps by some ghastly osmosis, or even crossbreeding of some heinous type. And it is not unknown for the two parties to communicate, either by some secret language or by telepathic means."
When he saw how shocked the young workers were looking, Holmes smiled bitterly.
"It may all sound fantastic, and yet we had proof of it last night. What I and my colleagues brought down might have been a quite extraordinary reptile, yes. But it was still merely a reptile. It had not the wit, on its own, to specifically target and then murder Cedric Lam. Neither had it the wit, on its own, to go after Miss Chencup. Someone here instructed the beast to do it. Somebody in this room is a descendant of one of those ancient tribes, and brought the lizard here into the city and then let it loose."
Horrified gasps went up from the audience. A few of the young women put their fingers to their mouths.
Holmes looked around at them all with a steely gaze.
"In this building's parking lot is a Toyota people carrier, its back seats folded down. It is the vehicle that was used to transport the creature from the jungle to the very heart of Kuala Lumpur. There is still mud on its axles."
His pace was becoming even slower, now, the direction of his movements condensing in one direction.
"Then, there is the matter of dietary habits. I thought them, when I first noticed them, to be gaily-coloured sweets. But candied locusts are a delicacy in this part of the world - I remarked as much to your supervisor only yesterday. Yes, a delicacy. An occasional treat. But somebody here seems to eat them every day."
At his desk, the blind and disabled Mr. Abil Suvu had stiffened, becoming very still. The Englishman was walking closer to him.
"A fire during childhood, at your home. I believe that is supposed to be the cause of your afflictions?" Holmes asked. "But tell me, what kind of fire is it that damages the hands and blinds the eyes, yet leaves the whole remainder of the face untouched?"
He stopped in front of Suvu, bending slightly down.
"When I went to shake your hand yesterday, I dropped my own palm slightly before we made contact. And yet you grasped it truly, and your grip was firm. Your hands are not damaged, and you are not blind. And so, what are you?"
The great detective's arm lunged forward, and he snatched the dark glasses off Mr. Suvu's face.
Then, even he reeled back.
Yells and screams resounded through the office. Between one instant and the next, everyone was jumping from their desks and trying to put some distance between themselves and the thing Holmes had revealed.
Mr. Suvu's face might be normal. But the eyes were very definitely not. They were not human eyes, were very small and round and red, and stood out from the man's face on a pair of scaly turrets that moved independently of each other.
They were, in fact, lizard's eyes.
Some of the young female inductees were wailing uncontrollably, forcing their way out past the uniformed men at the door. Who in their turn looked confounded, almost stunned, and had forgotten their duties altogether.
Suvu took advantage of that. He hissed, and his tongue came flicking out. Then he surged forward exactly in the same way that the lizard of last night had done. He rammed Holmes aside, went scuttling past the uniformed men - who sprang away from him - and was out into the corridor.
Holmes was after him in a flash. He could hear the policemen behind him recover their wits and join in the pursuit, but that was academic now. This semi-man was moving very fast. And as he ran, he seemed to be pulling both his gloves off.
There were several loud explosions behind Holmes, and he felt bullets whizzing past his shoulders. Several of the uniformed men, afraid that the miscreant would get away, had obviously opened fire. He could hear Penchit telling them to stop, but too late, since the act was done.
None of the shots hit Suvu. But the end of this corridor terminated with a sheet of plate glass, a massive window looking out across the town. And it shattered.
Suvu had kicked off both of his shoes too. He'd been wearing loafers - there were no socks underneath.
He reached the shattered glass.
Stretched his arms out past the new-formed opening. Attached his fingertips to the side of the building. And pulling himself up, disappeared from view.
He was climbing the outside of the Tower Two with no visible form of support. His hands and feet had to have suckers on them, just like the lizard they had killed last night.
Holmes should have paused, but he'd been expecting something of this nature. And so he continued on.
Penchit ground to an astounded halt, watching the man do that. Why was he not stopping? There was a twenty-five storey drop below that shattered window, and no possible way of pursuing the culprit.
His astonishment turned to horror, though, when he saw what Holmes did next.
Holmes reached the opening in a few more strides.
And then flung himself though it, into thin air.
At the same moment, he yanked at a strap depending from the backpack he was wearing. It was some kind of ripcord, Penchit presumed. There was a parachute in there, so the man was not suicidal.
But a parachute would only carry him downwards, whereas the murderer was headed up.
And then Penchit's mouth dropped so wide open, if you saw it you'd believe that it would never close again.
It was no great swath of fabric that came sailing from the backpack. It was silvery instead, and blossomed instantly into a massive inverse onion shape.
"Good heavens!" the inspector gasped. "It is some kind of … helium-filled balloon!"
No sooner had those words left his lips than the great detective disappeared from view. And like the culprit, he was heading upward.
The city lurched and swayed underneath Holmes. Kuala Lumpur Central Park was reduced to a postage stamp. There was a slight feeling of nausea in his gut, but otherwise it was a perfectly exhilarating sensation. He was brother to the bird up here. The passing breezes were his friends. He looked down, could see Penchit's glasses winking up at him. Then he moved his attention higher.
Suvu was no longer visible. He might have travelled around to the far side of the tower, but Holmes thought not. Above him was the crossbar section that linked the two towers. And that was the natural place for such a creature to seek refuge.
The helium balloon tugged at him, carrying him higher. Within less than a minute, he was level with the skybridge. But not over it. This contraption he had cobbled up could not be steered, but Holmes had already considered that.
From underneath his jacket, he produced a different kind of pistol to the one that he had brandished yesterday evening. It was smaller, lighter, spring-loaded, and its ammunition was not bullets but a short pole with a rubber plunger at the top. He aimed and fired. There was a sharp snapping noise as the spring inside uncoiled. The plunger slammed into the roof and stayed there, held by suction. A length of sturdy yarn stretched from it, all the way back to the gun.
And using that, Holmes towed himself along till he'd reached terra firma, or what counted for it way up here. This was the forty-second storey of the building, he already knew. He slipped the backpack from his shoulders and the silver balloon went spiralling away.
Holmes stared around, his instincts baffled. There was still no sign of Suvu, so could he be wrong? He walked as close as he was able to the edge, but then, finding nothing there, turned the other way.
When he heard the sudden scuttling behind him, the detective realised his mistake … too late! The culprit had been off in that direction after all. He had been simply clinging out of sight much further down the wall of the skybridge, still defying gravity.
Holmes tried to wheel around again, but there was not the time. He felt elbows slam against his shoulder blades. The impact sent him sprawling.
Suvu was all over him next instant, those adhesive fingers clawing at his face. It felt to Holmes like they were trying to rip the very flesh from his skull. He tried to struggle back, but was at a massive disadvantage.
And then the man had an arm around his windpipe, and was trying to choke him.
And all the time, he was hollering, "You killed my god! Now I can never go back to my people!"
Holmes felt himself beginning to black out. The man was preternaturally strong. He tried to slam one of his own elbows into the fellow's face, but Suvu was too fast for that.
The rubber plunger was nearby, with the length of yarn and the pistol still dangling from it. The detective had a thought. He'd not needed to use it, but there was a winding mechanism fitted inside the device, in case he'd not had the ability to employ both his hands. It would have reeled him in if he was unable to do that by himself, in other words. But Holmes could see that it might have another use.
He reached out and detached the plunger. Then he twisted around as far as he was able, and slammed it over one of Suvu's bulging reptilian eyes. It attached itself with a sucking sound. The murderer wailed, more out of fright than pain, and began clawing at it, trying to get it off.
His grip on Holmes loosened.
And the great detective took full advantage of that, getting both of his hands free and making a loop from the length of yarn.
He slipped that around Suvu's neck
And then he engaged the winding mechanism.
Which immediately began to draw the cord in, throttling the man. He let go of Holmes completely and went staggering back, clawing at the pressure round his throat, his whole face turning purple.
Holmes was able to roll over on his side and draw in a few gulps of oxygen. Then he lifted himself on his arms, to watch what he supposed would be the murderer's demise.
He had not counted on the man's unnatural strength. Suvu was part lizard, and wild creatures - even those kind - are far stronger proportionally than humans.
He managed to get several narrow fingers underneath the cord. And tugged at it until it broke.
An awful rattling noise emerged from his larynx. A normal human being might have fallen to his knees. But Suvu's reserves were extraordinary. Almost as soon as he had gotten himself loose, he charged at Holmes again.
The great detective - among other things in his very long lifetime - had trained with the monks of a Shaolin Temple for a while. And knew from them that you did not need to be standing to put up a fight. This roof that he was sprawled out on was good and smooth.
Holmes powered himself forward with his arms, meeting the attack full on. And as soon as Suvu was in range, he drew a knee back, and then slammed his foot as hard as he could into the villain's chest.
The impact lifted Suvu up into the air.
And they were so close to the precipice that when he started falling again … there was no edge left.
Holmes watched and listened sombrely until the dwindling, howling figure disappeared from view. He only looked around again when he heard his own name being called.
Inspector Penchit and his uniformed men had reached this level, had prised open another window and were calling to him, gesturing. The great detective took a last glance down, then clambered to his feet and walked calmly towards them.
"That is it, then?" Penchit asked, helping his guest inside.
"He chose the wrong lizard to worship," Sherlock Holmes replied. "If he'd opted instead for draco indochinensis, the Southeast Asian Arboreal Flying Lizard, then he might have survived."
It was intended as a joke. He did not often make them, and felt faintly peeved when no one smiled.
"We saw the whole thing. Did I hear it right? Was Suvu actually shouting out that he could never go back to his people?"
"It was the kind of thing that people say in moments of inflamed emotion, since the truth is that he never wanted to. He wished to live as a normal human being, albeit a wealthy one."
"But for how long could that even have been possible?" Penchit hissed. "I mean, he managed to fool his employers for a couple of months, but a whole lifetime? He must have known that eventually the truth would have come out."
"We all carry strange yearnings in us," Holmes sighed, "many of them utterly improbable."
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