The Man with Two Names
By the Salt Monster
Ch. 9
Backstage
I sat on a stool behind the set piece, punching numbers into a calculator while some poor, unfortunate police officer was assigned to hold a flashlight over my shoulder so I could see. Lestrade paced back and forth behind me. I figured that I'd be polite, since he'd let me stay, but the movement kept putting me off. After I'd entered the same sequence about four times, each incorrect, I turned around irritably.
"Can you stop?" I finally asked him. "It's distracting."
"What does it say?" he asked impatiently, ignoring my request. I rolled my eyes.
"I'm not finished," I told him, still pouring over the calculator. "I think it's a poem, though… the first two lines rhyme…"
"Oh, wonderful; we have a murderous poet," Donovan said, rolling her eyes. I frowned a bit at what she said. It didn't fit. What would "Joe Green" suddenly start writing poetry? I thought about it for a minute, but then the pieces started coming together.
"No, it makes sense," I said. "There's a pattern! The notes—,"
"The cipher, Miss Barber!" Lestrade said, losing his cool. I gave him a quick glare, but turned back to the code, my mind still working. Numbers swam in front of my eyes but I wasn't going to risk rushing and making a mistake, not when it could be at Sherlock's expense.
Fifteen minutes later, I turned the calculator off and stared at the decoded note in my hand. A lump had grown in my throat just from reading it.
"What does it say?" Lestrade asked eagerly.
"It says," I croaked and cleared my throat. "It says:
'Go to the place where the sewer rats are,
Below all the buildings, below all the cars.
Ten feet below the streets can be found,
You'll discover your friend dead, gagged and bound.'"
Lestrade blinked, looking shocked. "That's not good," he said quietly. "That's really not good."
I glanced at the message written on the set and sighed. "I don't know what to do," I admitted. I turned to Lestrade and shrugged helplessly.
"Well," he started, "we have no leads, no suspects, no-," But he didn't get to finish. Out of the blue, everything fell into place, slowly forming a neat, interlocking puzzle.
"Hang on!" I cried, jumping up and knocking over the stool. "We do have suspects!" He gave me a confused look. "The notes," I explained. "The notes all have a pattern—the watercolor paper, the poetry—it's all art!"
Lestrade blinked. "I'm not following you." I sighed.
"Fine arts," I said starting to get really excited, "can be painting, architecture, music and poetry, drama, and dancing. The notes were all written on watercolor paper, so whoever wrote it had access to art materials. The gunshot—," I paused and looked out at the theatre seats, my mind spinning. Lestrade appeared to be thinking along the same lines as he too was looking around. It was about time…
"It was shot from the audience," Lestrade finished finally. "But that hardly narrows it down - this theatre seats over 2,000 people! It could've been any one of them."I frowned and turned around, facing away from him.
"I know I've heard that name before," I muttered to myself. "Joe Green, Joe Green, Joe Green…" I repeated. There had to be something significant about it; you just didn't meet people with such a common name. Ironic but true. "It's a musical joke!" I exclaimed suddenly, twirling back to face Lestrade. "It's used to sort of make fun of Verde…but who would make fun of the music?" I turned back away from him, rubbing my temples. "The singers and the musicians, obviously," I answered myself, "…but the singers couldn't shoot Don Carlo, because they were facing the audience and he was shot from the front. And the musicians were also facing the audience, so who—?" I froze.
Without a word, I jumped off the stage and climbed down to the orchestra pit. I stood on the maestro's podium and looked up at Lestrade, who was openly baffled.
"It's a perfect shot!" I called up to him. "It was the maestro!"
I climbed out of the pit and into the house. I heard something in my dress rip and looked down to see a tear in the folds of the skirt. Lovely. Mrs. Turner really was going to kill me. Lestrade met me at the theatre floor.
"So we're looking for Sherlock Holmes, a maestro, and…?"
"An art director," I concluded. I'd given it a bit more thought and it was the only explanation I could come up with that fitted. He raised an eyebrow and I hurried to elaborate. "The numbers on the sets, the watercolor paper—the only person with access to all those materials without being questioned would have to be the art director." Lestrade stared at me.
"How did you…? Never mind, I don't even want to know." I smiled. It seemed a little bit of Sherlock had rubbed off on me.
"We also need to find a sewer," I announced suddenly.
"Sewer?"
"The note," I reminded him. "It says 'where the sewer rats are.' I don't know about England, but aren't sewer rats usually found in sewers? That's where we'll find Sherlock."
"The sewer system is huge! How are we supposed to find out where they are?"
"How conspicuous would someone dragging a body down the street be?"
"Probably very." Lestrade's cell phone rang.
I gave him a cheeky smile. "There you go."
- sherlock!-
We sped along the streets of London with the flashing lights and sirens blaring. If Sherlock wasn't in danger, the experience would have been pretty cool. But instead, I stared glumly out the window watching as the road streamed past me. Puddles and concrete flashed by in the early morning light while Lestrade and Donovan talked quickly in low voices.
Suddenly the car stopped along some nondescript street and we got out, surrounded, yet again, by more flashing lights. Yellow police tape surrounded an uncovered sewer drain.
"Down there," a police officer said as we stepped under the tape, pointing down at the dark hole. "The witnesses are mighty drunk, but unfortunately that's all we have. The few blokes coming home from a bar said they saw someone dragging a dead body down the drain."
"He might not be dead!" I snapped at him. The officer shot me a surprised look, but I didn't really notice.
"Yes, well," he continued, "we obviously need to get them out of there. Detective-Inspector, what do you suggest we do?" Lestrade thought for a long while before beckoning to Donovan and Anderson, leaving me with the police officer.
"So who're you?" he asked pleasantly.
"Emily Barber. I'm filling in for Sherlock Holmes, I guess," I replied sourly.
"Oh, really? Where is Mr. Holmes?"
"He was the 'dead body' being dragged down there," I said, pointing down the drain.
"Oh," the officer said, looking a little bit unnerved. An awkward silence followed before Lestrade came back with his consultants.
"We need to go down there," he said. "We have to look for Sherlock and the other man. Get someone to block off the street, Mathews," he said to the officer. "It could be awhile." Mathews checked his watch.
"Morning traffic will start in a few hours," he told us. "We shouldn't hold it off for too long."
"We need you to go down there with us, Miss Barber," Lestrade told me. "The message was for you, and there's no telling what he could want."
I looked down the dirty sewer drain and cringed, the unwelcome thought of Sherlock, beaten or worse, popped into my mind. "Yeah," I sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'll go."
Lestrade then turned to Anderson, who backed away. "Oh, no, I'm with forensics. I'm not going down that."Lestrade turned to Mathews, who looked startled.
"I—I—," he stuttered. "Fine, I'll go. But I want a larger Christmas bonus!" he added in a mumble.
After much searching for flashlights, a hand radio, and guns, Lestrade decided we were ready to delve into the depths of London's sewer system. By this time, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting a golden glow around the tall buildings. As much as I was worried about Sherlock, being confined underground threatened to worry more. I pushed that thought to the back of my mind.
"You can go first," Lestrade said to Mathews, who looked just as grossed out as I felt. He glanced around helplessly before starting his decent down the ladder, Lestrade following close behind.
The sewer was…interesting. By that I mean it smelled horrible. There was a "fork in the road" so-to-speak at the bottom of the ladder. One corridor was dark, but the other had a flickering orange light glowing in the distance. No prizes for guessing which one we picked.
"This is the police!" Lestrade yelled down the tunnel, raising his gun. "Come out with your hands behind your head or we will come down after you!" He tried to peer down the corridor, but it was curved, making it impossible to see anyone.
A deep, booming voice laughed at his words, echoing along the walls. "Send me the girl," it demanded in an Italian accent. Lestrade and Mathews glanced at Donovan and me. Donovan stepped towards the light.
"Alright, I'm coming," she said cautiously.
"No!" the voice yelled. "The American!"
I blinked. It was like grade school—I wasn't surprised, but not exactly thrilled to be called on, either. I looked at Lestrade. He was fully professional now and clearly meant business.
"What do you want with her?" he called. The voice laughed again.
"Send her down, Mr. Lestrade."
"Okay…" he said quietly, handing me a flashlight. He hesitated before giving me a handgun. I looked blankly at it a moment before he cocked it for me. "Do you even know how to use one?" He asked warily. I shrugged, hoping to mask my nervousness.
"I've seen it on television. How hard could it be?" I asked before squaring my shoulders and starting down the hallway towards the light.
Author's Note: Another week, another chapter! Let me know how you like it, either by review or pm—that would be lovely!
Thanks to my editors, including the lovely She Steps On Cracks, for her great editing job.
Same time next week!
~Salty
