Chapter Two: In the Dark
oooOOooo
Sherlock asks John to determine whether the Willy Dodd case can be solved in the flat as they continue their evening conversation in the unlit sitting room at 221B Baker Street.
oooOOooo
"Willy Dodd explained," Sherlock narrated the facts in an animated voice so his tired flatmate would pay attention and not nod off in their dark surroundings, "that he owns and operates numerous sizable warehouses for architectural fittings—artifacts that include antique doors, aged timber, fireplaces, mantels, flooring, ceiling beams, bricks, tile, chandeliers, stained glass, pillars, plaster and wood moldings, doorknobs, sconces, heating grills—"
"—okay, think I get it, Sherlock," John yawned.
"—even gold-leaf bric-a-brac, brass fixtures, and copper tubing, nuts and bolts," Sherlock continued without missing a beat, " which he salvages from old buildings undergoing renovations and preserves for restorations—his business is estimated to be worth more than £40 million a year."
"Oi!" John's eyes widened. "What was I thinking going into medicine?"
"You were thinking to save lives, not to make money," huffed the detective in a tone that showed he expected no arguments. "Didn't we just discuss helping people?"
"True," John said softly. "But not having enough to live on…" He trailed off, painfully aware how often his bank account had been depleted by the necessities of living in London on a soldier's pension, not to mention the few occasions when Sherlock would advance him what he needed —it had been humiliating, even if Sherlock hadn't minded. Whilst work at the surgery had significantly improved his financial state, on the down side, it gave him less time to spend on the work with Sherlock, and after a long day, he often felt he was burning the candle on both ends.
"So you needed a flat share. Problem solved." Sherlock shelved the topic as though the solution to his own need was satisfactory for all. "These warehouses," the detective proceeded, "are located throughout the UK in addition to several smaller ones in Belgium and France, however, it is the one in London that has had a problem. Several days ago, Dodd got proof of what he had been suspecting for some months. He discovered specific inventory was missing, small Victorian-era pieces of hardware that still have an accumulative value upwards of £25,000."
"Does he suspect anyone?"
Sherlock nodded. "He harbors suspicions about some of his recent hires, but he can't prove anything.
"What about security cameras?"
"Yes, he has security cameras at the main exits of all his buildings. However, the basement of his London warehouse where the burglary took place has none due to insufficient lighting. It's too dark. Regular CCTV cameras have been rendered ineffective. Until now, he had not thought he needed video surveillance for that storage area."
"If expense is not a problem, why doesn't he upgrade his surveillance with night vision cameras or even infrared, the kind used in the military?"
"He could and he most likely will find some way to install surveillance. He did look into his options. However, he was told that because there is a functioning, overlarge old furnace in the basement, infrared cameras which rely on heat-sources to locate activity, may not be the best choice given the area, and night vision which as you know, John, collects and amplifies available light that bounces off objects, is not without its problems. A high-powered torchlight or burst of light could easily overload the camera. Either surveillance option will ultimately deter the burglars from future raids, but it will not necessarily identify them unless the police are on hand to swoop in and make arrests whilst it's happening."
"So let me guess. Not a top priority for the Met."
"Small trinkets, nuts, and bolts such as these, no matter how antique, are classified as salvage not art treasures or precious gems. They are not a high-priority concern of our regular constabulary. Here in London, the NSY actually has a three-man specialist unit—I checked online, the only such squad in the country—that investigates the theft of architectural art and antiques, but they can only handle so much per year and nothing this small. So you see, Mr. Dodd's merchandise does not merit the attentions of that specialized force."
"It must be hard to keep track of nuts and bolts, antique or otherwise. Although if ironmongers and B&Q keep tabs of their inventory, I suppose salvagers must do the same."
"At least an enterprise like Dodd's. When he set up his first warehouse thirty-five years ago, it was small-scale and could be done by hand, but he has since utilized modern technology to inventory everything that comes through his warehouses. He has to have thorough inventory records to satisfy prospective clients."
"So he knows what's missing?"
"He does—antique door plates, screws, cupboard clasps, hinges, brackets, vintage doorknobs, sconces, and varied small parts that once reassembled become fine treasured pieces like chandeliers and decorative inserts on mantels—and he has already reported them as stolen. Dodd regularly uses the 'theft alerts' registry from an online directory of specialist salvage companies. This system lists stolen merchandise and helps dealers check the legitimacy before they unwittingly buy a 'hot' artifact. Each theft alert documents the item with a picture and crime reference number, so salvagers and antique dealers have proof when they contact the police about stolen property."
"Why take things that can be identified? Do you think his burglars are unaware of the ID system?"
"Interesting, John. You assume there is more than one. Yes to your question. It seems that whoever took the items was not concerned they might be tagged. Either it was done in ignorance by a rank amateur or was deliberately taken by a private collector who would have no interest in selling the items."
"Vintage pieces from the same historic period! That sounds like someone doing their own restoration, otherwise taking them seems pointless."
"Now you are talking motivation." Sherlock grinned his approval. "You are quite right. Unless the materials are kept privately or melted down for scrap— rendering them less valuable for resale—the pieces would be identified if put back in circulation. Dodd is certain of this."
"So, what does he want with us?" John couldn't help relishing the word us.
"He wants us to tell him how—how his warehouse is being infiltrated. We're his last resort."
Reaching over to his side table, Sherlock handed John his laptop and swiveled it to face the doctor before lifting it open. When John punched the keypad, the sudden brightness was blinding and he needed to blink to see what Sherlock wanted him to view. Once he could focus, John saw a list in pdf format of the stolen inventory. On the bottom of the first page the total of £2,155.00 was highlighted in red, indicating the value of the stolen merchandise. As he scrolled down the pages, John realized each inventory sheet was marked similarly and the total value of missing merchandise was adding up.
"This certainly wasn't all taken in one day?" John looked up from the screen, suddenly unable to see anything behind it because his eyes had been flooded by the bright light.
"Most likely it had been going on for several months." Sherlock spoke from the inky darkness. "When the stock boy did not report to work, the other hires discovered the problem. 'Sick Boy' hasn't returned to work. There's more."
John couldn't make out Sherlock's face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice. "I've spent the afternoon studying the video surveillance tapes Dodd gave me and viewed several months' worth from which I selected these few to show you. There are more of the same, but for now these represent the incident well enough for our purposes. Hit the video tab next, John. Tell me what you think."
"Right." Although it was impossible for John to see, it was easy to imagine the detective with his hands steepled under his chin, thinking quietly whilst John viewed the videos.
Settling the laptop on his knees, John followed Sherlock's directive, opened the next tab and pressed play. Even in fast forward, the grainy black-and-white images from the CCTV cameras at the store exits clearly demonstrated patterns of customer traffic in and out of the warehouse showroom through the main doors, and staff members with keys using the alley doors for access to the back of the building. John observed three women—he assumed the clerical staff by their dress and deportment—going in the main entrance in the morning and watched as one-at-a-time each woman left for a lunch break, returning within the allotted hour. At the end of the day, all three left together as the showroom closed down.
This was the routine, repeated several times with little variation, until John viewed the fourth sequence of daily traffic. There was not a new element in the traffic flow, but in the previous videos, an occurrence that had initially seemed random struck John as odd. What he observed began to feel staged.
"What a minute. What's this? It's the same guy." Leaning back in surprise, John paused the image and tapped the screen as he glanced toward Sherlock. Again, the bright screen made everything behind it, including the detective, blanketed by darkness.
"This man here!" John hunched closer to the screen and tried to focus on the blurry image. "A vagrant of some kind. In shabby clothes. Staggers about like he's drunk or high. He seems to come into the store at the main entrance on two days and look! He's ejected immediately by an employee. But on the other two days, at least in the tapes I've seen so far, he's pushed out the main door, like before, but I don't recall seeing him enter…is some part of the tape missing?" He turned the laptop toward his friend so both he and Sherlock could see together, but in the light from the laptop screen, Sherlock's chair was empty.
"Hit play on the tab labeled 'Alley Door' for more footage."
Sherlock's words were unexpectedly close behind John's right ear, startling him. He jerked and twisted his head over his right shoulder toward his friend's voice.
"JEEZ-us! Sherlock!" John complained to cover his fright. "What the HELL are you doing?" John heard the soft sound of a plate placed upon his side table and smelled the aroma of his favorite tea.
"Mind your elbow. You might spill it. It's strong, maybe not too hot. Been steeping this tea before you got home; and since you said you were hungry, here's a plate of biscuits too from Mrs. Hudson—"
"What?" An astonished John stared at the cuppa and biscuits. "Nononono." He merged the words for emphasis. "Not again. This better not be drugged. You promised me…."
"Only tea. Promise!" The retreating sound of his voice convinced John that Sherlock had gone back to the kitchen. Using the light of the laptop like a torch, John tracked Sherlock as the detective retrieved his own mug of tea and returned to the sitting room.
"No drugs of any kind." Sherlock raised a scout's salute in a pledge of truth. "Haven't gone daft, either. Just making a point about this case." He settled back into his chair and sipped with a slurping sound. "Tell me what you see." His baritone voice was plainly enthused.
"Where were we? Oh, right. Play the 'Alley Door' footage." Looking up at his flatmate to assure himself he was still seated, John did a double take for another reason. His mouth gaped open to speak but he immediately clamped it shut. He decided to hold his comment until he finished viewing the video. John hit the tab and watched.
This footage revealed that, on two of the four days, the alley door had been left ajar, and the vagrant had slipped in. John noticed something different from this angle and brought the focus closer on the image.
"A-Hah! He's wearing an eyepatch!" John said excitedly, a huge smile brightened his face as an understanding dawned. "And don't think I didn't notice you switched your patch, Sherlock. It's over your right eye now."
"Now Doctor Watson!" Sherlock hooted with delight, "You're a physician who nearly chose ophthalmology as his speciality, what can you advise our client?"
John touched each finger as he began to enumerate: "It's an inside job. An accomplice is letting the burglar in the alley door. The vagrant wears an eyepatch to get his eye accustomed to low-light conditions. He makes quick work in the dark since his covered eye can adjust better to low-light areas." John grinned broadly. "Like you just did here in the flat while I was blinded by the laptop. Scaring me with tea and biscuits, which is pretty scary considering being served by you is frightening even in broad daylight!"
"What else?"
"When he is ejected from the warehouse, he's not wearing the patch and doesn't seem to be bringing things out, so he must drop them off somewhere within the warehouse for the accomplice to traffic."
"Good, John." Excited, Sherlock planted his hands on the arms of the chair, lifted his body up, and tucked his long legs in a crouching position on the seat. "How would you rank this on the Scale?"
"Really, Sherlock, we might know the how, but we still don't know the why and the who."
"Go on."
"Dodd only asked us to tell him how it was done, but I see it as two-fold. A #3 for the how, but this might be a #7 requiring onsite investigation for the why and the who."
Sherlock sprang from his chair and alighted gracefully on his feet. "On site it is! I texted him while you were watching the alley footage. Dodd's expecting us at half seven." Sherlock grabbed their coats and handed John his.
Seeing all things more clearly as he accepted his coat and stuffed an arm through the sleeve, John nodded his head. "Here in the flat, you planned your little demonstration; keeping me in the dark and out of the kitchen, and baiting me with your hacking story…which I assume is still true."
"Nearly lost you when I pushed too far," Sherlock muttered as if admonishing himself. "Have to show a bit more delicacy, I see."
John paused to look at his partner. "How could you be so sure that when I came in I wouldn't have just put on the light and headed into the kitchen as I ordinarily do?"
"The eyepatch." Sherlock smiled with satisfaction as he knotted his scarf around his neck. "Wearing the eyepatch diverted you from routine."
"I'm that transparent?" John zipped up his jacket.
"Hmmmm. Most times." Sherlock patted his pockets, checking their contents.
"So are you," John remarked over his shoulder as he strode to the side table, took a sip of his tepid tea, and grabbed a biscuit.
"Huh?" Sherlock spun in his long coat to study his friend. His right eye still covered by the patch.
"You know, it only requires a half hour for the eye to adjust." John chewed and grabbed another biscuit.
"I know." The detective put up his collar and hesitated before admitting slowly. "I just enjoy playing the pirate."
"So where's my patch?" John downed the last of his tea and snatched up the lone biscuit from the plate.
Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and with a graceful dip of his hand pulled out another eyepatch. "Thought you'd never ask!"
oooOOOooo
(Still more to come)
Again, special thanks to my beta/friend englishtutor and the nameless wise one for their guidance and support.