The Blind Banker part 5
A/N: 2 more chapters for this case after this. Meep. Sorry for the wait. School is a pain in the rear on the first week :P
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I own Elise :)
…
The inside of the shop was jam packed with merchandise, many of which featured a cartoonish cat or a red and gold color scheme. Flowery plates and other china were displayed in a glass case on the back wall. Posters with the Chinese language hung on the walls. A small register sat on a brown wood table, a fine layer of dust coating the metal contraption. Elise thought it was all very touristy. While nothing in the store was low quality, it didn't seem like a place where people would frequent on a regular basis. This fact was supported especially by the sketchy location.
The woman at the counter was a middle aged Asian woman with short black hair, clearly pleased to have customers. John muttered a hello as he walked over to investigate items on a nearby shelf. Sherlock walked towards the back of the store while Elise looked at the rows of waving felines near the front. The woman held up a ceramic cat for their viewing.
"You want lucky cat?" The shopkeeper asked.
John smiled apologetically. "No, thanks. No."
"Ten pound." She insisted. "Ten pound!"
"No." He smiled awkwardly.
The woman, clearly not accepting of his refusal, was persistent. "I think your wife, she will like!"
"No. Thank you."
He turned away and over to one of the tables housing small handle-less cups.
The woman looked disappointed that she hadn't made a sale. Elise felt bad for her. If she had any money on her person, she would've gotten the stupid thing herself. Maybe she could give to Christina or something as a gift. A pointless gift but a gift all the same. Too bad she had spent her remaining pounds on cab fare earlier.
Deciding to at least try and cheer her up, Elise turned toward the woman and smiled a little. "It's a very nice cat. But we're in a bit of a hurry. Perhaps another time."
The woman nodded curtly and busied herself with making the display neater. She didn't say anything else.
At least you tried. With a shrug, Elise wandered over to a collection of paper fans.
"Sherlock."
Elise looked up at her father's name. John held a white tea cup with a blue pattern in his shaking hands. Sherlock, who has picked up one of the statues, puts it back on the shelf and comes over to him. Elise put down the fan in her hand and curiously leaned over.
John pointed at the strip of paper on the bottom surface of the cup. "The label there."
Elise's eyebrows raised. It was the same as the one on the portrait of Sir Williams, a sort of figure eight with a slash at the head. "Exactly the same as the cipher
Shortly afterwards, they have left the shop and are walking down the street.
"It's an ancient number system!" Sherlock said excitedly. "Hangzhou. These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library."
He walked over to a greengrocer's which has some of its wares on display outside the shop. The various boxes have handwritten signs on them giving the names of the vegetables in both Chinese and English, and underneath is the cost of that particular item in both Hangzhou and English. He picks up various signs, checking the symbols.
"Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect."
John spotted a sign with the upside down eight and slash above it and its English equivalent beneath. "It's a fifteen! What we thought was the artist's tag – it's a number fifteen."
"And the blindfold – the horizontal line? That was a number as well."
Elise laughed amiably. "All this time and we thought it was words. But it's numbers!"
Sherlock grinned triumphantly. "The Chinese number one."
"We've found it!"
Sherlock turns and walks away. John smiled and turns to follow him. But as he did so, he sees the same woman who was taking a photograph outside 221b standing nearby. The mysterious figure still wore her dark sunglasses, she again has her camera raised and pointed towards him as she takes a picture. Someone walks across her, obscuring his view of her for a moment, and by the time the person has passed, she has vanished. John frowned, and then followed after his friends.
Who the hell is that?
Shortly afterwards, they're staking out The Lucky Cat, Sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant opposite the shop. Sherlock wrote two Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalents onto a paper napkin. John sits opposite him, also writing notes. Elise watched them as they worked, wishing for something to help with.
"Two men travel back from China." John said. "Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?"
"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases." Sherlock corrected.
"And you don't mean duty free."
A waitress brought over two plates of food and put them down on the table; One for Elise and one for John.
"Thank you." He said with a friendly smile.
Elise looked at her meal distastefully. It wasn't that it didn't look delicious- quite the opposite in fact. She had just lost her appetite completely. She pushed her pasta around with her fork, trying to work up the hunger she felt earlier. Finally, she just shoveled a mouthful in. Hungry or not, she had to at least try and eat. John and Sherlock would be sure to ask questions if she didn't.
"Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon," Sherlock said. "How he stayed afloat in the market."
"Lost five million." John said in between bites.
"... Made it back in a week."
"Mm."
"That's how he made such easy money."
"He was a smuggler." He took another mouthful of food.
"A guy like him – it would have been perfect."
Elise grimaced as she took another forkful of noodles. The white sauce clung to her lip and she wiped it away with her sleeve. "What did he steal? Drugs? Money? Artifacts?"
Sherlock tapped his chin. "He was a Business man ... making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same; a journalist writing about China."
"Mm." John mumbled.
"Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."
Elise picked her bandages in thought. "So it's something pertaining to the shop right? The place wasn't picked at random, it was deliberate. They would have to have reason to be there. Whatever they stole must be for someone who works there."
"But why did they die?" John quizzed. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?"
Sherlock sat back thoughtfully for a few seconds, then smiles as he realizes the answer.
"What if one of them was light-fingered?"
John raised his eyebrows. "How do you mean?"
"Stole something; something from the hoard."
John's eyes lit up with realization. "And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right."
Sherlock looked out of the window towards the shop, then raised his eyes to the windows above it. Looking down to the ground floor level again, his gaze sharpens.
"Remind me ... when was the last time that it rained?" Without waiting for a reply, he stands up and leaves the restaurant. John, who has probably managed only two mouthfuls of his meal, sits back in exasperation but then dutifully gets up and follows. Elise did the same, uncaring about her unfinished meal as she hadn't wanted it anyway.
Over the road, Sherlock bends down to the Yellow Pages. The plastic wrapper still has drops of water on it, and the top of it has broken open a little. Sherlock runs his fingers over the top of the wet exposed pages of the directory.
"It's been here since Monday." He straightened up and rang doorbell. He only waits a couple of seconds, then looks to his right and heads off in that direction. There's an alleyway beside the flat which the boys walked down.
Elise stared at them incredulously. With a hefty sigh, she called after them as she reluctantly followed. "So what?"
Sherlock kept walking as he answered. "No-one's been in that flat for at least three days."
"Could've gone on holiday." John supplied.
"D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock asked pointedly.
Soon, they were nearing the rear of the building. It was dank, dark, and mildew grew on the sides of the dirty white walls. Water dribbled down from a rain gauge about a yard off the ground. Sherlock looked up to see a cantilevered metal fire escape above his head. Taking a short run at it, he jumps up and grabs the end, pulling it down towards him until it touches the ground, then runs up the steps towards the open window of the flat. As he reaches the top, the ladder swings back to the horizontal position behind him.
"Sherlock!"
"Dad!"
John tried to pull the ladder down but he was much too short. Elise could've reached it on tiptoe, but it was already too late, the detective was already climbing in through the window.
John grabbed her hand and ushered her towards the front of the building. "C'mon."
…..
Sherlock climbs in through the window, landing in the kitchen. He cried out in muffled alarm as a vase on a nearby table almost gets knocked off by his arm. Thinking quickly, he thankfully managed to catch the item before it hits the floor. Then he noticed it; a wet patch on the rug in the precise place where the vase would have hit if it had reached the ground. Sherlock stared at it for a few moments before calling out the window to his daughter and John. "Someone else has been here." He shouted.
He put the vase back onto the table. His eyes roamed around, assessing every last detail about Ms. Yao's home. Sherlock muttered silent observations to himself, talking too quietly for anyone to hear even if they were still nearby. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did."
Sherlock looked around the kitchen. It was small, a stove on the end farthest from him and cabinets lining the top half of wall. A tiny dining table was in the middle of the room, beaded curtains hanging in the archway just beyond it, a washer and dryer on the left. The detective bent down to the washing machine and opens it, taking out an item of Soo Lin's clothes. He sniffs it and grimaced. Downstairs, John rings on the doorbell. Sherlock puts the item back into the washing machine and pushes the door closed, then he reached for a tea towel hanging up nearby.
Dry.
"D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?" John called from downstairs.
Sherlock moved further into the flat, taking quiet hunters steps.
"Can you not keep doing this, please?" Another voice called. Elise.
Sherlock took a pint of milk from the fridge. Unscrewing the lid, he sniffed the contents. His face pulled into disgust at the rancid smell, nearly triggering his gag reflex.
Spoiled. "I'm not the first." He called down.
"What?" John responded
Sherlock raised his voice so that his friend could hear. "Somebody's been in here before me!"
Even still, the veteran couldn't make out what he was telling him. "What are you saying?"
Sherlock gave up and took his pocket magnifier from his coat. He looked down to where a foot rucked up the rug, leaving an impression of the intruder's shoe. "Size eight feet." He pushed through the beaded curtain between the kitchen and the bedroom/living room, bent forward while he examined the rug. "Small, but...athletic."
Sherlock stalked over to the end table on his right. He picked up a framed photograph of two young Chinese children – a boy and a girl around 6 years old. A fresh handprint is on the glass where someone has pressed their fingers against the image of the girl. Sherlock held the magnifier over the fingerprints as he gently runs his gloved fingers along them to gauge the size. "Small, strong hands." Closing the magnifier, he puts down the photograph.
"Our acrobat."
He frowned to himself, glancing around. "But why didn't he close the window when he left...?"
His voice trailed off as he realized what was going on. The detective rolled his eyes at his apparent slowness. "Oh, stupid. Stupid. Obvious." He belittled. Sherlock's eyes roamed over the room, looking for what he already knew was there. "He's still here."
He looked around the room and sees an ornately decorated free-standing folding screen shielding the bed. Putting his magnifier into his pocket, he walked carefully towards it. Once close enough, he grabbed the edge of the screen and pulled it back.
No one.
Then a scarf was around his neck.
Sherlock fell to the ground, his legs collapsing under him from the surprising force. His attacker had an impressive grip, cutting off his air supply and digging painfully into him. Sherlock clawed at the silken torture device, trying futilely to relieve the pressure on his throat but the assailant – dressed all in black – continues to throttle him.
Nevertheless, the detective fought against him. "John!" he tried to yell. "John!"
No one could hear them.
How could they? You have a scarf restricting your speaking capabilities idiot. Now think!
But Sherlock couldn't escape. Dark spots danced teasingly at the edges of his vision, a reminder that if he didn't get oxygen soon, he would fall into unconsciousness. His struggles became weaker, his eyes betraying his thoughts and beginning to slide closed. Sherlock's hands fell free from the scarf. They now lay limp at the sides.
Elise… I never got to…
Then the attacker let go. Sherlock vaguely felt something slip into the pocket of his belstaff. In a blur of black, the man was gone, leaving the dark haired detective on the ground.
Get up.
Sherlock choked and coughed, tugging the scarf from around his neck and rolling onto his front before getting up onto his hands and knees. As the attacker disappears through the beaded curtain into the kitchen, Sherlock groans and pulls his own scarf loose, gasping as he gets his breath back. After a minute or two, he was breathing a little better. Sherlock sat up on his heels. He dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a black origami paper flower.
The exact same Locus from the murder scenes.
…..
Elise studied him carefully. Something was definitely different then when she last saw him. His scarf was loosened, not to where anyone would notice unless you were truly paying attention. His clothes were a bit rumpled on the legs and knees. Breaths were tugged from his mouth at a faster than normal rate. The skin on his cheeks was paper white, lacking the small amount of flush that kept him from looking translucent.
Elise saw Sherlock's eyes shift to hers before flickering away. Then, he began to speak.
"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell." Sherlock said croakily. "Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."
Elise raised her eyebrows. Not at what he said, but the way he said it. His voice wasn't as hoarse before. What happened in there?
"Somebody?" John asked obliviously.
Sherlock nodded, voice still rough. "Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her." He bent down to pick up a fallen envelope on the pavement.
"But how, exactly?"
Sherlock picked up a folded envelope. On the back of it is written:
SOO LIN
Please ring me
Tell me you're
OK
Andy
He unfolds the envelope and looks at the front of it. Printed in the bottom right hand corner is:
NATIONAL
ANTIQUITIES
MUSEUM
"Maybe we could start with this." He ground out.
He walked out, closing the door behind him, and headed off down the road, John and Elise curiously following.
Elise couldn't keep it to herself anymore. "Dad, what's wrong with your voice?"
"Yeah," John attested. "You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?"
The detective cleared his throat and coughed, nodding vigorously. "I'm fine."
The curly haired teen wasn't convinced. How could a person go from perfectly fine to wheezing out words in a matter of minutes? Something had to have happened in the flat. Elise jogged to the front of the small pack where her father walked. "Liar." Elise mumbled to him, quiet enough so that the other man couldn't hear. "What happened?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's useless getting anything past you isn't it?"
Elise grinned up at him. "I learned from the best."
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips but nothing else was said. Elise sighed and let herself fall back. Although her dad wouldn't admit anything, she could guess what had happened in Soo Lin's flat.
…
Elise leaned against one of the wooden tables in the museum, picking her nails as a source of comfort. Sherlock paced around a display area while he interviews Andy- the boy who wrote the note to Ms. Yao. The young man had thick curly hair, similar to Sherlock's aside from the much shorter length. He was average height, a thankfully friendly (slightly goofy) aura about him. The youngest of the present Holmes 'was grateful for that. She was in no mood to make her usual defensive quips. Andy didn't seem like he would provoke her though.
John stood next to her with exhaustion evident on his face. Everyone was becoming increasingly tired and irritable as the long day wore on. Sherlock included. He would never admit it but Elise could tell. After almost thirteen years, she would be stupid to not be able tell. Her dad wasn't the only one who could deduce.
"When was the last time that you saw her?" The man in question asked.
"This morning." Andy replied. "They told me she'd resigned just like that."
Sherlock looked at another case containing some jade figurines, and then at a piece of artwork.
"Just left her work unfinished."
Sherlock turned to face the group. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?"
Andy nodded to stairs on the far side of the room. "Follow me."
Sherlock, John, and Elise descended the steps. Andy brought the group to the basement archive, and turned on the lights as he leads them in.
"She does this demonstration for the tourists – a-a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here."
He led them to the open stack and started turning a handle at the end to widen the gap. John goes to stand behind him and looked into the stack but Sherlock has noticed something more interesting in the shadows further along the room. He walks closer to it. On a stand is a life-sized sculpture of a nude woman ... and yellow paint has been spray painted across the front of it. An almost horizontal straight line goes across the eyes, and over the body has been sprayed the open upside down eight with the almost horizontal line above it. Elise turned in confusion, her eyes widening as she saw his discovery.
Another cipher.
They didn't stay much longer after that.
Outside the museum, night has fallen, giving the world a cold look as the moon rose higher in the black sky. The city lights were too bright for stars. Shops gave off an inviting glow from the lit awnings above the doors and in the windows, an enticement for any shopaholic. Most people had vacated the museum district though, leaving the streets sparse with the exception of a few loitering civilians. The crisp air held the sharp tang of water, which was odd being it hadn't rained. Elise breathed in deeply from her nose. Her lips parted on the exhale, releasing some lingering lumps of tension within her. It was going to be a long night. Better to toughen up now while she still could.
"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock said as they descended the stairs.
"If she's still alive." John commented.
Just as they were nearing the last grouping of white steps, a familiar voice called out from across the way.
"Sherlock!"
It was Raz, the spray paint and vandalism enthusiast from earlier. He jogged towards them at admirable speed, baggy white hoody bouncing from his shoulders like a huge, cotton rabbit. The young man finally reached the group, panting slightly from the exertion.
"Found something you'll like."
Raz trotted off without another word and Sherlock immediately followed. Elise had to walk quickly to keep up with her father. John headed off after them a little more slowly.
Raz led the three of them across Hungerford Bridge, heading towards the south side of the river.
John was still peeved about the incident in the alley earlier that day. He spoke firmly towards Raz about the situation, the latter not seeming to care about it all. As a matter of fact, Raz seemed checked out, completely tuning out John like he was an annoying child in a supermarket. Elise couldn't help but chortle a bit. Sure John was a nice guy and all, but he could be a bit tetchy at times. Not necessarily in a bad way. Probably more comically than scary.
"Tuesday morning, all you've gotta do is turn up and say the bag was yours." He said gruffly.
Sherlock decided to put a stop to what might turn into the conversation that didn't end. "Forget about your court date."
They continued onwards in companionable silence, the only sound emitting from the patter of shoe soles against the ground. Shadows danced across the bridge, turning a simple piece of architecture into a black playground. Whenever two of the silhouettes crossed, the dominant one swallowed the smaller of the two, forming a big blob that eventually mixed with the other shadows until there was no separating them. Fascinating… and just a smidge creepy. Despite the desertion of the area, Elise couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. She tugged her collar up, sheltering her ears from the weather and the invisible eyes that clawed at her.
Would it ever end?