Chapter 8: In which we Break for Soup
The three men climbed into the taxi Sherlock hailed; they sat down, exhaled, and looked at one another.
"We should really go tell Mary what happened," said John. "After all…"
"Yes, but there's nothing to tell. Shouldn't we continue the investigation?" Sherlock was irritated that the One-Legged Man had gotten away.
Lestrade was sitting awkwardly in the jump seat, and he turned back to them after having spoken to the driver. "We're going to Mary's. It's only right we tell her. After that, I'll go to the Yard and deal with my suspects, and you two can go back to looking for the One-Legged Man."
The ride was quiet; each man was wrapped in his own thoughts. Sherlock made the cabby stop at one point so he could jump out and pass a note and some cash to a homeless man in a knit cap. Finally, the taxi pulled up in front of a battered building of grey concrete, barely a step up from the estates. "This can't be it," said John. The place didn't look at all appropriate for Mary.
"It is," said Sherlock, pointing at the children in the concrete yard. "Hats." Indeed, about half of the children were wearing colorful – and clearly handknit – watch caps, just like the one John had stuffed in his pocket when they got in the taxi.
"I got the address from Donovan. I had her drop Mary here this morning," said Lestrade, all efficiency. The children in the yard fell silent and still as the men walked from the car to the building, and Lestrade knew they'd recognized him as a policeman. One boy turned and ran down the street, and he wondered what crime was being halted on his behalf.
They went up the stairs and down the shabby concrete hall; Lestrade and Sherlock both glanced at a large and unusual piece of graffiti next to Mary's half-open door. All three men hesitated in the corridor, listening; Mary was inside, all right, and she was singing:
Ay-ay- ay-ay.
Canto y no llores…
Lestrade, in the lead, could see her through the half-open door, working in the kitchen, lost in the music. For a moment, he remembered how much he'd enjoyed watching his wife when she worked like that, unselfconscious and calm. When she left, she told him it was creepy. She didn't understand how much he needed those moments of calm and order, when so much of his life was scenes of violence and disorder. He smiled when Mary spun to the music, not because she danced well, but because she danced badly but danced anyway. John, behind him, was surprised that she would listen to such cheerful music after what had happened the night before. And why is she singing in Spanish? Sherlock, lurking in the back, irked at this boring waste of time, noticed the tune. His fingers formed around the neck of an absent violin, following the melody involuntarily before muttering, "Cielito Lindo, how trite."
Mary heard them and switched off the music before gesturing them in. "Sorry. I need to get myself moving, after everything that happened last night. I find Mariachi music very energizing. Like the song says, 'Sing and don't cry.' Earlier this morning, it was all very maudlin. You missed a several hours of Townes Van Zandt and Emmylou Harris."
Lestrade scolded her, "Miss Morstan – Mary - you shouldn't leave your door open like this. It isn't safe."
"It's perfectly safe, Inspector, I promise you. Saturday is soup day, so I leave the door open. The kids in the building know they can come by for a little bit if there's nothing at home. It's Saturday – no school lunch. I expect you've scared them all off, though. Come in."
Lestrade tugged at his ear, displeased with her answer, but he admired the flat: "It's very… colorful."
"And small," John couldn't help but add.
Sherlock glared at her as he came in: "I know how you broke your foot."
"Do tell," Mary gestured with her ladle.
"You were a tagger – you tagged your own apartment." He pointed out the door, towards the markings he and Lestrade had both noticed in the hall. "You broke your foot running from the police."
Mary smiled, remembering the night she broke her foot: "That's my mark, all right. Believe me, you do not want to mess with the night guards at Disneyland."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John and even Lestrade chuckled at this. The three men filled the tiny apartment. She'd painted every wall of the efficiency apartment a different warm color; the effect was happy and cozy. John, feeling that turnaround was fair play, examined her bookshelf. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to learn from this, except that she read a lot of capital "L" literature he'd heard of and a lot of apparently American stuff he hadn't. She read Neruda in Spanish, and she could alphabetize.
Mary continued: "At first, I stayed here because it was all I could afford. But then, I got it just the way I like it, and, well, I don't like to move, so I've stayed. Soup?"
Sherlock groaned. He didn't want to stop for food. John and Lestrade, however, realized how hungry they were, and each accepted a bowl, taking their places at the small counter that substituted for a dining table. Mary talked Sherlock into taking a mug of soup, and then brought up the subject they'd been avoiding:
"So…. No One-Legged Man, I take it."
The men glanced at one another, and it was finally Lestrade who spoke, in the official language of the police file. "We pursued the trail all the way to the river, but the suspect escaped. We think he might lie low for a few days, then try to leave the country."
John wanted to reassure Mary: "We'll find him. Sherlock knows where to look. Don't you, Sherlock?"
"Well, he's not bloody well in Mary's tiny flat eating chicken soup. We've determined that much."
Mary had something more on her mind. "Well, Inspector Lestrade, at least you must let those poor people from the house go. They're not mixed up in this, that much is clear."
Sherlock perked up. "Come on, Lestrade. Even Mary can see that our culprits are out there, not at the Yard."
Lestrade looked tired, which is to say, he looked as he usually looked. "I have to investigate every possibility. And it is entirely possible that any one of them was the inside man. Right now, I have enough evidence to make it stick to any of them."
Mary pressed him. "Making the evidence stick isn't the same as finding out the truth. I know, you have a murder and you want a conviction. But I think I'd rather know the truth, Inspector."
He made a wry face and stood. "You might be right about that. I'll go talk to them."
Sherlock clattered his mug into the sink, which John recognized as a rare effort at manners, and then stood in the doorframe, to indicate that it was time to leave. John cleared his place and thanked Mary with a soft smile, before following his friend into the hall. Lestrade lingered as he handed her his bowl.
Mary was grateful: "Thank you for coming to tell me in person, Inspector. I think you may become my favorite policeman."
Lestrade's ears turned pink. Mary added, "Now, don't let that go to your head, Detective Inspector Lestrade. You know how I generally feel about the police. This may well be damning by faint praise."
Lestrade knew it was time to go, even if he was reluctant to leave. So he scolded her again, "You really should keep your door locked… And please, call me Geoff."
So she did: "Thank you, Geoff."
He turned on his heel, and hurried down the hall after John and Sherlock.
The men walked down the street, searching for a taxi. Sherlock was looking for something online; he didn't even pause from tapping at his mobile to call out to Lestrade, who was striding past him: "You must let them go, Lestrade. You know they didn't do it."
Lestrade sighed and turned, walking backwards so he could explain things to Sherlock. "They've been properly processed. I can't just let people go, willy-nilly. I have to do an investigation. I have procedures to follow. A man is horribly dead, and, as long as those men are loose, Mary might be in danger."
"Wait, what? Why would Mary be in danger?" asked John, hopping a little to keep up.
"If they want the treasure, and are killing people who have a claim to the treasure, they might figure out that she is one of those people." Lestrade turned around and faced into the wind, looking for a taxi stand.
Sherlock dismissed this theory entirely. "They've got the diamonds. They would be smart to make off with them now and not make any more trouble for themselves."
Lestrade turned back to him again: "They're criminals, Sherlock. Criminals aren't always smart."