The Sherlockian by Graham Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

corridor, and Harold followed suit.
    Arriving at the door of Room 1117, Sarah gave two quick, friendly raps near the eyehole. A “Privacy, Please” sign hung from the doorknob. They waited.
    “How did you know what room he’s in?”
    Sarah smiled. “I asked politely.”
    She rapped again, perkily. “Alex?” she said, as if nothing were at all the matter. Harold joined in.
    “Alex, it’s Harold White! Are you awake?” Again the door gave them nothing in return. Harold stared at the privacy sign, and it seemed to stare back, taunting him with its bland efficiency.
    As the stillness became, to Harold, increasingly disconcerting, he heard a shuffling down the hallway. Harold and Sarah turned to see a man in a dark suit. Jeffrey followed a pace behind the man, as Harold had followed Sarah. He must be the hotel manager, thought Harold.
    “Who are you?” asked Jeffrey of Sarah.
    “Hi,” she replied. “I’m Sarah Lindsay. We e-mailed back and forth, about this weekend.”
    Jeffrey made a sour face. “We did,” he said. “And I remember telling you, in no uncertain terms, that you were not permitted to attend today’s lecture. What are you doing here?”
    In response Sarah simply smiled.
    “Reporters,” said Jeffrey. “Can’t take no for an answer, can you?”
    She turned to Jeffrey’s companion. “There’s no answer at the door, Jim.” The man didn’t reply but merely stepped forward next to Sarah and gave the door his own series of firm knocks.
    “Mr. Cale?” he said. Another long, uncomfortable pause. “Mr. Cale, this is Jim Harriman, I’m the Quality of Stay Director at the hotel.”
    Harold supposed that this was another way of saying “manager.”
    “Your friend Mr. Engels tells me you’re late for an appointment, so I’m going to come in there to make sure nothing’s the matter. Mr. Cale?” Still nothing. Jim removed a bar-coded electronic key card from his wallet and slid it in and out of the lock.
    “If you’ll all excuse me,” said Harriman, his hand waiting on the knob.
    “Come on now,” said Sarah. “These are his friends. If something’s the matter, maybe they can help.”
    Harold couldn’t help but notice that there was no mention of her own role in this.
    Harriman examined Sarah’s earnest face and looked to Jeffrey for a reaction. He didn’t find one. The manager thought for a moment, then pressed the hook-shaped doorknob down.
    Harold felt a coldness begin in his shoulder muscles and shiver down his back, tingling all the way to his toe tips and newly frigid fingers. Even before the hall light jumped into the dim gray air of the room, he knew. Something was wrong.
    When his eyes adjusted, Harold saw the disheveled dresser, its drawers yanked out and overturned. He saw the tipped-over lampshade and the dark splotches of what must be dress shirts on the taupe carpet. He saw the half-open closet door, the pile of clothes hangers on the floor, the fanned-out papers sprinkled like snowflakes.
    Harold stepped inside, behind Sarah, Jeffrey, and Harriman the manager. The stiff-legged four moved almost in unison.
    “Alex?”
    “Alex.”
    “Al . . . ex . . .”
    “. . . Alex.” They each took turns calling the name, as if the word itself would make him appear. It became a chant, a round, and an incantation.
    The mess accentuated the smallness of the room. The heavy blinds were shut tight, locking in the darkness. Harriman stepped through a narrow entryway past the bathroom door and the closet, toward the dresser against the wall on the right, and the wooden desk in the far corner. Ahead to the left, the room appeared to blossom out in open space—the bed must be in that direction.
    Harold watched Jim slow down midstep as he turned the corner, then watched as Jeffrey did the same. Jeffrey’s brow furrowed and shook with his head, as a slight tremor reverberated through the older man’s body. Sarah stepped beside Jeffrey, turned, and inhaled sharply. Her face was blank,