The thumping stopped, started again. Shayne looked down at his big hands and saw them bunched tightly into fists. He unclenched them, one finger at a time, forcing a rueful grin to his lips. He wondered why normal human beings react so strongly to abnormal mental conditions. It is silly as hell, of course.
He heard a slithering sound beside him and jerked his head around to see a gnomelike little fellow sliding up on the leather-covered bench beside him. He wore the shapeless white garment of a patient and held a fleshless finger pressed warningly against sunken lips to indicate silence. His features were wrinkled, and fleshless skin hung over the wrinkles in tiny folds. His eyes were very bright, gleaming with ferrety inquisitiveness.
Shayne fought back a desire to slide away and avoid contact with the strange creature. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and said, “Hello.”
The wizened features contracted still more into a frown. He shook his head and whispered, “Not so loud. They’ll hear you. I sneaked in to talk to you.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. The thumping sound had ceased.
“I know you,” his companion whispered. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper. You’re a detective — of minor fame.”
Shayne nodded agreement, still without answering. The man sounded sensible enough.
The little old man put his lips close to Shayne’s ear and whispered hoarsely, “I guess you don’t recognize me. No one does any more. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”
Shayne felt an odd desire to chuckle at his first conclusion. He said, “Is that so?” unintentionally lowering his voice to the same key as his companion’s. “Is Doctor Watson with you?”
“No. He remained behind in Baker Street to attend as best he could to any small matters. I’m in America on a secret and dangerous mission. I’m watched every minute, and if I’m caught talking with you it will be the end.”