The Barker Street Regulars

doors to strangers.
    Through the closed door, a male voice inquired, “Who is it?”
    Once again mimicking the dowdy woman, I repeated the line about sharing Good News. In my own ears, I sounded nervous. I felt like an actress who has lucked into a small part only to botch her one line.
    The door opened nonetheless. It opened wide. Before me, binoculars dangling from a strap around his neck, stood Robert, looking, as usual, as if he ought to be wearing a kilt. At his heels was Hugh. I felt like a total flop. If I recalled correctly, on not a single occasion had Watson ever come close to penetrating any of the Master’s disguises. Robert and Hugh, of course, recognized me instantly.
    “Good News,” repeated Robert, cocking his distinguished head.
    “A religious term,” Hugh informed him, “referring to—”
    “I am familiar with the expression,” Robert replied impatiently.
    I yanked off the headband and wiped the sappy look off my face. “I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,” I quoted.
    Robert responded with the quickness of a well-trained dog. “Or more astonished, eh?”
    “Well, I must confess so,” I said.
    “Confess to it.” Having set me straight, Robert added, “ The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. ”
    Except for my misquote, the dialogue was straight from The Hound of the Baskervilles. I was disguised as a religious fanatic, right? It made sense to quote the Bible. My tactic worked. Hugh and Robert invited me in.
    Perhaps I should make it clear that the grubby apartment opposite Irene Wheeler’s was the abode of neither Hugh nor Robert. Rather, they’d rented it, as Robert explained to me, as an aerie in which to perch while casting eagle eyes on everything that went on across the street. The place was such an ugly, depressing mess that my first response was relief that no one had to live there. From the walls cascaded strips of hideous flower-patterned beige wallpaper inadequately coated with a primer of white paint that had also been applied to the woodwork. Paint chips leaped from the window frames, doors, and baseboards. Bare lightbulbs hung from the stained ceilings of some rooms. Other ceilings sprouted spidery masses of electrical wire. Scattered on the dirty, worn wood floors were coat hangers, crumpled bits of paper, and other debris that neither the last tenant nor the landlord had bothered to sweep up. I didn’t see the kitchen or the bathroom. And didn’t want to.
    In tidy contrast to the rest of the place was the observation post that Hugh, I suspected, had set up in the living room near the front windows, which formed a little bow that overlooked the street. I could now see that what I’d mistaken for curtains were, in fact, brand-new white sheets, their creases visible, nailed across those front windows. Right by the shrouded windows, mounted on tripods, stood a powerful-looking spotting scope and a camera. Nearby were two aluminum folding chairs and a narrow folding cot on which lay a rolled-up sleeping bag. Between the chairs, a big cooler served as a makeshift table that supported two stainless-steel thermos bottles. Hugh’s laptop computer rested on the floor by one of the chairs. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have assumed that Hugh and Robert were avid birders who’d camped in this improbable location in the hope of adding some exotic species to their life lists.
    “You’ve made yourselves very comfortable here,” I remarked. “Just like the Man on the Tor.”
    That, too, is from The Hound. The mysterious Man on the Tor turns out to be Holmes, who has camped out in an abandoned hut on the moor. Naturally, Watson doesn’t connect the mystery man with the Master until Holmes reveals himself: “It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known voice. “I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in.” The inside of the hut, however, is pretty comfortable. Holmes has blankets, cooking utensils, food, and water. For the sake of fidelity to the Canon, I should add that he also has a half-full bottle of spirits and a pannikin, but since I have no idea what a pannikin is, maybe I’d better skip that part. Anyway, in that part of the story, Holmes is all excited, and so were Robert and Hugh, who described themselves as hot on the trail.
    “Could we back up a little?” I asked. “I don’t understand why you decided to, uh, observe here to begin with.”
    With the air of one who quotes, Robert