The Barker Street Regulars

pompously announced, “ These strange details, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.”
    Hugh came to my rescue. “In this case, the jarring feature is the presence of the psychic.”
    “So,” I said, gesturing toward the curtained windows, “what have you observed?” I paused. “Besides me.”
    “We confess ourselves,” replied Robert, “at something of a loss as to how to account for your presence there.”
    “Let’s say that my mission was more or less the same as yours,” I said. “Among other things, it seems clear to me that Ceci Love is the victim of a con game, and that the con artist”—I pointed toward Irene Wheeler’s house—“is preying on Ceci’s grief about her dog. That bothers me a lot. In itself, that’s an evil thing to do. I’ve also wondered whether Jonathan Hubbell had the same idea and whether that’s why he was murdered. It’s also a little more complicated. There’s a friend of mine who’s also being victimized, in a minor way.”
    Hugh and Robert exchanged glances.
    “And would your friend,” asked Robert, “be a tall man?”
    “A lot of men are tall,” I said to Robert. “You, for example.” Steve, of course, is tall, lean, and muscular.
    Hugh took his turn. “Thin?”
    “Lean.”
    “Hair color,” said Robert. “Brown.”
    “Yes.”
    Hugh and Robert held another silent conference.
    “The owner,” Hugh said, “of a large dog.”
    Steve’s pointer, Lady, is medium size, but India—no slight intended, far from it—is a good-sized bitch. “Yes,” I said.
    The privilege of making the final, magical Holmesian pronouncement fell to Robert. “Your friend drives a black panel truck,” he proclaimed, as if pulling a rabbit from a hat. “His most prominent facial feature is an exceptionally bulbous forehead.”
     

Chapter Twenty-five
     
    H IS MOST PROMINENT FACIAL feature is an exceptionally bulbous forehead.
    The statement transformed my vision of Hugh and Robert. They seemed suddenly frail, elderly, and hopelessly innocent, as vulnerable as a poor, sick cat tied in a pillowcase weighted with a large stone. I had spotted the binoculars from the street. Anyone else might do the same.
    “You are,” I asked them, “strictly limiting yourselves to observing what goes on?”
    Has there been a male yet who wants to be a man of inaction! My remark had an unintended consequence. Hugh and Robert, instead of assuring me that they were doing nothing except monitoring comings and goings, thanked me for reminding them of the need to return to their duties. Then they politely showed me to the door. Patting his pocket, Hugh informed me that he had his revolver. Robert, he said, was also prepared to defend himself. Like Holmes, Robert preferred to arm himself with a stick. I felt anything but reassured. In parting, I did, however, extract the promise that Hugh and Robert would desert their post for long enough to visit Althea the next morning. Reluctant though I was to burden a ninety-year-old woman with worries about matters she could do nothing to control, I counted on Althea’s intelligence and common sense and on her influence with her old friends. She, at least, understood the Great Game as a strictly literary pastime. To Robert and Hugh, she was the woman. With luck, their Irene Adler would divert them with some purely Sherlockian puzzle or send them safely back to another dog show to collect yet more harmless tufts of show coat.
    I now realize that in counting on Althea’s intelligence and influence I made a serious miscalculation. She proved herself as sharp as I’d expected. I now see, however, that far from persuading Hugh and Robert to diverge from the hot and dangerous trail they were on, she set me on the same hazardous track. If I’d been clever, or maybe just irresponsible, I’d have taken care to arrive at Althea’s room at the Gateway ahead of Hugh and Robert. As it was, Rowdy and I got to the Gateway that Friday morning at our usual time, ten-thirty, the earliest hour at which visitors were welcome, and we fulfilled our obligations to the people awaiting the regular visit of their therapy dog. More than ever, I felt caught between the desire to give each person ample time with Rowdy and the sense that we needed to press on. Ordinarily, what hurried me was my empathy for the remaining people who looked forward to Rowdy’s weekly visit. Today, in my impatience to get to Althea’s room, I