“No,” said Sherlock Sub, ascending toward the grey, weeping sky. “I merely changed the context.”
Adler-Nemo’s sub was sucked backward into the collapsing warehouse, pinned by a falling barge.
Thorne stared at the churning Thames. “So what now?”
But who?
On the surface, as the river police hauled up diamonds and a furious Irene, Thorne asked, “How did you know the frequency?”
“Sherlock Sub. Always looking down. Never up.”
“Now, Thorne, the game is still afloat.” sherlock sub
“Impossible,” Thorne whispered. “They weigh forty tons each.”
Sub held up the velvet glove. “The sealant on this glove is the same as the gaskets on the pump. And the manufacturer?” He paused. “They only sell to one person. Irene always leaves a signature. A single, elegant flaw.”
His vessel, the St. Mary’s Log , was a retrofitted salvage submarine, all brass periscopes and humming sonar. His “Watson” was a grumpy marine biologist named Dr. Aris Thorne, who’d rather study bioluminescent algae than chase criminals in the murk. “No,” said Sherlock Sub, ascending toward the grey,
Sherlock Sub lit his pipe—waterproof, naturally—and puffed a ring of smoke that dissolved into the fog.
The answer surfaced in the form of a woman’s laugh, echoing through the sub’s hydrophone.
In the grey, drizzling chill of a London February, a different kind of detective was on the case. Not Holmes of Baker Street, but Sherlock Sub — the city’s only underwater consulting detective. “So what now
“You destroyed your own trap,” she hissed over the dying comm.