Chapter 75 Chapter 75 You've heard of 'Moriarty'...
"Okay, I kind of understand." Watson tried to reason as they left the manor. "You inferred his approximate height and weight from his footprints and stride length."
"And gender. You'd be hard-pressed to find a six-foot-tall woman wearing size nine shoes," Sherlock said. "As for professional killers..."
"The wound was so clean," Watson said. "They severed the trachea and carotid artery in one go, and they even knew to put a blanket over his neck beforehand? No one could do that. They wouldn't even be able to find them."
"Hmm." Sherlock smiled quickly. "Anything else?"
"And? Well, and." Watson pondered. "Doctors and soldiers can do this, like me."
"No, no, no," Sherlock interrupted. "You can't."
"Yes, I can't do it." Watson subconsciously said, "Wait, why can't I do it?"
Sherlock glanced at him. Watson glanced at him too.
"Because you're soft-hearted," Sherlock said firmly. "I know you've been in battle, John. It's easy to shoot an enemy, but stabbing an unarmed man in the back without a second thought? You can't do it."
Watson took a deep breath. The rain had stopped long ago, but the grass still smelled fresh.
"Yeah," he admitted, "I can't do that."
"Back to the topic. I understand what you mean, John. Anyone with professional training can do it." Sherlock looked around. "Soldiers, secret agents, and professional assassins can all do it."
"But you only mentioned professional killers," Watson pressed. "Why?"
But Sherlock didn't answer. The long-legged detective turned and slid off the gravel path into a lawn dotted with tall shrubs. Watson, startled, looked around, but no Scotland Yard officer was looking in his direction. Without a second thought, he followed Sherlock.
"Because he's a professional." Sherlock walked slowly forward, looking around with his head down. "He dodged every active camera and sneaked into the manor like a ghost. They don't teach that in the army."
Watson followed him carefully, "There are still agents left."
"That's even simpler. If this was done by an agent, no matter which country," Sherlock said casually, "the case would not be handed over to Scotland Yard."
Watson paused at this unexpected answer. Sherlock, who was walking in front of him, sensed it and turned to give him a smug smile.
"Okay." Watson also smiled. "That makes sense."
"But the most important thing is, I've seen this type of murder method used several times on the news," Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and handing it to Watson. "It happens all over the world. Some are slashed on the neck, others are stabbed in the heart. Judging by the distance and time of day, it's impossible for one person to have done it."
"…Organized professional killers." Watson flipped through the news. "No wonder."
"Judging from the wounds, they even used a standard weapon..." Sherlock suddenly squatted down and carefully moved the grass. "Here. The professional killer we're looking for may have stayed here for a while. It's a blind spot for surveillance."
At that moment, the police officer sitting in front of the surveillance camera turned around inexplicably and pointed at the surveillance screen to Lestrade. A passing detective who had been called in looked over and breathed a sigh of relief. "Let them do whatever they want," he said. "We didn't find anything there anyway."
"But, sir," said the officer, "they disappear from time to time."
Lestrade, who was about to leave, paused. "What?"
On the surveillance camera, Watson, who knew nothing about this, also squatted down. He disappeared from the screen along with Sherlock. "So," Watson asked, "is this where our Ghost has been hiding?"
"One hundred percent." Sherlock looked around, "But I can't find a way to move forward from here without being caught by the surveillance cameras."
Watson was also looking, "There are no traces of people stepping on this area."
"That's impossible." Sherlock stood up in distress and paced back and forth. "He can't really grow wings."
Watson suppressed a laugh, "Yeah."
But at that moment Sherlock paused. His gaze fell on the top of a bush. Watson noticed this and stood on tiptoe to look over there too.
It was obvious that the ground had been unusually ravaged. It looked as if it had even been traversed by the weight of an adult man. Just as Watson realized this, Sherlock beside him suddenly took a few steps back and assumed a running stance.
·
"Obviously, he climbed over that bush," Sherlock said as he got out of the taxi and held the door open for Watson. "And there are a few others behind him. This is the only way to avoid all surveillance."
"It would be best if he accidentally cut his palm like you did." Watson got out of the car immediately. "But unfortunately, after that rain, it's difficult for us to find any DNA that might be there."
He took the door from Sherlock and closed it gently.
"I doubt it," Sherlock muttered as he opened the door to Room 221B. "He's very professional, he must have worn gloves."
"Uh-huh," Watson followed him up the stairs, "we better get you a Band-Aid sooner rather than later, since you insist on not having one."
"It was just a tiny wound!" Sherlock complained. "By the time we found a Band-Aid, it would have healed."
"Yes, yes." Watson changed the subject. "By the way, you haven't said why he is American."
"That's simple," Sherlock was indeed distracted by him, "It's all about the footprints. You'll find a series of surprising differences between British and American work boots, such as size proportions, shoe outlines, and sole patterns. Remember the footprints we just found? The pattern is rough and blocky, and this design emphasizes 'heavy-duty functionality', suitable for logging, construction, outdoor adventures, etc. But the British soles will have regular geometric patterns, suitable for factories and outdoor activities, as well as..."
He suddenly stopped talking and blocked the door to the living room on the second floor.
"Suitable for what?" Watson asked doubtfully. He nudged Sherlock's back, wanting to look inside. At this moment, a strange young voice answered from the living room.
"It's also suitable for everyday wear." The young voice said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop on your conversation, but the conversation on the stairs sounded obvious from here."
Elio stood up from the sofa. The assassin couldn't understand why the residents of 221B all looked as if they had seen a ghost after seeing him, and tilted his head in confusion.
"A friend told me I could find help here," Elio said. "Although for personal reasons I can't tell you my real name, you can call me 'Smith.'"
The residents of Room 221B looked at him in silence, at this thin American man, about six feet tall, wearing English work boots. When he held out his hand, they noticed there was actually a healing scratch on the palm of his hand.
There was an awkward silence. Watson was about to push past Sherlock and get in front of him when the tall detective calmly pushed Watson aside and smiled broadly at the uninvited guest in their living room.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith," Sherlock said, stepping forward and shaking his hand enthusiastically. "I'm the Sherlock Holmes you were looking for. Please sit down. John, bring us some tea."
Watson glared at the detective. Elio saw it, but he didn't know why. Perhaps it was because he didn't feel like making tea. What else could it be?
"Don't bother," Elio said, thinking he was being considerate. "Mrs. Hudson said tea would be ready in a minute."
The detective and John asked in unison, "Mrs. Hudson?"
"...Yeah," Elio, who had just sat down, said confusedly, "She lives here, right?"
The detective sitting across from him looked like he was about to jump. Elio didn't understand why they were so startled. Just then, a slow creaking sound came from the stairs. It was a signature slow rhythm, familiar to everyone living in 221B. Watson turned around sharply.
"Why are you standing there, John?" Mrs. Hudson came up slowly with a tea tray. She freed her hand and nudged him with a puzzled look on her face. "Oh, you saw Smith. He's such a sweetheart. He just helped me change the lightbulb."
Watson was pushed into the living room. He glanced at Sherlock, hesitant to speak, and Sherlock glanced at "Smith." The professional killer who had just murdered a man cleanly and decisively, and then finished the job discreetly, scratched his face in embarrassment and replied in a harmless manner, "That's nothing, Mrs. Hudson. It's very simple."
"Don't be shy, young man." Mrs. Hudson winked at him. "At least I'm sure about the sweetheart part."
Neither the detective nor Watson spoke for a moment. Watson silently took the tea tray from Mrs. Hudson and motioned for him to come. The landlady, happy to be handed over to the task, stood at the entrance of the living room without going any further. "Oh, by the way, he said he wanted to see you, Sherlock. I hope I didn't disturb you."
"It's okay," Sherlock replied with rare kindness, "You didn't."
Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her as she left. Watson, carrying a tray of tea, approached the sofa area by the fireplace, where "Smith" and Sherlock sat, one to the south and the other to the north. No one was polite to the tea in his hand.
"So," Sherlock took a sip of his iced and milky black tea, "what exactly is it?"
Elio took a sip of his tea, frowning. He politely put the cup down and glanced hesitantly at Watson, who had sat down at the table and opened his notebook.
"He's my colleague," Sherlock emphasized immediately. "I can't work without him."
"John Watson, a doctor." Watson added this self-introduction and extended his hand to shake hands with Elio.
"All right," Elio said, sitting up straighter. "If you insist. But I must say up front that this is a very important and private matter. I understand you, Dr. Watson, but it can't be featured on a blog like any other homicide case."
"Okay." Watson closed his notebook, even though he had just imagined writing something on his blog: "When we entered room 221B, Sherlock and I were surprised to find a character who fit his deductions perfectly sitting there waiting for us."
"Of course," Sherlock said. He put down his teacup, raised his hands, put his fingers on his lips in a signature gesture, and stared intently at Smith, the professional killer sitting across from him.
"Well, before we begin," Elio said, sitting back down on the couch, "Have you ever heard of 'Moriarty'?"
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