“What universal law, I wonder, determines that all potential witnesses be either missing, amnesiac, or comprehensively stupid?” Holmes reflected. “The retired milkman is off visiting his sister in San Jose; one of the Russells' old neighbours took an hour to decide that the ‘nice Jewish girl' he remembered was not actually Judith Russell but one of the good-time girls who moved into the park in early May; another of the neighbours insisted that I was a ‘Fuller Brush Man' and chased me down the street with a broom he had bought which had fallen apart, only stopping when his daughter caught up with him and told me that he'd been fixed against broom salesmen ever since his wife ran off with one in 1903; and the rabbi of the synagogue Judith Russell attended is a young man who will have to consult with the elders before he submits any names for my attention. The only thing I have accomplished of even marginal import all afternoon has been to arrange for a chimney sweep, so that one corner of the house might be inhabited without risk of a conflagration.”

Hammett was grinning like a greyhound. “The fast life of a private dick—ain't it great?”

“I hope to heaven that the stories you write don't glamorise the job as much as Watson's did. He was generally so occupied with his practice or his wife, he had no idea how many hours I put in while he wasn't there to see.”

“Nah, my stuff's a little harder edged than his. But you know, when you're putting together a story, sometimes you just have to skip over the boring bits.”

“I suppose necessity must. In any case, Hammett, what have you to show for the day?”

“Not a heck of a lot more than you.” Their food arrived as he was taking his note-book from his pocket, but he unfolded it on the table and reported in between bites. “The paper the Southern lady used is a bust, just too common to trace. Spent a couple hours on that, and decided it was a waste of my time and your greenbacks. I'll keep going if you want, but—”

“Let's abandon the lady's note-paper for now,” Holmes said. The chops on his plate were more mutton than lamb, but nicely grilled and he was hungry. Hammett went on.

“The rest of the day I spent with the cops. They've got nothing at all on your Chinese friend. You knew his parents were found murdered at that same address you gave me? It's still on the books, more or less—not exactly near the top of the pile. They did question him, but he said he was at school—training as a doctor, back in Chicago—and as soon as they got confirmation of that, he was cleared. The only funny thing in the file was, someone wondered how two Chinese servants could afford to buy a three-storey building in Chinatown. There wasn't a follow-up to that, probably decided the old folks ran an opium den on the side or something. Might be something to look into.”