SHERLOCK HOLMES IN SILICON VALLEY:

The Curious Case of the Purloined Hard Drive

by CP Haus

I: John Watson, MD

It was a typical stormy day on a Friday in January 1976 as I gazed out the window of my second story office window. Lashing of rain occasionally spattered the window panes as the storm, which had started early that morning, progressed.

As my second patient for the day was late, it gave me occasion to contemplate my career and life. A successful psychiatrist, I had emigrated from London to Los Gatos, California, in pursuit of a more remunerative life and, ironically, to escape the typically poor weather that London tended to offer.

Building a practice in the United States had proved more difficult than I had expected before making my move. Coming from a long line of distinguished physicians, I had expected the name of John Watson, MD, to carry more influence than was to ultimately develop. After enduring the difficulties of transitioning my illustrious medical credentials to the California Board of Medical Examiners, I had set up my shingle in a delightful suburb of Northern California--the “Silicon Valley” of legend.

However, the patients had been scarce. In an area of vast wealth, little had come my way. My competence and prestige with my medical colleagues had led to a steady increase over time; indeed, I was now seeing up to three or four patients a day. I knew that such things took time to germinate and grow, but I was at a loss to determine the best way to expand my practice.

My transition to Silicon Valley had been a mixture of delight and melancholy. On the positive site, the Mediterranean climate and infinite possibilities that Silicon Valley offered were a delight. The balmy summers, with their lack of rain, was a difference from London that I reminded myself constantly not to forget. My professional practice, while modest, did provide the funds that my frugal lifestyle required. The most damming thing about Silicon Valley was that if you were not part of the high technology crowd, you quickly ran out of topics to discuss in social settings. Naturally, given the extremely confidential nature of my work, I was not able to discuss the problems of my patients at these social settings, so I was frequently the ‘odd man out’. What I missed most from London was the social network that one develops as one progresses through public school and university.

I had found some small solace in the company of fellow expatriate Brits and local enthusiasts at the weekly quiz nights conducted at the British-influenced Britannia Arms. The cheery company and chance to discuss matters related to home were a refreshing change from the typical ‘party scene’ at most area night clubs and bars. However, even here, the almost sinister and pervasive influence of Silicon Valley intruded: Frequently, questions at the quiz night dealt with topics of local knowledge of which I was poorly prepared. How was I to know, for example, how many bits were in a byte, and what the devil a ‘nibble’ was? (I discovered, to my amusement, that a ‘nibble’ was indeed half a byte!)

So my life had progressed in this desultory fashion. I had determined to stick it out for another year and, if I still found myself despondent, would either return to London or, perhaps adventure to another realm of the British Commonwealth: New Zealand, Australia or perhaps South Africa offered possibilities.

Catching myself in my musings, I glanced at my wristwatch to discover that I had been in my meditative revery for nearly half an hour. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was quite late.

Emerging from my office, I enquired of my receptionist, “Have we heard anything from my 10 am?” with a petulance borne of her frequent tardiness.

“Oh, I am sorry,” replied Mrs. O’Toule, my elderly receptionist. “She rang about an hour ago saying that her cat was sick and that she would not be able to keep to her appointment. I’m very sorry to have forgotten to tell you,” she said, with chagrin, as I notice her attempting to conceal the daily crossword puzzle.

Mrs. O’Toule was a treasure. Of an unknown age, she had won my heart with her simultaneous desire to work for minimum wage and her secret recipe for scones. Of a fiery Irish temperament, she was wonderful with patients, often offering them her own brand of psychiatric advice after I had consulted with them. Since her role was more of a listening capacity than a directive one, I permitted her the freedom to do so. Besides, the scones were always most welcome.

“Well, it’s pleasant to see that some of us have our priorities correct,” I said, with elaborate sarcasm. “After all, a sick cat is of such greater importance than one’s mental health.”

“Ach, now, sir,” replied Mrs. O’Toule, “I’ve told you before that many pet owners refer to their pets as ‘fur people’.” She continued, “You don’t have the right perspective on this matter. Why, my poor Sniffy....” she began, with a tear in her eye.

“Let’s not start on that,” I said, with a bit of stage professional sternness. Once Mrs. O’Toule began to lament the passing of her ancient Persian Sniffy...well, it was a bad place to go (as they said in Silicon Valley).

I said, “Since I don’t have any appointments until later this afternoon, I’m off to lunch in Campbell. Can I bring you anything?”

Mrs. O’Toule sighed, “Now, that would be very good of you. Can you bring me some cheese quesadillas? From Jalisco’s? They’re my favorite,” with a bit more cheer.

“Of course, I’d be delighted to get you lunch. No no, my treat,” I said hastily, and headed out of my offices.

II: Lunch with Professor William Wright, PhD

The rain of earlier had ceased for a moment and I quickly navigated the crowded parking lot to my car: a 1970 Morgan Plus 8 that I had acquired from Los Gatos Ferrari upon arriving in California. I loved the car however temperamental it might be, for it was a reminder of what I had left behind in England.

Arriving in good time at Jalisco, I ordered my usual carnitas burrito and an iced horchata--the Mexican bean or rice drink that one comes across in Spain and throughout Latin America. As I went to pay the cashier, a distinguished gentleman entered the restaurant.

“Why, it’s Dr. Watson!” he exclaimed. “Are you enjoying this bit of English weather we are having?” he enquired with a smile.

I replied, “Professor Wright--how delightful to see you. Yes, this is the weather I had sought to avoid, however one must take the bad with the good. Will you be dining here or are you taking out?”

“Since you’re here, I will dine in the commodious setting available,” said Professor Wright with a smile. Jalisco’s food was superb, but one would never consider the seating to be anything but plebeian.

I gathered my order and secured a seat near the window. As Professor Wright ordered his food, I reflected on the friendship that had grown between us. Wright was a regular at the Britannia Arms Tuesday quiz nights, and his broad scientific knowledge--with an emphasis on particle physics--helped ensure that scientific areas of the quizzes were covered by our team. Wright was the classic ‘absent minded professor’ in that, while a brilliant mind in his field, he frequently was caught out by the simplest of tasks. He was, for example, forever losing his car keys, spectacles and pens.

Wright was a professor in residence at the Stanford Linear Accelerator facility, called “SLAC” for short, in Palo Alto. Considering this, it was indeed curious that he would venture so far south for lunch, as I knew he was resident in the splendidly wooded hills above Cupertino.

As Wright joined me, he quickly surveyed the assembled fellow diners, as if to ensure that our conversation would not be overheard by anyone suspect. This was indeed to prove the be the case.

“So, Professor, what brings you so far south today, especially in this dreadful weather?” I enquired.

“Well, I was in the mood for Mexican food, and happened to be in the area when I recalled that you had mentioned this establishment during one of our quiz nights. I do hope their food lives up to the high recommendation you have provided!” he added with a hesitant, worried look.

“Is something the matter Professor?” I enquired.

“Now, Doctor, I do wish that you would call me ‘Bill’. This ‘professor’ nonsense is much too formal, don’t you think?” he asked with a smile.

“Only if you would call me John,” I replied. With that, we both started on our lunches. Wright began to talk, and an interesting tale it was, for he had never told me much about his work at SLAC.

“Excellent. Now, as to your question, it’s nothing really serious. As you know, and my wife will attest, I keep misplacing things, and then they mysteriously turn up. I’ve tried all the nemonic approaches and tried to visualize where I leave things, but it’s no good! While there is nothing seriously amiss at SLAC, some, well, very strange things have been happening at the lab.

“Why, just the other day, after spending fifteen minutes searching for my glasses (which were in my shirt pocket), I discovered that something very strange had happened,” he said, with a more serious look.

“Nothing related to your work, I hope?” I asked.

“Indeed, directly related to my work. If you will permit me to bore you a bit, let me give you a brief background--would that be all right?” asked Wright. I nodded in agreement, and sat closer to him as he spoke.

“As you know, I’ve been doing research on a new field of physics that is related to the smallest of particles--some even smaller than the atom,” he said, conspiratorially.

“But I thought nothing could be smaller than an atom,” I said, with a creased brow.

“Well, that’s the current limit of physics as it is understood today. However, I have a theory--some call me mad--but I believe we can create a situation in the lab where we can create what are called subatomic particles. And I’m on the track of one category of them which I refer to as the Jigg-Figg particles, in honor of my two favorite professors at Cal Tech: Stanley D. Jigg and Mark J. Figg. Both were on the trail of the same subatomic particles when their lab exploded in that unfortunate accident some years ago.”

“Yes, I remember it well. There was an issue with the high density magnets, I recall,” I offered.

“My goodness, John, have you been a closet physicist all these years? Yes, it was a chance in a million, but it took out the entire lab, along with all their notes and years of research. Particle physics was set back a generation by that accident,” mused Wright.

He continued, “I and the rest of the Stanford team, of course, have taken all precautions necessary to ensure a similar accident does not happen at SLAC. No, the problem I have been having is related to our documentation of the research.

“As you can imagine, as we conduct our tests and experiments, an enormous amount of data needs to be collected. We record all the particle movements at an incredibly fast rate, which is needed, of course, because things happen so quickly. Indeed, many of my experiments happen in a blink of an eye, and I spend weeks studying the resultant data.

“The data is captured by our supercomputer and then written to Winchester hard drives, which can hold an amazing twenty megabytes of data. These hard drives are removable, and are the size of maybe thirty LP records stacked on top of each other, housed in a plastic form. The actual media are a series of aluminum platters coated with a magnetic substrate...but excuse me, I’m getting into too much detail,” he apologized as he noticed my eyes glazing over.

“Twenty megabytes,” I said with incredulity, “how can anyone need that much data in one place?”

“Yes,” Wright said with a smile, “I can appreciate your surprise. However, in particle physics, that’s what we need. And, luckily, the technology is available to support our work.”

“You mentioned a problem, Professor--er, sorry, Bill,” I said.

“Yes, let me get to that. Now, as you can imagine, these media hard drives are not cheap. So, as we conclude one project, we reuse the media to record new experiments. I use a simple labeling system to keep track of the current experimental data and those media that can be rewritten over.

“This is the nub of the curious situation I’m having: These media keep disappearing and then reappearing on me! It’s the most strange thing I have ever seen. Why, just the other day, I was searching for the latest hard drive and it was not where it was supposed to be. I went into the accelerator lab area, and, not finding it there, returned to my office. Lo and behold, the media was on a shelf in my office. I absolutely do not recall leaving it there, but there it was. Most curious and somewhat alarming,” mused Professor Wright.

I asked, “Why alarming?”

“There are two perspectives that make this alarming: first, it’s the quest to be the originator of a scientific breakthrough and, second, unfortunately, there are aspects of my work that are highly classified since they have the potential for application in weapons work. The Russians, Chinese and, I am told, the Israelis would all love to gain access to some of the work we do at SLAC. Oh, on the surface we are all brotherly scientists--we even have some visiting professors from all those countries currently at SLAC--but beneath the veneer of brotherly love for science is the mad rush to be the first to discover the next dimension of physics, and, as I said, sadly there are weapons aspects to the work.”

By this time, we had concluded our lunch, and I was a bit startled how the time had flown by. With the keen perception into the human mind that I had as a psychiatrist, I felt that Wright seemed to be much more at ease after having discussed this matter with me.

As I drained the last of my horchata, I asked, “So, all that is happening is that these hard drives seem to be mysteriously moving about your office and the lab?”

Wright replied, “Yes, and I hasten to say that nothing has gone missing. Otherwise, I’d have to report it to security and that escalates things to a level I don’t want to have: They shut down the research and cause all sorts of trouble. I would do almost anything before I got them involved.

“I do feel much better for having discussed this with you, John. I can see that you must be an excellent listener--no doubt a faculty you have developed for your work?” he said, with a smile, as he rose from our table.

“All part of the job, Bill. Yes, I find it does help to discuss situations and problems. By verbalizing them, I find it helps my patients--of which I hasten to add you are not one!--along the road to recovery,” I said with a smile and an extended hand.

Bill shook my had vigorously and said, “If only you could help me with my dreadful memory for where I put things, I and my wife would be eternally grateful.”

“It’s all a matter of focus, I find. Keep trying to use the visualization techniques you dismiss so easily. If you focus on where you leave things as you put them down, you will find that you no longer tend to lose things. Or so I’m told,” I said with a chuckle. “Will we see you at the Quiz Night this Tuesday?”

“Wild horse could not keep me away!” Wright exclaimed. “Those devils from the Atari team rubbed our noses last week, but they’ll not beat us this week!”

With that, he exited the restaurant as I returned to the counter to get Mrs. O’Toule’s cheese quesadillas. One of us was not going to be forgetful.

III: Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I reflected on my conversation with Wright as I returned to my office. Wright was, by appearance, only in his 50’s, and yet this condition of forgetting where he left things was a sign of senility. If one of these hard drives should truly get lost and in the wrong hands there might be serious consequences for both Wright and the country. It had been a most educational luncheon.

I opened the door to my reception area and noted with disappointment that it was empty save for Mrs. O’Toule.

“Here are your cheese quesadillas, Mrs. O’Toule. I hope I’m not too late getting them to you? I ran into Professor Wright and we had a very enjoyable conversation,” I said.

“That’s very kind of you to remember, Dr. Watson. No trouble at all about the lateness--I had a second scone this morning with my tea.”

“Any telephone calls while I was out,” I asked as I scanned her desk for the little pink tickets upon which she recorded telephone messages.

“No, I’m sorry. You do, however, have a visitor. He’s waiting in your office,” she said with a curious smile. “Someone who I think you will be very interested to meet.”

“A prospective patient, I hope?” I asked expectantly, peering towards the office door.

“No, just a visitor. A simply charming fellow,” she said.

With an air of disappointment as the loss of the income, I opened my office door. Seated upon my couch was a tall, thin man of approximately my age, dressed in the style currently in vogue in London.

“Doctor Watson, I presume?” he asked with a smile. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good heavens, this sounds just like the novels of my youth!” I exclaimed. “What an extraordinary coincidence that you should have the name of my great grandfather’s best friend, for indeed, I am a direct descendant of the Doctor John Watson in Connan Doyle’s stories.”

“Curiously enough, I am also a direct descendant of the famous detective,” said Holmes.

“How can that be?” I enquired. “Holmes was never married...” I began.

“You recall,” interrupted Holmes, “that after the sad events at Reichenbach Falls, where my great grandfather finally did away with the infamous Professor Moriarty, he determined to disappear from society? It was during this hiatus that he decided to seek physical companionship with the only woman, I believe, he respected and thus loved--Irene Adler. My great grandfather was the result of this union.”

“But did Holmes ever acknowledge his paternity in the case?” I enquired.

“It was never a matter of discussion. Irene and Holmes understood each other perfectly. I believe that they decided it would be best if the child was not publicly acknowledged by Holmes for fear of his life--Holmes had made so many enemies during his conquest of Victorian crime. No, my great grandfather took the name Holmes but never met his father. Instead, he and Irene travelled the world, funded no doubt by Holmes. My great grandfather was married in Vienna, and one of his sons is my grandfather. My father was his child, and thus the line continues to this day,” he said with a wry smile.

“This is quite unbelievable, yet strange things do happen in the world. Imagine: Watson and Holmes together again. Quite extraordinary,” I said, taking a seat behind my desk as Holmes returned to the couch.

“Yes, it is rather peculiar, no?” said Holmes. “I gather you have continued the family practice and are a physician?”

“Of a sort--psychiatry. I had the doctoring gene in my system but could not stand all the blood of the surgeon. Hence I chose a less invasive practice,” I said. “What line of work are you embarked upon?”

“Curiously enough, a situation developed in which I have entered into the same metier of my great grandfather. I should explain: my father was born in Lausanne, but determined to return to his ancestral home. He established a successful practice as a solicitor in Radlett, north of London. After many successful years, he took silk and was a presiding judge in the Old Bailey.

“Father was extremely well regarded by all for his fairness and complete lack of bias. It was to him that the most difficult, and indeed, sometimes the most hazardous cases were assigned. Hazardous because there can be recriminations for judges who do not show the leniency that the criminal underworld considers fair.”

Holmes shifted in his seat to get more comfortable and continued.

“It was after a truly brutal case in which an organized crime family member had killed a rival family’s leader that they went after my father. I was, by this time, engaged in scientific research at a major pharmaceutical company in England when I received word that my father had been blown up in his car....he was dead and my whole world collapsed around me,” Holmes said, with a sadness I had heard all too often coming from that couch.

“I take it you were close?” I enquired gently.

“I am an only child--my mother having died shortly after my birth--so my father was extremely close to me. He encouraged me in all aspects of my life and I understood what an extremely valuable contribution he was making to society.”

“It must have been terrible,” I said, rather blandly. I was at a loss for words.

“Indeed. My first thought, after the funeral, was to go after those responsible for the crime. The police were extremely cordial, but given the nature of organized crime in Britain, they were at a loss to determine guilt. It was then that I decided to redirect my life and follow in the footsteps of my grandfather.

“I had acquired, through study or genes, I know not which, an uncanny ability to observe and deduce. These abilities had been of tremendous use in my job as a research chemist at the lab; I determined to put my energies and life to a greater good: To become, as my namesake, the greatest enemy of crime.

“For one year I studied all aspects of my father’s murder. I met with people, used disguises, aliases, phone-taps and all the accoutrements of today’s crime fighters. Above all these tools, I used observation, deduction and reason. It all came to fruition three years ago. You now recall the case?” Holmes said with a steely smile.

“Of course--the Hatton Cross and Tottenham Court Gangs trials!” I exclaimed. “The entire fortunes of both families were destroyed and all accused were found guilty. It was given out that the police had had some extraordinary luck in collecting all the evidence against the criminals. It was you all along?” I asked.

“Precisely, my dear Watson,” said Holmes. “I gathered the evidence and presented it to Sir Henry Mosley of Scotland Yard. He was dumbfounded at first, and yet readily agreed to my request that my name be kept out of the papers once he understood the value of my work. It was agreed that all the evidence was to be seen by the public as the fruit of successful police action.

“Out of the public eye, of course, I was honored as a hero and am now eagerly consulted by all the major crime fighting organizations around the world. I am currently on a case for Interpol investigating the increasing traffic in illicit drugs around the world. Since the San Francisco Bay Area is a major entrepôt for such drugs, I am here.”

“It’s truly a remarkable story,” I said. “Have you really got all the skills I used to read about in the old novels?”

“Oh, you mean Holmes’s ability to look at a person and tell amazing facts about them?” Holmes asked. I nodded in the affirmative.

Holmes gazed at me for a moment, his eyes seemed to haze over, and then he abruptly began.

“Let me see: I can tell that you are not married, nor living with anyone at the present, but that you would like to be better acquainted with a certain lady; that your business, while sufficient for survival is not the thriving enterprise you would wish; that you have had Mexican food for lunch and, finally, that you drive a 1970 Morgan Plus 8. Will that suffice?” Homes said.

“This is astonishing,” I replied, collapsing into the back of my chair. “How can you possibly know all of that about me by just looking at me?” I was flabbergasted.

“Tut tut, my dear Watson. As my esteemed namesake would say, it’s all elementary. Observation and deduction.

“As to the first, the absence of a wedding ring is normally sufficient for not being married. However, to confirm that fact and the fact that you are presently living alone, I point out the tiny blood stain on your shirt collar. No wife or partner would permit their man to leave the home in that state.”

I rose to a mirror near my desk and, indeed as Holmes had pointed out, there was not a tiny stain but a rather large one from my inept shaving exercise of the morning.

“All very good, but how about all the other aspects of my life? For example, how do you know about Elizabeth?” I asked.

“I do apologize if I appear to be snooping into your life,” started Holmes, “but during the time I have been waiting in your office, I could not help but notice the framed photograph on your desk. It is a rather informal picture of you and, I gather, Elizabeth. The fact that it is not a formal photo indicates a currently friendly relationship and not one of being as yet engaged. The lack of a family photograph is also, by the way, a clue to your current bachelor statue.

“Excellent, Holmes, I must say you are right. This photograph, of Elizabeth and me on the biking trail near Lexington Dam was from our second date. I do hope to have more opportunities to get to know her better. But how the devil do you know my business is not prospering?” I fumed.

“Your jacket, while of the finest material that Daks of Piccadilly can offer--yes, the cut is unmistakeable--you have had to recourse to having elbow patches added at a recent date. This tells me that you have sense enough to purchase the finer things in life, yet are forced to be prudent in your current expenditures. Am I correct?” he added with a wry smile.

“Spot on,” I grumbled. “I had high hopes of striking it rich here in Silicon Valley, but the money has not, as yet, begun to flow in. I fear to appear ignorant, but how the duce did you know about my luncheon?”

“As to that, there were two clues: first, I noticed you handing a bag to your receptionist upon entering the office. Printed upon it was the name ‘Jalisco’, which, from my investigation of area eating establishments, I understand to be a Mexican food restaurant. The second clue is the unmistakeable aroma of cilantro that appeared in the room as you entered. Only a Mexican restaurant would leave that scent,” smiled Holmes.

“The car--how can you know what car I drive?” I asked with a tiny sense of petulance.

“That, my dear Watson, is something for which I do not like to take too much credit. You see, I was gazing out your office window when I saw your rather unique car arrive in the parking lot. Coupling what you look like from the photo with Elizabeth and your smiling visage leaving the car made it quite simple to establish what car you drive. For this one, I do apologize,” said Holmes with a hearty laugh.

“Amazing. Truly amazing. It’s all so simple after you explain it, any fool could see how you arrived at these conclusions,” I said with embarrassment.

“One sees but does not observe. It is a cardinal rule of the true investigator. Now, with your permission, I must take my leave...”

“Of course, I understand you are busy and must go, but it would be a great pleasure for me if we might get together for drinks or perhaps dine some evening in the future?” I enquired, rising from my chair.

“I will be in the Bay Area for quite some time,” replied Holmes. “I am currently staying at the Hotel De Anza in San Jose. If you provide me with your particulars, I too would enjoy your company.”

I took one of my business cards and hastily scribbled my home address and telephone number on it and handed it to my new friend.

Holmes took it and said, “A bientôt, Watson. It will be good to reconnect a friendship too many generations in absence.”

With a courteous bow, Holmes took leave of my office and I considered my afternoon appointments with less enthusiasm than I had previously regarded them in the morning.

IV: The Team Reunited

In the coming weeks, the association that had germinated in my professional offices bloomed into a steady friendship. Holmes was a treasure chest of information, having a wide knowledge of many topics. His original assignment, of investigating the illicit trade in drugs, was of an ad hoc nature, which permitted him the freedom and flexibility to take on other seemingly impossible crimes and malfeasances that occurred in the Bay Area. Indeed, several seemly hopeless cases were solved by this mastermind in the cause of justice. The cases of the Maynard Abduction, the Six Fingered Thief and the gruesome murder of a local mayor were all solved with the assistance of Holmes. His demands were few: That his name be kept out of the media and that any rewards offered were to be paid half to him and half to a charity of his naming.

My professional affairs were steadily improving, albeit at a slow pace. However, rather than being disappointed by this, I found solace in the fact that my lack of patients permitted me the freedom to enjoy the delights of my adoptive home. Holmes was the instigator of my new found sense of exploration: the San Francisco Opera, the various cultural activities that Stanford University offered and the vibrant jazz culture that flourished in the San Jose area were but a few of the new found cultural discoveries.

We frequently dined out at the many excellent restaurants in the area: Holmes was a favorite at Edna Ray’s Chinese restaurant, where his excellent Mandarin endeared him to the owners. The many fine dining establishments of Saratoga were explored, as were the less decorous but equally excellent locations such as the previously mentioned Jalisco.

Holmes had long since abandoned the Hotel De Anza, and found an apartment in the same complex as mine--the swank El Gato Penthouse Apartments. This delightful establishment was excellently located next to the hiking and biking trail to the Lexington Reservoir, and offered the added pleasure of walking to downtown Los Gatos without having to resort to driving.

Even with all the gustatory, cultural and social activities we embarked upon, one event that continued to be sacrosanct for me was my Tuesday Quiz Nights at the Britannia Arms. After some little encouragement, Holmes found himself similarly addicted to the event and quickly became the star of our team whenever his hectic travel schedule permitted him to attend, for he was frequently traveling to investigate the drug sources in Bangkok, Vietnam and China. The good natured competitiveness of the quiz night, the excellent beers on offer and the ability to exercise the mind were all, I think, attractive to him. Unlike his famous namesake, Holmes was an excellent team member, having a broad knowledge of many obscure topics--many of which his great grandfather would have considered things that cluttered the mind.

It was on one pleasant Tuesday evening in March that dramatic events of worldwide proportions began to unfold.

Chapter V: A Fascinating Case

This particular Tuesday found me in the happy company of Holmes, who was slightly jet-lagged having returned that morning from Singapore.

During the first break, which found us in an admirable lead over the local Hewlett Packard team, Professor Wright brought over a tray of freshly poured bitter and stout.

Wright said, “So, Holmes, how are you doing? Dr. Watson here tells me you’ve just returned from Singapore. A wonderful place, Singapore. Did you have a Singapore Sling at Raffle’s Bar? I personally find them a bit sweet and stick to the Tiger beer.”

Holmes smiled and, taking a sip of his bitter, replied, “Thank you for the beer, Professor. Yes, Singapore was delightful. Not only the Tiger beer, but the crab is wonderful. I prefer the black pepper crab to the chili crab, but the locals tend toward the latter.”

I enthused, “Can you tell us of any details about your case? I know that it might be a work in progress, but can you give us any particulars?”

Holmes took another sip of his bitter and looked up ruefully. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the delicacy of the case I’m working on rather precludes any revelation of the details. However, if it would be of interest, I might be able to regale you with another case? One in which all the parties have, to put it delicately, left this mortal existence. Would you all like to hear it?”

There was a murmur of approval around the table, for Holmes rarely revealed the secrets of his cases. Perhaps it was the jet lag or the fine beer, but this was an opportunity to see into the workings of a mastermind of crime. I moved closer to Holmes as to not miss a word.

Holmes began after looking around the assembled teammates. There was a quiet hum of other conversations around the pub.

“This case dates back several years, and, as I said, all of the participants are no longer with us. Nevertheless, I’ll change a few names so as to protect the innocent.

“Sir James Malloy was the Chief Constable in Singapore in those days. Singapore had recently declared independence from the rest of the Malay Peninsula and he was the last of the nonnative Chief Constables--future constables coming from the local populace. I might add that they are all topnotch policemen and women--leaders in their field.

“As I was saying, Sir James and I were having lunch at a local hawker stall, he being particularly fond of the chicken and rice on offer at the particular establishment. During a pause, he confessed to being at a loss about an urgent case, which was peculiar and devious at the same time.”

Professor Wright interjected, “I trust is was deep dark murder, Holmes?”

Holmes smiled at the professor and shook his head side to side. “Nothing of the sort, although there were dark deeds involved.”

“As we were finishing lunch, Sir James asked me if I had some free time to assist him with the perplexing case. I had been in Singapore to present a paper at a symposium on the use of scientific analysis for crime scenes, and was on my way back to London in a few days. I told Sir James that I was indeed at liberty and nothing appealed to me as much as a good case. This is what Sir James told me.”

I should tell my readers that, at this point of Holmes’s story, our audience had grown beyond our quiz team. It seemed as if the entire pub was bending an ear to hear his tale. Holmes may have taken notice of his larger audience, but he continued as if telling a ghost story around a Boy Scout bonfire.

“There was, at this time in Singapore, a British business tycoon who had the reputation of ruthlessness and avarice. Nothing criminal could ever be proven against him, but rumors are seldom without merit. For now I’ll call him, ah, John McConnell. McConnell had his fingers into all sorts of business enterprises in Singapore and beyond. He had a vast empire including shipping, export, import, tea plantations in Ceylon--you name it, he was involved. His ruthlessness made him both admired and despised by all.

“One of his few passions besides making money was a world-class collection of jade figurines he had amassed over the years. I believe that his father had started the collection, but McConnell expanded it a hundred fold. He only collected the finest pieces, yet he paid cut-rate prices for them--always taking advantage of fellow collectors who were in financial difficulties and needed to sell out.

“Sir John told me that one piece that McConnell coveted beyond all others was a famous bowl that was from the Yuan dynasty. It had belonged to the Emperor Qianlong, but had passed from his collection by mysterious circumstances until it was owned by a local Peranakan businessman Quin Soh. McConnell had seen the piece and offered Soh a substantial but still low price for it. Soh had refused. McConnell then used his business connections to start making things difficult for Soh’s business, but Soh would not budge.

“Finally, things came to the point where Soh had to sell his masterpiece--he was destitute and his children going hungry. Now, what would you think that McConnell, who had engineered Soh’s fall, would do? Offer his original price? What do you think, Watson?”

I was taken aback for a moment, drawn to the present instead of the mystical Orient.

“Why, from what you said, I presume that McConnell kept his word and helped Soh out?” I suggested.

“Nothing of the sort, Watson! McConnell was a black-hearted man. No, instead of his original offer, he suggested a quarter of his original price, and ended up settling for maybe a third. Mind you, he had created the situation, and now, when the opportunity presented itself, he beats down a hard trodden man. McConnell was a bastard of the first order.

“Of course Soh had to sell--he had no other way to make good his debts and get his feet back on the ground. Soh got the money and McConnell his treasured bowl.”

By this time, the entire pub was unabashedly listening in to Holmes's tale. As our beers were already finished, Holmes seemed to try to rise and order a fresh round, much to the dismay of his audience--there was a general rush to the bar to bring him and our team another round.

Suitable refreshed, Holmes continued.

“I do hope I’m not boring anyone with this tale? I’ll try to get to the point more quickly.

“So, we left our man McConnell with his prized Yuan bowl and the satisfaction of pushing Businessman Soh into the dirt. One would think that things were going well for McConnell, but alas, no--it was roughly around this time that various aspects of his business started to fray at the edges.

“Sir James had received confidential information that McConnell’s books were being cooked. Other information was beginning to come in about the other businesses that he was involved in--illegal transport of drugs, slavery and sundry offenses against the Crown. Within six months of getting the bowl, McConnell began to think it was cursed.

“Indeed, several people in the Peranakan community confirmed it to Sir James. Soh had explained his situation to the local priests and they had assured him that vengeance would ultimately be his.

“All of the above is a prelude to the particular case that Sir James asked me about. Pray forgive me for being so long winded in it, you need to understand the context of the situation.

“A couple days before our lunch, Sir James was preparing search warrants against McConnell when, to his surprise, he received a telephone call from McConnell’s chief butler--would the Constable himself come to McConnell’s estate? A serious crime had been committed that needed delicacy. Sir John was about to refuse, but decided it would do no harm in seeing the headquarters of his soon to be prey, so to speak.

“Upon arriving at the palatial estate, Sir James was escorted into the Jade Room. Sir James told me he knew a bit about jade, but the magnitude and quality of what was on display would put even the British Museum to shame--a truly world class collection.

“McConnell entered the room as Sir James stood staring at the contents.

“‘Rather impressive, wouldn’t you say, Sir James?” asked McConnell.

“Sir James was shocked by the appearance of McConnell. A normally robust man, McConnell seemed to have shrunken in the previous months. A deathly paleness was evident on his visage--and his creased brow, palsied hands and shabby clothing did nothing to dissuade Sir James that this was indeed a fallen man. Perhaps the rumors of the cursed bowl were true?

“”Yes, your collection is very impressive, no matter how ill-got it might be,’ said Sir James. Even in his obviously much reduced situation, Sir James was not about to let this fish get off the hook.

“‘What is so important that you needed me to come personally? I trust I’m not here to admire jade figurines, no matter how magnificent,” said Sir James.

“‘Come this way, Chief Constable,” said McConnell, leading him to the center of the room. Sir James knew that a special display case had been created for the Yuan bowl--McConnell had had as much fanfare and press coverage as even he could tolerate when he acquired the bowl. McConnell was leading him to the case.

“But instead of the Yuan bowl, there rested in the middle of the case a severed human finger--the middle digit of the left hand. There was no blood and no sign of forced entry. It was simply a finger where the bowl should have been.”

The pub had gone silent with Holmes’s revelation. Imagine, instead of the treasured bowl, a grisly reminder of what McConnell’s chicanery had resulted in! Holmes looked up and saw that the room was in awe of his tale. He continued.

“Sir James had been to the McConnell collection that morning and was at a loss to explain it. The household staff had been interviewed with no result. Yes, there was an alarm system in place which was operating properly. Some of the staff thought the theft might have been done by a gardener who had been dismissed from the household staff for some minor infraction. He had been a ‘bad Chinese’ according to the staff. No, they had no idea where he was. There was absolutely no sign of forced entry. All that was evident was the missing bowl and the hideous finger.

“Those of you familiar with the traditions of the Far East will appreciate the significance of the digit, for it is considered the foulest part of the human anatomy--the dreaded finger of the left hand. This was no accident--this was intended to show that McConnell had erred and had brought down the ‘wrath of the gods’ on himself.

“Sir James put the case to me up to that point. He was at a loss to explain what to do--clearly the bowl was stolen and it was quite evident that the mysterious elements of the Far East were at work. He suspected that perhaps the gardener had been an operative of one of the Chinese Tongs, which exerted great power even in the relative safety of Singapore. Some master of one of the Tongs, having seen the publicity related to the bowl, must have coveted it for himself and, by way of the gardener, effected the theft, and left the finger as a warning to not pursue the case further. They had not found the gardener, but thought they might be closer to apprehending him.

“I thanked Sir James for bringing me into the case, and promised that I would look into it. Even during those early years of my time in Asia, I had built up a network of colleagues who would, I guessed, put me right. I proposed that Sir James and I meet that evening for a drink and, if I had made progress, we would visit McConnell. The Chief Constable was perplexed at my confidence and readily agreed to our evening meeting. With that we parted company.”

By this time, Holmes’s tale had consumed all the intermission time between the first and second part of the quiz night, but it was clear that all present would rather hear the next part of his tale instead of continuing the quiz. Holmes apologized profusely and promised that he would quickly wrap up the story and permit us to continue the quiz, albeit perhaps an abbreviated session. He continued with his story.

“I spent the rest of the day visiting here and there and making enquiries. I even visited the unfortunate Quin Soh, whose business was gradually recovering from his encounter with McConnell. Yes, he despised the man but he certainly was not the type to be so vengeful to steal the bowl and leave the finger. He delighted in hearing of the loss and was of course aware of McConnell’s failing fortunes.

“It was late that afternoon when, in one of the back alleys in the Indian section of Singapore, I received the information that led to the solution of the case. What seemed impossible was suddenly perfectly clear, for the fact that McConnell was so widely despised in Singapore made people all the more willing to talk about him.

“Sir James and I met at Professor Wright’s favorite establishment--the bar of the Raffle’s Hotel--but we both eschewed the Singapore Sling in favor of Beefeater martinis. Sir James was perplexed at my confidence, but after reassuring him that my afternoon’s efforts would resolve the case he was both thankful and worried. Since our time with McConnell was set for 6 p.m., we postponed dinner until after the meeting.”

It was at this point that I could not keep from speaking. “My dear Holmes, how could you, working alone, have cracked a case that the Chief Constable himself found impossible? This is frankly bearing on the incredible! How did you figure it out?” I asked.

“Watson, you must realize that when the many work together, as a team, great things can be accomplished. So it was with the McConnell Finger case. By bringing together several disparate individuals, we were able to resolve the case where none of us, working alone, could succeed. Pray be patient for a few moments further and all will be clear.

“Sir James and I were escorted into McConnell’s study, a beautifully appointed room with many fine antiques, as well as parts of his jade collection. I was shocked as had been Sir James by McConnell’s physical fall from power. He shuffled like an old man, and it seemed that the weight of the world was on his shoulders. I almost felt pity for him, but I remembered poor Mr. Soh and the despicable way McConnell had treated him. I felt no pity for the man, nor for what was to soon be revealed.

“‘So, have you caught my gardener yet?” demanded McConnell.

“‘Yes, he’s been apprehended. Certainly not a member of any Tong, and quite incapable of stealing something so well protected,’ said Sir James evenly.

“‘Then we must assume the bowl was stolen by parties unknown?’ asked McConnell, seeming relieved.

“‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll be allowing you to file an insurance claim against the bowl, McConnell. You see, Mr. Holmes here has come up with the solution to this mystery,’ said Sir James.

“‘What, some amateur detective? What does this dabbler think the situation is then?’ demanded McConnell.

“I was examining McConnell during this brief exchange. While his body had started to deteriorate, clearly his mind was still as evil as ever. I would show no mercy in my revelations.

“‘There are three facts that I became aware of this afternoon that have a bearing on this case,’ I began. McConnell sat down at his desk chair and put his arms on the desk, gripping his hands as he did so.

“‘First, I established that you took out a multimillion dollar insurance policy on the Yang bowl. None of your other jade pieces are insured, yet you chose to insure that particular piece. Is there a reason why?’ I asked.

“‘What I chose to insure is my business and that of the insurance company, and certainly none of your business,” snapped McConnell.

“‘Yet it is curious that this policy, which no ordinary company would have written due to the size of the coverage, happens to have been accepted by an insurance company owned by you. I discovered that, immediately the policy was written, a sizable sum was spent to reinsure the policy, so that in the case of a theft, your insurance company , and thus you personally, would not suffer the loss. That’s a rather odd business practice, no?’ I said.

“‘I let the workings of the insurance to the experts, Mr. Holmes. If they chose to underwrite it quickly, I wouldn’t know about that, would I?’ said McConnell, uncomfortably. I could see that he was becoming increasingly agitated. I gave Sir James a knowing look and he winked in reply.

“‘Let’s leave that part of the case for now. My other enquiries were somewhat gruesome, but nevertheless, profitable. I discovered that, when you acquired the Hong Sing Conglomerate, you not only got the shipping line you were after, but you also got a very small enterprise that, while profitable, was perhaps so small as to not attract anyone’s attention but mine,” I said steely.

“‘Damn you, man, how did you find out about Lee Fat!’ exclaimed McConnell, now rising from the desk, his fist shaking at the Constable and myself.

“‘I’m afraid it’s all over, McConnell! You are a scoundrel, and the roots of the downfall you are experiencing are all your own doing! We are leaving now, and I trust that you will make what amends you can this evening. Sir James will be expecting a full confession of this situation in the morning. What befalls you later is, to some extent, in your powers. Let me reassure you that you are near the precipice. It’s not too late for remorse and redemption--this last ploy backfired and you have no other way out. You have many big things to resolve in the coming days and weeks, but one small thing you need to fix immediately. I trust you understand me? Excellent. Sir James, let us be off!’ I said, taking Sir James by the arm and leading him out of the room. I glanced back and saw McConnell slump into his desk chair.

“‘My God, Holmes, what was that all about?’ asked Sir James. “What the devil is going on?”

“Sir James and I took a cab to the Moghul Mahal Indian Restaurant (one of my favorites in Singapore) and I filled him in on the final clue of the story.

“For it turns out that indeed when McConnell acquired Hong Sing, he also acquired the Lee Fat funeral parlor/crematoria. I had found out about his ownership that afternoon and visited Mr. Lee. Lee confirmed that he had been unexpected honored by a visit to his establishment by the great Mr. McConnell, who wanted a tour of the facilities, with a particular emphasis on seeing the part of the building where the bodies were stored before cremation. Lee was perplexed and worried about this visit but nevertheless complied. It was during the examination of the storage room that Lee was called away by an urgent telephone call. When he returned, McConnell had seemed shaken. It was after McConnell had left that Lee went back and examined the bodies, only to discover, to his horror, that one of them was missing a digit on his left hand. Lee was frantic that a family member would discover the disfigurement, but the family had not noticed. He was also terrified of what McConnell would do should he say anything, so he kept quiet until I talked with him. I reassured Lee that the missing digit would be returned and he could take the necessary steps to reunite the body part with the whole.

“Thus ended the case of the McConnell Finger. Once you know the ending, it’s quite obvious. McConnell was in deep financial straits, and hit upon the idea of insuring the bowl and then faking the theft. But he was a greedy man, and took the unusual step of reselling the insurance too quickly after the policy was written. He wanted the money but knew that his insurance company could not absorb the loss. The finger business was intended to throw everyone off the track, and it almost worked--indeed Sir James confessed that he was about to sign off on the theft as the work of ‘parties unknown’ and approve the police report as a theft.”

One could have heard a pin drop in the silence that ensued after Holmes finished. Then, there was applause, a great rousing round of applause. Holmes, blushing deep red, rose from his chair and waved to the assembled audience.

“If fear that my long-windedness has ruined the rest of our quiz night--can you all forgive me?” he pleaded. Everyone demurred, and said it had been one of the most enjoyable evenings we ever had. Poor Holmes was overwhelmed with offers of beer and I think the publican was the first to offer him a pint of his best bitter. The evening ended with a feeling of good will and friendship, even between opposing teams.

It was on the drive home that I posed the obvious question.

“Whatever happened to McConnell?” I asked as I drove back to our apartments.

“You know, Watson, the McConnell Finger case proves that there truly are moments of redemption in this world. Naturally, McConnell knew that I had exposed his plot. He also knew that he was more mortal at that instant than ever before in his life. I suspect that night he had an epiphany similar to that which Scrooge experienced in A Christmas Carol.

“For the next morning, a box arrived at Lee Fat, with a finger carefully wrapped in a box with instructions for its cremation and reunion with the body it belonged to. In later days, it was announced that McConnell had decided to sell almost his entire collection of jade to the National Museum. A massive but fair price was agreed. McConnell used the money to set his business affairs aright.”

I asked, “He sold almost all of it, you say? He kept a few pieces for old time’s sake?”

“No Watson,” replied Holmes, “He kept back only one piece. Can you guess which one and what he did with it?”

I was shocked. “You’re kidding, he didn’t!” I exclaimed.

I could see, as I drove, that Holmes was smiling.

“Indeed. McConnell kept back the Yang bowl, and, as a final act of contrition, he gave it back to Quin Soh, with a profound apology for his chicanery. Yes, McConnell made amends, and I understand that, upon his death, his many employees wept at his passing. He had truly redeemed himself. A lesson for us all, no?”

I drove on in silent thought. Holmes, I believe, appreciated my silence and did not interrupt it.

Chapter VI: Crimes Closer to Home?

It was a week later when our quiz team reassembled for our contest of wills. Everyone was still amazed by Holmes’s recounting of the McConnell Finger Case, and he was even more popular that ever. Professor Wright and the other team members were more delighted than others to see Holmes, for it was the final night and we were in contention for winning the quarterly championship in the Quiz. It was after the first part of the quiz that our discussion turned to possible criminal matters much closer to home than Singapore.

“Ah, it’s an extremely pleasant evening when the company and beer and our lead are in such excellent state, no Professor?” I asked with excellent humor.

Professor Wright handed out the beers (for which he was required to pay since he had missed two questions in the quiz) and said, “I should have known that last question! I think my distractions at work are not conducive to doing well at our quizzes!”

“What, the same problems of the wandering hard drives as before, Professor?” I enquired.

“Yes, it’s becoming a real mystery. Sometimes I think I am losing my grip on reality, Watson, I really do,” he complained.

“This seems a curious set of events, Professor Wright,” said Holmes, who was always on the lookout for anything mysterious. “Pray tell me more about the case, if you can.”

Professor Wright provided Holmes a quick description of his difficulties in locating his hard drives and their magical ability to turn up but in the wrong place. He ran a worried hand through his thinning grey hair.

“I simply cannot understand it. I have been very strict with the control of the hard drives, and they continue to wander around my office! What is equally troubling is that there are rumors and hints that other labs around the world are also making progress on the hunt for the Jigg-Figg particles. I cannot understand how they are doing so well with the antiquated equipment they have at their disposal--the cyclotron in Hangul, for example, is nothing compared to our linear accelerator.”

“This is indeed a curious case, Professor,” said Holmes with warmth. “I presume it is of not only scientific importance but also a matter of national security?”

“Yes, as I have told Dr. Watson, the Jigg-Figg family of particles has immense importance not only to science, but also has the potential of offering a weapons system that would disrupt telecommunications without affecting life. A sort of second generation nuclear weapon.”

“Might it be possible for Dr. Watson and myself to visit you at your lab sometime?” enquired Holmes.

“It would be difficult, since entry into the lab portions of SLAC requires a high level government security clearance,” said Wright. “You would need to have a clearance of at least Level 4 to enter the buildings.”

“Well now, that should not be a problem,” replied Holmes. “I have been given a Level 11 security clearance which, I think, should suffice...”

“Good heavens, Holmes!” exclaimed Wright, “how did you ever get such a high level of clearance? I believe Level 9 and above require the personal approval of the President of the United States!”

“Yes, it was a most rewarding case in which I was of direct assistance to your President. Most of the particulars were hidden from the press, but I believe some mention was made when the daughter of the Secretary of State was kidnapped? I was able to provide the crucial information that directed the authorities to the proper course of action resulting in the apprehension of a criminal cell and the clearing of an innocent man. My reward was both financial and a high level security clearance; the better to conduct my work. By happy chance, my extraordinarily high level of clearance permits me to extend the coverage to one trusted colleague, which will be Dr. Watson here,” said Holmes with a smile.

“This is truly most excellent of you, Holmes,” said Wright. “I trust that anything you might uncover would be treated in the most discreet manner possible?”

“My activities are the hallmark of discretion, my dear Professor Wright. However, I see we must finish off this most excellent beer, for the rest of the quiz night is about to continue,” said Holmes, as we all became aware of the pushing chairs and hearty challenges from the other tables. Mike Campbell, the noted Sunnyvale stamp dealer and leader of our quiz team, waving to us from across the room.

Our group of three stood up. Professor Wright said, “Then shall we say tomorrow morning at 10 am? You could take a look at our operations and then, perhaps, we could go out to lunch? Please come to the employee’s entrance and I’ll meet you there.”

“I trust, Watson, that this time will be agreeable to you, given your professional schedule,” asked Holmes of me.

“As I recall, I sadly have no appointments tomorrow, so I am at your gentlemen’s disposal,” I replied.

“Then on to the quiz!” declared Holmes. “May lady luck be with us tonight!”

Chapter VII: Criminal Intentions

The morning found Holmes and myself speeding north on Interstate 280, the ‘World’s Most Beautiful Freeway’. The normally temperamental Morgan was purring today.

Arriving at the employee’s entrance to the Linear Accelerator, we were approached by Professor Wright and a uniformed security guard.

“Good morning gentlemen!” said Wright as he approached us. “This fellow needs to verify your security clearance before we can enter the lab.”

Holmes reached into his valise and brought out what looked like a passport and handed it to the security guard.

“Why, I’ve never seen a security clearance level 11,” exclaimed the guard. “How did...”

“Never mind the history, Michael,” interrupted Wright. “If his clearance is satisfactory, then we need to get going to the lab.”

“Certainly, certainly. I didn’t mean to pry,” said the security guard, who returned the pass to Holmes and stood aside.

“Come along, Watson,” said Holmes. “There’s some interesting work ahead of us, if I’m not mistaken.”

Wright, Holmes and I entered the building, moving down the silent corridor which was painted with the drab green of all official institutions. I say ‘silent’ but in the background was a deep throbbing as if some enormous dragon dwelt at the heart of the site.

“My office is just here,” said Wright, as we approached the end of the corridor. “Since I’m a senior fellow here, I qualify for a corner office,” he continued with a smile.

I was not sure what I expected to see upon entering Wright’s office, but the stereotype of an absent minded professor’s cluttered chaos was to prove false. True, there was an enormous wall of books, but all of them were tidily organized. Wright’s desk was completely clear except for a few papers that he had obviously been working on before our arrival.

“Your timing is outstanding, gentlemen,” said Wright as he walked towards a handsome credenza. “Just this morning, I completed a series of particle collisions that absolutely proves the existence of the Jigg-Figg particles. This hard drive,” he said, holding up a large plastic case which I took to be the hard drive he had described during our Jalisco lunch, “contains the results of today’s experiment. The culmination of five years work. It’s all here. Very hard to believe,” he said reverently, placing the drive on the credenza.

Holmes and I walked over and noted there were several hard drives on the credenza. Each drive had a plastic pouch attached to the top where a paper label could be inserted showing the date, I presume, the data was captured. The one that Wright held had today’s date on it: 23 March 1976.

“Tell me, Professor, are these media hard drives expensive?” asked Holmes.

Wright said, “Not particularly. Each one costs, maybe, $500 new, but they can be reused and written over again many times until the media wears out and they must be replaced. It’s very important to count our pennies when working against a budget,” he continued.

“When the hard drives go ‘missing’ as you said, what exactly happens,” questioned Holmes.

“As you can see, I try to be very organized. Each hard drive is stacked in date order, that way, if I need to review some previous data, I simply load the drive with the date I need. When I no longer need the data, it’s archived onto a tape unit and then the paper label is removed so I know I can write over that particular drive.

“When the drives go ‘missing’ as I said, it’s more that they are out of order, or one is on my desk or on the bookshelf. Not really ‘missing’ but rather misplaced,” said Wright with a bemused look. “I do try to be organized, but as you know, I am constantly misplacing things. My glasses, my pen, slide rule, etc. It’s maddening, but at least nothing is really lost--just misplaced.”

“Have there been more reports of progress by, shall we say, ‘competing’ labs with your research into the Jigg-Figg particles?” asked Holmes.

“Indeed. It’s most peculiar. There was a time when I thought I was the only researcher investigating this particular family of particles. Then, about six months ago, I got word that the Hangul lab had begun research on them. Their progress was astonishing--in six months, they have accomplished what I have done in the past four years,” said Wright.

“Who has access to this office?” asked Holmes.

“Pretty much anyone who has the proper clearance for the facility. Currently we have three senior fellows in residence: Professor Lee from the Taiwan Polytechnic, Professor Menach from the University of Haifa and Dr. Naimark, from the University of Frankfurt. All of them have access to this office. Oh, and my PhD student, Agnes Forth, had access as well. She was an honors student at Edinburgh University in Scotland and is helping me with my experiments.”

“I don’t mean to make accusations, Professor, but would any of your fellow scientists have an interest in your work?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, I thought of that, but the answer is ‘no’. Lee is concerned with the safe disposal of nuclear waste and has no interest in particle physics. Menach is a medical doctor and researching isotopes that can be used as tracers in medical research. Finally, Naimark is a metallurgist who is working on higher strength steels that can be used to reduce the weight of steels in manufactured goods like automobiles. No, none of them would be a candidate for stealing my work.”

As Wright was talking, Holmes had walked over to the office window and was gazing out the window. Deep in thought, he slowly stroked his chin. Silence reigned in the office.

A knock at the door interrupted the silence. A dark haired woman, approximately 30 years old, entered the room. She wore the habiliment of the current college student: clothing that had not been ironed and her hair was a disheveled mess that had not been combed in what seemed weeks. She stopped abruptly upon noticing our presence.

“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt, Professor Wright. I didn’t know that you had company. I can come back later,” she said with a rush. “I heard the good news about the experiment this morning and I came as soon as I could.”

“It’s all right, Agnes. These gentlemen are from my Tuesday quiz team and I was showing them my office and my work,” said Wright kindly. “This is Doctor Watson, and this is...”

“Mr. Grey,” interrupted Holmes with alacrity. “The charming Professor Wright has been explaining some of the details of his work, which, frankly, I have understood very little. The Professor tells me that you are an alumni of the University of Edinburgh?” asked Holmes.

“Why, yes, I graduated two years ago and have been helping Professor Wright in his research,” said Agnes Forth hesitantly.

“Do you keep in touch with any of your professors from the University?” questioned Holmes. “I believe I met Dr. Mendelbaum at a social function in London this past Christmas.”

“Oh yes,” gushed Agnes Forth with relief. “Dr. Mendelbaum sent me a Christmas card in December and we correspond regularly.”

“Please give him my heartiest greeting when next you write him, will you?” said Holmes. “Laurence Grey is my name,” and Holmes, reaching into his coat jacket, produced a business card.

Taking the card, Agnes Forth read out loud, “‘Importers of Exotic Fruits’. My, what an interesting profession. How is the fruit business?” she asked.

“Growing leaps and bounds,” replied Holmes jovially.

“Well, I shall not interrupt you any further, gentlemen. I can stop by later and continue with the analysis of today’s data,” said Agnes Forth, as she turned and left the office.

“Professor Wright,” said Holmes, “would it be possible for us to have a short tour of your labs and then, maybe, go to luncheon?”

“Certainly,” said Wright, who was obviously puzzled by Holmes’s use of an alias when talking with Agnes Forth.

“If you gentlemen could give me a couple minutes alone in this office, I think we will take a significant step in solving Professor Wright’s mystery,” said Holmes. “Pray precede me.”

Professor Wright and I exchanged looks of astonishment at Holmes’s request, but our trust and faith in his judgement was sufficient that we did as he asked without question.

True to his word, Holmes emerged from Professor Wright’s office in a scant few minutes, with a smile on his face.

“Now to our tour of this facility, if you please, Professor Wright. “I hope it will be most illuminating!” extolled Holmes.

Chapter VIII: The Mystery Revealed

Our tour of the Linear Accelerator was fascinating yet completely over my head; I understood the basic principles involved but once Professor Wright got into the details of his work, I was at a loss. Holmes, on the other hand, had a profound knowledge of the area and was able to ask several relevant questions.

“Gentlemen, where shall we go to lunch today?” asked Wright as we exited the building. “The admirable Dutch Goose? The Oasis? Or, perhaps we should do things properly and toast today’s dramatic breakthrough at Zot’s?” Clearly, Wright was in a happy state of mind.

“Indeed, a celebration is completely in order,” said Holmes. “Zot’s it is!”

We drove to the charming Zot’s in Wright’s car since my Morgan would hold but two people with comfort. Once ensconced at an outdoor table, pints of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and the famous Zot’s hamburgers at hand, Wright continued to wax on the day’s discovery.

“Do you realize that the experiment concluded today represents a possible Nobel Prize in Physics for me?” enthused Wright. “It is a major breakthrough!”

Holmes seemed preoccupied and remained silent.

“Holmes, why so dreary?” asked Wright.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I should be celebrating with you for both your discovery today and, well,” here he glanced at his wristwatch, “the resolution of your mystery.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!” cried I, “how can you be so certain that you have solved the mystery?”

“My dear Watson, it is back to basics for me, and with a slight twist.”

Wright and I leaned more closely towards Holmes as he continued to explain.

“I believe all will become clear when we return to Professor Wright’s office. Suffice it to say, Professor, that you have seen the last of your doctoral student.”

“Do you mean Miss Forth?” asked Wright.

“Indeed. Some unexpected and unfortunate incident will no doubt have happened which will require her to leave immediately. A sickness or death in the family seems the most likely event, I should think,” mused Holmes.

Holmes refused to give any more clarification to his astonishing news, so Professor Wright and I accelerated our eating pace as to finish lunch as quickly as possible.

Upon returning to Wright’s office, two things struck me simultaneously: first, there was indeed a letter in the center of his desk, and second, the hard drive containing the day’s work--the proof of the Jigg-Figg particle’s existence--was gone from the credenza.

Wright hastened to his desk and tore open the letter. Scanning it quickly, he turned quite pale.

“Holmes, you are gifted with the abilities of a seer!” he exclaimed. Handing the note to me, he continued “just as you suspected, her mother has taken ill and she has had to dash off to London.” Glancing at his wristwatch, he said, “I suspect she’s already en-route to Heathrow.”

“Professor Wright, I don’t quite know how to say this, but today’s hard drive is missing,” I said in a quiet voice, pointing at the empty place on the credenza.

“My God!” exclaimed Wright. “Someone has stolen it! All of my work....all of my efforts...gone!” Wright sank into his desk chair, distraught.

“Now then, Professor, there is no need to be so worried. I think I can explain everything if you will permit me,” said Holmes.

“You noticed, I am sure, that Miss Forth was aware of the results of today’s experiment? She also has ready access to this office.

“However, did you also notice that, besides the generally disheveled garments she was wearing today, her blouse was buttoned one row off? This suggested to me that she is a rather disorganized person, liable to not remember exactly where she might have taken the drive from before she took it to make a copy.

“This clue helped me to establish her as the most likely person who would be responsible for the mysterious movement of the hard drives. Also, she is conversant in the methods of mounting the drives and no doubt copying them.

“For what reason I know not. Perhaps it is money, perhaps she is in the employ of a foreign government or agency...”

“Good heavens, Holmes, do you realize what you are saying?” cried Wright. “She had had access to my research all along. Why didn’t you stop her before we left for lunch?”

“Because it did not matter. I took steps to foil her efforts. As to her guilt, the final clue was my question related to Dr. Mendlebaum. There actually is a Dr. Mendlebaum, or, I should say, there was a Dr. Mendlebaum. He died last fall under most mysterious circumstances. I was called in to investigate the case and helped the police resolve the situation. His family requested that his murder not be made public until they felt comfortable doing so.”

“But the hard drive...it’s gone,” said Wright with anguish.

“Do not count your hard drives before they are stolen,” said Holmes with a smile. He proceeded to Wright’s desk, and pulling open the bottom drawer, produced a hard drive.

“This is the hard drive from today. Notice that the paper label, with today’s date is no longer here. While you and Dr. Watson were out of the office, I took the liberty of taking one of your spare drives and labeling it with today’s date. I then placed this drive in your desk and we went to lunch.

“If indeed Miss Forth was innocent, no damage would have been done. However, permitting her to complete the crime has thus labeled her as the true criminal in this situation.

“Imagine the chagrin she and her employers will have when they discover the hard drive with the purported final evidence of the Jigg-Figg particle is but old data from a previous experiment. The consequences for such a failure are frequently catastrophic....and much worse a punishment than that which could be meted out by a court in the United States.”

Wright slowly rose from his desk, his hand extended.

“I and the scientific world owe you a debt of gratitude, Holmes,” he said as he shook Holmes’s hand. “How can I ever repay you?”

“By boning up on your world history, Professor,” said Holmes with some heat. “Last Tuesday’s quiz night was not your best performance. I should have thought you would recall that Hildegard of Vinzgouw was Charlemagne’s first wife....tut tut...you really must do better!”