“Do you think they will have found Raffa?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“It’s very likely,” he replied, pulling his few ideas together. He was used to tension, to being watched with a highly critical eye, at times to carrying the show. Time to be professional. “And it seems they want Raffa very much. Do you know why?”
“No. Why?”
“I think Raffa must have something inside him that is very precious. I will ask if they have him, but I don’t think we should take him with us now. We wouldn’t want to . . . to lose him before they keep their end of the bargain.” He did not want to frighten her, but he could not shake the memory of that blue advertisement.
She nodded, lips tight, fighting not to cry. “They’re bad people, aren’t they?”
“I think so.”
“Are they here?”
“I think they might have followed us.” That was another stupid thing to say! It would only frighten her. If that damn policeman had only believed him he wouldn’t be in this ridiculous position!
“In the taxi with the blue picture on it,” she agreed, still gripping his sleeve.
“You noticed it?” he said with surprise.
She nodded.
“Let’s go in.” He pushed the door open.
The man behind the counter looked at him curiously. Perhaps a memory stirred, recognizing his face but not recalling from where. It happened now and then, people thought they knew him.
Then the man smiled. “Sherlock Holmes. Right?” He was pleased with himself.
Sarah’s face lit up and she nodded vigorously.
Marcus took a deep breath. “I am trying to trace a lost giraffe,” he said, knowing he sounded ridiculous. “About eighteen inches high. My friend, Sarah, left him in one of your taxis by mistake. He matters rather a lot. Has he been turned in?”
“Oh, yes. I know the one you mean. If you can just give me Sarah’s full name, and the time and route of the taxi, for identification purposes, sir.”
“Of course. The journey was from Paddington to the Ritz Hotel, at about seven o’clock yesterday evening. The passengers were Mrs. Maria Waterman, and Sarah.”
Sarah nodded, her eyes bright.
The door outside opened and a middle-aged woman came in.
“Please!” Marcus said urgently, “could you just keep the giraffe for the moment? We will return to pick it up later. But it is of the greatest importance that you don’t give it to anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The man glanced at Sarah.
“Please!” she said intently. “Please look after him!”
The clerk looked at Sarah, then at Marcus. “Of course I will,” he promised.
Sarah gave him a beautiful smile that lit her whole face. “Thank you.”
When they were outside in the street she leaned towards Marcus. “I nearly asked him to tell Raffa we’d be back for him, but he would think I was silly, wouldn’t he? I know Raffa’s just a . . . a toy.”
“The things we love matter, whatever they are,” he answered her. “They wouldn’t mean the same to anyone else. They keep our dreams and our secrets and never tell anyone, but we always know. If the man had any sense, he’d understand that.”
She looked at him unblinkingly. “I think you are a lot nicer for real than you are in the stories that Dr. Watson writes about you.”
He felt the warmth rise up inside him. It was absurd. “Actually Watson is a very nice man.” He said it instinctively, thinking of Peter Cauliffe, who played the part. Then he thought again. “You know, it might be a good idea if we brought him into this. We could use his help.”
She nodded vehemently, but she did not let go of his sleeve.
“Let’s get another taxi.”
When he had her seat belt fastened, he pulled out his mobile phone and called Peter Cauliffe’s number. Please heaven he answered. Marcus was guilty rather often of ignoring calls, but Peter was usually pretty good. He hoped the man would not choose now to demonstrate how annoying it was to be ignored.
It was ringing; Sarah was watching. She couldn’t know that this “Watson” was Marcus’s own man, and would do whatever he pleased? Peter owed Marcus no favors.
“Hello, Marcus,” the voice said at the other end.
“Oh! Watson. Thank God you’re there.” Marcus rushed on before Peter could hang up, thinking he was playing a practical joke. “Look, I have a rather important matter. Please! My friend, Sarah, she’s nearly nine, has a problem of a very grave nature, and needs our help. Don’t . . . don’t hang up!”
“You’d better be sober, Marcus,” Peter said warningly.
“As a judge. Where are you?”
“At my flat. I’m going out to lunch with a friend . . .”
“We’ll be there,” Marcus cut him off, then leaned forward and gave the taxi driver new directions.