Sherlock Holmes In America by Martin H. Greenberg

was his greed, it seemed.
    â€œWhat would be my reward for helping you?” he asked.
    Goodfellow stroked his beard and rolled his eyes.
    â€œOne bar,” he said. “And before you try any ’agglin’, just remember that’d be enough to get you back to England in style, and it’s me what’s paid the price for—”
    â€œDone,” the Whelp said. “Do you have the map with you now?”
    â€œStrewth! I did walk into the right saloon, di’n’t I?” Goodfellow gleefully groped beneath his grimy coat for a moment . . . then froze, his expression turning wary. “’Ang on a tick. ‘Ow do I know you ain’t gonna fiddle me out of me dosh?”
    The Whelp regarded him coolly.
    â€œYou have my word, I have never fiddled with anyone’s dosh.”
    â€œâ€˜â€™Is word,’ ’e says. Ha! I’ll need a lot more than that before I ’and over me map. Why, you could scarper with the whole boodle and leave me with nuffin’ but me bloody ’ump! No, no . . . a security, that’s what’s called for. To show your good faith.”
    â€œWhat sort of security are you talking about?” the Whelp asked.
    Goodfellow looked him up and down, then pointed a knobby finger at the watch fob looping from the Whelp’s vest pockets.
    â€œThat watch, let’s say.”
    â€œMy father gave me that.”
    â€œAnd I’ll give it back . . . when you give me the silver.”
    Slowly, reluctantly, the Whelp pulled out a gold pocket watch and placed it on the table.
    â€œSmart lad,” Goodfellow said. After furtive glances left and right, he produced a scroll of paper and unrolled it on the tabletop just long enough to show it was, indeed, a crudely sketched map.
    The Whelp swept the map off the table.
    Goodfellow slipped the watch into a coat pocket.
    â€œYou stayin’ at the Clarendon?” he asked.
    The Whelp nodded.
    â€œAlright, then,” Goodfellow said, “I’ll meet you behind the ’otel at nine o’ clock tonight to do the divvy. Till then, I’d best keep out of sight.”
    He pushed away from the table, then paused before turning to go.
    â€œPleasure doin’ business wiff you, guv,” he said, and he gave the Whelp a wink with his bulging-wide right eye.
    â€œI can’t believe even you would sink so low,” I said to the Whelp as the hunchback hobbled away.
    As usual, my disapproval seemed to amuse the insolent jackanapes no end.
    â€œNeither can I,” he said with a smile. “Well . . . I suppose I should go, too. I shan’t be leaving for another hour or so, but in the meantime I’ve preparations to make.” He tugged at the sleeve of his black frock coat. “I’m hardly dressed for an expedition. Shall we return to the Clarendon?”
    â€œYou go ahead,” I said. “Suddenly, I find I actually prefer the company here.”
    My show of pique merely gratified the Whelp all the more, and he headed for the door with such a jaunty spring to his step I wouldn’t have been surprised had he started whistling.
    I sat there alone, pretending to drink my steam beer so as to keep the saloon keeper at bay and avoid the curious (and hostile) stares of the other patrons. After a few minutes, however, I had company again: a hunched figure appeared in the doorway and came sidling toward me.
    I greeted him with applause as he retook his seat.
    â€œBravo. A masterful performance.”
    My companion shrugged modestly.
    â€œI had a receptive audience,” said Sasanoff—for, as you’ve surely long since guessed, he and Goodfellow were one and the same. “He’s so eager for adventure he would have believed me had I appeared to him as Admiral Lord Nelson. Now . . . what say we properly fortify ourselves for the cold?”
    What I said was “yes,” of course, and soon we were stoking up warmth with a surprisingly