The Baker Street Boys - The Case of the Disappearing Detective Read Online Free

watching. Only when he was certain that he wasn’t did he ring. The door was opened, even before the bell had stopped tinkling, by a boy who was about the same age and height as Wiggins but very different in appearance.
    Billy was the pageboy employed by Mrs Hudson, the landlady, to answer the door, show visitors in and run errands and take messages for her and the people who, like Sherlock Holmes, rented sets of rooms in the house. He was dressed in a typical pageboy’s uniform: trousers with a broad, red stripe down the side and a tight jacket, with two rows of brass buttons running up the front, fastened right to the neck. When he went out on an errand, he wore a little pillbox hat at a jaunty angle, held on by a piece of elastic under his chin. His hair was cut short, parted in the centre and plastered down on his scalp so close that he seemed to be wearing a tight, shiny, black skullcap. His face was round, pink and
extremely
clean. His snub nose was very short – but he still managed to look down it at the scruffy street urchin who stood facing him.
    All the Boys thought Billy was rather stuck-up. Wiggins said it was because deep down he was jealous of them. Queenie couldn’t see what he had to be jealous of – he was well looked after, while they were often cold and hungry – but Wiggins said it was the special friendship they had with each other, and their freedom to do whatever they liked. Queenie was not convinced. And Billy certainly didn’t look jealous now, as he glared at Wiggins.
    “Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “What d’you want?”
    “I’m assisting Mr Holmes on a case,” Wiggins replied with a little smile of triumph. “He wants to see me.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “Course I am. He told me it’s a matter of national importance. Now are you gonna let me in?”
    “No.”
    “What d’you mean, no?”
    “I mean, Mr Holmes is not in. So he don’t need you that bad. He’s gone out.”
    Now it was Billy’s turn to smile in triumph. He started to shut the door. Wiggins quickly jammed his foot in the opening, to stop him.
    “I’ll see Dr Watson, then.”
    “Can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “’Cos he’s gone out as well. Visiting patients.” And this time, he did close the door – after he’d stamped on Wiggins’s foot.
    When he’d stopped hopping around, Wiggins stood still for a moment, wondering what to do next. He decided to take another look at the mysterious iron door, and set off at once for the little alleyway, taking care to keep his eyes open for anything suspicious on the way.
    The entrance to the alley was partly blocked by an old beggar man leaning his crooked back against one wall. His face was half hidden by a battered hat with a broad brim, and the tangle of hair that escaped from underneath it was grey and matted, as was his beard. He was selling matches and bootlaces from a tray hung round his neck.
    “Wotcha, grandad,” Wiggins greeted him cheerfully. “How’s business?”
    The old man shrugged hopelessly. He looked so dejected that Wiggins dug in his pocket to find a penny. It was his last, but the man obviously needed it more than he did.
    “’Fraid I ain’t got much,” he said, “but here – at least it’ll buy you a cup of tea.”
    “You’re a good boy,” the old man croaked, sounding grateful.
    He held out a shaking hand, but as Wiggins went to place the penny in it, he suddenly found his wrist clamped in a grip of steel.
    “A very good boy, Wiggins, my friend!” The voice was that of Sherlock Holmes.
    Wiggins gasped, and stared open-mouthed at the old man. Behind the disguise, he could recognize the familiar piercing eyes of the great detective.
    “Mr Ho—” he started to blurt out.
    But Mr Holmes cut him short. “Shh! Don’t say it!” He looked around, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “There is an old saying: ‘Walls have ears.’ Never forget that.”
    “No, sir, Mr … er… No, sir.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I