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The Adventure of the Silent House
Jul. 20th, 2004 08:01 pm"Hello?" I called out. No answer. I walked into the foyer. Nothing seemed to be disturbed, but my co-conspirator was not in his usual position at his desk behind the leaded-glass door.
I strode into the living room. A plastic bag on the floor, which proved to contain a full loaf of raisin bread. An unfamiliar backpack on the tile table. A guest, then, or visitor. I thumbed my mental card file. Who were we expecting?
"Hello?" I called again. Then it struck me. No, not a blackjack in the hand of my oldest foe. The recollection that B. is visiting from Out East and the co-conspirator has probably taken her down to the food court or elsewhere nearby for a Nosh.
Mao the Left Shoulder Cat valiantly tried to make me understand all of this by meowing ceaselessly and pacing back and forth between the back door and his food bowl, but I was too engrossed in my own thoughts to heed his, well, not really words, were they? Noises. I heeded not his vocalizations.
It's interesting (or maybe it isn't) that all the Sherlock Holmes stories are entitled "The Adventure of..." and not "The Mystery of..." (I am so far following Conan Doyle's formula in my evocation of the Rattletrap Manor Mysteries.) It's as though he didn't necessarily expect you to find them mysterious at all, more sort of exciting. What with all the posing in dark rooms with your pistol out.
And why was the bag of raisin bread on the floor? It's pure speculation, mind, but I suspect Mao was involved.
-rf
Isn't "ceaselessly" a nice, elongated, caressing word, like waves lapping one after the other on the shore?
I strode into the living room. A plastic bag on the floor, which proved to contain a full loaf of raisin bread. An unfamiliar backpack on the tile table. A guest, then, or visitor. I thumbed my mental card file. Who were we expecting?
"Hello?" I called again. Then it struck me. No, not a blackjack in the hand of my oldest foe. The recollection that B. is visiting from Out East and the co-conspirator has probably taken her down to the food court or elsewhere nearby for a Nosh.
Mao the Left Shoulder Cat valiantly tried to make me understand all of this by meowing ceaselessly and pacing back and forth between the back door and his food bowl, but I was too engrossed in my own thoughts to heed his, well, not really words, were they? Noises. I heeded not his vocalizations.
It's interesting (or maybe it isn't) that all the Sherlock Holmes stories are entitled "The Adventure of..." and not "The Mystery of..." (I am so far following Conan Doyle's formula in my evocation of the Rattletrap Manor Mysteries.) It's as though he didn't necessarily expect you to find them mysterious at all, more sort of exciting. What with all the posing in dark rooms with your pistol out.
And why was the bag of raisin bread on the floor? It's pure speculation, mind, but I suspect Mao was involved.
-rf
Isn't "ceaselessly" a nice, elongated, caressing word, like waves lapping one after the other on the shore?
