Welcome to Baker Street

14. Keyword

"How are we going to do it? Just entering and saying, Good evening! Has anyone seen Cathy Baaral (assuming that she used that name here) or her twin sister around recently?" Giulia asks sarcastically.

"I have a better plan." Sherlock shows them two badges and gives one to John. On the one he kept, there is a familiar name (literally): Mycroft Holmes. THE CABINET OFFICE. On the badge John is now holding, it is printed: Gregory Lestrade. SCOTLAND YARD.

"I'll take my brother's. At least, I can keep my last name," he says, marching towards the glass door of the editorial office.

John stamps his feet.

"Sherlock, we can't do that again. You remember what happened when we broke into Baskerville, don't you?"

Holmes stops and retorts, "We don't have a choice."

"Sorry to interrupt your little quarrel, but who am I supposed to be in this little recital?" Giulia chimes in.

"Hold on a second, I should have one for you too." Sherlock pulls a business card out of the inner pocket of his coat and hands it to her. It is plain and classic, with a female name written in the middle. There is an emblem at the top right corner: a globe with a sword and a scale. The word below is unmistakable: INTERPOL.

"How can you possibly have something like that?" She opens her eyes wide, astounded.

"I have an international reputation." Sherlock shrugs, trying to conceal the tiny detail that he pickpocketed an international police officer.

They step in and flash their badges at the front desk. A man in a dark suit welcomes them and checks their credentials.

"Good evening. My name is Mycroft Holmes, from The Cabinet Office. I am joined by a Scotland Yard officer and an agent from the Interpol to make an inspection," Sherlock pronounces formally, gesturing at his friends.

The clerk throws a glance at them and replies kindly, "I can see that, sir. May I ask what the problem is?"

"Most of the details are classified. Although, I can say that, according to several pending investigations, we need to search this building."

The employee immediately turns pale but tries to keep control of the situation, suggesting tactfully, "I understand, sir. Should we set a date?"

Sherlock shakes his head and walks down the hall, stifling an arrogant smirk.

"It won't be necessary. I think that right now would be lovely."

John catches up with him before reaching the stairs and whispers peevishly, "I'm fairly sure that your brother will kill us or have us deported after this stunt."

Sherlock mumbles in response, "He came to me first because he wanted me to solve this case, and that's exactly what I intend to do. He'll pass over our theatrical entrance."

They spread out and start looking everywhere, eagerly hoping to find even the slightest sign of Cathy's presence. They search every office, every corner. They randomly flip through documents, looking for clues. After twenty minutes of useless research, Giulia gets bored and sinks into an armchair, leafing through a copy of the morning paper. She finds a pencil on a desk and starts solving the crossword puzzle.

A few minutes later, Sherlock notices her and inquires sternly, "What are you doing?"

She doesn't even lift her eyes from the page and answers in an apathetic tone, "I'm fed up. She is not here. I told you: this is the wrong place to hide."

He flares his nostrils. They haven't been able to find even the faintest trace of Cathy. He abhors being wrong. Luckily, it happens very rarely.

"You could help, anyway."

"I tried it; it was boring. This, on the contrary, is very intriguing." She taps the point of the pencil on the crossword. "I've almost completed it, but I'm stuck at this definition. It's about weapons, I think. Would you help me?" She flashes puppy eyes at him.

"Why don't you ask John? He was a soldier, after all," the detective replies, uninterested.

"He was an Army doctor," she specifies.

"Does it make any difference?"

"Whatever. He isn't within sight. Please," she begs, showing him the paper.

"You're so nagging," he complains but takes the newspaper from her. After all, he would never pass up a chance to show off his massive general knowledge.

He reads the definition aloud, "Short large-bored musket with flared muzzle. The answer is Blunderbuss," he states as if it was primary school stuff.

She shoots him an impressed look. "I've never heard of it."

He hands back the paper with one of his haughty comments.

"Just like 70% of the British population, probably. The author of this puzzle must be keen on weapons, though," he mutters distractedly.

She glances at the name written above the crossword.

"Jumelle Survécue: strange name. Sounds French to me."

Sherlock freezes and narrows his eyes. "What did you say?"

"I've just read the author's name."

He snatches both the newspaper and pencil from her hands. She scowls at his utter lack of manners and stares as he notes at the bottom of the page only the letters inside the numbered boxes of the puzzle. When he is done, he widens his eyes and holds his breath for a second.

"I know where she is."