Wait for Backup
"Patience, Watson," Holmes hissed, his grip tightening on my shoulder. "A man who moves like a phantom and smells of the grave does not stand beneath a lamp unless he wishes to be seen. It is a siren’s call, leading us to a watery end on those slick stones."
I lowered my revolver, the logic of his words cooling my heated blood. We stepped further back into the gloom of the warehouse eaves. Holmes produced a small silver whistle—a signal to the river police patrols he had coordinated through Mycroft—but he did not blow it yet. Instead, we watched as the shadowy figure descended the stairs. As he reached the bottom, a low, black steam-launch cut its engines and drifted toward the quay, its presence signaled only by the faint red glow of a cigar on deck.
"We cannot stop the boat from here," I whispered, frustrated.
"No," Holmes replied, his eyes tracking the vessel as it turned back into the main channel. "But we have seen the face of the pilot who met him. Did you see the flash of red on the funnel, Watson? That is the 'Aglaia', a private yacht registered to a high-ranking official. By choosing not to rush blindly into the river, we have gained something far more valuable than a physical confrontation: we have gained clarity."
We retreated from the Embankment, moving back toward the safety of the well-lit thoroughfares. The immediate danger of the ambush had passed, but the weight of the mystery had only grown. We reached a quiet corner near Westminster, the silhouette of Big Ben looming above us like a silent judge.
"The 'Ghost' is no spirit," Holmes said, his voice hard as flint. "He is a tool. We now stand at the final crossroads of this case, Watson. The evidence points in two diametrically opposed directions, and we must commit our souls to one of them."