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Professor Slobe shook his head。 'Sadly； no；' said he。
'Then little has changed。 If anything； these horrors have been intensified。 Details which I read here would never have been made public knowledge in my time。 But if what I see is typical； and such I have no reason to disbelieve； then I am appalled to find that with the resources you now possess； little has been done。'
Professor Slobe was for once lost for words； and chewed ruefully upon a piece of toast。
'And so I am prompted to ask；' Holmes continued； 'your reason for stranding me in this most dismal age。'
The toast caught in the old man's throat and he collapsed red…faced into a violent fit of coughing。
'e now；' said Holmes； patting him gently upon the back； 'surely you did not think to deceive me with your display of apparent surprise at my arrival？ My favourite cigarettes are in your case and my tobacco in the humidor。 You serve me with a Ninety…two Vamberry； by now surely a priceless vintage。 I could enumerate another twenty…three such facts regarding the 〃singular case of the reanimated detective〃； but I do not believe it to be necessary。 Why have you called me here； Professor？'
The scholar took a sip of coffee and dabbed at his lips with a napkin。 He rose carefully from his chair and took himself over to the French windows； where he stood； his back to the detective； staring out into his wonderful garden。 'It is a bad business；' he said； without turning。
'I have no doubt of that。'
'I am not altogether certain at present as to what steps can be taken。 There is very much I have to know。 I cannot face it alone。'
Holmes took out his greasy； black clay pipe from the inner pocket of his dressing…gown and filled it from the Professor's humidor。 'So；' said he； 'once more we are to work together。'
'Let me show you something and then you can decide。' Professor Slobe lead his gaunt visitor through the study door； along the elegant hall； and up the main staircase。 Holmes followed the ancient up several more flights of stairs； noting well the narrow shoulders and fragile hands of the man。 The Professor had not aged by a single day since last they met so very long ago。
The two were now nearly amongst the gables of the great house； and the final staircase debouched into an extraordinary room； perfectly round； and some ten or twelve feet in diameter。 It was bare of furniture save for a large； circular table with a white marble top which stood at its centre and an assortment of cranks and pulleys which hung above it。 The walls were painted the darkest of blacks and there was not a window to be seen。 Holmes nodded approvingly； and the Professor said； 'Of course； a camera obscura。 This simple device enables me to keep a close eye upon most of the parish without the trouble of leaving my house。 Would you be so kind as to close the door？'
Holmes did so； and the room plunged into darkness。 There was a sharp click； followed by the sound of moving pulleys； and clattering chains。 A blurred image appeared upon the table…top； cast down through the system of prisms linked to the uppermost lens mounted upon the Professor's roof。 Slowly the image was brought into focus： it was a bird's…eye view of the Memorial Library。 Before this； draped across the bench； lay Jim Pooley； evidently fast asleep。 The Professor cranked away and the rooftop lens turned； the image upon the table swam up towards the High Street。 It passed over Norman's corner…shop and the two observers were momentarily stunned by the sight of the shopkeeper alone in his backyard； apparently breaking up paving…stones with his bare hands。
'Most probably Dimac；' Professor Slobe explained。 'It has e to be something of the vogue in Brentford。'
'I favour Barritso； as you well know；' said Holmes。
'Now；' said Professor Slobe； as he swung the lens up to its highest mounting and passed the image along the borders of the Brentford Triangle； 'what do you see？'
Holmes cradled his chin in his right hand and watched the moving picture with great interest。 'Some trick of the light； surely？'
'But what do you see？'
Holmes plucked at a neat sideburn。 'I see a faint curtain of light enclosing the parish boundaries。'
'And what do you take it to be？'
Holmes shook his head。 'Some natural phenomenon perhaps？ Something akin to the aurora borealis？'
'I think not。' The Professor closed the rooftop aperture and the room fell once more into darkness。 Holmes heard the sound of a key turning in a lock； and a thin line of wan light spread into the room from a previously concealed doorway。 'This is a somewhat private chamber；' the Professor whispered as he led the detective through the opening and into a gabled gallery set in the very eaves of the roof。 What light there was entered through chinks between the slates。 The old man struck flame to an enamelled oil…lamp； and the golden light threw a long and cluttered garret into perspective。 It was lined on either side with tall； dark filing cabinets。 Bundles of bound documents； some evidently of great age； were stacked upon and about these； or spilled out from half…opened drawers。
'As you can observe； I have been following the course of this particular investigation for a good many years。'
Holmes ran his finger lightly over the waxen paper of a crumbling document exposing a seal imprinted with the date 1703。 'And all this has been amassed to the furtherance of one single goal？'
The Professor nodded。 'It is the product of many lifetimes' work and yet now； with all this behind me； I am still lost for a solution to the matter now closely pressing upon us。'
'But what is it； Professor？ What have you found and what do you yet seek？ Tell me how I might aid you； you have but to ask。'
'What I have here is evidence。 But it is evidence of a most unique nature； for it is evidence of a crime which is yet to be mitted； the greatest crime of them all。 I have my case together and I can predict fairly accurately as to what will occur and when； but I have yet to e up with a solution as to a way that I might prevent it happening。'
'But what is it？'
'Armageddon。 The apocalypse；' said Professor Slobe。 'The ing of the millennium。 Did you think that I would have gone to all this trouble for anything less？'
Sherlock Holmes shook his head slowly。 'I suppose not；' said he。
Norman's automaton had finished breaking up the stones and resurfacing the shopkeeper's backyard。 Now he smacked the dust from his duro…flesh palms and returned to the kitchenette to brew up some tea for his living double。 Norman watched his approach through the grimy rear window。 He was doing very well now； he thought。 There were no more signs of violent temperament now that his circuitry had been appropriately readjusted。 He would give the creation a couple of days to redecorate the premises then； if all seemed sound； get him back on shop work。 Although things had got off to a poor start； Norman was certain that the future looked promising； and that he would soon be able to dedicate all his time to his greatest project yet。
The scientific shopkeeper grinned lopsidedly and struck up a bit more whistling。 He sought about on his shelves for a chocolate bar which was still in date to munch upon。 Through the open shop…doorway he spied another whistler。 Jim Pooley was striding by at a jaunty pace en route to Bob the bookie。 Here Jim would lay on one of the most extraordinary and ill…conceived Super…Yankee accumulators ever recorded in the annals of bookmaking history。
Norman gave up his futile search； made a mental observation that when the great day dawned and all his wares were puter…coded he would have no need to bother with such trifles as actually ordering new stock； and repaired to the kitchenette for a cuppa。
Jim Pooley pushed open Bob's armoured…glass door and entered the betting shop。 As is well known； to any follower of the sport of kings； the interior of such establishments vary by but the merest detail； be they based upon some busy thoroughfare in John O'Groats or down a back alley in Penge。 The betting shop is always instantly recognizable to be the thing of beauty that it is： the grey； fag…scarred linoleum floor； and the ticker…tape wele of slip stubs； the heavily…barred counter； twelve…inch black and white tellies； the rarely…scrubbed blackboards； displaying hieroglyphics that even the now legendary Champollion would find himself hard…pressed to decipher。
Jim squinted through the blue fog of Havana cigar smoke towards its source。 Behind the portcullis； pulling upon his torpedo； sat Bob the bookie。
'In for another hiding？' the millionaire enquired。
Jim smiled and waggled his betting…slip。 'Today is the day；' quoth he。
Bob stifled a yawn and rubbed a newly…purchased diamond ring upon the lapel of his smoking…jacket。 The Koh…i…Noor glittered flawlessly in its setting as Jim slid his slip beneath the titanium security bars of the counter fortress。 Bob held the crumpled thing at arm's length and examined it with passing interest。 'I have a new pocket calculator；' he told Pooley。
'Personalized for you by Cartiers of Paris； no doubt；' said Jim。 'Wrought in platinum and fashioned into the likeness of a golden calf。 Your initials in jade？'
'Something of the sort。'