Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 863 Doubt and Prize (First Update)

Salomon was delighted, even though he was being questioned to his face. He liked intelligent people, and this candidate's keen observation and logical reasoning demonstrated the intellectual level expected of a rational human being. Compared to Stephen Strange, he preferred this Sherlock Holmes because he was calm, rational, and (presumably) devoid of religious faith. As for antisocial personality disorder, Salomon himself had been described that way, so he didn't care much. However, before the final test was over, he couldn't show favoritism towards either side; he had to keep the tests going.

“That’s a stretch, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Couldn’t I have asked the café owner downstairs for information and waited for you to return to your apartment? I don’t think my financial situation has anything to do with Eleanor. We haven’t been in touch for a long time, and I don’t care about her. But she is, after all, my relative, and I can’t just leave her lying in the police station morgue. It’s not about kinship, it’s about responsibility.”

“He’s right, Sherlock.” Watson, who had been on guard, relaxed and then sided with Salomon. “You may have encountered some strange cases today, but that doesn’t mean everyone is suspicious.”

"I never speculate, but you have a point. Let me hear what you have to say." Sherlock Holmes nodded, seemingly accepting Salomon's explanation quite easily. This puzzled Watson greatly; his roommate was usually a rather stubborn fellow, so why was he being so agreeable this time?

Salomon felt he should be more observant, so he planned to return to the crime scene to see if anything would lead Holmes to him. As for the Scotland Yard police officers gathered at the scene, Salomon assured them they couldn't see or hear anything, and no one would be able to find the little gift he had prepared for the candidate before Holmes.

The detective's questions generally fall into three categories: the victim's family relationships, interpersonal relationships, and past experiences. Salomon had done his homework, and his memory allowed him to answer Holmes' questions fluently. However, for some questions not mentioned in the files, or some more personal questions, Salomon did not add unnecessary details. Instead, he honestly replied that he did not know the details, but had only heard someone mention something.

Thirty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson saw her tall, strong visitor nimbly tiptoe up the stairs, like a tiger. John Watson followed behind him, and they were talking in hushed tones. The landlady, who had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs worried about a potential argument upstairs, immediately relaxed. Salomon, tiptoeing carefully on the old wooden steps, turned to Watson and said, “But I can’t offer you any more clues. I don’t know much about her life; the police certainly know more than I do. I’ve only heard that her death was very strange. In any case, all the mysteries must be solved by him. Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I guarantee that no tea in all of London can compare to yours.”

"Thank you, sweet-talking young man." The landlady's wrinkled face broke into a smile. "You're much more considerate than that annoying guy upstairs. Watson, don't look at me like that, you should keep an eye on him. Someone heard him firing a gun in his room yesterday, do you know what the neighbors will say!"

"I'm sure Mr. Holmes has his reasons for doing this," Salomon said dismissively. "Please allow me to take my leave now, Mr. Watson. I've already made a hotel reservation, so please don't trouble yourself. Thank you for the tea and cookies. I'll certainly visit you again when I have the chance, Mrs. Hudson."

"See? That's a likable young man." After Salomon left, the landlady said to Watson, who looked utterly helpless, without hesitation, "I'll be at ease when Holmes is like this young man."

"He's suspicious," Sherlock Holmes said. When Watson returned to the living room, he found him huddled in an armchair, his eyes fixed on the spot where the client had been sitting, a cell phone clutched in his hand. "I didn't mention all the suspicious points because I think he might be better at close combat than we are, and my pistol isn't loaded yet."

"Because you used up all your bullets yesterday."

"Mrs. Hudson must have told you. But your cane is still in the umbrella stand, though I think he was closer to it than we were. In short, this client gives me a very strange feeling. It's not intuition, but observation and reasoning; this isn't as simple as it seems, and the client has many secrets he hasn't told us," Sherlock Holmes asked. "Do you remember where his taxi went after he left? I know you didn't pay attention, so I've arranged for an informant to follow him. In a little while, we'll know exactly what's wrong with him."

Watson sat down on the opposite armchair, his mind filled with questions, and a hush fell over the air. Every time he tried to ask something, Sherlock Holmes's gaze would tell him that his roommate's soul wasn't there, but rather searching through the labyrinth of his memories. Suddenly, the cell phone Holmes was clutching rang, pulling the private detective back to reality.

"Ha...just as expected!"

"What's wrong?" Watson asked hurriedly.

Holmes looked up at Watson meaningfully. "He's gone."

"What do you mean?" Watson's eyes widened. "What do you mean by 'disappeared'?"

"He just vanished, Watson. He didn't book a hotel room; he went to a restaurant near the crime scene and then disappeared." Sherlock Holmes displayed an infectious excitement. He leaped from his armchair and paced excitedly around the small living room. "I feel I'm getting closer to the mystery, Watson. I've figured out the shape of the answer, but there's still a layer of smoke over it. I have to confirm it. Let's go!"

"Where to?" Before Watson could react, a coat and a fully loaded revolver were shoved into his arms. "This is my gun! How did you get it?"

The detective did not answer such a pointless question.

"To the crime scene. I'm bound by common sense, bound by my own imagination." Holmes narrowed his eyes, clenched his fists, and almost leaped down the stairs, making a tremendous noise that drew Mrs. Hudson's angry entrance, who hadn't even taken off her apron. But Holmes had no time to worry about his landlady's mood; he had more important things to do. "Let's hurry, we might run into someone there."

Salomon entered a small rented room. The lights were off, and the only window was boarded up tightly, allowing only a few slivers of damp, gray sunlight to filter through the cracks. Tiny dust particles swirled slowly in the foul-smelling air. He carefully examined the gift he had left in the corner of the room: the half-dead vampire—the unfortunate creature had been nailed to a cross by Salomon with a silver stake engraved with exorcising runes after drinking human blood. Its lower body had been crushed into a heap of flesh; the vampire's regenerative abilities had been suppressed by the silver stake, condemning it to eternal torment.

It watched in horror as Salomon approached, unable to utter a sound because its tongue and throat had been torn off.

This sorcerer, more brutal than a vampire, ignored its fear, carefully examining its physical condition and estimating whether the fool could survive until the detective discovered the truth.

Capturing a vampire wasn't difficult, and this wasn't Salomon's first time. He found this fool in a bar restroom. It was the culprit who killed the poor nightclub dancer Eleanor, but Salomon didn't kill it completely. Instead, he used it as a tool to inspire Holmes to see a wider world.

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(End of this chapter)