Read The Reluctant Assassin for Free Online Page A

Sherlock Holmes changed all of that. The book was simply too fascinating to be despised. Riley could no more hate Arthur Conan Doyle than he could hate the parents he could not remember, though Garrick reminded him often that they had left him hanging in a flour bag on the railings of Bethnal Green workhouse, where the magician had found him and rescued him from slum cannibals.
    I could certainly do with some advice from Mr. Holmes at this present moment, thought Riley, rapping on the door with a knuckle. A genius detective is exactly what the doctor ordered—that or a housebreaker.
    The cell door itself was standard prison issue, heavy steel with a window of sufficient dimensions for a medium-sized dog to squeeze through were it not glazed.
    Or an escapologist.
    Riley knew he could wriggle through that gap if there was a way to get the glass out.
    Garrick has forced me through tighter holes.
    But the glass extended into the door itself on all sides and was well milled, with no warps or bubbles.
    These people know their glass, Riley had to admit. The lock, then?
    The lock was of a design that baffled Riley. There was no space for even the narrowest pick to penetrate. Riley tested the keyhole with his fingertip and felt a nail crack for his trouble. The door had no visible hinges, and there wasn’t enough room for so much as a draft to squeeze through underneath.
    This would be a challenge, even for Albert Garrick.
    Then again, Garrick would be coming in, not going out. And getting in was always easier, especially if you could knock off the person with the key and take it from them.
    Riley shivered. He swore that he could sense Garrick drawing closer, and his approach seemed to chill the air.
    The door clacked and swung slowly inward, and Riley held his breath, so convinced was he that Garrick had come to tuck him in for a Highgate nap. But it was not the magician; instead the half-clothed lass who had locked him in stood framed in the doorway.
    “Step back from the door, kid,” said the girl. “Lie on the bed with your hands behind your head.”
    Her tone was amiable enough, but there was a large pistol in her delicate fingers, and in Riley’s opinion, this particular pistol seemed capable of shooting the bullet and perhaps digging the grave as well. This was not a pistol one argued with, so Riley did as he was told and looked sharp about it.
    The girl seemed satisfied and stepped inside the room, leaving a tantalizing wedge of freedom on display behind her. Riley briefly considered bolting for the outside world, but then light glinted on the gun’s barrel, and the boy decided he could wait for the next opportunity.
    “Miss,” said Riley. “Have I come to rest in a traveling Wild West Show? You appear to be a savage Injun.”
    Chevie glared down at the boy along the sights of her weapon. “We don’t use the term savage Injun anymore. Some people take issue with being described as savages. Go figure.”
    “I saw Buffalo Bill’s Extravaganza a while back. You have the look of an Apache.”
    Chevie half smiled. “Shawnee, if you have a burning need to know. Now, enough small talk. There’s a bar behind your head; grab it with your right hand.”
    Riley did was he was told, and having an inkling of what was coming, spread his grip to widen the span of his wrist, but to no avail.
    “Sure, kid. Oldest trick in the book. What? You think I graduated from Idiot College last semester?”
    “Why do you refer to me as ‘kid’? We are of the same age or thereabouts.”
    Chevie leaned across Riley and snapped a metal cuff over his wrist.
    “Yeah? Well, I’m seventeen, actually. And you don’t look a day over twelve.” She ratcheted the cuff tight, hooking the other end on the bed railing.
    “I am four and ten,” retorted Riley. “And due a stretch any day. This time next year I’ll be towering over you, miss.”
    “I am thrilled to hear that, kid. Until that great day dawns, you’ve got one hand for eating and