Read Vanishing Girl for Free Online Page A

seems to give up. They chug out again. The dense population begins to ease. Soon Sherlock spots theconstruction site of the mighty new entertainment building in Alexandra Park, the Crystal Palace’s new twin on the big hill at Muswell. That means they are truly out of the city. As an image of the Sydenham Palace flits through his thoughts, so does his poor father’s face. Sadness engulfs him.
Focus on the task at hand
.
    The locomotive whistles and groans; grime billows from it. They shoot through Cockfosters and in an instant, it seems, are in the countryside passing villages at breathtaking speed. This is just the second time Sherlock has been on a locomotive. They are likely exceeding forty-five miles an hour! He gapes out the window.
    But his mind never leaves the other danger, standing now on his seat at the far end of the carriage, dressed in that sailor suit, with a finger up to the knuckle in his nose. The little boy leans forward, to dig even deeper. When he does, Sherlock sees something that makes his blood run cold.
    Directly behind the child, a railway guard sits calmly reading a paper.
He must have boarded at the last stop
. Sherlock had been too busy looking away. All he can do now is pray that the boy never turns around, that the family is going past St. Neots and so is the railway employee, who perhaps lives farther north.
    But then the little devil drops his sweet – a putrid-purple cane of hard sugar he’d worried a few times before turning to mine the contents of his nose. It drops to the floor. He looks at it, aghast, falls to his knees on the chugging wooden surface and seizes it in a pudgy fist. When he gets to his feet, he turns around, facing the guard.
    No!
    It is as if the child has expression in the back of his head … and that expression says “ YES !” In an instant, he is tugging at the blue sleeve of the crisp uniform and pointing up the aisle again toward Sherlock Holmes.
    Lip-reading is a skill that any detective must learn.
    “He has no ticket, sir.”
    Chug-chug. Chug-chug. Chug-chug
.
    “Who?”
    “Him, sir. That one with the black hair who is peeking at us. The one in the dirty suitcoat.”
    “Him?” The railway guard points.
    “Yes, him.”
    Up gets the guard.
    The train is still steaming forward at high speed.
    The man pats the child on the head, as if to say “I’m sure you are incorrect, young passenger, but I will ask on your behalf, as a Great Northern Railway employee should.” He fixes his eyes on Sherlock and steadies himself. Then he staggers down the aisle toward him.
    No!
    They are in a sealed rocket. There is no way out. But getting caught is unthinkable. The door at Sherlock’s end of the carriage is several steps up the aisle from where he sits. Glancing around, he notices the opening to a round ventilation can in the ceiling, just slightly narrower than his shoulders. They line the roof every five feet or so.
    Sherlock stands up.
    The sign for Potter’s Bar village flashes by.
    There is no good reason to be on his feet. There is no water closet on this third-class carriage, no place to go for food. It gives away his crime. But he has to do something. What, he isn’t sure. He edges along the bench toward the aisle.
    The locomotive gives a heave and decelerates rapidly. The guard almost falls on his face. Sherlock slips into the aisle and races for the door.
Can someone actually survive a leap from a moving train?
    “You! Young lad!” shouts the guard, so loudly that everyone hears him above the engine chugs and clacking iron wheels.
    Arriving at the door, Sherlock seizes the belt on the window and pulls it. The window falls open. He feels the cold air on his face.
    “Don’t do it, lad!” shouts the guard. He stops no more than six feet away.
    The train rocks violently as its brakes squeal.
    Sherlock looks outside. The ground is still a blur. He doubts he can struggle through the opening without the guard seizing him.
    They must be about to enter