123456789012345678901234567890123456789012345678901234567890123456789012 Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in The Mystery of the Creepy Man by Stuart Wyss-Gallifent February, 2000 I was summoned to 221B Baker Street one morning by one of the Baker Street Irregulars. His name was Jim Davis, and he was about 12 years old. My wife at first mistook him for a vagabond, which was not surprising as he was wearing pants that were ragged, a dirty grey shirt, and a black jacket that was too big for him. Over his unkempt hair, he wore a flat cap, with a small hole in the side of it. My wife was about to send him away from our doorstep, when I came from around the side of the house, and recognized him. "Thank you, my dear," I said to my wife, "I know this boy." Then, turning to the youth, I asked him, "What message do you have?" "It's Mister 'olmes, Sir, 'e tells me to come 'round 'ere and ask you to come over by ten, Sir." Jim tipped his cap toward me. "Thank you, Jim. Please tell Mr. Holmes I will be there." "Right, Sir" and the little urchin quickly ran away down the road. At the noted hour, I arrived at 221B, and ascended the stairs. Since moving out to be with my wife, I marveled at how Holmes had kept the upstairs apartment the same. The umbrella stand outside the door, made from an elephant's foot, and presented by the Mahatma Kowalski, as a token of gratitude for solving the Case of the 343 Colors. In the main room, a great mahogany table stood center, a gift from Graf Moll, covered at one end by books and papers, and at the other, equipment from the local laboratory. Colorful liquids bubbled and frothed within them, and the table bore the stains of numerous spills, and perhaps an explosion or two. Holmes was seated by the fireplace, in his favorite armchair, reading the newspaper. "Ah, Watson, my dear fellow. I perceive you have finally cut down that tree from the side garden!" I started. "Holmes!" I cried, "How did you know? Is there sawdust on my jacket, or mud on my boots? Did I forget to comb a twig from my hair, or snatch a leaf from my lapel?" He chuckled, "The deduction is a simple one. Several weeks ago, you had mentioned that the tree blocked the light, and hindered your morning shave. I perceive that today, your efforts at shaving were excellent, so I deduce that the tree is no longer there!" "It's simple!" I cried. "No, it's not. Otherwise everyone would be a detective!" "True, now, tell me, what is at hand?" "There is some new mystery afoot", he said darkly. "Are you going to keep me out on a limb?" "Enough jokes!" "Sorry, Holmes. I was just having a bit of 'armless fun!" "Enough jokes! This concerns the future of our country, and perhaps the world!" "Surely, Holmes, you are joking. Who could be so influential?" Glancing at his watch, Holmes replied, "His wife will be arriving...now." A knock came from below, and we heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door, and begin walking our visitor up the stairs to meet us. "Who is it?" I whispered. "Shhhh" countered Holmes. A knock came at the door, and Mrs. Hudson opened it and announced our visitor. "Mrs. Christina Gates, Sir." Mrs. Gates, wife of Bill Gates, walked in to our room. Her pretty face was streaked with tears. "Please sit down, and Mrs. Hudson, please bring us some tea," said Holmes. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes", sobbed Mrs. Gates. She sat down on the chaise lounge, and held a handkerchief up to her face. We waited patiently for a few moments, while Mrs. Hudson brought in some tea, served us, and left. Then the great detective spoke first. "What is so pressing, Mrs. Gates? Your telegram spoke of an urgent matter, and yet you didn't come here right away." Mrs. Gates stopped sobbing, and looked at us. "You're...right. I didn't know if I should..." Then the full implication of what Holmes said hit her. "However did you know that?" "Mrs. Gates, there are several clues that I notice. One is the fact that your boots are spattered with mud. You must have come into town on the early train, and not been able to catch a taxi at that early hour. A dog cart was likely your mode of transport, since you would have no mud splashes inside a taxi. Clutched in your left hand is the ticket stub, which I note is for the 6:40 AM train. This train arrives in London at 9:05 AM. The station is a mere fifteen minutes from here, and yet it's been over an hour since you arrived at the train station." "Mr. Holmes, if you can tell all that, perhaps you can help me!" "First, please tell me why you didn't arrive earlier." "I wasn't sure, Mr. Holmes, if I should bother you with this matter. I sent the telegram, came down to London, but then reconsidered, and wondered if there was anything you could do for me." "I promise my utmost to try to help." "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, all I ever wanted was a normal life-" "A normal life?" I interrupted, "A normal life? You married the richest nerd in the world, to live in a house where the coat closet is bigger than 221B Baker Street, where the walls have LCD flat-panel screens in them to change the views, where the house is automated, where your husband pulled down and rebuilt the entire side of a mountain just so his air conditioned garage could be built into the side of it, where- " "Watson, calm yourself," ordered my friend, "Be satisfied with what you have." "I'm sorry, Holmes, but no-one needs that much money." "The Gates family lives a different life," said Holmes, philosophically, "And we must remember that, and consider that. Mrs. Gates, please continue." "I will, Mr. Holmes. It's about my husband, Bill. Things had been going very well recently. Windows 2000 was about to be released. He'd almost completely stolen the source code to Java from Sun Microsystems. Then these strange phases began...." "Go on", I encouraged. "Well, he would work for hours and hours on end, staying up night after night after night, then he would sleep for days on end. Then things would be normal for a week or two. Then he would cycle again, and work and work like crazy." "Sounds a bit manic," I muttered. Mrs. Gates heard me, and said, "I agree. It did at first. But then I began to notice a pattern." "Excellent!" cried Holmes, "First class!" "I am in charge of the mail. Occasionally, a small wrapped package would arrive. He told me never to open them. Always, the day after the package arrives, he begins to work like crazy. He'll work straight for four days, then sleep for four days. Then he'll be normal again until the next package arrives." "Could there be drugs in the package?" I suggested. "We have drug-sniffing Pentium Vs that check all the packages. I'm sure it's not drugs." "Something arrives in those packages, though," commented Holmes, "and I would like to see Mr. Gates for myself. Have you any idea, Mrs. Gates, how often the packages arrive?" "Why yes, Mr. Holmes. I have the dates here. November 10, December 1, December 22, January 12, February 2, and the last one arrived February 23." "Capital! You'll note, Dr. Watson, and Mrs. Gates, that each date is exactly 21 days apart!" "You're right!" I cried, "But I'm still in the dark." "Me, too," agreed Mrs. Gates. "Me, three," said Holmes, "While the 21 days is suggestive, it's by no means conclusive. Mrs. Gates, I will telegram you shortly, and let you know when we will be coming to visit. Please let us know if anything new develops." "I will, Mr. Holmes, and thank you." She rose, and walked out. "Holmes?" I asked, "What do you think is going on?" "I'm not sure." He took a slip of paper, and jotted down some notes. I peered over at what he was writing, but I didn't understand them. They looked like book titles. One was "Deoxyribonucleic Acid and You", and another was "Coding the Human Genome". Holmes folded the paper, then pressed a button on his watch. A few minutes later, a knock at the door sounded, and Jim Davis, that Baker Street Irregular, came in. "Yessir, Mr. 'olmes, sir?" "Jimmy, take this to the public library and check these books out for me." "Liberry? Yessir, Mr. 'olmes, sir!" He scampered out the door. "Holmes?" I asked, "What now?" "My good doctor. This case may prove to be very interesting. I will call you if anything new develops. Do you think you can visit the Gates household in a few weeks with me?" "Certainly." "Excellent! Until then!" Then came quicker than I expected. It had scarcely been a fortnight (two weeks) when Jimmy delivered a note to my door during breakfast. It simply read: Pack and Come At Once. Victoria. 9:05. -S.H. Hastily throwing a few fresh collars, a bow tie, and some under garments into a bag, I kissed my wife good-bye, asked her to e-mail a friend to take care of my practice, grabbed my bowler hat, and headed for Victoria Street Station. It was nigh on nine o'clock when I walked onto the platform. Holmes waved at me from a nearby train window, and I got on board and found him alone in a compartment. "Watson! I'm glad you could come!" "I fear I almost didn't make it. There was a traffic jam at Picadilly." "Tut tut, don't worry. You made it." "Yes, but what has happened? Have you received news from Mrs. Gates?" Without saying a word, Holmes handed me a telegram, dated that morning. It read: Come at once. A package arrived last night, B is working like crazy. "It's early," I commented. "Yes, about a week early. I believe I am closer to the truth, but I must see this Gates fellow myself." And with that, he lapsed into silence again, and remained that way for the duration of the trip. I asked him several times about his being closer to the truth, but he kept his eyes closed. I tried odd remarks about the weather, the changing countryside, and even offered him a drink when the refreshment trolley came down the passageway. He would simply nod or shake his head, ever so slightly. As our train slowed down, he opened his eyes, and said, “This must be our stop." We got off at Microsofttown, and were met by an extremely long stretch limousine. It was an amazing sight to behold, especially when compared to the simple dogcarts and taxis of London. The drive to the Gates's residence was uneventful, and Holmes and I looked out of the windows as we drew close, to obtain a view of the infamous house. It was a fantastic site. As we climbed the mountainside, we passed the air-conditioned garage, the monorail station, the petting zoo, a water theme park, prison, and blimp inflation station. The main house stood at the top of the mountain - a truly futurist building, made of weird angles, lines, and shapes. Glass abounded, but not in the usual places. Triangles met circles, and tangented with squares and rectangles. Frank Lloyd Wright would have gone crazy. To one side was a tall glass tower, with the blimp docking station at the top. The blimp was not there. Our car pulled around the driveway, and stopped at one of the six entrances on the front. The doors of the house slid quietly open, and Mrs. Gates came out to greet us. "Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson. Thank you for coming so quickly. He's in quite a state right now!" We followed her into the house. As we passed through the lobby, I was aware that I was being scanned by hidden computers within the walls. It felt like a slight heat wave, and my eye caught the flicker of a laser retina scan. Holmes must have felt it to, for he asked our host, "What was that?" "Each entrance has scanners built into the walls and ceiling. It scans each individual as they enter, and determines their biodata. This is looked up in a central computer." "How would the system respond to intruders?" I asked. "An alarm would sound five times. If the intruder didn't leave, the alarm would sound five more times. Then lasers would emerge from several points and totally disintegrate the intruder." "Who arms the system at night?" "No one. It is always on." "Why weren't we disintegrated?" "The computer recorded your biodata, but since I am with you, it determined that you were friendly." "Fascinating," remarked Holmes, who had remained quiet during this exchange, "I suppose these events with your husband are not related to anyone visiting whose visits coincidentally coincide with the packages?" "No, but there is something strange," replied Mrs. Gates. "Yes?" "Follow me," and we followed her down a hallway and into a room with a data terminal on the desk. She sat down, and entered a code. A list of dates and data flashed passed. She explained what we were looking at. "For some reason, the system has not been recognizing my husband recently. We're assuming it's a bug in Windows 98, since there are many bugs in that system. Most days he can just walk right through, but every so often, the alarm sounds, and he has to enter the passcode in the lobby." "Watson!" hissed Holmes, "Look at the dates!" "They match!" I cried. "Oh my god, they do!" exclaimed Mrs. Gates, "Whatever does this mean?" "It means that whatever is in those packages causes your husband's biodata to change. Then the computer won't recognize him." "What would cause that?" I asked. "All in good time. Mrs. Gates, can we see your husband?" "Of course, follow me," and we followed her back down the hall, through an atrium, and into an office suite. There he sat. The richest man in the world. He was in his dressing gown, a sensible navy design. His hair was disheveled, and he looked at though he hadn't shaved for a few days. His whole face looked dazed. He was hunched over his desk, furiously typing on three different terminals. His hands moved faster than imaginable, and his eyes flashed from screen to screen. A low mumbling came to our ears. "What is that?" I whispered at Holmes. "It's hexadecimal," he whispered back, "Look on the desk." I looked, and saw an opened mail package. Suddenly Bill looked up. I'll never forget the look of that crazed man. His wide unblinking eyes bored holes into my mind. He jumped up, screamed "0E DF 40!", and bolted through the patio doors into the garden, his blue dressing gown like a cape behind him, and his striped pajama bottoms flashing in the sun. Holmes rushed for the desk, and picked up the package. Gingerly he reached inside, and pulled out a syringe. "Drugs?" I asked. "No, Windows 2000 code. He's been injecting himself with Windows 2000 coded in raw DNA! That accounts for the brief periods of energy, the down times, and the normal times." "What do you mean? How?" cried Mrs. Gates. "Well, Windows 2000 runs everything super efficiently for a few days, then crashes for a few days. By then, his system has absorbed the new DNA, and he returns to normal." "And," I concluded, "when he has Windows 2000 DNA in him, the security system doesn't recognize him, and tried to kill him." "Exactly!" Holmes stared out the door, trying to spot Mr. Gates. Suddenly we heard the klaxon sound....once...twice.... "It's Bill! It must be. He must have gone around and come in the front!" cried Mrs. Gates. She ran down the hallway. We followed her. Three...Four...Five... Once...Twice..Three... "Why doesn't he type in the passcode?" cried Mrs. Gates. Four...Five...a loud hum came from the lobby, and a flash of light. We all three rushed in a the same moment. There, on the floor, lay the smoldering remains of a pair of striped pajama bottoms, and a few tatters of navy material. "Bill!" screamed Mrs. Gates, and she rushed forwards, and knelt by the smoky scraps. Later that day we were on our way back to London. I had a few more questions for my illustrious companion. "Holmes, why would anyone do that to themselves?" "Watson, you should read the Times more often. There have been a large number of mergers recently that have threatened Microsoft. Mr. Gates was trying to stay ahead of the competition by increasing his efficiency." "Why didn't he enter the pass code? He's done it before." "I don't think we'll ever know. I suspect, however, that since this dose of DNA came much sooner than usual, his system hadn't rid itself of the last batch. As a result, he was incapacitated, and couldn't enter the code." "Ah yes, it did come early. I wonder why." "Probably because he'd finally taken over the Sun JAVA code, which we all know is really efficient. It enabled his computers to create the next batch ahead of schedule." I sighed, and stared out the window, lost in thought. "You could call it 'The Mystery of the Creepy Man'," said Holmes. "Holmes! How ever did you know I was wondering about that?" "Elementary, my dear Watson!"