221b Baker Street Flat Novels & Stories

Maybe they’d wipe my memory and start again from scratch again? I’d arranged to see Amelia again that evening at her posh River-way flat. I had the afternoon to kill so decided to take a look at that mysterious old guy’s house properly, the one glimpsed when I’d helped him home on Sunday evening. The grand old place towered above me as the sun cast its shadow down the steep road. I lifted the large brass doorknocker then let it drop. After a minute there came the sound of a handle turning. “Yes, can I help you?” A small grey-haired woman gave me a querulous smile. “Have you made a booking, what’s the name?” She grabbed a large black book off a side table and opened it at a page marker.

THE OTHER MAN ~ANNETTE'S POV~ The address Monica sent me wasn't a hotel. It wasn't a café. It was a pre-war apartment building in Hell's Kitchen. The kind of place that had character, sure, but definitely didn't have a doorman or a concierge service. It wasn't the kind of place Monica Blackwood usually set foot in, let alone visited voluntarily. I checked the text again. Apartment 4B. Don't knock loud. I took a deep breath, gripping my purse strap tight enough to hurt, and walked up the three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled like old cooking oil and floor wax.

I explain as I struggle with the lock, "There is no way he is ever passing this door again! Sorry, I had the locks changed this morning and they're stiff to open... at last!" I lead Lucy in and she gives a little gasp as she looks across the room and out of the large picture window opposite. There is nothing spectacular about the flat except that it is halfway up a hill and, at night, the view across the myriad lights of south London is quite beautiful. She walks across to the window, staring out and entranced as I had been the first time I saw it. I come up behind her and slip my arms around her waist. Going onto my toes I kiss the nape of her neck.

During the ride to Hampstead, I watched the glowing red digits climbing steadily on the meter while I pieced together a plan. The doorman at Jock’s mansion block had already gone home for the night, but the caretaker recognized me and buzzed me through into the foyer. “What happened to your ear?” “Insect bite,” I replied. “Got infected.” The staircase inside gleamed with polished mahogany, the brass stair-rods shining beneath the chandeliers. Jock’s flat lay in darkness. I opened the door quietly and immediately noticed the blinking red light on the alarm panel. It wasn’t armed.

But in the morning, after the building visit, after the afternoon in James's office going through drawings and staircase options and material specifications, when James mentioned the flat again and said his colleague was happy to show it if they had an hour, she had said yes before Ethan could answer. The flat was on the third floor of a Georgian terrace on a quiet street in the New Town. The building had the particular restrained elegance of its period, the facade all clean lines and correct proportions and the kind of understatement that required complete confidence to pull off. The colleague, a woman named Fiona who managed several properties in the area, met them at the door and took the

Apartment twenty, the killer’s, was blank. “The manager’s in number four, right around the corner,” Malomond said, moving forward into the hallway. Conner followed him into a dim corridor covered with dark brown industrial carpet. Bare light bulbs hung at regular intervals from a dirty white ceiling, none of them lit. The hallway smelled old and musty. Cleaning and maintenance were clearly not priorities in this place. Joyous Mexican guitar music streamed from one of the nearby apartments.

Bahnhofstrasse 42. Luxury apartment building. Old. Historic. Expensive. "Your father owned an apartment here?" Sienna asked. Staring up at the building. "Apparently. One more secret. One more thing he never mentioned." They entered. Modern lobby. Doorman who verified their identification. Key. Documentation proving Dante was Alessandro's heir. "Apartment 7B. Seventh floor. Elevator is to your right." The apartment was immaculate. Professionally maintained. Clearly used but preserved. Like a museum of Alessandro's life.

she said. “And the moment anything feels wrong — anything at all — you leave immediately, non-negotiable.” “Non-negotiable,” she agreed. “I’ll set up the recording equipment,” he said. “And then you’re going to tell me everything you know about Lila’s apartment layout.” ----- Lila’s apartment was on the fourteenth floor of a building in the east seventies — all polished stone and understand wealth. The doorman recognized Sloane immediately. “Mrs. Blackwell,” he said with a smile.

My suitcase is taken by someone, and Alfred drives me to Ruby‘s flat. Ruby resides in the penthouse apartment. on her ground floor. There are just two doors. This is a penthouse with just two units. Alfred exclaims, "Someone just moved in next door," as soon as we get to the floor. The door of that unit is still open. The owner must still be quite busy with his belongings. A portion of the cardboard was placed facedown on the ground.