221b Baker Street Flat の小説・ストーリー

She asked in return. “Ah, not that much,” I answered truthfully. She chuckled as she shook her head. “His and Dr. Watson’s address was 221b Baker Street,” she said and my mouth formed an ‘o’ as I understood the reference. Her flat’s address when she took the second one on the second floor is 2-21b, similar to that of the famous London detective. The elevator opened and she led the way. We stopped in front of a door with a number two. She took her key out but before she put it in the keyhole, she paused.

Like she was reading my mind. She pulled out her phone from her apron. “What’s your address, pretty?” “221B Baker Street, New York, NY 10001,” I said without hesitation. Her eyes widened. “Wow, you must be loaded. That’s a fancy area. That’s where all the wealthy people live.” I laughed. “I wish. I’m just an average girl, trust me.” “I see,” she said, smirking. “Your Uber’s here in about three minutes. Take care of yourself . okay?”

Their flat was on the eleventh floor, there were four doors that led to different flats, Aaliyah and Annah got flat number 456 while JC got 457, he would live next to them. This time Aaliyah didn't complain as she agreed with the selected apartment building, this place was pleasant and modest and moreover this met her request. "Your room is over there." Aaliyah pointed at the second room the moment they entered their flat.. It was a two bedroom flat, which had. Living room, one bathroom , a kitchen and a balcony in each room. It was a fully furnished one so they didn't need to add anything significant. Annah entered the room that was pointed to her and immediately fell in love with the room

“I... thanks. I'll... go get on with that.” I hurry out, finding little relief in the London air. A quick G****e on the phone confirms that a 'flat' is the same as an apartment. The trusty A to Z shows me how to get to Hackney. I'll check out the shop before I phone. Maybe I can just talk to the guy face to face, if he's there. If the apartment has a roof and fits my budget then it could be perfect for me, and the first piece of good luck since I got here. ***

I say, and I get out. I hear both doors open behind me and I walk toward the building at the pace of someone who lives in this street and has done so for years and has no particular reason to be doing anything except walking toward a door. The building's entrance is a plain door and I get to it and I look at the buzzer panel and the ground floor unit is listed as 1A with no name beside it, just the flat number, and I put my hand on the door and push it and it opens. Unlocked.

“What is it?" “What? I called about…” “Yeah yeah right," She interrupted me with a wave of her hand. “There's two flats available. Some bitch moved out today so you're in luck." “Flat 9 still available?" I asked as we walked up the stairs. "Yeah but you don't want that one.” She snorted. "Why not?” "My uncle died in there. Heard the guy who used to live there took off. Didn't even pack his shit. Suspicious weirdo. No one has wanted the flat ever since.”

I nodded. The call ended. I slumped into my seat, staring at the address on the paper. 820 Pixel Street — South Industrial District. Smart of Gary to move her somewhere forgotten. SODO was full of dead spaces — empty warehouses, low security, no questions. I called Axel. “820 Pixel Street. The building next to the old office block,” I said once the call connected. Axel hummed. “She’s there?” “She’s there. Get some men ready,” I said, exhaling.

I said. The flat was on the third floor of a converted building on a quiet residential street. Three buzzers by the door. I pressed the middle one and waited. A long pause. Then a voice through the speaker, young and slightly unsteady. "Who is it?" "Amelia Quinn," I said. "You sent me a package." Another pause. Longer. The door buzzed open.

It was quite late when DI Paul Silver dropped me off at my flat. An old Victorian house that had been converted into flats and I had the one on the top floor. I stood at the communal door and waved him off and instead of going upstairs to the warming comforts that awaited me – I had left the central heating on – I walked up to the churchyard.

I guess there were perks to being a well-dressed, handsome, rich-looking man because, despite the suspicious looks he gave me, he still let me in without further questions. “Thanks, chap.” I patted him on the back before I hurried over to the lift. Stein sent me a flat number, which he claimed likely belonged to Leon. I would have to locate the flat then. The boy followed me into the lift and pressed the 10th-floor button. I frowned at him. “You live in flat 19 or 20?” He frowned at the question. “We own the entire floor, so we live in both flats. My dad owns this entire building complex.”