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In
London
,
Arthur
checked
into
a
small
hotel
above
a
pub
in
Hopewell
Place
,
thinking
that
the
name
might
well
be
prophetic
.
He
lunched
alone
at
a
small
but
select
restaurant
,
then
took
a
taxi
to
Buckingham
Palace
.
He
had
missed
the
changing
of
the
guard
,
but
he
planned
to
see
it
another
day
.
He
felt
comfortable
wandering
about
the
streets
of
the
city
and
greeted
passers
-
by
with
a
"
Top
of
the
day
"
or
"
Smashing
afternoon
.
"
He
decided
tomorrow
he
would
buy
a
bowler
and
an
umbrella
.
For
the
first
time
in
his
memory
,
there
were
people
around
him
who
spoke
as
he
did
.
The
traffic
moved
on
the
correct
side
of
the
street
,
and
the
bobbies
gave
him
a
sense
of
security
.
He
visited
the
Tower
of
London
and
the
British
Museum
,
and
dined
on
fish
and
chips
and
warm
English
beer
.
When
he
went
to
his
room
that
night
,
remembering
his
favorite
Sherlock
Holmes
movies
,
he
made
a
mental
note
to
visit
221b
Baker
Street
the
next
day
.
He
would
inspect
the
place
and
make
sure
it
was
being
kept
up
as
a
suitable
memorial
to
the
great
detective
.
He
felt
he
had
come
home
at
last
.
The
next
morning
,
the
loud
ticking
of
the
wall
clock
was
the
first
thing
Allen
heard
.
He
opened
his
eyes
and
stared
around
him
.
He
jumped
out
of
bed
.
It
was
an
old
-
fashioned
hotel
,
with
an
iron
bedstead
,
curlicue
-
patterned
wallpaper
and
a
threadbare
rug
on
the
floor
.
It
sure
was
no
Holiday
Inn
.
He
looked
for
the
bathroom
,
but
there
was
none
.
Allen
pulled
on
his
trousers
and
peered
out
in
the
hallway
.
Where
the
hell
was
he
?
He
went
back
to
the
room
,
dressed
and
headed
downstairs
to
see
if
he
could
identify
his
surroundings
.
On
the
stairs
,
he
passed
a
man
coming
up
with
a
tray
.
"
Bit
o
’
breakfast
,
gov
’
nah
?
"
the
man
asked
.
"
Bloomin
’
lovely
day
.
"
Allen
ran
down
the
steps
,
out
the
front
door
,
into
the
street
,
and
looked
around
.
He
saw
the
black
taxicabs
with
the
big
license
plates
,
the
pub
sign
,
the
traffic
on
the
wrong
side
of
the
street
.
"
Holy
shit
!
What
the
hells
going
on
?
What
the
hell
’
s
the
matter
with
me
?
"
He
ran
up
and
back
,
shouting
,
terrified
and
angry
at
the
same
time
.
People
turned
to
look
at
him
,
but
he
didn
’
t
care
.
He
hated
himself
for
waking
up
in
different
places
all
the
time
,
for
not
being
able
to
control
himself
.
He
just
couldn
’
t
take
this
anymore
.
He
wanted
to
die
.
He
dropped
to
his
knees
and
beat
his
fists
into
the
curb
,
tears
rolling
down
his
cheeks
.
Then
,
realizing
that
if
a
policeman
came
by
,
he
’
d
be
hauled
off
to
the
nut
house
,
Allen
jumped
to
his
feet
.
He
dashed
back
to
his
room
,
where
he
found
in
his
suitcase
a
passport
with
the
name
"
Arthur
Smith
.
"
Inside
it
was
the
receipt
of
a
one
-
way
plane
ticket
to
London
.
Allen
slumped
on
the
bed
.
What
had
Arthur
had
in
mind
?
Crazy
bastard
!
Searching
through
his
pockets
,
he
found
seventy
-
five
dollars
.
Where
was
he
going
to
get
the
money
to
get
home
?
A
return
ticket
would
probably
cost
three
or
four
hundred
bucks
.
