The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

“Holmes, for the love of God, you owe me a bit of an explanation. Why such a trick?”

I was annoyed, not so much because I had failed to recognise him, but because I had been doubly fooled and had to suffer through Holmes’s obvious sarcasm and Gregson’s deep satisfaction.

“Please accept my apologies, Watson. You have played a vital role so far in this affair and will continue to do so. Please accompany Mr. Gregson into the other room and exchange clothes with him. And pack a further change of clothes, your own, into this sack and bring it along. I shall explain all in due course.”

As he spoke, Holmes went over to the settee, moved it, and then lifted the floor. It was an old hiding place that he had used on many occasions in the past. He placed the package in the large space below, replacing the floor and the settee in quick, deliberate motions. He then peered through the curtains at the street below and smiled quietly.

I did as he requested, and with his help looked as much the delivery man as Gregson, who remained behind, hidden in my bedroom.

Holmes’s conduct so far I found totally bewildering, and as usual in his haste he chose not to offer any explanation. We crossed Baker Street, then proceeded through a back alley to an abandoned building, where Holmes picked the lock and we entered easily. Here we changed into our street clothes, leaving the delivery men’s uniforms in a heap on the floor.

“There is little time to talk, Watson. We are close to a final meeting with an archcriminal. It will be dangerous, but I believe we have every chance of success.”

Now in our usual dress, Holmes and I went out on the street and walked home. Holmes’s eyes scoured every passers-by, but we did not stop until we had reached our quarters.

“And now, Watson,” said he as we entered, “unless I miss my guess, the bell will ring in a few minutes, and Mrs. Hudson will usher in our next guest.”

In less than five minutes the bell sounded, and Mrs. Hudson, a perplexed look on her face, said that there was a gentleman to see us. She ushered in a Buddhist monk in saffron robes. His face had a definite European cast to it despite the shaven head and the other accoutrements of his religion.

Holmes’s eyes flashed with the delight of a fisherman who has just felt a great tug on his line.

“Watson,” he said almost gleefully, “I would like to present to you Mr. Jack Evans, who, if I am not mistaken, hails from Salt Lake City. He is wanted in America in seven different states for burglary and illegal entry. He has been one of the mainstays of the Anton Furer gang.”

The monk’s demeanour changed as soon as Holmes had identified him.

“‘I’m not here to argue with ya, Holmes. Where’s the stuff? Furer sent me and this time he ain’t kiddin.’”

The absurd contradiction between the monk’s costume and his rough American brought a smile to my lips. But it was short-lived. The door to the flat was suddenly thrown open and another monk stood before us.

“And this,” said Holmes without turning around to look at the intruder, “is the infamous Anton Furer, the chief art thief of our time. My compliments, Anton, for having evaded arrest for so long. I an delighted that you could not resist coming here. Please be seated.”

“I have no time to waste, Holmes. This is the last time that you have interfered with my plans. Please, we are both armed and neither of us is prepared to leave without the object for which we came.”

Furer was a taller than I expected, thinner, more desperate-looking than I had imagined, with eyes that darted quickly through the room, examining everything in sight as he spoke. As he searched, he found nothing, and an oath passed through his lips.

“Where is it, Holmes?” he asked.

“I am afraid that it is not available for inspection,” said Holmes, lighting his pipe. “Evans,” he continued, “be so good as to look out the window onto the street. If you do, you will notice that this building is surrounded by police.”

“He’s bluffing,” said Furer.

“No, he’s not. Raise your hands, please.”

The words came from Gregson, who had suddenly opened the door as if by signal from Holmes. In an instant, Holmes had disarmed Furer and clapped a gun to Evans’s head. The bewildered Furer gave no further resistance.

“I invite you, Anton, to look below if you wish. I assure you that even had you been able to murder us, your arrest was inevitable. I should tell you also that your colleagues at the Oriental Society of London have been apprehended as well. You know, you really should have learned by now.”

An evil scowl covered Furer’s face, for Holmes had entrapped him easily, and so great was the anger that shown through his eyes that I imagined that he would have torn Holmes and the rest of us limb from limb had he been able to free himself. Gregson handcuffed him and Evans and led them into the street, where they were immediately taken to jail.

“Well, Holmes, you must be pleased with yourself. A very easy end to a long career of criminal activity. My congratulations and, if I may add, my mystifications. Somehow I feel as though I have missed most of the tale.”

“You have, Watson, and through no fault of your own. Most of what transpired over the last two days is simply the end of a very long sequence of events, the major part of which transpired in India a long time ago, a part with which you could not be familiar. Perhaps it would be of interest if I related to you the parts of this story that remain hidden from view.”

“Indeed,” said I. “It would be most helpful.”

“But first, a look at the treasure that eluded Furer’s grasp and eventually led to his downfall.”

Holmes removed the small rug from the centre of the room and quickly lifted the floor boards. He removed the package that he had stored below and unwrapped it, revealing a bust of the Buddha. Holmes turned the statue on its side and tapped the bottom with his fingers.

“It is hollow, as I thought,” he said. “Watson, quickly, let me have the large shears from your bag.”

I handed them over. Holmes took them and broke a hole through the rather thin plaster that covered the bottom. In a few minutes he had carved a large hole, revealing a space inside the statue in which we now could see a rectangular object covered with what appeared to be a piece of cloth. It was a piece of silk brocade in red and gold, very old and worn, but still of the greatest beauty. As soon as the hole was large enough for it to pass through, Holmes inserted his hand and pulled it forth. His eyes were bright with excitement now.

“Now,” he said, “Watson, if I am not mistaken, we have here one of the great treasures of the ancient world.”

He lay the object on the table, and proceeded to unwrap it. A golden object appeared, a small box or chest, with magnificent designs and sculptures on it. There appeared to be some ancient form of writing on it amidst the designs.

Holmes smiled. “I had this almost in my hands several years ago, and thought that it might be forever lost. Do you know what it is?”

“I must say it is impressive. Is it perhaps a reliquary?”

“It contains the royal jewels of Kanishka, king of the Kushans, a war-like race who controlled a vast empire that stretched from northern India well into central Asia almost two thousand years ago. There is an inscription on the cover in their script, the Kharosthi, if memory serves, which bears testimony to this. Let us remove the cover and see what it contains.”

It was indeed as Holmes had claimed. The box was filled with the most beautiful gold jewellery, studded with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.

“Look at this, Watson!” he cried. He was holding a large ring of gold. It had two beautifully intertwined serpents carved on its sides and at its top the swastika, the ancient symbol of good luck. It glistened in the late afternoon sun that was now streaming through the window.

“Try it on, Watson,” he said, dropping it into my left hand. “It is a rare opportunity to share the experience of a king of antiquity.”

Holmes continued to examine the box. He had removed the jewellery and now stood holding the box to the light, then to his ear. I saw him press with great force on its left side. There was a sudden noise, like the release of a spring, and I heard him utter a short cry of delight.

“Aha! Watson, there is more. Look, a false bottom. A rather interesting spring device that has released it. Let us see what else there is.”

Holmes lifted the false bottom out of the box and placed it with the jewellery on the table. There was revealed a small cloth bag, made of the same brocade that had covered the box, and what appeared to be a small scroll made of a material that I could not immediately identify. Holmes unfurled the scroll, upon which there were some ancient characters.

“Birch bark,” he said, “one of the most ancient writing materials. And a short inscription in the ancient Prakrit. Let us see if we can read it.” Holmes held his glass to the scroll, concentrated deeply for a few moments, and then said:

“Write this down, Watson, for I can read almost all of it: ‘The jewels of Kanishka are nothing compared to this, this lock of hair of the Buddha Shakyamuni, the Enlightened One.’ So, we now know what the bag contains: a true relic of the Buddha himself, perhaps taken at the time of his enlightenment, or perhaps at his death. It is not for us to know, Watson. I suggest that unbelieving infidels such as we not open the bag, that that be done by others closer to the ancient forms of belief than we are.”

He placed the bag and the scroll back in the reliquary and restored the false bottom to its original place. “It is growing late,” he said. “Perhaps, we should dine, and over a good cigar and a brandy I shall tell you how all of this came about.”

“And so, Watson, Furer is finally where he belongs—in the hands of the authorities, and his long criminal career is finally at an end.”

I watched him as he lit his cigar, relaxing in his favourite chair. His eyes were bright, and he could scarcely contain his pleasure.

“I appreciate your elation at the outcome, my dear Holmes, but certain portions of the affair continue to elude me. How did you know that Furer would fall so easily into your hands? And how did you know what was hidden in the second statue? How, indeed, did you know that anything at all was contained in it?”

Holmes heard the slight irritation in my voice which I had taken pains to conceal, unsuccessfully however, for I was still smarting from my failure to see through his disguise and that of Gregson. His tone of voice became even more self-satisfied, and I felt as if salt were being poured on my wounds.

“As to your first question, Watson, it is simplicity itself. One must know one’s criminals. That is all. Furer was a thief, to be sure, but he had a well-developed aesthetic sense, a sense of symmetry, shall we say, that in the end was his undoing. He walked into our quarters as I walked into his camp in the Tarai several years ago. He also possessed throughout his career a deep sense of invincibility that on occasions past had led him to risk his life foolishly. I knew therefore that he would want to close the circle with me, so to speak. And he did, to his final defeat, I’m afraid. As to the other questions, well, my dear friend, knowing my own remarkable powers of deduction, I venture to say that I would have quickly deduced the fact that one of the statues contained something unusual from the circumstances of the case alone. In this instance, however, I actually knew it. Indeed, I had been expecting its arrival, though the exact time and place were unknown to me. As Ridlington spoke, I realised that the first statue was a decoy, put there by one of Furer’s own henchman to outwit him. Once the good colonel had told his story, I saw how the matter would end, even to the last detail. The visit to Gloucestershire merely corroborated my hypothesis and permitted me to take possession of the second statue, the one that Furer was so determined to get his hands on. Still, you find the entire case puzzling, Watson, simply because you lack the beginning.”

Drawing in his breath, Holmes suddenly stood up and said: “Watson, it is a beautiful June evening. It will be light for several more hours. Let us stroll towards Green Park, and I shall relate to you the most interesting part of the Furer case.”

The evening was as beautiful as London can provide. The streets were filled with men and women strolling happily, some arm in arm, some walking their dogs, with children playing summer games, and the other happy sounds of a people at peace. It was only when we drew near the park that the crowds abated, and Holmes continued.

“The story begins at a most unusual point. It commences just after the affair concerning Reginald Maxwell.”

“You mean that this story begins when you were in India?” I asked.

“Indeed, it does, Watson. You will recall that while I travelled in India, I had assumed the name of Roger Lloyd-Smith?”

“Indeed, I do,” I replied.

“After the Maxwell affair, I continued to use that name and identity. It was convenient and, above all, believable. I bade good-bye to the Viceroy, and continued my journey. I travelled west by train. My intention was to spend some months in India before I entered the mountains of Afghanistan.

“My first stop after Calcutta was the obvious one: Benares once again, the holiest city of the Hindoos. The ride on the Toofan Express from Calcutta was uneventful, and as I recall, I lodged at the Clarks Hotel, one of the more comfortable establishments in our Indian possessions. I decided that what I needed was a moment of tranquillity after the adventures in Bengal, and so I stayed close to the hotel, venturing forth only in the evening. I spent much time recording the events that had befallen me during the last several months. I spoke to no one except the hotel staff, who were efficient and unobtrusive. The air was cool enough in the evening, and I sat on the wide veranda until dark, when the mosquitoes finally became unbearable.

“On the third night, I wandered on foot into the city. Like all cities of India, it has those nocturnal characteristics that give it a sense of mystery: darkness, the human voice disembodied, the shuffling of countless naked feet, the barking of dogs, the shrieks of jackals and hyenas. But it is still in essence a village, lacking in the metropolitan aspect. It is, after all, a religious centre, one the most revered sites of Hindooism and one of the most ancient cities of the world. I wandered through Godowlia, the town centre. From there I went to the Ganges, to the Dasashvamedha Ghat, one of the major bathing places. It is here, Watson, that the pious Hindoo plans to arrive at his last moment, knowing that to leave this mortal coil here is to guarantee his eternal salvation and liberation from this vale of tears, or Samsara, as they call it in the Sanscrit tongue.”