Authors: Unknown
The instinct of self-preservation
stilled his tongue.
His
dark face was now ashen.
Holmes completed his thought. "A
name was men
tioned.
It had to be, so that you knew the threats were
not
idle bombast. It was the insidious Chu San Fu."
A shudder passed through Hassim's
frame. Then a
strange
thing happened. The dealer's face rose from his
hands
and a fatalistic calmness spread over his features.
It
was as though he had thought: "One can only die
once."
His backbone regained rigidity.
"That is correct, Mr. Holmes.
The name is known to
me
and to any other art dealer as well. A shadowy fig
ure
headquartered in London who has invaded, nay as
saulted,
the art world. His Chinese collection, especially
the
Tang vases, is common knowledge and parts of it
have
been exhibited." His voice faded for a moment
and
Holmes turned to me with a nod, a reminder of our
conversation
with Inspector MacDonald.
"A gesture toward
respectability," I said, by way of
indicating
that I was tuned to my friend's thoughts. -
"Correct, Doctor Watson,"
said the Turk. There was
added
respect in his eyes. "The man has to be a criminal.
He
has no rating in international banking circles, but
his
funds seem unlimited."
"A modern Monte Cristo"
commented Holmes.
His remark served as a prod to
Hassim's thoughts.
"He
has a collection of Eastern art that would rival the
possessions
of the fictional count. He has outbid the
market
and, when that is not expedient, I'm given to
understand
that blackmail and theft are not beyond
him."
I shook my head in despair. "For
what purpose?
Currency
notes are anonymous and surely preferable to one on the opposite side
of the law."
Hassim's vitality seemed to return
as the subject of
the
conversation gripped him.
"There, gentlemen, I can
speak with authority for I
have
seen and I know. Some men grow beyond the
thirst
for money because they have so much. Some out
grow
the more driving compulsion for power, for one
man
can have just so much of that. Then they are sus
ceptible
to a malady that can be diagnosed as an at
tempt
by each to satisfy his severest critic, which is him
self.
They sit in a room, possibly a secret room, regard a piece of green
quartz, and say, 'Only I in all the world
possess
a piece of jade of this size and quality. I am
superior
in this respect to those who rival me in wealth
and
power.' "
The Turk was sincere. His words
rang with convic
tion
but I found it hard to follow his reasoning.
"Should I possess the
finest-known piece of jade," I
said,
"I would surely wish to show it to friends, possibly
have
it exhibited occasionally as the property of J. H.
Watson,
M.D."
"But you are delightfully
normal, ol' chap," said
Holmes.
"Hassim speaks of a rare breed, but they do
exist."
The dealer's words tumbled forth
in response to the
irresistible
stimuli of attentive listeners. "Hypothetically,
Doctor,
let us imagine you are still normal but with far
greater
assets. Might you not will a priceless collection
to
one of your many British museums, providing that it
was
displayed as the Watson collection? Or might you
not
endow a university with a library to be known as
the
Watson Library?"
As I shifted somewhat
uncomfortably in my seat,
Holmes
painted another fanciful picture. "Or you might
finance
an expedition if you were assured of having a
mountain
named after you. You will recall, ol'
fellow,
that
even Moriarty could not resist displaying that genuine Greuze
painting in his study."
"And look where it got him,"
I argued. "That was
the
clue that set you on his trail. All this perpetuation of a name does
strike me as ostentatious."
"But normal, Watson, and we
could hardly give you ten lashes for that. Many museums couldn't
exist without private collections or objects on loan for
showing."
Hassim, obviously charmed to find
a kindred spirit in rapport with his thinking, ploughed ahead. "As
you say,
normal, Mr.
Holmes. But the abnormal . . . the elu
sive
few who dp not seek to impress their associates, for
they
care not what others think. A perpetuation of then-name may be
impossible if their history is too infamous
to
bear inspection. Pride they have, possibly more than
anyone,
but they only crave to impress their demanding
inner
voices.
"What of all the rare
paintings, the statuary, the dra
peries
and rugs and snuff boxes and jewels that have
disappeared?
If they were exhibited many of them
would
be recognized and rapidly, too."
"You feel they are residing
in one of those secret
rooms
you spoke of," said Holmes, obviously intrigued.
"They have to be somewhere.
They are displayed in
a
sense, but only to an audience of one. The ultimate hoarder who sucks
up their beauty, delights in their
irreplaceable
value and silences his inner voice by say
ing:
'These are mine. I am unique.' "
Hassim's convincing words conjured
up in my mind a
Scrooge-like
character in an ancient attic, cackling over
a
secret trove by the light of a flickering candle. I fear
my
expression still reflected disbelief. The Turk was im
mediately
sensitive to this.
"Doctor, the ultimate hoarder
is nothing new in his
tory.
Recall, if you will, the Pharoahs of Egypt who,
like
most absolute rulers, took much and returned little.
They
carried a great part of their wealth with them to
their
graves."
"But that practice had
religious overtones," I said,
quickly.
"As it did with the Thracian
chieftains who were bur
ied
with their gold," said Holmes, "but the parallel is
still
valid. Of course, what the Pharoahs had buried
with
them, to the later delight of grave robbers, was theirs to do with
what they would. But the ultimate
hoarder,
a nice phrase that, secretes much that is not his for his ego
satisfaction."
Holmes's eyes returned to the art
dealer.
"You feel that Chu San Fu is
one of this type?"
Hassim's reply was prompt. "I'm
sure of it. There are
others,
of course. Basil Selkirk of England; Ruger of
Sweden;
Manheim of Germany. There are several Russians, one who collects
watches with no questions asked.
The
Americans are rather new to the game but they will produce some of
the breed."
The Turk exhibited a wan smile for
us both. His sigh
was
a deep one. "Gentlemen, an interesting conversa
tion
and a subject which fascinates me, but now does
not
the piper have to be paid?"
Since Holmes merely looked at him
quizzically, he
continued,
though the words came hard: "One has to
circulate
if only for business reasons. I am acquainted
with
Colonel Sakhim of the Turkish Secret Police and know that he
corresponds with you, Mr. Holmes. He is
quite
an admirer of yours, by the way. Is it to him that
we
go?"
"You refer to your selling
the Bird, an object which
no
longer belonged to you, to the Oriental intermediary.
Hmm!
A problem, indeed!"
Holmes indulged in a weighted
pause but I suspected
what
his next move would be. My friend was never
averse
to playing the role of prosecutor, judge, and jury
simultaneously
and his record of leniency was rather
good,
a fact known to readers of "The Adventure of the
Blue
Carbuncle." He did not disappoint me.
"I am not a family man, but
it takes little to realize
the
pressures that you were subjected to. So, Mr. Has
sim,
we shall not visit the esteemed Colonel and, instead, mark this
down as a most instructive happening
in
your life. One that will underscore the value of scru
pulous
honesty."
The art dealer just stared at
Holmes in complete
amazement.
Then tears welled in his eyes and, following
creases,
slowly moved down his face; but he made no
movement
to brush them away. His voice was that of a
somnambulist.
"My great grandfather cut
rare stones. My grandfather, and father, dealt in art objects,
as do I, and dur
ing
this near century the House of Hassim has pre
served
the highest reputation. Only I transgressed."
Holmes was showing signs of
discomfort, a rare thing
for
him. He had an intense aversion to any display of
feeling,
especially one of deep gratitude.
"Come now, let us not be
emotional," he said. I was
prepared
to rise, sensing that Holmes would beat a
hasty
retreat, but he surprised me. "Is there not some
thing
else you wish to tell me about this unusual affair?"
The question so startled Hassim
that his flow of tears
terminated
abruptly. "I
...
I was about to mention it.
How
did you know?"
"It had to be." Holmes
shot a glance in my direction. "Missing piece, you know."
I nodded with counterfeit
certitude, not having the
faintest
idea what he was thinking of.
Hassim, who now regarded my friend
with complete
awe,
spoke rapidly: "The very next night another man came to my shop.
He also wanted the Golden Bird and
did
not choose to believe that it was gone. He felt I was
haggling
for a better price. With him was a very large
man
who spoke with a strange accent, though he was English."
"Cockney," I exclaimed,
automatically.
Hassim shook his head. "He
was, I believe, from
what
you call the section of Lancashire. When I kept
insisting
that the Bird was no longer in my possession,
the
large man grabbed me by the throat. I still have the marks."