Authors: Unknown
Leaving the box and twine on the
desk, Holmes rap
idly
secured newspapers with which he blanketed the
small
golden treasure. Tucking his precious cargo under
his
arm, he gestured to me.
"Come, Watson, the game is
not afoot; it is on the
wing."
I followed him out on the landing,
up the stairs to the second story, and into the room that Holmes and
I used
as a
catch-all, though, in truth, I could not remember
the
last time I had been in it. The shelves of books were as I remembered
them along with several sizeable bun
dles
of newspapers awaiting inclusion in Holmes's files. My old army trunk
was in one corner along with several
other
pieces of luggage that we had stowed there. One
wall
was changed completely, however. There was a Ja
cobean
oak bench with a back rest suitable for two to
sit
upon, flanked by end tables. The bench was some
what
recessed in a manner that seemed strange to me.
"I ordered a little
construction work at that time, two years ago, when you felt the call
of Brighton. You recall, ol' chap, the considerable tan which
you acquired at the seashore?"
While speaking, Holmes gestured me
toward the bench, for what reason I could not imagine. As I sat down,
I recalled the brief holiday that my friend re
ferred
to along with the burn induced by the sun and
saltwater
that had been most painful. Holmes had by now locked the door to the
storage room, a most un
usual
action, and joined me on the bench. The fingers of
one
hand fiddled with the oaken side rail and, of a sud
den,
we were moving in a circular fashion. The bench
and
the wall behind it swiveled in a half-circle and I
was
staring into the darkness in a completely reversed
direction
than a moment previous. I was too stunned to
utter
a sound and it was most reassuring to hear Holmes's
heartening
words.
"But a moment, Watson, and
there shall be light on
the
scene."
I heard the sound of a wooden
match and then there
was
a sulphur flame with which my friend ignited a gas
jet.
We were in the house adjacent to 221B. No other
explanation
was possible.
After total darkness, the light
dazzled me momentarily, but soon I observed a room somewhat
sparsely fur
nished
but with definite indications of tenancy.
"Where are we, Holmes?"
I asked, in a rather qua
vering
voice.
"In the lodgings of Hans Von
Krugg, the well-known
language
expert of the University of Munich. The professor is on leave
from his university post to explore the
link
between the ancient Cornish language and the
Chaldean.
His theory is not without supporters in the
academic
field and he has printed several papers on the subject, which,
translated, of course, have appeared in English journals."
"Where . . . where is the
professor?"
"Standing right here with
you, ol' chap. I am Profes
sor
Von Krugg. At least, I have been from time to time
during
the past two years. However, today the professor will experience a
slight identity change. Not a noticable
one
or the idea is unsound."
Completely amazed, I allowed
Holmes to lead me
from
the mechanized bench that had miraculously
transported
us from one address to another and, before
I
knew it, had me seated before a sizeable dressing table
with
a large mirror. On the table top were a number of
tubes
and jars similar to ones I had seen Holmes perform miracles with
before. Various wig-holders dis
played
a variety of toupees, beards and moustaches.
Holmes
surveyed my startled features in the mirror with
a
professional eagerness.
"We shall have to shadow your
face quite a bit, you
know.
The professor is on the thin side. However, his
luxuriant
white beard is his most distinguishable feature
and
it does make it rather difficult to observe his fea
tures.
Very near-sighted, too, you know. Wears thick
glasses.
Most people who view him have their eyes
drawn
to his hump and then look away."
"Hump?"
"Oh yes. The professor is a
hunchback, but he gets around rather nicely with the help of his
cane."
Over my futile protestations,
Holmes was working a dark grease paint into my upper cheeks already.
"You know, Watson, this is
going to work quite well.
I
should have had you play the professor before this. A nice touch to
have Sherlock Holmes and the professor pass each other on the
street."
"Now see here, it's all very
well for you to go charging off in a disguise, but I'm hardly
the type for such
play-acting."
"Come now, Watson, it is much
easier than it might
seem.
Most people give others no more than a cursory
glance.
Have I not, on many occasions, stated that the
Homo
sapiens looks but does not really see. Rather
good
reason for that. Most people are interested in
themselves.
The rest of the world they see, but not too
much
registers. However, for the sake of the prying eyes
without
that I am sure are there, we shall have you ti
died
up in Von Krugg's beard and glasses and with his
loose-fitting
clothes and the rather bent way that he
walks,
your tendency toward
avoirdupois
will be
con
cealed. By
the way, when you walk, be sure to swing your cane somewhat
erratically. You must remember
that.
Small boys sometimes try and touch the back of a
hunchback
because of an old wives' tale of its being good luck. If you flail
around a bit in a short-sighted
way
with your cane, such miscreants will make sure to
avoid
you."
"But; Holmes, this is
ridiculous. What, by all that is holy, gave you the idea of a
hunchback?"
"The anticipation of just
such a situation as we face
today.
The back is the least of our problems since I
have
a splendid hump for you designed by Daziens of New York, according to
my specifications. Inside the hump, of course, will be the Golden
Bird."
With my mouth hanging open in
surprise, I must
have
looked like the dolt, indeed, but Holmes paid me
no
heed nor did he listen to my protestations, which
grew
fainter as he worked his legerdemain. Within fifteen minutes I
did not recognize myself in the dressing-
room
mirror. I could have sworn that I could enter the Bagatelle Club
without drawing one greeting.
As Holmes dressed me in a longish
dark coat, some
what
shiny in spots, and the rest of the professor's regu
lar
habiliments, he cautioned me as to gestures and a
shuffling
walk. By this time, I was quite caught up with
the
idea, for the urge toward exhibitionism lurks within
us
all, however dormant. It was no easy job, for my
friend
rehearsed me strenuously like a dramatic director
intent
on a perfect performance for a thespian.
Some time later, I stood before
Holmes with my
shoulders
hunched forward because of the
ersatz
hump attached to
my back. Within it was secreted the Golden
Bird.
"Now, Watson, should anyone
address you, keep
walking,
by all means, and mumble something. Your German is passable enough
for a few words. The pro
fessor
knows very few people so there is little possibility
of
your being approached.
"Make your way to the
Diogenes Club by the most
direct
route. I have a note here for my brother, Mycroft
,
with whom you will leave the Golden Bird. Once
this
is accomplished, remove the beard and make-up
and
the hump as well. The coat you are wearing is reversable
.
Pull the sleeves inside out and turn the gar
ment
around and you will find that it has a different appearance
altogether. Mycroft will lend you a suitable
hat.
You can then return to our quarters as yourself."
"But what will you be up to,
Holmes? You'll be in danger."
"Tut, tut, ol' fellow, do you
think those two con
stables
of MacDonald have eluded my notice? I shall
make
it apparent that I'm on the premises so that Chu's
watchers
will not think we've flown the coop. And I
shall
be available should the Oriental make some overture as regards
the statue of the roc. You see that your debut in the field of drama
will be most valuable to our
cause."
I was buoyed up by Holmes's
assurance that mine
was
an important task, and my determination to make it a good show had an
added impetus which I did not re
veal
to Holmes. I was most anxious to talk to his older brother, the very
capable and influential Mycroft.
While the following half-hour was
nerve-wracking,
matters
progressed as Holmes had anticipated. Depart
ing
from the edifice adjacent to our quarters, I wan
dered
down the street, attempting to follow my friend's instructions, and
my performance must have been pass
able
since I could detect no one dogging my footsteps,
nor
did anyone greet me as I progressed from Baker
Street
toward Pall Mall and the mysterious Diogenes
Club.
In the public mind, this highly
respectable and sedate
establishment
was the haven for elderly gentlemen devoted to silence, where
members could immerse themselves in the daily journals without
bothersome remarks
from
or to fellow members. Conversation in the meeting
rooms
of the establishment was strictly forbidden. The
idea
was sufficiently bizarre to be completely acceptable
and
arouse no suspicions as to the real purpose of this
most
impressive citadel of silence.
As I mounted the stone steps and
entered between
the
marble pillars to present my card at the desk, sev
eral
venerable members were in evidence reading the
financial
news or dozing with a tot of port at their side
and
partially smoked cigars that had grown cold in mot
tled,
shaky hands. But one can be remarkably observant
when
one knows what to look for. Several of these
seemingly
archaic members had a shoulder breadth un
usual
for their age and their beards and moustaches could well have been
commercially produced, just as
the
pallor of their seemingly lined faces could have
come
from a master of make-up, as my stooped shoul
ders
and bearded visage had. Evidently, I was expected,
for
the club manager who knew me gave no indication
that
my appearance baffled him but accepted my card
and
retreated from the main desk for a brief moment, returning and
signaling for me to follow him.