Unknown (3 page)

"Only to have the elusive
object disappear again." Holmes's eyes were glistening.
Obviously, he was intrigued by the story.

"Now you and Dr. Watson know
what I do," said
Lindquist.

He was suddenly seized by a
violent fit of coughing. I
hastened
to replenish his glass when the attack sub
sided.

"But," said Holmes,
"surely Barker came up with
something.
His methods are unorthodox, but he is effective."

"Was," stated Lindquist.
"Barker was on his way to
my
lodgings on Montague Street when he was run down
by
a four-wheeler. On hearing of the accident—if it was
indeed
that—I made my way to the hospital. Barker
was
in a coma and the doctors gave him no chance.
However,
he regained consciousness at the very last. I could see recognition
in his pain-filled eyes. He said but
one
word: 'Pasha.' Then he died."

Holmes's face was stern. I
remembered Barker
vaguely.
An impassive man who wore gray-tinted
glasses
and had a large Masonic pin in his tie. Evi
dently,
the death of a fellow professional had an effect
on
my friend and his words buttressed my observation.

"We can't just have people
killing off private investi
gators.
You suspect, I gather, that Barker's death had
sinister
overtones?"

Lindquist nodded. "The
four-wheeler has not been
located.
The fact that Barker was on his way to meet
me,
and the importance that he seemed to attach to that final word, makes
me suspect foul play."

Holmes nodded. "Pasha! Does
it mean anything to
you?"

Evidently, it did not. Our visitor
seemed to have recovered somewhat from his racking cough. At
least, his color had improved.

"What would you have me do?"
asked Holmes.

"I give you little to work
with." Lindquist removed
two
envelopes from his pocket, handing one to Holmes.
"Here
is what remains of my original fee. If you agree,
I
shall mail this letter in my hand to Vasil D'Anglas in
Berlin
informing him that I have turned the matter over
to
you because of ill health."

"I see you have the letter to
Germany already
stamped,"
observed Holmes.

Lindquist exhibited a wry smile.
"I was in hope you would agree for—shall we say—old
times' sake."

Holmes responded with a single
nod.

Our visitor had some difficulty
rising from his chair,
His
manner indicated that he wished no assistance. "I
am
in your debt, thought I doubt my ability to honor
the
obligation. Let me bid you good night, gentlemen. A
case report is
with the limited amount of money in that
envelope.
It is my hope that, if you need me further, I
will
be available."

Nils Lindquist made his way to the
door (and out of
our
lives, for word reached us the following day that he
had
died).

Holmes was idly fingering the
envelope given him by
the
art expert, and gazing into space with that faraway
look
which I knew so well. Finally, he tossed the enve
lope
on the side table and turned to me.

"I dared not refuse the poor
man the fee he offered It would have offended him. To be truthful, I
would
have
undertaken the commission just for the interest it inspires."

I felt this an appropriate moment
to introduce one of
my
small ploys. The strange tale of the Golden Bird had
certainly
intrigued me and I was desirous of learning
what
was really going through Holmes's mind. Therefore, I respond
with a hackneyed remark.

"It seems but another pursuit
after wealth. Somewhat
like
a search for pirate treasure, don't you think?"

"Financial gain is always a
strong stimulant," my
friend
replied. "But there are other points of interest.
Harry
Hawker was not without means. At the time Lindquist refers to, when
he stole the Bird in Rhodes,
he
must have been at the end of his notorious career
and
a much-wanted man. Why did he risk capture for
this
statue? An object the size that Lindquist described,
even
of the purest gold, surely could not be that valu
able.
There was no mention of jeweled eyes or an incrus
tation
of precious gems. The prize does not seem to justify the risk."

"Could it be the
workmanship?"

"Lindquist felt the object
was of Greek origin. Were it created by the likes of Cellini, the
great Italian gold
smith,
its worth would be far in excess of the precious
metal
alone." My intimate friend was thoughtful for a
silent
moment. "Then there is the possibility of an un
known
alloy. 'Tis said the ancients were adept at elec
trum,
which is a natural gold-silver alloy. Possibly, it is the method of
metalwork that makes this relic so sought
after."

This idea puzzled me. "Surely,
an artisan of olden
times
could not be superior to our experts in Birming
ham
and Sheffield."

Holmes indulged in a chuckle. "My
dear fellow, ce
ment
was a lost art during the Middle Ages. Even to
day,
our best men cannot duplicate a means of temper
ing
copper developed by the American Indians. It is a
bit
far-fetched, but let us not rule out the theory of a
lost
process."

"I suppose there are any
number of possibilities," I
said,
tentatively.

"None of which we can either
ignore or accept. Our
starting
point is Barker's death. For the nonce, we shall
assume
that our late acquaintance was the victim of assassination. This
leads us to the thought that Barker had learned something—something
which someone did not
want
relayed to Lindquist. But now to bed, for I feel it
in
my bones that there are busy times ahead."

Shortly thereafter, the lights
were extinguished at
221B
Baker Street. Sleep came hard, however, for my
mind
was tantalized by the story of the Golden Bird.
When
dreams came, they were filled with gigantic rocs and strange
alchemists creating weird fantasies in a mysterious laboratory that
was very reminiscent of a
morgue.
As a distant bell tolled an early morning hour,
I
woke with a start to recall that a morgue was exactly where Barker,
the former investigator from Surrey, was at that very moment.

2

Into Action

The following morning, when I
noted the time of my
awakening,
I sprang from bed full of misgivings. The
hour
was late for one associated with the great detec
tive.
Seizing a robe and stepping into my bedroom slippers, I
descended to the sitting room eager to learn what Holmes's first move
would be, or possibly had already
been.
But my progress came to an abrupt halt when,
through
the half-open door I perceived a complete
stranger
seated at Holmes's desk, who had the effron
tery
to go over papers on it. At least, this bewhiskered
rascal
was reading a letter with great interest. He had a
sharp,
wizened face that peered from behind thick
glasses.
His back was bowed with age, but that did not incline me toward an
abandonment of caution. I well-remembered the evil menace of the
ancient Colonel Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man
in Lon
don,

On tiptoes, I retraced my steps to
secure my army-
issue
handgun. In Holmes's absence this white-haired interloper was not
going to make free of our habitat if I could help it. Back at the
sitting-room door, I eased my
Webley
to full cock and was about to confront the
bounder
when a familiar voice called to me.

"Dear chap, don't come
through the door spewing
bullets
like some desperado of the American West!"

As I staggered back in amazement,
the figure at the
desk
arose. With the sweep of a sinewy arm, the white
wig
was removed. The bowed back straightened, and
before
me was the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes.

Carefully lowering the hammer of
my Webley, I entered the sitting room, gazing at him
reproachfully.

"What need for this charade?
You make me feel the
fool
indeed."

Holmes curbed his mirth, and
concern touched his
thoughtful
eyes. "Watson, you have my abject apolo
gies.
However, you constantly perform a great service, for if one of my
little disguises can take you in, need I fear detection from other
sources?"

Unable to find a response to this,
I
felt
somewhat
mollified.

"I suppose those keen ears of
yours heard me, though I cannot imagine how."

Holmes was lighting a cigarette
with his nonchalant
manner.

"When you descend of a
morning, your feet unconsciously follow the same path. There is
a distinct squeak
in
the third step which you have heard so often you are
probably
not conscious of it. I was rather mystified to hear you backtracking,
but the click of the hammer on
the
portable cannon which you cherish was informative."

Thrusting my pistol within the
pocket of my robe, I
responded
testily, "At least, it is an effective piece of
ordnance
and not a popgun like that hair-trigger 'salon' piece you practice
with on occasion."

"Touché!
But
what need have I for a heavy weapon with my trusty Watson on guard?"
He indicated a letter
on
the desk while pouring me a cup of coffee. "It has
been
a profitable morning, ol' boy. A visit to the
morgue
revealed that the body of Barker has not yet
been
identified."

Holmes shook his head.
Inefficiency constantly
amazed
him.

"Baffling, wouldn't you say,
since Lindquist visited
him
at the hospital? On the theory that Lestrade and his
cohorts
can well use the practice, I did not solve the
riddle
for them but rather directed my steps to the
neighborhood
of Lindquist's hotel. Barker was run
down
close by. Had he come a distance, he would un
doubtedly
have used a conveyance, since he seemed to
be
in haste. Here my encyclopedic knowledge of the by
ways
of London came to my aid. I concluded that there
were
but three rooming houses in the immediate vicinity
that
Barker might have reasonably chosen. The second
one
produced a landlady who immediately recognized
my
description of the dead man. His room proved re
warding."