Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

8

In Constantinople

75

The remainder of our journey to Turkey seemed rather stale. It was as though the opposition, as I categorized the sinister Orientals, were not interested in what we might discover in Constantinople, which did not bode well for our inquiry.

Through we arrived quite late of the evening, Holmes easily secured accommodations at the Golden Horn Hotel and, though I had slept considerably during our trip, I had little difficulty in quieting my thoughts and drifting into the refreshment of unconsciousness. Holmes did not pace our suite nervously as was his frequent custom when on a case. Possibly the departure of the hatchet men had been a letdown for us both.

The next morning I was impatient to see the fabled city, which had been the center of so many civilizations dating from the seven Troys, with their ruins atop one another. The meeting of East and West, jewel of the Eastern Roman Empire as well as the Ottoman, junction of three continents and three seas—Constantinople had intrigued me since childhood. But could I feast my eyes on Hagia Sophia or wander through the Topkopi Palace? Certainly not, for Holmes was intent on a case and even the Blue Mosque to him was just a background building, nothing more.

Since the shop of Aben Hassim was on Istikial Caddesi near Taksim Square—a fashionable address, by the way—we walked to it. I did get a taste of the city with its mosques, palaces, crowded bazaars and beautiful shops. I had viewed the Galata Bridge over the Bosporus from our hotel window.

It did not occur to me at the time, but Holmes directed our steps unerringly. The man's knowledge of cities and geography in general was, as I have mentioned before, uncanny.*

* It is interesting to note that a latter-day detective of widespread fame and girth who was born in Montenegro spent a great deal of time studying maps.

Hassim's place of business was relatively small but tastefully furnished, with the quiet and affluent atmosphere that frequently sedates the visitor into paying considerably more for an object than intended. Again, Holmes's card provided instant action and a salesman escorted us to the small office adjacent to the showroom, which was the lair of the owner.

Aben Hassim was a small man with a Vandyke beard, the swarthy complexion clued by his name and, of all things, a monocle. Somehow it seemed out of place next door to Asia, but he twirled it in his right hand when talking and was as at home with it as a French diplomat. I grew interested in the eyepiece, especially since he did not choose to use it when reading the letter from Berlin that Holmes presented to him after we had exchanged customary greetings. Closer inspection convinced me that Hassim's monocle possessed a powerful lens and I realized that he used it to inspect objets d'art without resorting to the pocket or desk glass of common usage. No doubt he had garnered a considerable reputation for instant appraisal in this manner.

"D'Anglas's letter explains your presence, Mr. Holmes, though a visit by such a famed criminologist would naturally be in connection with the Golden Bird. Its disappearance is the only incident in the history of my establishment that could pique your interest."

"Could you tell us how you came upon the piece and how it was removed?"

"Happy chance allowed me to acquire it. A woman was cleaning her attic in a house that, in times gone by, had served as a modest lodging place. Her mother and grandmother as well had rented rooms. In the attic was an old trunk and when she succeeded in opening it she found the Bird. There was nothing else of value in the trunk. I inquired as to that, but the most untrained eye detects gold, Mr. Holmes. The lady brought the object to me and I recognized it immediately." Hassim's monocle was twirling in his hand. "It is the eye that does it, always. Just as a book-lover can recognize that rare first edition on some second-hand book-shelf, so the art dealer must be able to capitalize on that rare moment when serendipity graces his door. I will be frank. It was with difficulty that I suppressed my excitement. The workmanship of the Bird certainly rivals that of Cellini or Lorenzo Ghiberti. I informed the woman that the piece was indeed gold and weighed it, referred to the present gold price on the international market, and made her an offer which she accepted. Now my problem was not to dwell overlong on my acquisition since, if I fell in love with the piece, it might prove difficult to part with it."

Hassim paused to regard us with a wry smile. "An industrial disease native to my calling, gentlemen, and a most unprofitable affliction. When a dealer falls prey to the avarice of the collector, he ceases to function as a cog in the commercial world. True, gloating over his treasures provides an inner reward but does not place food on the table. I have seen cases . . ." He broke off with an apologetic expression. "But that is another story and not of interest to you. I immediately took steps to affirm my legal ownership. No problem since, though the Bird has had many owners, I had purchased it from a source that had, however unwittingly, held possession for forty years or better. With the necessary paperwork effected, I made known to the world of art that the piece was for sale. D'Anglas made an immediate offer by post, which I was glad to accept. Considering the Bird's history, I was rather relieved to sell the object while it was still in my hands."

"Your concern indicates that you took pains to secure the golden roc while you had it," said Holmes quietly. "A bank vault, perhaps?"

The dealer indicated the wall behind his desk. "Fortunately, the house of Hassim has a number of valuable objects from time to time and I have installed the latest in modern safes."

Holmes was viewing the squat strongbox in the wall with interest. "Mills Stroffner, I see. That model was manufactured three years ago and they haven't unproved on it."

"Quite right, Mr. Holmes," replied Hassim, with some pride. "But then, Sherlock Holmes would naturally know about the best in safes. As would Doctor Watson," he added, quickly.

I found the attitude of the Continentals that we had met on this trip quite delightful. Long association had placed me on friendly terms with Lestrade, Gregson, MacDonald, and others at the Yard, but they never considered me as an expert on criminological matters. However, the police sergeant in Berlin and Hassim viewed matters differently. Obviously, my writings relative to Holmes had led them to misjudge my fund of information and aptitude. Notwithstanding, having played such a distant second fiddle for so long, it was charming to be clothed in the garment of expertise even though the material was spurious.

"You accepted D'Anglas's offer and then what happened?" asked Holmes. "I don't recall that the Bird was lost in the mails."

"No, sir. It was packed and ready for shipment. I placed the container in the safe and was ready to take it the next morning to supervise the shipment. During the night something must have happened since the Bird was gone the next day."

Holmes regarded the art dealer for a long and thoughtful moment, certainly not, to the normal observer, unusual for one hailed on all sides as the finest mind of England. But to one who had been associated with him for so long, the orchestra was playing a more sprightly air. The hawk was prepared to swoop on the wings of logic and drive an unsuspecting pigeon to the ground.

"The statue was taken, then, from your safe?" A nod was Holmes's answer. "Surely," continued the sleuth innocently, "someone other than yourself has the combination?"

Hassim shook his head with an air of protest.

"We of more peaceful pursuits are not familiar with the criminal mind or intricate subterfuges but there are certain necessary precautions that are obvious. Even my family do not know the combination of that safe."

Holmes rose to move closer to the strongbox, which he inspected briefly with his pocket glass.

"No marks of any kind. How was it opened?"

The dealer spread his arms and shrugged his shoulders expressively, but there was a sudden flicker of worry in his eyes. Holmes's question seemed naive, a quality at variance with his worldwide reputation.

"How else but by a skilled burglar? Do not the Anglo-Saxons refer to them as 'master cracksmen'?"

Holmes's manner hardened. He was ready to spring the trap.

"I know this Mills-Stroffner design well and there are four men in the world who could open it in one night without using explosives." His eyes swung to engage mine for a brief moment. "One is now in Dartmoor where I put him a short time ago.* The second, a blind German mechanic named Von Herder, is dead. The third is a trusted employee of the British Special Branch, while the fourth, Jimmie Valentine, is in America." * The Case of the Soft Fingers

A thin sheen of perspiration appeared on Hassim's forehead.

Holmes continued with that inexorable doomsday finality that had struck terror in harder cases than this Turkish dealer in art. "The crib was not cracked, to use a colloquialism cherished by the ha'penny dreadfuls."

Hassim, visibly wilting, tried to rally a protest of denial but was not given the chance.

"I picture a different scene," continued the detective. "You had concluded your arrangements with D'Anglas in Berlin and the bill of sale was mailed to him. No doubt his payment was banked. Then an unexpected visitor appeared. Oriental, of course."

Hassim winced as though in receipt of a sharp blow. The panic of defeat flooded his eyes.

"The Chinaman presented himself as an emissary possibly using the overworked and ubiquitous title of 'Commision Agent.' He stated that his client had to secure the Golden Bird and offered a sum beyond your expectations." Holmes surveyed his victim with a more mellow manner. "I suspect that ethics compelled you to refuse but it was pointed out that, should the Oriental not depart with the object he wished, certain things would happen to you, or possibly to your shop or your loved ones."

As though to escape from Holmes's compelling, almost hypnotic gaze, Hassim's eyes sought mine. "It is as though he had been here," he said. "In the next room listening."

I believe I shrugged. I know I tried to preserve a stolid expression. The poor wretch was suffering as my friend's recreation had been a dead-center hit.

"You admit it, of course," pressed the detective.

The Turk buried his face in his hands. His urbane, man-of-the-world manner was a thing of the past and he was but a poor, harassed individual sadly beyond his depth.

"Yes . . . yes ... I refused the offer, as you said. I wanted no part of such dealings, but when . . . when . . ."

The instinct of self-preservation stilled his tongue. His dark face was now ashen.

Holmes completed his thought. "A name was mentioned. 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 figure headquartered in London who has invaded, nay assaulted, 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 outgrow the more driving compulsion for power, for one man can have just so much of that. Then they are susceptible to a malady that can be diagnosed as an attempt by each to satisfy his severest critic, which is himself. 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 conviction 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 elusive 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 draperies 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 saying: '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 immediately sensitive to this.

"Doctor, the ultimate hoarder is nothing new in history. 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 buried 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 conversation 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. Hassim, 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 scrupulous 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 during this near century the House of Hassim has preserved 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 something 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."

Loosening his collar, Hassim exposed part of his throat on which there were three livid marks that I could see, possibly more.

"When I blurted out that the Bird had been bought by a Chinese, both the men lost interest in me. The smaller man informed me that I had never seen them, that they had never been here or it would not go well with me. Then they departed, to my great relief."

"You feel that the smaller man was the leader of the pair?" asked Holmes, as though he already knew the answer.

Hassim nodded. "The large one was, as you might say, the enforcer."

"Describe the smaller man as best you can."

This proved difficult for the Turk. "He was nondescript. Thin. Fairly old. Medium height. He had trouble with his speech. A lisp."

"The man with the lisp," I burst out in a most unprofessional manner.

Holmes rose. He had learned what we wanted to know.