Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

12

The Meeting with that Frightening Man

121

Not long thereafter, Holmes and I were again leaving the center of St. Aubrey, though this time we followed a road to the west. Witherspoon had made his carriage available to us and the necessary directions were simple enough. Constable Dankers had used the station phone to contact Selkirk Castle. Evidently, its owner was disposed to see the famous detective, though Dankers did not go into detail regarding his conversation with the millionaire. Possibly, the matter was arranged through intermediaries. In any case, we set a good pace. The road we were to follow to our destination was now winding up a grade and I assumed Basil Selkirk's residence was over the rise ahead of us, which proved to be true.

At the top of the hill, Holmes drew the carriage to a halt to allow the horse a moment of respite. I took a deep breath as well. The ground ahead sloped gently down into a tree-studded valley. A small river curved in from the north following a serpentine course until it terminated in a considerable body of water. In the center of this lake was a mound and on it were towering battlements, looking for all the world like a miniature Dubrovnik.

My lips pursed in a silent whistle and even Holmes looked impressed. A mountain some considerable distance beyond the stout stone walls provided a rock-strewn and bleak backdrop. The scene would have been well-suited to a Graustark melodrama.

"No fairylike cupolas and spires like those fancied by the Mad Bavarian," said my friend. "An ancient feudal keep augmented by modern workmanship, for you will note, Watson, the appearance of concrete where the ancient walls have crumbled with age."

"Impressive," I mumbled. "I rather fancy us as adventurers intent on the rescue of the Prisoner of Zenda."

"Not a bad comparison," agreed Holmes, urging our horse into motion again. "But rather than use a fictional castle, allow me to suggest the city of Bar."

This meaning nothing to me, I questioned Holmes.

"A ghost town on the Montenegrin Littoral," he explained. "The stern scene before us bears a remarkable resemblance to the ancient Serbian ruins. Bar, of course, has not benefited by a modern Croesus intent on restoration."

As we drew nearer to the castle, I noted that the road terminated at the end of a promontory, which extended into the moat. Our presence had been noted for there was a creak of a windlass and the heavily timbered drawbridge was lowered ponderously to allow us to progress between massive walls and into the courtyard beyond. As we rode across the drawbridge, I noted the color of the water and drew Holmes's attention to it.

"Twenty feet deep or more," he commented. "No wading pond like the moat at Birlstone, which you recall, old friend. I note the presence of finny inhabitants. I would not be surprised if a man so preoccupied with privacy as Basil Selkirk, has not stocked his first line of defense with piranha. But no, it's doubtful that such a tropical fish could live in our latitude."

We were now passing through the walls, which I estimated to be ten feet thick, and Holmes drew our carriage to a halt before the stone stairs leading upward to the massive doors of the medieval establishment.

Basil Selkirk might well cherish his privacy but he was well-attended in his seclusion. Two dark-haired grooms were there to attend the horse, which they led away as soon as Holmes and I had alighted. A thin, fair-haired man with pale and delicate features appeared at the main door and, greeting us both by name, ushered us into the massive pile of masonry.

As we followed our guide from room to room, I felt like I was in Buckingham or the British Museum. That we strode over priceless Persian carpets past rare furniture and walls filled with masterful paintings I had no doubt, but there was not time to inspect individual pieces and my mind's eye recorded a kaleidoscope of matchless works. As we were led down a long hallway, its floorboards polished like a mirror, there was the sound of a door opening and a craggy face viewed us. Mounted on a heavily built, muscled body, it seemed familiar. A gentle pressure of Holmes's fingers upon my arm cautioned me and I did not take a second look at the silent observer. It was Sam Merton, the heavyweight fighter, and I puzzled at his presence until it occurred to me that his function was that of a bodyguard. Probably not the only one, for Selkirk might well have an army in his huge and ancient keep.

Finally, we entered what must have originally been the dining hall, and in centuries gone by I could well-imagine armored knights quaffing mead at the long table in the center. A huge chandelier threw light on the ancient festive board, but such was the size of the room and height of the walls that deep shadows curtained the corners.

In a fireplace in which four grown men could have stood with ease, a massive single log blazed without a fire curtain, for there was ten feet of stone apron between the flames and the beginning of the polished floor.

At the head of the table, with his back to the fire, sat a figure. I would not have been surprised if he turned out to be the Black Prince, but it was, in fact, the least martial figure I could imagine. Huddled in a wheelchair, surrounded by a thick blanket, sat a very old man. His features were thin and his bloodless lips revealed large teeth, which I judged to be false. But his hair was real and in profusion, combed back in a careless manner that lent a touch of madness to his appearance. Heavy bushy eyebrows topped two of the keenest blue eyes I had ever seen. The face was a thing of age and decay, but those eyes rivaled the dancing flames of the Yule-size log behind him.

As our pale young guide led us closer, the old man's scrawny neck seemed to extend in a reptilian fashion and his hunched shoulders made an effort to straighten somewhat as he forced his wasted frame backward in the chair to regard us more closely.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. You have been to Constantinople, I perceive." His lips curved and a dry chuckle burst forth, which grew in intensity. Suppressing his merriment, he flicked a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiping spittle from his mouth. Then, those protruding, intense eyes shifted to my direction. "And this can be none other than the famous Doctor Watson."

I must have mumbled something but it is doubtful if Selkirk heard me. His attention was now elsewhere. His scrawny arm rose in a shaky and somewhat erratic gesture and I sensed that the blond young man, who had guided us through a veritable museum to what seemed like a mausoleum, was withdrawing. There was a sound of a door closing in the background and then silence. The frail figure stared intently at Holmes who was returning his gaze. There was the faint twitching of a smile on my friend's lips and it occurred to me that the two were sizing each other up like a pair of master fencers ready to reach for naked steel.

I know not what Basil Selkirk found in Holmes's manner or appearance but he seemed satisfied. Another shaky gesture indicated adjacent chairs.

"Come, come," he said. "We must talk. I entertain few visitors and my people are always after me with medicines. Foul-tasting stuff, but it keeps this ruin you see fueled for another day."

As we seated ourselves, Basil Selkirk's head cocked to one side as he regarded Holmes. It was almost a boyish movement and I felt it incongruous from one so aged.

"So you're the one that exposed that idiot—that fool involved with the Beryl Coronet . . ."

"Sir George Burnwell," prompted Holmes.

"One of the most dangerous men in England," I added. .

"Stuff and nonsense," was Selkirk's acid retort. "Fool stole three of the beryls when he might have had all thirty-nine. Had I been after the Coronet you can wager I would have gotten it all."

"Not legally, it being a public possession of the Empire," replied Holmes with a touch of severity in his tone.

"Be that as it may," said the millionaire, nodding as though to confirm his statement. "There's many ways of doing things. But enough of that. Now tell me"—he leaned forward in his chair eagerly—"it's the emerald I want to know about." The old man was rubbing his hands together and his eyes glistened with excitement.

"The Midas?"

"Of course. There is nor other emerald. Not really. But I have never seen it and you have. What was it like?"

Holmes chose his words carefully. "When I first saw the Midas Emerald it was in a jeweler's box in my hands. I opened the lid and. . . ."

"Yes? Yes?"

"Green light seemed to explode into the room."

"Ah!" The old man's sigh, almost of ecstasy, came from deep down in his frail and wasted body. "You describe it well. I can almost see it myself." He threw a quick, penetrating glance at me.

"From Cleopatra's mines in Upper Egypt, you know. Egyptian emeralds are better than those Central American ones."

He seemed to ruminate a moment. His face lowered and then it rose again to view us with those birdlike eyes.

"Smart woman, that Cleopatra. I have a lot of Egyptian staters in my coin collection, you know."

A twinkle appeared in Holmes's eyes. "In deference to your business acumen, might I deduce that your staters are the old Ptolemic ones and not those issued by the Queen of the Nile."

Selkirk burst out in his high cackle again and laughed till tears came to his eyes. Finally, he dabbed at them with his handkerchief. The great door in the background opened and the old man waved at it with irritation.

"Out! Out!"

"But, Mr. Selkirk . . ." protested the voice of the blond young man in the shadows of the huge room.

"Leave, I said. I'll ring for you."

As the door closed slowly, the old man had recovered, though his toothy mouth was still stretched in a grin somewhat like a death mask.

"Young fool! But I suppose he serves a purpose. In any case, Mr. Holmes, you've made your point. I heard you were sharp." Suddenly, his eyes swiveled to me as though detecting my puzzlement. "Cleopatra lowered the silver content of the stater from ninety percent to thirty-three percent. Not too many people know that. But you did," he added, spearing Holmes again with his disconcerting gaze. "Do you have a cigarette about you?" he asked, abruptly.

Holmes nodded, reaching for the gold case in his pocket, but then his hand slowed in its progress.

"Are cigarettes bad for you?"

"Of course, they are. Why do you think I'm asking you for one."

Holmes passed his case to the old man and helped him light a Melachrino, which he inhaled with gusto.

"All the things one loves are bad for them. But don't be concerned," he added, noting my medically conditioned frown of disapproval.

"I'm such an old rascal that it doesn't matter at all."

I noted that the cigarette held between overly thin fingers was steady as he shifted in his chair and regarded us with a trace of cunning.

"Now, let's be at it."

I could think of nothing to say and looked at the silent Holmes helplessly.

"Come, come, I'm not completely a doddering idiot. What you're here for. It's not to see a relic of the past or to brighten an old man's moments with a few words about the Midas Emerald. You want something."

"I want the Golden Bird," said Holmes, simply.

"So does everyone else."

"A fact that puzzles me."

The millionaire took a deep puff of the cigarette and his head cocked sidewise again in his peculiarly elfin manner.

"You're sharp for a fact."

"Do you have it?" persisted Holmes.

"I might have an idea where to lay my hands on it."

"I represent the legal owner. If necessary, I can secure a warrant of search."

"You're whistling in the wind, Holmes. When I cornered the Canadian wheat market, three nations couldn't stop me. If I've a fancy for that gold statue, I'll have it and that's a fact."

Obviously, Selkirk's interest had been aroused. Suddenly, he looked younger and seemed to sit more erect in his chair.

"Do you have a fancy for it?"

"I'm intrigued. Not for its value, which is no great thing."

Holmes's eyes were half-closed in thought. "Because somebody else is so anxious to get it," he said.

Selkirk cackled in delight. "You do know about the matter. You're right, of course."

"The Oriental." Holmes made this a statement rather than a question.

"The bloody brigand!" There was steel in the old man now and his thin lips were twisted in a grimace that was frightening. Then his slight figure relaxed.

"How strange that despite the prattle of pious churchmen and do-gooders, it is hate that can make the blood run faster, if but for a brief moment. And I don't even hate the Chinaman. It's jealousy, gentlemen, for 'tis said that he is a bigger rascal than I am. Or was," he added, with a tone of regret. "In any case, you are right."

One cannot associate with another for so long without becoming attuned to his moods and I sensed that Holmes had decided on his approach. The fencing was over.

"Let me advance some thoughts," said my friend. "The Chinaman is after the Golden Bird and you don't know why?"

Selkirk nodded briefly, gazing at Holmes slyly as though awaiting further revelations from the known master of deduction and rather daring him to produce them.

The manner of the aged financier, which I found disconcerting, did not phase Holmes in the least. He continued: "The Oriental located the Bird in Constantinople and sent his men after it. You sent Gridley on their heels for obvious reasons."

The somewhat taunting manner of the financier had disappeared and there was admiration in his bright eyes. "I respect a man who does not waste time with useless questions, Mr. Holmes, but I've seldom been thought of as obvious. What prompted you to divine my move?"

"You told me. You said the Bird was of no great worth, at least not enough to excite your interest. Obviously, you learned that your Oriental rival was going to great lengths to secure the statue. You felt, of course, that he knew something you did not and joined in the chase."

Selkirk was nodding in satisfaction. "You say it as it was. I believe, Mr. Holmes, that we should strike a bargain, for you might be of use to me. Tell me what you wish to know. If I choose to answer, I will do so truthfully."

This surprising reaction seemed what Holmes expected. He attacked the matter in his usual methodical manner.

"You don't know what prompts the Oriental to covet the Golden Bird but could you hazard a guess?"

A negative movement of the head was his answer.

"Is the name, Vasil D'Anglas familiar to you?"

"A worker in rare metals, living in Berlin. Proficient. I know he bought the Bird from the dealer in Constantinople. He is not known as a collector."

"Possibly not in your segment of the spectrum," said Holmes, drily. "He informed me that the Bird had become a passion with his family and himself."

Selkirk shrugged. His manner indicated that he could accept this explanation as reasonable so Holmes switched to another tack.

"I find the history of the object interesting. Through the ages knowledge of its existence has persisted."

Since my friend's voice trailed off, Selkirk filled the void of sound. "Gold will always command respect. From the graves of Scythian chieftains to New York's East River."

My face, which Holmes often accused of being a ready mirror of my thoughts, must have registered confusion. Selkirk seemed to have his attention centered on Holmes, but his next words were to me.

"There is a British frigate sunk there, Doctor. It carried the payroll for the British army fighting the War of Independence in the Colonies. There have been many attempts to reach the sunken vessel for the pay was in gold. Alas, the currents of Hell's Gate have defied the searchers. I merely use it as an instance. Gold is forever the magnet of mankind. As regards the Bird, there is the craftsmanship to consider. It is an object of value and I would welcome it to my collection though I would hardly take elaborate steps to secure it."

"As yet ... there are those who did, and before the Oriental."

Holmes had risen and was staring into the great fireplace. As a result, he may not have noticed the sudden shift in the birdlike eyes of the financier. Selkirk's lips parted for a moment as though a question trembled upon them, but he suppressed it. Quiet settled over the cavernous room, broken only by the snap and crackle of the flames in the hearth that sent dancing shadows into the room. Holmes began to list facts, as though their voicing would allow him to inspect them with greater accuracy, to search for a flaw or inconsistency that would lead his mind to hidden truths.

"Your man, Gridley, was a day behind the Oriental's emissaries in Constantinople. But he, or you, figured that the statue was to be transported to England aboard the Asian Star. When the Chinese sailor reached London, the statue concealed in his personal Buddha, it was your hirelings, members of the Dowson gang, who took the statue from him. Frustrated, Chu San Fu ordered an attack on Dowson's stronghold, the Nonpareil Club. But Gridley preceded them, paid Dowson the arranged fee, and either departed from the club just before the attack or, more likely, succeeded in escaping during it. In any case, all signs point to your having the Golden Bird, Mr. Selkirk."

Holmes turned from his scrutiny of the fire and faced the financier, loosening the power of his commanding personality as he did so.

Selkirk again exhibited his death-mask grin and his face was nodding excitedly with what seemed like satisfaction or possibly gratification.

"Better and better. In truth, Mr. Holmes, you do amaze me and that is surely not the first time you've heard those words. You have recreated a chain of events which certainly fit the facts at your disposal. Like a glove, they do. Not that I'll admit to any of it but we'll let your recounting stand as a basis to work from. Indeed we shall. But did you not mention that others had pursued the Bird with more than the usual persistence?"

Holmes recaptured his quiet smile. "You know all the facts relating to the Bird's history. If the signs are as I read them, you would learn everything about the object if only to frustrate your opponent."

"For a fact," agreed Selkirk. "But perhaps I have not benefited by your interpretation of them."

Holmes chose to acquiesce. "We shall not speculate on the Bird's unknown origin or its equally unknown creator, a fact obscured by the mists of time. Its passing from the Tartars to the French court and then into the hands of Napoleon is, in my opinion, not relevant to the problem. But I do find the Bird's being stolen from the Island of Rhodes of great interest indeed."

This time Selkirk could not smother a question. "Why?"

"Because it was stolen by Harry Hawker. During an infamous, though successful, career, Hawker was the tool of Jonathan Wild, a master criminal of the past century. Was Wild intrigued by this art object that had gone from hand to hand through the years?"

Now it was Selkirk who was gazing thoughtfully into space. "If he was, we must ask why? The Bird passed from the Tartars to the Russians and then the French always as a gift, a gesture, a device to lay the groundwork for goodwill."

"And, later, as collateral" added Holmes.

"Yet, at a certain point it became the object of criminal pursuit. You know, Mr. Holmes, that the Bird reappeared in the court of the Ottoman Sultan and was stolen from there around 1830 only to disappear again until Harry Hawker found it in Rhodes."

Obviously this was news to Holmes and he said so. . "Then," continued Selkirk, "it fell out of sight again for forty years."

"I think fate played a hand there," said Holmes. "Conjecture, of course, but suppose Hawker went to Constantinople with his prize. He died before disposing of it and the statue remained in a trunk belonging to him for four decades."

Selkirk seemed as happy as a small boy hearing a fanciful story of derring-do. "While that thought does not shed light on the matter, it does fill out the canvas. Here, sir, is another tidbit for you. Prior to its appearance on the Island of Rhodes, the Bird is rumored to have been in Albania."

Holmes thought for a moment. "It was stolen from Rhodes in 1850. Would it have been in Albania, say in 1822?"

Selkirk shrugged and for a moment his intense eyes closed as though from weariness, but they snapped open again almost immediately.

"Perhaps we should return to the present," suggested Holmes. His tone hardened. "An inquiry agent, a Chinese seaman, and one Amos Gridley have died within the month. All because of the Bird. Gridley was an employee of yours. What do you intend to do?"

"Must I do something?" replied Selkirk, but these were only words. The financier's mind was racing, a fact obvious even to me.

"You should," replied the detective. "Chu's men picked up Gridley's trail and it led them here. The man's fall from the roof of his cottage was no accident. He was murdered, probably because of his loyalty to you. Doctor Watson and I benefited from information Chu did not have. Gridley was not only the man in the Nonpareil Club who came for the Golden Bird. He was also the man in Constantinople on its trail. Therefore, I deduced that he was an emissary of yours. How long do you think before the Oriental arrives at the same conclusion?"

Again Selkirk cackled and my fingers twitched with nervousness. "Not long, sir. I'll give you that. Of course, his reaching me is another matter. A visit by his underlings and dacoits would not find a warm reception."

"And yet," persisted Holmes, "it is a wise man who knows not to underestimate a resourceful enemy. You have been warned."

"And by an unimpeachable source, Mr. Holmes.

Your words will not go unheeded. For this, I am in your debt. I shall repay you, of course. You said you wished the Golden Bird. You shall have it in due time. You have my word on that."

By what means the financier effected a signal I do not know, but the door to the huge room opened and our pale guide reappeared.

"I tire, gentlemen," said Selkirk, and there was a note of apology in his voice. "You will be contacted shortly. Before departing, may I extract one promise? This matter has a way to go yet or I miss my guess. When it is over, return and we shall exchange words again. I do believe this has been one of the most pleasant days I can recall."

The pale blond man was beside him now. With regret, Selkirk gestured to him.

"Show the gentlemen out, Cedric."

Silently, our guide ushered us from this outré room and away from one of the strangest interviews I had ever been witness to in my many years at the side of Sherlock Holmes. As we reached the door, I threw a glance over my shoulder at the frail, dried-up figure, huddled in his robe beside the blazing fire. It was the last time that I ever saw the frightening Basil Selkirk.