Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

21

The Resolution

227

It was late in the afternoon that our expected visitor from Berlin arrived. On our return from St. Aubrey, Holmes did not divest himself of his suit clothes as was his habit, but instead had extracted the small salon piece, which he fancied as a weapon, from a drawer of the desk. Alerted by this precautionary move, I had secured my revolver as well. Questions pounded at my brain, but I quieted their siren call and applied myself to the answers that had already come my way during the events that had crossed the sky of our lives like scud clouds in a high wind. The silence in our chambers was unusual and complete. Finally, with my thoughts collected, I regarded Holmes. His tall and whipcord frame stood by a window gazing with unseeing eyes at the passing scene.

"I say, Holmes, am I interrupting a chain of thought?"

"Not really," he said, without turning. "I was likening the gem in your pocket to a creation of that Oscar Wilde fellow. If you recall, Dorian Gray remained ever young, unsullied by the passage of time. In similar fashion the Pigott Diamond has burned with an everlasting flame for years on end."

"Possibly fueled by its effect on so many lives," I said, almost without thought, and was surprised when Holmes turned toward me with a look of interest. "I was just thinking that our pursuit of the statue and the gem has been a tortuous one, with a variety of incidents, but it has resolved itself to where the unknown elements are few."

"My dear Watson, ofttimes you amaze me. Please don't let your thoughts dangle in thin air, but elucidate."

If there was a twinkle in his eye, I chose to ignore it.

"Once you divined that the Golden Bird was nesting on a crystal egg, the motives became clear. As a dedicated collector, Basil Selkirk was schooled in the history of diamonds and, given the clue of the year of Ali Pasha's death, figured out that the Pigott Diamond still existed. Naturally, he wanted it and was quite willing to give up the Golden Bird as a means of removing himself from the scene."

"Pray continue," said Holmes, with approval.

"Chu San Fu's motive is certainly clear. Where could he get a comparable stone to adorn his daughter? Both Doctor Bauer and Streeter referred to similar diamonds, but they would be hard come by being owned by ruling houses or titled men of wealth. How he learned that the Pigott existed is not clear."

"Nor to me," admitted my friend. "Relative to Chu San Fu, let me interject some heartening news. You will recall that when his lawyer, Loo Chang, left here, I had arranged for Slippery Styles to be on his trail. That investment of effort produced rich dividends. Styles stuck with the Oriental and located his secret office. On my orders, Slim Gilligan burglarized said premises securing the lawyers files on the illegal activities of his client. Even now the Limehouse Squad is gloating over a veritable blueprint of Chu San Fu's illicit operations. In short order all of his opium dens, houses of prostitution, and similar noisome ventures will be shut down. I said I'd smash Chu San Fu, Watson, and we have."

As was so often the case, I regarded Holmes with a slack jaw. He had crushed a kingpin of crime who had laughed at the law for years and now revealed the fact as a mere afterthought.

In Holmes's mind, the matter being a fait accompli Chu San Fu now commanded little attention. This was evidenced by his next words.

"Back to the matter of the fabulous gem, Watson How the Oriental crime tzar or Jonathan Wild, master criminal of the past century, became privy to its existence is a matter of speculation."

"Our client, Vasil D'Anglas, must know more about the stone and its hiding place than anyone else," I stammered.

"True," agreed Holmes," and it would seem that the very man you mention, who can resolve the entire matter, has just alighted from a hansom at our door."

But a short time later, I heard a heavy and labored tread on our stairs. The ascent was interrupted by frequent stops but, finally, Vasil D'Anglas, breathing heavily, made his way into our rooms.

When Holmes and I had visited D'Anglas in Berlin, the man had not presented an attractive picture. Now. though the passage of time had been short, his appearance had worsened. His forehead seemed more craggy and overhung dull and deep-set eyes. His skin was shocking. Coarse and wrinkled with a dry, scaly look, the man reminded me of an elephant. While a surface examination seldom proved accurate, I had diagnosed his trouble in Berlin as acromegaly, a rare condition produced by the malfunction of the pituitary. It was with difficulty that I suppressed a desire to question our visitor regarding his problem. He had to know that his condition was critical and worsening, and certainly had placed himself in the hands of Berlin doctors. I recalled, from a series of articles in "The Lancet," that the Germans had involved themselves in more research into the mysterious pituitary gland than had our medical people. Just as well for our client that Holmes secured the Golden Bird when he did, for D'Anglas's sands were certainly running low, I thought.

Then my mind flashed back to our interview with Lindquist who had died the next day. Selkirk had just fallen before the grim reaper. Had someone, at that moment, offered me the golden roc as a gift, I would have refused it with enthusiasm. My mind directed a similar distaste toward the great diamond still resting in my breast pocket and I vowed to remove the fatal object from my person as soon as possible. Of a sudden, I felt that it radiated decay and death and that I would be contaminated by exposure to the priceless Pigott. A stimulated imagination can prompt weird fantasies.

D'Anglas, having greeted us both, had lowered himself ponderously into the chair adjacent to our desk. I secured his top hat from the man, placing it on the end table, but he clung to the thick, oaken cane, which aided his stumbling steps. The head of the stick was a heavy piece of bronze in the shape of a hammer. It seemed of Arabic design and I felt would have been of interest to a curator of antiques.

"Mr. Holmes, your cable filled me with joy. The despondency, which had weighed my soul ever since the news from Constantinople that the Bird had been stolen from Hassim's shop, was lifted."

His face shifted briefly in my direction and then returned to Holmes. "There cannot be another disappointment. Tell me that you have the statue."

Holmes, his pipe in his mouth, gave a slight nod.

The man's sigh of relief was akin to ecstasy. "Possibly it is not too late." A keenness infiltrated his dull eyes. "Let me savor this moment," he said. "Tell me, sir, how came you by the Bird?"

"As a gift or a payment," said Holmes. "Either interpretation has merit."

"I would like to see it." For the first tune, D'Anglas's face reflected anxiety.

"Shortly." Holmes's manner was reassuring. "There is some information I would like to secure."

D'Anglas shoulders lifted in a shrugging motion. It was like movement of a water buffalo. The man was glandularly deformed but he certainly seemed powerful, an impression strengthened by his oversized, knobby hands.

"Mr. Holmes, I have told you of the search for the Bird by my family. I spoke the truth."

"I know that you did. It is just that the story interests me and there is a great deal you did not tell."

D'Anglas's oversized face hardened. "You have the Bird. May I see it?"

"Of course."

Holmes crossed to the desk. Opening the second drawer, he removed the statue and passed it across the desk to our visitor.

The roc was dwarfed in D'Anglas's hand and he peered at the masterpiece for a long time. Then his knobby fingers with swollen joints oscillated in a gentle movement like the scales in a gold-assayer's office. The creases in his overhanging forehead deepened.

"The weight is not what I expected."

Holmes seated himself behind the desk, his eyes never leaving D'Anglas.

"The diamond is no longer in the base."

D'Anglas's hand tightened and, for a moment, I thought that he would crush the statue in his grasp, but his movement was momentary. Ponderously, he reached toward the desk surface, depositing the Golden Bird there. His hand rejoined its mate in his lap and round the strange handle of his stout walking stick.

"You know."

"Almost everything," was the detective's response.

"What of the diamond?"

"I have that as well."

The goldsmith's body had been inclined forward toward Holmes and now he leaned back, the frame of the chair creaking. His expression mirrored relief but there was a tinge of surprise as well.

"Am I to have the Pigott or does the pursuit go on?"

"I discussed this with Doctor Watson. When you commissioned Nils Lindquist to recover the statue, the diamond was still concealed within it. Since I fell heir to Lindquist's case, we consider that the return of the statue involves the passing of the gem into your hands as well."

Two emotions—gratitude and astonishment—were fighting for supremacy on D'Anglas's face.

"But," continued Holmes, "I cannot afford to have loose ends lend confusion to my case histories. Not when answers are readily available. I have enough unresolved matters in my files now."

My mind immediately flashed to the affair of "The Engineer's Thumb" as well as that bizarre adventure of "The Greek Interpreter." Of course, "The Case of Identity," which Holmes had never brought to even a successful conclusion, had bothered him for years.

Holmes's manner had convinced D'Anglas that there was no sly ploy involved and he hastened to fall in with the suggestion of the great sleuth.

"If, as a bonus, your only request is the complete story, my knowledge now belongs to you. The quest of the Bird and what was within it has been the driving purpose of the ill-fated D'Anglas line for three generations."

If there was anything Holmes enjoyed more than a good story, it was a strange tale that coincided with his conjecture. It was he who now sat back in his chair with an expression of anticipation.

"We can dispense with the history of the Bird prior to this century. Let us begin at the court of Ali Pasha of Albania when the Pigott Diamond and the statue became one."

The goldsmith complied.

"Jean D'Anglas was a professional soldier, who first followed the banner of Le Grand Emperor. Then he chose to hire his sword in foreign lands and in Albania achieved a position of trust under the Lion of Janina. French by birth, he began to yearn for the peace of family life and applied his not inconsiderable talents to the goldsmith trade. Ali Pasha was a despot and a wealthy one, but he was a great fancier of art objects and much could be learned in his court. Of course, the ruler's main passion was diamonds."

Holmes never liked to be completely left out of an explanation and made a comment to indicate his familiarity with the narrative. "Passion, indeed! Was it not in 1818 that Ali Pasha paid Rundell and Bridge, the London jewelry firm, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the Pigott?" His eyes shifted to me. "Truly, an amazing price for the time. Can you imagine the worth of the gem now?"

D'Anglas's pendulous lips exhibited a small smile that carried with it a touch of bitterness.

"Sometimes there is more at stake than worth," he said. "You know of the ruler's receiving a fatal wound and his summoning my grandfather to his side in his last moments. My forefather had been working on the Golden Bird, repairing the base, and had the statue in his hands when he hastened to Ali Pasha's throne room. The wife of the Albanian, Vasilikee, had also been summoned. The three were alone when Ali Pasha gave his final orders. My grandfather was to take the diamond, which the Albanian always kept in a pouch tucked in his sash, and smash it. Following this, he was to kill Vasilikee. With the destruction of his two most precious possessions, Ali Pasha felt that he would be able to die in peace. My grandfather was at a crossroads since he had established a clandestine relationship with Vasilikee. Fortunately, he did not have to face a decision for the Lion of Janina died."

Though privy to a part of this tale. I did indulge in a sign of relief, which the goldsmith acknowledged with his dull eyes.

"Those were cruel times, Doctor, but knowing that his master was gone, my grandfather acted instinctively. In his hand was the fabled gem and there was the Golden Bird, its base still warm from fresh-poured gold. He pressed the diamond into the bottom of the statue and was artisan enough to remove the surplus gold and smooth the base. When the gold cooled and hardened, the Pigott was safely concealed in a perfect hiding place. Jean had Vasilikee secure some small diamonds and he smashed them to represent the wreckage of the great stone. He announced the death of his ruler and the ruination of the diamond. The court of Albania was in a turmoil, with various pretenders striving for the throne and the specter of Constantinople everywhere on the scene. My grandfather and Vasilikee were able to steal away without causing comment."

"The king is dead! Long live the king!" said Holmes.

"Jean D'Anglas and Vasilikee had a Christian wedding soon after. They chose to bide their time as regards the statue, on the theory that it would not drop from sight. My grandfather was adept to the goldsmith trade and prospered. The Golden Bird returned to the Ottoman capital and he made plans to secure it. But then the unanticipated thrust its surprising head upon the scene. The Bird was stolen from the Ottoman court by an aide of the Sultan who had fallen from favor. Choosing to flee the wrath of the Turkish overlord, he undoubtedly seized the statue because it was at hand and gold is a commodity of value anywhere. Only two people knew that the Pigott diamond still existed. But when the Bird disappeared, my grandfather was in a frenzy. He made every effort to locate the object, to no avail. He was a man obsessed. Everything had been risked for the great gem encased in a tomb of gold and now it was gone. Finally, he enlisted the aid of the English master-criminal, Jonathan Wild, to find the statue."

Holmes had to be delighted to hear his theories confirmed and he was nodding with the story.

"You feel that Jean D'Anglas told Wild about the diamond?"

"It would seem he must have. Wild was old at this time. Though he sent out inquiries through his widespread organization, he was not successful. Shortly afterwards, Jonathan Wild died. My grandfather had contracted a strange and fatal malady and he died as well, leaving the legacy of the Golden Bird to my father. He also was a talented goldsmith and was commissioned by a Chinese noble to create some golden masques in Peking. When he completed his assignment in China, word spread of a robbery on Rhodes. Harry Hawker, now old himself, was recognized and as soon as the object of his theft was described, it was known that the Golden Bird had resurfaced again."

"Along with Harry Hawker," added Holmes. "Formerly, part of the Wild organization. Hawker had learned the secret of the Bird from his employer and when he recognized the statue in an obscure shop on Rhodes, he could not resist trying for it."

"That was my father's reconstruction, Mr. Holmes. The Rhodes robbery was in 1850, three years before I was born."

I gave a start which I hoped passed unnoticed. The man could not be so young.

"My father," our client continued, "made haste to return from China bringing with him a metal-worker of that country who had assisted him. As my mother told the story, it was rumored that Hawker had fled to Budapest so investigations were made there. In 1853, the year of my birth, a man was knifed on the waterfront of Constantinople. Something about the matter intrigued my father and he dispatched his Chinese assistant to Turkey. The man returned with the news that the victim was Harry Hawker. The Bird had disappeared again. The following year, my father, who had contracted the same dread affliction as Jean D'Anglas, died."

My medical background would not permit me to stifle a question at this point. "Then your own physical problem is of a hereditary nature?"

The oversized head turned to me and there was something strange in his deep-set eyes. "That fact, Doctor Watson, we can certainly accept. I, like those before me, was not only infected by a deformity but also by the compulsion to recover the Bird. I have pursued every lead, followed every rumor, for my entire adult life."

"This Oriental metal-worker you mentioned," said Holmes, who had gotten his pipe going again, "did he return to his native land after the passing of your father?"

Our client was nodding. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, and I agree with the thought that has occurred to you. The Chinaman was very close to my father."

The obvious crystallized in my mind. "Of course. That is how Chu San Fu learned about the Golden Bird."

Since my statement was not denied, I felt more of a part of this unraveling.

"After the death of Hawker," said Holmes, "better than thirty years passed before the Bird appeared again. Those who knew its secret sprang into action."

"It certainly did," said our client factually. "As did Chu San Fu."

"And Basil Selkirk," I exclaimed, and then corrected myself. "No, he learned about the diamond later."

"But now, the tale is told and the loose ends resolved. Watson, would you be good enough to place the object in your breast pocket on the desk?"

I was delighted to do so. The tale of fatalities and frustrations had made me all the more anxious to rid myself of the awesome diamond. Removing it from my handkerchief, I placed it on the desk's oaken surface and stepped back, relieved to be separated from the fascinating object.

Vasil D'Anglas, making use of his walking stick, levered himself up from his chair and stood staring down at the burst of brilliance that gleamed at us like a giant crystal eye. His deep, throaty voice had a removed quality, like a somnambulist's mumbling, but his words were audible.

"I am the first D'Anglas to view it since that fateful day in '22, yet it always has been ours. A thing of deadly beauty and the cause of the curse."

Suddenly, there was the gleam of the fanatic in his eyes and a wild look about his mouth. I saw Holmes step back from the desk and his hand went to his jacket pocket.

"Let the order be carried out." D'Anglas almost screamed this and then, to my astonishment, he moved with a speed of which I could not believe he was capable. His walking stick, clutched by its end, swirled about his head and then came crashing down on the stone. The bronze handle found its mark with astonishing accuracy and in an instant the magnificent gem was completely shattered into fragments and shards of crystal, devoid of value.

I have seldom seen Holmes astonished, but he was now. I was thunderstruck.

Panting, the wildness in our client's face disappeared to be replaced by a look of exaltation.

"Good heavens, man, what have you done?" I cried. Even as I spoke the words, I saw a look of sudden understanding pass over Holmes's face.

"Removed the curse," replied D'Anglas. There was a sharpness to his eyes that had not been there before. I explained it away as due to the violent emotions of the moment. "As a medical man, sir, you have no doubt diagnosed my affliction as glandular. The finest doctors of Europe suggest this, but they cannot name the fatal deformity which claimed my grandfather, my father, and has me in its embrace. I know what the doctors do not. Jean D'Anglas was ordered to shatter the diamond and, because of greed, he disobeyed. Since that tune, the curse of Ali Pasha has dogged my family."

Considering the events of the last minute, his voice was remarkably clam. He turned toward Holmes, whose lips were twitching, from self-castigation, no doubt.

"Mr. Holmes, I have committed no crime. Destruction of one's own property does not warrant that accusation. I have merely fulfilled my destiny. The debt has been paid. I leave you with the Golden Bird and my heartfelt thanks."

Before Holmes or I could think of a thing to say, he was gone. It sounds ridiculous but I swear he departed in a far more agile manner than he had entered.

Alone in our chambers, Holmes and I stared at each other. The climax of this strange case had certainly been unanticipated. A wry smile played round the mouth of the great detective.

" 'Ol chap, after all our adventures, it is you and I who end up with the statue. You might well say that we have been given the Bird."