Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

1

The Problem

It was a night in late autumn and the wind, which had brought an Arctic cold to the streets of London, had died down. But on its heels came a thick fog that blanketed the metropolis. Neighboring buildings loomed momentarily like blurred objects and then disappeared under swirls of moist eiderdown. There was a chilling wetness everywhere and I had built the hearth fire high, in hopes that the leaping flames would defy the inclemency without.

Sherlock Holmes had been idle for several days, spending the time arranging his voluminous files. He seemed in excellent spirits, unusual when there was no test for his highly trained talents. During a tasty dinner prepared by the solicitous Mrs. Hudson, he had regaled me with tales of that tiny and little-known country of Montenegro with which he seemed so familiar. While removing the dishes, our kindly housekeeper gave Holmes a letter that had just arrived by special messenger. As his thin, dexterous fingers extracted the single page and his eyes flashed over it, the relaxed, somewhat languid mood of the world's only consulting detective disappeared. His manner sharpened with interest and he gave the message a long second look before passing it to me.

"An unexpected communication, Watson. From Lindquist, you know."

As I took the letter from his hand, I regarded my intimate friend with a blank stare, prompting him to continue.

"Possibly, you do not know of him. Rather brilliant chap. Was of considerable service in connection with that matter of Mrs. Farintoch's opal tiara."

The message I read had more than a touch of urgency.

My dear Holmes:

Am hopeful that this finds you in your chambers and that you will be there come nine o'clock when I shall arrive. Time is of the essence and there is no one but you to turn to. In desperation, I am . . . Nils Lindquist.

My eyes elevated to Holmes. "The chap seems in need of your unique services."

"A visitor at a late hour on a night like this would have desperation as a spur. However, Lindquist was always a cool one, not given to flights of fancy." Holmes was rubbing his hands together with a satisfied air. "Which leads me to think his visit will unveil a matter of interest."

The signs were obvious. Holmes was, again, thirsting for action—hungry for puzzles and mysteries in which to subtly insert the probe of his specialized knowledge and experience.

"You mention his association with a previous case," I began, then let my voice dwindle away, knowing he would pick up the conversational lead.

"While Lindquist's fame is limited to a small circle, he's a top-notch gem expert with an extensive knowledge of objets d'art." Holmes indicated the stationery in my hand. "Do you deduce anything else from his message?"

Holding the paper up to the light, I tried to emulate my friend, mimicking the manner with which he had viewed countless messages in times gone by.

"I note the paper is Neeley-Pierpont bond. I'd say it fetches a good price."

"My dear Watson, you fill me with delight! Obviously, our years together have not been wasted."

Holmes usually had only sparing praise for my powers of observation and I was much heartened by his tone of commendation. Therefore, I desperately searched for further clues.

"The chap writes in a precise manner, conserving space since his lines are rather close. Might I hazard the guess that, in his role of art expert, he makes his reports in longhand rather than using a machine?"

"Better and better! Pray continue."

"Alas, I cannot. There seems little else to note."

Holmes assumed an air of resigned patience, which did not fool me one whit. I well knew that he delighted in producing his little surprises and gloried in his ability to do so.

"I must, ol' fellow, let you read a pamphlet I published some years back: 'Handwriting as a Guide Towards Vocation and Attitude.' It does have some points of interest. Now regard Lindquist's message. The letters slant forward and the writing curves down at the end of each line. The mark of tragedy, Watson. Also regard the first sentence in which he used the word that twice, as well as this and there. In each case, the first letter t has an elongated bar at the top. This is further proven by the first word of the second sentence time, where the capital T is crossed with an even longer stroke."

"A characteristic of his hand."

"Agreed. But the cross bar dwindles out. While I am not familiar with Lindquist's penmanship, I contend that in former times this characteristic would have been firmer, more definite. In several instances, there is a waver that denotes weakness. I fear he is a sick man, which may explain the urgency in the note."

"Despite our long association, Holmes, you continue to amaze me. A short message like this and you deduce that the writer is low in spirits and failing in health. Astonishing!"

"Not really," remarked the great detective, with unusual modesty. "It is just knowing what to look for."

Holmes broke off our conversation and busied himself with a case book. I noted it was the F file and assumed that he was going over the Farintoch Case, possibly looking for a sample of Nils Lindquist's hand. I was not to learn if he found one for the hour of nine was upon us and the sound of a distant church bell blended with a ring at the outer door of 221B Baker Street. Shortly thereafter, footsteps were heard on the seventeen steps leading up to our chambers. Alerted by Holmes's deductions, I noted that they were not steady, but indicated that our visitor paused twice, as though to gain strength, before continuing his ascent.

When Billy, the page boy, ushered the man through our door, I was not surprised to note that he was very thin. Fair hair had receded in front but still made a brave showing on his head. It was the unusually high color around his cheekbones and the feverish glitter of his eyes that captured my medically trained eye. "By Jove!" I thought. "Holmes called the shots again. This chap does appear to have had it."

Holmes's introduction of Nils Lindquist was brief and as I busied myself with the tantalus and gasogene, our visitor seated himself gratefully in the low armchair by the fire. His breathing was labored and had a hoarse, rattlelike sound that affected the hackles of hair on the back of my neck. His voice was strong enough, and while his English was certainly of Oxford, there was the rising inflection of the Scandinavian to it.

"Doctor Watson's training and your unerring eye, Holmes, have doubtless revealed an unpleasant fact to you both. Certainly unpleasant to me," he added with a grim smile.

Holmes could be soothing and reassuring when called upon, but he seemed to sense that Lindquist did not seek sympathy nor would he welcome it.

"You have secured expert opinion, I assume?"

"Three leading specialists are in agreement. The verdict is definitely in. Which explains my call."

"How can I help?" questioned Holmes as I gave Lindquist liquid refreshment.

He thanked me with his eyes and drained half the glass in a single draft as if to bolster waning strength. Then he leaned forward in his chair with purpose.

"As time grows short, one does develop a severe case of ethics. You might bear that in mind, gentlemen. There is an obsession to clean the slate. A month ago, I accepted a commission from one Vasil D'Anglas of Berlin. The matter was handled by mail and I received a money order for one thousand pounds to locate or arrange for the return of the Golden Bird."

Since Holmes's face remained impassive, Lindquist cocked an eye. "I see you are not familiar with the object. No reason that you should be. In any case, D'Anglas agreed to the payment of another thousand pounds upon recovery of the object as well as reasonable expenses incurred in tracing it. I sent out feelers in the art world but uncovered little. Actually, I should not have accepted the case. My health made the necessary travel impossible, but I needed the money."

There was a furrow between Holmes's brows. "Your reference to travel I find confusing. Did not this gentleman in Berlin expect the art object to be here in England?"

"D'Anglas was somewhat vague regarding that. He had purchased the Golden Bird from a dealer in Constantinople, Aben Hassim. The bill of sale was mailed to D'Anglas, making him the legal owner. However, the Bird was stolen from Hassim's shop immediately prior to its being sent to Germany. My employer, for reasons he has not revealed, is of a mind that it will show up here in England. Actually, I should have gone to Constantinople, interviewed Hassim, and picked up the trail from there. Instead, I hired Barker, an inquiry agent of Surrey, to try and find a lead in the London underworld."

There was a half-smile on Holmes's face. "My rival," he stated, with a quick glance at me. "You will recall that our paths crossed relative to that matter of Josiah Amberley."

" ' The Retired Colourman,' " I responded automatically.

"Such was the title you used in your recounting of the affair," commented Holmes. His eyes swiveled back to Lindquist. "But what is this Bird which, by the size of your fee, must be valuable?"

"It is that. The Golden Bird stands twenty-three inches high, and is mounted on a pedestal of good size. The detail work is that of a master. The entire figure and base is said to be of twenty-four carat gold."

"My heavens!" I said, without meaning to.

"I am inclined to doubt that," added Lindquist quickly. "The Golden Bird has a unique history. It keeps disappearing."

Holmes was nodding. "I follow your reasoning. If this Bird is much traveled, undoubtedly there must be a percentage of alloy to provide rigidity."

"Eighteen carat sounds more reasonable." Lindquist and Holmes seemed in agreement on this. Frankly, their discussion was over my head.

"What kind of a bird is it?" I asked.

"A roc."

"Well, now," said Holmes with a pleased expression, "this gives us a touch of melodrama. The legendary giant bird of Arabia, so huge that it carried off elephants in its claws." Then the shadow of a thought crossed his face. "A strange subject for the artisan. You mentioned disappearances, which I assume were due to the criminally minded."

Lindquist leaned back in the chair as if rallying his limited strength. "See what you make of this sketchy history. The Golden Bird is said to have first appeared in Samarkand, part of the treasure of Tamerlane, the great Tartar conqueror. From drawings it would appear to be of Greek workmanship, though I cannot be certain of that. It was next heard of in the Russian Court of Peter the Great around 1720. This tsar was a great fancier of gold objects. Around 1790 it is definitely referred to as being in France. The royalist owners are said to have sold it to raise money desperately needed during the French Revolution. Then it fell into the hands of Napoleon, who used it as a pledge to borrow money from Dutch bankers. At the turn of the century, the Bird was in the possession of an art dealer named Weimer, of Amsterdam. Weimer's shop was gutted by fire and the Bird disappeared. Around 1850 it showed up on the Island of Rhodes. Evidently, it had been gathering dust in a small shop there until it was stolen by Harry Hawker."

Holmes, who had been gazing throughfully into the fire as he listened to this strange history, suddenly turned toward the speaker.

"Ah-ha! Hawker, the expert thief, who had been in his youth a disciple of Jonathan Wild, London's master criminal of the last century. His sharp eye would indeed recognize the value of the Bird."

Lindquist resumed his narrative. "He escaped with the statue to Budapest. To whom he sold it is unknown. It finally reappeared in Constantinople in the shop of Aben Hassim. A reputable dealer, Hassim spread the word that the Bird was in his possession and the Turkish government upheld his claim of ownership. At this point, my client entered into negotiations with Hassim."

"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 subsided.

"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. Evidently, 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 investigators. 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 envelope 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 valuable. There was no mention of jeweled eyes or an incrustation 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 goldsmith, 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 unknown alloy. 'Tis said the ancients were adept at electrum, 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 Birmingham and Sheffield."

Holmes indulged in a chuckle. "My dear fellow, cement was a lost art during the Middle Ages. Even today, our best men cannot duplicate a means of tempering 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.