Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

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 detective. 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 effrontery 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 London,

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 apologies. 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 undoubtedly have used a conveyance, since he seemed to be in haste. Here my encyclopedic knowledge of the byways 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 rewarding."

I gazed at the sleuth with a startled expression.

"Good heavens, Holmes, you don't mean you burgled the place?"

"Of course not. For some reason beyond my comprehension, the landlady assumed that I was of the legal calling and handled Barker's affairs. She was delighted to show me the room he had rented several weeks before."

"Beyond your comprehension, eh?" I regarded him with obvious disbelief, well knowing how Holmes could inspire and nurture a false conception without actually resorting to fabrication or falsehood. He chose to ignore my skeptical tone.

"Imagine my surprise to find a letter addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street."

"The devil you say!"

" 'To be delivered should harm befall me.' Such was the notation on the envelope."

I was at a complete loss for words and my expression revealed that fact.

"Not so strange, Watson, that both Nils Lindquist and Barker's thoughts should follow the same path. Both were involved in the matter and both had had previous association with us."

Holmes was consistently generous in his use of the word us, but I well knew to whom the art expert and the Surrey investigator had turned as a court of last resort.

Holmes had crossed to the desk with that quick nervous stride, which indicated his full powers were channeled to a matter of interest. Gone was the languid theorist and in his place was the finely tuned, nay predatory, sleuth, hot on the scent. He again indicated the letter, which he had evidently been rereading on my arrival.

"Let me give you a brief summation of this. Barker refers to his being employed by Nils Lindquist, the art expert. He draws my attention to a familiar name, should harm come his way. None other than old Baron Dowson."

"Again he crosses our path," I exclaimed. A sudden thought caused me to switch subjects. "Barker must have anticipated that he was in peril."

"At least we can say that he knew that information he had come upon was dangerous knowledge," conceded Holmes. "The letter is couched in vague terms, full of references to previous cases which only you or I would understand. The substance is that he had uncovered a lead to Baron Dowson in connection with a job he had undertaken."

"The Golden Bird matter!" I exclaimed.

"He does not specify it. Barker secured employment at the Nonpareil Club as a means of investigating Baron Dowson."

"Good heavens, Holmes, I did not even know the place had reopened!"

"Some time ago, as an elaborate and completely illegal gambling club that is part of the Baron's apparatus. Obviously Watson, Barker had studied those recountings of our adventures which you occasionally foist on a patient reading public. For instance, he makes reference to a surreptitious investigation undertaken during the Inter-Ocean Trust case.* What does that suggest to you?"

*The Case of the Three Hats

"Slim Gilligan, the cracksman."

"Exactly," said Holmes, with a pleased expression.

"Our attention is not only directed to Dowson and the Nonpareil Club, which now serves as the Baron's headquarters, but we are clued in to the fact that Slim Gilligan might provide a key to what the late Barker found."

My mouth was but half-open when Homes anticipated me.

"I have already been to Gilligan's Lock and Key Shop and he is not on the premises. The establishment is manned by a friend of his, but I have reason to believe that Slim will get in touch with us in the immediate future."

"Could the cracksman be hiding out in fear of the same fate that befell Barker?"

"The possibility crossed my mind. But Slim will appear, of that I am sure. Meanwhile, I have some, shall we say, staff work to do. We are in need of more information before progressing further in this affair."

I had a few house calls to make and was not loath to leave since I well knew that I could be of no assistance at this point in the case. Holmes encouraged me to continue my medical practice in a somewhat limited manner. When I protested that I was merely a part-time practitioner, he assured me that my calls on the habitues of Mayfair frequently resulted in bits of gossip and information that were of considerable interest to him. As to whether he was completely sincere regarding this I could not say. Possibly he just wanted to make me feel useful or, perhaps, my medical duties provided him with breathing space should he wish to work alone. During my absence on this day, I knew he would be following his usual procedure. The web that my friend had spun spread over London was sensitive to the slightest tug of an unusual incident. Terminating at 221B Baker Street, this unofficial information machine had ears glued to doors and eyes to keyholes. Hansom drivers, shopkeepers, and commissionaires vied with government ministers, industrial tycoons and eminent attorneys in feeding information into this grist mill, which spewed forth information that Sherlock Holmes's retentive brain devoured. What type of relay system serviced this unusual mechanism I could not imagine, but little happened among the six million of the great city that my friend was not privy to in short order.

It was later than I had anticipated when I returned to our chambers. The day had been clear though cold and the fog of the previous evening had retreated to the Thames. As I looked at the warm lights that beckoned the homeward-bound I thought of Holmes's remark years before about a magical flight over the great city and the fact that if the roofs could be removed one would view a vast tapestry of love, hate, and passion, along with incidents that would make The Thousand and One Nights of Scheherazade seem like a child's primer on unusual events. The sleuth was a great believer that man was the most fascinating and unpredictable of all the creations in the universe and, considering our adventures throughout the years, who was I to deny this theory?

When I reentered our chambers, I found my eccentric friend pacing the floor of our sitting room and emitting clouds of acrid smoke from the pipe he fancied when dealing with a baffling problem. His manner was almost abrupt as he indicated a single place set at the table.

"I had Mrs. Hudson prepare a sandwich for you, old friend, and there's stout to wash it down with."

Realizing that Holmes was bent on action, I swiftly removed my great coat and followed his instructions. As I devoured the roast beef sandwich, Holmes selected a walking stick from his collection, speaking all the time to fill me in.

"My investigations of the afternoon have not been singularly productive, so we are forced to abandon the realm of speculation in favor of frontal assault. I must inform you that Lindquist died in his quarters at midday."

I half-choked on a mouthful of stout. "Murdered?"

Holmes shook his head negatively. "Considering his condition, it is amazing the man lasted as long as he did. However, as he pointed out, dedication is a spur with long rowels. This case is now a bequest. We must not fail."

"Good show, Holmes! Matter of honor and all that."

"Then there's Barker to be considered. From the message which he left for me, it is obvious that he earned the money Lindquist paid him. There can be no doubt that he uncovered a connection between Baron Dowson and the Golden Bird."

"Else why would he have secured employment at the Nonpareil Club?" I agreed, disposing of the last remnants of my sandwich.

Holmes paused to favor me with a smile.

"Excellent, my dear Watson. I note an improvement in your inferential thinking."

Imbued with this praise, I went one step further. "Since Barker was investigating matters at the Nonpareil, no doubt that is where you plan to launch your own inquiry."

"Exactly," replied Holmes. "This point of embarcation suggests a trump card in our favor." Noting my look of puzzlement, he hastened to explain; "It was in 1888 that our attention was directed to the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood and the card scandal at the Nonpareil. Surely you recall that the club was a haven for card sharps and others of larcenous intent. Since it served as a hideout for wanted men, there were entrances and exits not recorded in the original designer's blueprints."

My mind flew back to this notorious case, one of the most unusual in Holmes's career up to that point.

"Of course. The secret entrance from the warehouse behind the club through which Victor Lynch, the forger, attempted to make his escape."

"You are in rare form, ol' fellow. Fortunately, you never chose to make that case history available to the reading public and the matter was not dealt with in detail by the journals of that period. My thought is that we may be privy to information regarding the Nonpareil Club that Baron Dowson, its present owner, is not."