Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

3

The Battle at the Nonpareil Club

19

And so it was that we departed shortly thereafter from Baker Street, looking for all the world like a couple of swagmen. Holmes had a bull's-eye lantern, an assortment of first-class burglar tools in a valise, and his walking stick that concealed the vicious blade of Toledo steel, which he was capable of handling with such dexterity. The weight of my Smith-Webley was reassuring in my overcoat pocket. My intimate friend had a distaste for firearms and I often contended that he had been born several centuries too late as regards lethal weapons. However, if called upon, he could be extremely accurate with a revolver of small recoil, as evidenced by his occasional indoor target practice with his ridiculous single-shot Continental "salon" piece.

The driver of the hansom we hailed was surprised at the address in Soho that Holmes gave him. And small wonder, since this section seemed hardly appropriate for two staid middle-aged men of respectable appearance. However, he whistled to his horse and soon we were approaching the Thames. Needless to say, Holmes had not directed him to our eventual destination but a convenient intersection some distance away.

As we alighted from the conveyance, the driver was still concerned.

"Would you be wishin' fer me to wyte, gov?" he asked.

"No need, good man," replied the great detective, pressing a coin into the driver's hand. "My thanks for your concern."

Holmes's jaunty wave of farewell had a confidence which I did not share. The night was dark and the dank smell of the river added to the chill in the air. As the hansom clattered away, Holmes led us into a narrow alley and, taking me by the elbow, guided my steps over cobblestones and around corners without pause. As I have mentioned in other recountings of our adventures, his knowledge of the geography of London was uncanny, especially so in those havens of the lawless.

It took us about ten minutes, traveling a devious route, to arrive at a street that barely qualified for the name. It was a scant two blocks in length and there was not a light on it. Various ramshackle buildings studded it, most of them with an abandoned appearance.

I well knew from stories of Holmes, as well as adventures which I had shared with him, that but a block away the parallel street was garishly lit and much-trafficked, for it was a center of the slumming area of Soho. It was replete with gaming establishments, so-called "private clubs" of ill repute that served as after-hour-drinking spots, and even some "houses" in which the world's oldest profession was practiced. I must in truth admit that certain young gentlemen who fancied being called "gay blades" found it exciting to view life in the raw in such establishments. When some eventually paid the piper via narcotic addiction, staggering gambling debts, or venereal disease, it was too late. Reason or words of caution seldom impressed, for the hot blood of youth-promotes an intoxication of personal immunity.

My philosophical wanderings were brought to an end when Holmes came to a cautious halt at the entrance to a shabby building, which bore the barely decipherable sign: austro-eurasian imports. Flattening himself against the warehouse, he indicated for me to do the same and we remained frozen for better than a minute, while Holmes's keen ears were tuned for revealing sounds and his eyes darted to our right and left, studying intently the buildings facing us. Save for traffic noise that filtered from the adjacent street, the Stygian darkness revealed nothing. Occasionally a faint limpid ray of moonlight winked at us, only to be extinguished by the heavy clouds overhead. Eventually, my friend seemed satisfied, for gesturing to me to preserve silence, he tested the warehouse door alongside which we had been standing. The knob turned stubbornly under his hand emitting a squeaking sound which seemed to please him. Holmes had his valise open in a trice and worked on the lock with a narrow curved instrument. There was a faint luminosity from the sky now and I recognized the device as one of those developed by Slim Gilligan, who had figured in other cases, some of which I had recorded. If Holmes gave a grunt of satisfaction, it was barely audible. Extracting the device from the keyhole, he secured a can of thin lubricating oil, which he squirted into the lock and then applied to the hinges of the door as well. He leaned close to my ear.

"Luck favors the bold, Watson. This door has not been opened in a considerable time, strengthening our theory that this entrance to the Nonpareil Club is not known."

With another searching glance up and down the street, Holmes inserted his burglar tool and soon there was a click followed by a squeak. Holmes replaced his equipment in his satchel and then opened the door with no more than a faint protest from its newly oiled hinges. We were inside.

Cobwebs brushed against my face, further proof that this modern-day monk's hole was untrafficked. I could hear my own breathing and the soft sound of Holmes's valise being opened. Then there was a circle of light from the bull's-eye lamp. The illumination revealed a small room, obviously office space for the main warehouse, which was on our left. A flight of wooden stairs at the rear of the room led upward. Holmes swept his light over the stairs, imprinting their distance and the height and number of the treads upon his photographic brain. Then the light flicked out again and my friend's face was close to mine.

"The stairs lead up two flights, ol' fellow. They terminate in a room about the size of a large closet that is immediately adjacent to the private card room of the old club. Through certain sources today, I learned that the area now serves as Dawson's private office. But in the old days, this was where unwary dupes were lured into high-stakes games and Colonel Upwood observed their cards through a peephole. If said peephole is still operative, we may owe Upwood a vote of thanks. Though I have reason to believe that the partition between Dowson's office and what we might term the 'viewing room' is reasonably soundproof, let us remain cautious. In ascending the stairs, stay as close to the bannister as possible since this lessens the possibility of a creak. Sound has a strange way of traveling in old buildings. Also, on each step, place your feet in the middle of the tread and apply your weight slowly."

I nodded my understanding and Holmes led me to the stairs in perfect darkness, placing my hand on the bannister after ascending the first couple of steps himself. I do not care to recall our stealthy ascent of the two flights. Holmes mounted them like a shadow but I was not as successful and every sound boomed like the tympani section of the London Philharmonic to me. My thighs and the calves of my legs ached from the slow transfer of weight, and when we reached the top I was sure that another flight would have been too much for me. But the excitement of our situation soon banished physical ills from my mind.

If Holmes's information was correct, we were but slightly removed from the nerve center of one of the most dangerous criminal gangs in London. Dowson had created a sinister organization that almost rivaled that of Moriarty and the fact that he had eluded Holmes for so long was a tribute to his evil genius.

There was no glimmer of light anywhere in the area at the top of the stairs, a fact that I found comforting and which evidently prompted Holmes to incur a necessary risk. He trained the bull's-eye in the direction from which we had come and opened the shutter a sliver. In the reflected light we could make out the confines of the small space in which we stood, but our attention was glued to the wall separating us from the interior of the Nonpareil Club. About five and a half feet from the floor was a circular piece of wood, not unlike a small plate in size. There was a handle screwed to its surface. A small exhalation of satisfaction escaped Holmes as he doused the light again.

"That must be the peephole, Watson. When I open it, I'll be looking through one eye of a man's portrait if the furnishings within have not been altered. Once we become peeping Toms, any light, or sound, would be fatal. I want you to move with me to the opposite wall. Press your ear against it, then I'll chance the peephole. You shall be the ears, and I the eyes, in this effort."

Never in our years together had the comfort and security of our chambers at 221B Baker Street seemed so appealing, but despite this thought my chest swelled with pride at the realization that Holmes placed such confidence in me at this crucial moment in a most perilous investigation. Any member of the Dowson gang would have bartered whatever soul they had left to see the end of Sherlock Holmes, and to secure him in that private fortress where his body could be disposed of so easily would have seemed like manna from heaven to that band of unscrupulous ruffians. Creeping to my station, it occurred to me that they would be happy to settle my fate as well, since I was a dangerous witness.

Pressing my ear carefully against the wall, I tried to quiet the pounding of my heart and listened eagerly, but to no avail. Suddenly, there was a scent in my nostrils which alarmed me, until I realized that Holmes had his trusty can of oil lubricating the mechanism of the concealed aperture, a precaution that would never have occurred to me. Then there was faint light in our hiding place and I knew Holmes had opened the peephole.

The light remained for what seemed an interminable time but could have been but a brief ten seconds. Then it disappeared. Holmes's hand located my shoulder and he startled me by speaking, though softly.

"Judging from the width of the wall, sound is not a peril unless the peephole is open. Nothing is happening at the moment, but I judge we are in luck. You can see for yourself."

Guided by his hand, my head was positioned and then the aperture was reopened. At first, it was like looking through gauze but as my eyes adjusted to the light, I made out a small section of the room beyond. The line of sight was narrow but I could see a desk. Seated facing me was none other than Count Negretto Sylvius, Baron Dowson's right-hand man. He seemed in an attitude of waiting, so I judged him to be the only one in the room. I shifted my head but could not see a door or any area beyond that immediately surrounding the desk. It was like looking through a long tunnel. Sylvius's features were distinguishable but blurred. Obviously, the eye of the picture that secreted the peephole was covered with a filmy material that provided concealment. An excellent piece of workmanship I thought, and then recalled that this very deception which we were making such good use of had separated wealthy and titled Englishmen from a quarter of a million pounds, before the nefarious scheme had been uncovered by the world's only consulting detective.

Count Sylvius was idly smoking a cigarette and seemed without a care in the world. As he blew smoke, for a brief moment my heart plummeted. He was looking right at me. It seemed that he had to see me staring at him, but there was no flicker of alarm or even interest and he tapped his cigarette casually against a jade ashtray. The ashtray appeared to be a piece of value, understandable since Dowson was known to have luxurious tastes, but that is not what gripped my eyes. On the desk, within arm's reach of Count Sylvius, was the Bird. It had to be the Golden Bird, for it glistened in the light of the room, a graceful figure of whitish yellow color, an artistic reproduction of the legendary roc. It seemed poised for flight, its claws, greatly out of proportion to its overall size, grasping the pedestal that supported it.

My head jerked back from the peephole and the light disappeared as Holmes replaced its cover. We retreated to the rear wall of the cubicle for a council of war.

"Watson, that is obviously the Golden Bird and it is equally obvious that we have experienced an amazing stroke of luck. The very fact that Baron Dowson is not present indicates that the consummation of a deal is about to take place. If our good fortune holds, we may discover the principals in this most outré affair. Now patience is our byword for a climax is imminent."

As I puzzled over Holmes's analysis, we returned to our observation post. Holmes again opened the peephole and I positioned myself by his shoulder to share as much of his view as possible. Count Sylvius was seated as he had been and I envied his calm, self-satisfied air. The next fifteen minutes constituted the longest and most infuriating period I can recall spending, and it was with heartfelt thanks that I heard the sound of a door opening and the murmur of voices. Holmes, after a moment, drew slightly to one side and I could see the hunched figure of Baron Dowson, seated at the desk opposite Sylvius with his back to us. Obviously, there was a third presence for both Sylvius and Dowson were regarding another who was not in our line of sight. Sylvius rose from his chair, taking the Golden Bird from the desk and passing out of view. I surrendered my position to Holmes keeping as close to the opening as possible and listening intently. The voices in the adjoining room were muted but the words were understandable.

"If- you will inspect the merchandise, you will find it to be the object in question."

The voice, with a faint quaver of age, could only be that of the infamous Baron Dowson. The criminal conspirator had his fingers steepled in front of his face as he regarded the third presence in the room, still unseen from our vantage point.

"I can thay, without a thadow of doubt that thith ith the Golden Bird."

For a moment, the danger of our situation and the importance of the information we were surreptitiously gleaning was dissipated by an involuntary desire to laugh. The unknown and unseen consort of Dowson and Sylvius had a pronounced lisp, which seemed so out of keeping with the melodrama being enacted before our eyes. I steeled myself to stifle the imp of humor.

Dowson's aged head was nodding. The confirmation of the authenticity of the objet d'art being of no surprise.

"Then all that remains is to conclude the arrangements," he said, suggestively.

Sylvius reappeared with an attache case, which he placed on the desk. At a gesture of the Baron, he released the catches and opened it. My eyes widened instinctively for the case was filled with large-denomination currency bills.

"You will thee that it ith all there, gentlemen. Allow me to uthe the case to tranthport the Golden Bird."

The unseen owner of the voice was of indeterminate age: Sylvius tipped the attache case, spilling the currency on Dowson's desk. He disappeared from view toward the unknown as Dowson's trained fingers riffled through the packs of currency with the expertise of a banker.

Holmes's figure at my side drew back and, suddenly, the peephole was closed.

"Quick, Watson, we must get out of here. The Golden Bird is on the move again but this time we shall follow it."

His intention was obvious. If we could regain the street and make our way to the entrance of the Nonpareil Club the attache case would identify the unknown who had just paid such a large sum of money for the statue we were pursuing. With a hand on my friend's shoulders, I followed his sure progress down the stairs, suddenly coming to an abrupt stop since Holmes did. I could feel his sinewy muscles tense and then below us heard the sounds that had alerted him.

"We're trapped!" I thought. "Our exit is cut off!"

Suddenly, behind us, within the Nonpareil Club, a shot rang out and it was followed by a volley. There were screams and the silence we had been so intent on preserving was shattered on all sides.

"Back to the peephole, ol' chap," said Holmes. "See what has transpired. I'll hold the stairs."

In the sudden silence that so often follows an outbreak of violence, I heard the soft slither of steel and realized that my friend had drawn his sword blade. There was a pungent odor in the air and the sound of soft footfalls below.

Back at the peephole, I swung its cover to one side. Sylvius was not in evidence. Baron Dowson was extracting a long-barreled revolver from his desk drawer as another man, bearded and with a scarred face, was pushing the desk toward where I judged the door to the room to be. It was the stranger who was speaking hurriedly.

"It all came of a sudden, Baron. The gaming room was swarming with Chinks. The customers made a bolt for the doors naturally enough."

Dowson, gun in hand, lent his frail strength to his assistant. Evidently, they intended to barricade the room.

"How goes it below?" Dowson asked, venomously.

"Our boys are forted up in the kitchen, serving pantry and the bar room. If them heathen Chinee make their way up here, it will cost them."

The conversation was underscored by sporadic gunfire. As I replaced the cover and turned toward Holmes, there was a scream of pain and a body fell down the stairs we had ascended. Now I understood the pungent odor that had registered on my senses—the scent of spices carried by the Chinese dock workers so numerous in this area. Evidently, the Nonpareil Club had been invaded by a small army of Orientals. My Webley was now in my hand as I located Holmes at the head of the stairs. Below were the soft guttural sounds of a foreign tongue and the unmistakable presence of many bodies. It occurred to me that if a light were shown up the stairs, we would be in a very revealed position, an idea which occurred to Holmes as well. He drew me back from the head of the stairs, listening for the sound of movement that would indicate an upward rush at our position.

But the next sound that intruded itself over the chaos in the Nonpareil Club came from above. There was a sliding noise and a brief glimpse of the night sky overhead.

"Good heavens, Holmes, they're on the roof!" But it was a voice born within the sound of the bow-bells that graced our ears, to my intense relief. "Mr. 'Olmes, be ya down there? 'Tis Slim."

"Right you are, Gilligan," replied Holmes in his coolest manner.

"Best get up 'ere, sir. Things is a moite warm all 'round the block."

Holmes, warned by some instinct, suddenly hurled his sword blade like a lance toward the head of the stairs. There was another howl of pain and a crash of a falling body. Like an uncoiling spring, the great detective sprang upward toward the outstretched arm of Slim Gilligan, which was extended through the trap door in the roof. Grasping the wrist of the safecracker, Holmes reached the side of the opening with both of his powerful hands and drew his body, with Gilligan's help, halfway through the hatch.

"Watson, grab my legs. We'll get you out of there."

Loosening two shots from my revolver, I reached my left hand overhead and made contact with one of Holmes's ankles. As I was drawn clear of the floor, I sprayed the stair landing with the remainder of my cartridges, dropped my trusty weapon, and flailing wildly with my right hand made contact with Gilligan's hand. As Holmes drew his body clear of the opening I somehow managed to hold onto his ankle and, with Gilligan pulling on my other arm, my portly form was dragged through the hole and onto the roof. Gilligan promptly replaced the trap door as Holmes and I, more than a little breathless, regained our feet.

Sounds of battle continued beneath us and, in the distance, could be heard approaching police vehicles. The street below was full of running people. We wasted no time discussing the situation or the fortuitous appearance of Slim Gilligan, but followed the master cracksman as he led us over the roof of the warehouse. It was a short leap to the roof of the adjacent building. We quickly crossed it and found that Gilligan, who had obviously arrived on the scene in this manner, had stretched a plank across the space to the next roof in the block. Gilligan and Holmes went across this slender pathway to safety in a sure-footed manner but, in trying to emulate a tight-wire performer, it crossed my mind that I was much more suited to the life of a country doctor and, in all honesty, should retire to bucolic and peaceful surroundings rather than try to dog the footsteps of the world's greatest detective.

On the third roof, Gilligan kicked the plank, which had served us so well, free of the side of the buildings, to forestall any pursuit although there was none in evidence.

Behind us the sounds of conflict were dwindling and I assumed the forces of law and order had arrived on the scene, but Holmes seemed to wish to avoid the Metropolitan Police. So the three of us regained the cobblestones of the street in short order and dodged through a series of alleys until it was safe to call a halt to our pell-mell rush and hail a hansom.

The driver of the conveyance bad heard the uproar and questioned us regarding it. Holmes satisfied his curiosity with the guess that there had been a raid on a gambling establishment, which was certainly the truth, though as we well knew it had not been a police raid.