Unknown (6 page)

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 look
ing
right at me. It seemed that he had to see me staring at him, but
there was no flicker of alarm or even inter
est
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 luxu
rious
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 pro
portion
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 peep
hole
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 spend
ing,
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. Obvious
ly,
there was a third presence for both Sylvius and Dow
son
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 surren
dered
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 un
derstandable.

"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 con
spirator
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 sur
prise.

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

Sylvius reappeared with an attache
case, which he
placed
on the desk. At a gesture of the Baron, he re
leased
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 cur
rency
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 Nonpa
reil
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 out
break
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 extract
ing
a long-barreled revolver from his desk drawer as an
other
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 pan
try
and the bar room. If them heathen Chinee make
their
way up here, it will cost them."

The conversation was underscored
by sporadic gun
fire.
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 over
head.

"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 cool
est
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 detec
tive
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, half
way
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 car
tridges,
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 dis
tance,
could be heard approaching police vehicles. The
street
below was full of running people. We wasted no
time
discussing the situation or the fortuitous appear
ance
of Slim Gilligan, but followed the master cracks
man
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 ob
viously
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 foot
steps
of the world's greatest detective.