"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.
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.