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.