My throat suddenly dry, I tried to utter a warning, but events were too fast for me.
"Hilger," called Hananish in a frantic manner, yet a wave of seeming exultation washed his face.
The brute attending him moved toward me, for I was standing with an eye on the man. Then the shadow behind me became a shape in front of me and the deceptively squat figure of Orloff was in action. The servant reached a hand for him, which was his second mistake. His first was in moving at all. Suddenly the fingers of Orloff closed on the man's wrist and there was a twist that spun Hilger around, his arm bent behind his back. The security agent's right boot swept the man's feet from the floor and Hilger fell, his jaw crashing against the converted varqeano chest in the process. Orloff stepped back, allowing the body to slump to the floor. I noted a trickle of blood from Hilger's mouth and suspected a fracture at least. It had been nothing for Orloff, a mere warm-up; but he was not allowed to continue his act, which he performed with the polished ease of a variety entertainer.
Under cover of the scuffle, Hananish had reached for the chest and a panel had sprung open in it. Now he was armed, for in his hands was a twelve-bore double-barreled shotgun, with half of its twin cylinders sawed off. It was pointing right at Holmes, both hammers at full cock. What panicked me more than anything else was the conviction that Hananish intended to fire come what may. If he did, seventy-six grams of shot at point-blank range would tear Holmes to ribbons.
Both Orloff and I were frozen. Holmes, immobilized by his seated position, was impotent to act. Then, as though it were all a slow-motion pantomime, I saw the fingers of the banker tighten and the hammers fell. There was a roar of sound.
Chapter 19
To the Lion's Den
THERE WAS more smoke than there should have been, and when it cleared, I saw why. The shotgun, a twisted and broken thing now, had burst and the full force of the powder and shot had exploded in Hananish's face. What was left would have made a shocking illustration for Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Contrary to intent, it was Holmes who was Ichabod Crane, whilst Hananish was the headless horseman.
"Thank God," I choked.
Holmes mopped his brow with Irish linen, his hands steady. "I was not meant to die," he said.
Holmes regarded what was left of Hananish for a brief moment and his chiseled features, so often willed into immobility, could not reject an expression of horror. I turned away, not only from the corpse but my companions as well, for I was overcome with emotion. What was mirrored in those fathomless green eyes of Orloff, I knew not. But I could imagine. He walked a lonely path, did Wakefield, and what friends he had stood now with him in this room of death. In his nerveless, often heartless mind I knew he echoed the words that I kept repeating fervently to myself.
"Holmes lives."
He did indeed and was now his old self, rallying us back to those duties that our destiny had ordained for us.
"We've got to keep a lock on this thing till we return to London."
Orloff indicated it could be done.
"Will you be returning with us?" asked Holmes.
"My men can handle this, and they know what to look for." As if in answer to the thought that came to my mind, he added, "Hananish is gone, but we've still got to tie up the bundle if only for the record." Orloff must have been considering the orders he was going to give, for he added almost inaudibly: "Your brother wishes me to remain by your side." A faint cloud passed over his face, and I knew he was berating himself. If not asked, he never advanced information, especially about his employer, the mysterious Mycroft Holmes.
In the carriage returning to Fenley and on the train back to London his remark gave me thought. The gold had been found, and those who stole it had come to an abrupt end. What now remained but the clearing up of details and the necessary tendering of information to the authorities involved? But, no, there was still Lightfoot McTigue at large.
I was leaning against the cushioned back of our compartment as I pondered on this. Orloff sat beside the door, his small, dancer feet flat on the floor and his body upright but completely relaxed. The bowler hat with its concealed steel rim, which was such a deadly weapon in his hands, was tilted over his eyes. The even cadence of his soundless breathing, revealed by the movement of his chest, convinced me that he was asleep. Holmes, legs outstretched, was by my side.
"I wonder where Lightfoot is at this moment?" he said softly as though reading my thoughts.
"Probably plotting your demise," was my automatic retort.
"The man has no bank for his emotions and only works for pay. When we clear up the treasure train matter, who's to foot his bill?"
I sensed that he was turning this thought over in his mind, and there was a considerable silence before he spoke again. "We're one up on Lightfoot, you know, for he cannot realize that we are aware of his redheaded guise."
I tilted my head to survey him. My friend's eyes were closed. "The Trelawney matter, and Michael's death as well, bore his trademark. He was hired to do both jobs and planned them well in advance."
"What leads you to that conclusion?" I muttered, out of deference to our sleeping companion.
"Ezariah Trelawney's stepson was first in line as a suspect when the banker's body was found. Right after him were Staley and Ledbetter, Trelawney's hereditary enemies. Michael had incurred the wrath of the artist Folks. But Trelawney was killed first and Lightfoot was on the scene in the redheaded disguise, which was created especially for the Michael killing. Ostensibly, the Trelawney case is closed. The Michael matter is up in the air; and Lightfoot must feel that the artist Folks is the prime suspect."
Now I followed Holmes' drift. McTigue, stylistically, performed his antisocial duties so that others got the blame. At this point he had no reason to think his presence was known.
The subject was of interest, spiced with an undercurrent of danger, but I chose this moment to fall asleep. Back in our familiar surroundings, with a change of clothes and a suitable meal, I felt more ready to cope with whatever crossed our horizon. Holmes had departed for points unknown but returned to sit over coffee with me. Rather impatiently, I thought, though we had some time before leaving for our appointment at the Birmingham and Northern. With our harrowing adventure in Fenley now a part of the past, I summoned my courage. It was a personal question I had in mind, hence, delivered in a tentative manner.
"I've given more than a little thought to that near-fatal moment this morning, Holmes. Hananish's shotgun was an aged model. Do you feel his reducing the barrel length caused it to backfire on him?"
"Gratitude is what I feel."
Finally I got 'round Robin Hood's barn. "But there you were, looking down those twin barrels. What passed through your mind?" I was embarrassed when I said it, but who has not wondered what thought occurs when one stares at death?
Holmes took his time answering, and I was grateful for his treating my question seriously and not evading it with a light remark. "I believe my first thought was that this was it, something that we all must come to eventually. Debitum naturae. Then I wished that it had not happened so soon. In that split second, I must have derived some satisfaction from the knowledge that I would be revenged with you and Orloff present."