by J. R. Trtek
Irene Adler did not respond immediately. Instead, she, yet again, retired to her room. During the ensuing time, Holmes rested, hands across his eyes, and I restored my scattered manuscripts to their original order.
“And so the centre of the case is a statue,” I said to my friend. “Truly, I wonder if there will be four more of them and whether we shall be forced to break them all.”
“What said you?” asked Holmes, eyes still covered.
“I was comparing the black bird statue to the five Napoleon statues.”
“There were six, and they were busts,” was his idle comment. “And while it is possible, I do not think the dabble will be ripe for breaking.”
“Dabble?”
“Criminal argot for stolen property. Mr. Starkey used the term, if you recall. No, unlike the Napoleons, I am inclined to believe that the value lies with the statue itself, though that value is likely hidden nonetheless.”
“How so?”
“I doubt Girthwood would have asked someone possessing such an immoral compass as young Vic Starkey to fetch an obviously valuable statue and return it to him. Had its value been self-evident, Starkey would have been expected to simply vanish with it. Moreover, our assailant described the bird as black.” Holmes uncovered his eyes and stared at the ceiling of our room. “I ask myself whether an unadorned black statue of a bird would, in itself, inspire murder, and my response is to doubt it, unless the artifact has hidden treasure or is the symbol of personal passions. Or both, which is perhaps the most probable.”
“You just alluded to murder. What murder?”
Holmes turned his face toward me. “Earlier in the week, just before this case was brought to us, I commented to you upon the murder of a Greek art dealer in Paris.”
“I fear I have no such recollection.”
“The remark was uttered in the course of our debate over Mr. Finney,” my friend said. “By the way, I suppose I must congratulate you on your recent good fortune at the track. Trust me when I say that the remark causes me perhaps more pain and embarrassment than my leg at present. Next time, Watson, you must allow me to purchase the molasses.”
“Done. I believe now that I do recall the incident—of the Paris murder, I mean.”
Holmes turned his entire body and braced one elbow against the sofa, so as to support his head in one hand. “Art, violence, Paris—those attributes are common to both that case and ours.”
“You believe they are connected with one another?”
“In most investigations such as the current one, the definitely certain must take precedence over the merely possible. Still, the comparison is intriguing, and I am tempted to reverse the relation. How I yearn for details of the Parisian murder beyond what the press can supply.”
“You are considering sending someone to France?”
“No,” replied Holmes. “Only I should go there and then only in the gravest of situations; for the moment, I must remain here in London. I shall have Johnson wire the Prefect of Paris in the morning, however.”
“Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“You have suggested to Miss Adler that we abandon the fiction that she left Baker Street.”
“I believe Girthwood is now certain she is here, and casual admission of the same would represent a boldness that might serve us well in dealing with the man. Yes, I am now inclined to change my strategy and admit to him that she resides temporarily at 221.”
Holmes rested for a while longer then left the sofa and spent several minutes limbering up his strained joints. At length, Miss Adler came down again, declaring herself to be in better spirits than before and ready to accompany us, and so, within the hour, we three finally set out under a blue-and-white sky in a four-wheeler, for the Waymore Hotel.
“I do believe we are being followed,” I said shortly after our departure, as we turned into Oxford Street.
“That is your belief and my hope,” answered Sherlock Holmes. “And I do hope you can observe the driver of the pursuing vehicle to be none other than Shinwell Johnson.”
Looking closely at the hansom following in our wake, I saw the driver was, indeed, Johnson himself. I gave him a nod that went unacknowledged and returned my attention to my companions.
“Upshaw and Mercer are inside his hansom,” said Holmes in a distracted tone. “You may also wish to check the identity of our own driver.”
With a contortion that threatened me with injury rivalling that of my friend’s recent mishap, I saw that it was the pale-faced Langdale Pike, another of Holmes’s agents, at the reins. He grinned sardonically and then gave his attention to the traffic once more.
“Stannard and Hollins remain outside 221 itself,” continued Holmes. “Though the precaution may be unnecessary. With Mr. Starkey in custody for his assault, I expect Jasper Girthwood may, once again, be alone and unassisted in London.”
We proceeded without further conversation to New Oxford Street and then Holborn, where Irene Adler took delight, after an absence of years, in seeing that area’s black-and-white gabled houses. We then turned left to invade Bloomsbury where, after skirting the British Museum, we encountered the Waymore Hotel. Holmes and I left the four-wheeler, while Irene Adler hesitated.
“If you are uncertain, I suggest you remain in the vehicle,” said Sherlock Holmes, hand held against his hat in the heavy breeze. “I shall instruct Mr. Pike to drive you round for a time and then return here. Moreover, Shinwell Johnson and his crew will continue to follow you. All shall be well.”
Miss Adler agreed, and Holmes gave instructions to Pike. As the four-wheeler and hansom sped off, my friend and I entered the lobby of the Waymore. There, supported by the largest chair in the room, sat Jasper Girthwood.
“A warm welcome, Mr. Holmes, and to you as well, sir,” the man said, straining to rise from his seat. “We meet as old friends now, do we not? By gad, I love hospitality,” he declared, as if the effort of getting up were itself a gift of affection. “Take those chairs there, gentlemen, please!”
We three sat down in unison, and Girthwood pulled out his watch. “Precisely half past! Punctuality in all things, sir,” he said, returning the timepiece to the pocket of his huge black suit. “If a man can’t keep his time, how can he keep his place, eh? Now then, what do you desire in the way of drink? I can call a man at any time.”
“Perhaps in a moment,” said the detective, speaking for us both. “I believe I have something that may be yours.”
“You do?” whispered Girthwood. “What?” The immense young man looked suspiciously back and forth at Holmes and me. “You certainly can’t be carrying it. Did you leave it at the desk?”
“I do indeed have it with me. It is this,” replied Holmes casually, taking Vic Starkey’s knife from his coat pocket and setting it upon a nearby table. “I said it may be yours. Then again, perhaps it is the property of an associate.”
Girthwood leaned back, assumed a distracted air of gruffness, and set his hands upon chair rests that were only a tad less plush. “Whose did you say it was?” he asked. “I did not hear a name.”
“A Mr. Vic Starkey. I will give him credit for not admitting it, but I strongly suspect he is your associate.”
“I readily admit he is my agent, sir, as I know you have agents, such as your friend here. I say that straightaway, with no intention of muddying the waters. And a damned fool agent Mr. Starkey must have been.” The man contemplated the knife. “Are you telling me that he actually used that? Did he attempt to threaten you, sir?”
“Both of us, in fact.”
Girthwood looked at me. “My deep apologies.”
I acknowledged him with a curt nod.
“Your gesture is accepted,” added Holmes. “Fortunately, a passing messenger-boy disarmed Mr. Starkey, and Dr. Watson convinced the lad to allow us to have it.”
Girthwood stared at Holmes for a moment and then burst into loud laughter. “Good! Very good! Regardless of venue, sir, you are precious! Indeed, priceless!”<
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“I thought to keep the knife,” said Holmes, interrupting our host’s joviality, “believing it might, in fact, be yours.”
Girthwood and Holmes sat in silence, each contemplating the other, as I sat and watched. At length, Girthwood said, “No, sir, it is not my knife, not my knife at all. What Mr. Starkey did was regrettable; indeed, it was shocking. But as you yourself noted, Mr. Holmes, I am new here. I place my trust in certain people, and they... disappoint me.”
Girthwood took a small snuff-box from another pocket and opened it. “Fine silver,” he said, contemplating the container. “Not as exquisite as the one on your mantel, to be sure, sir—a piece for which you could get a pretty penny, if I may say. If Tiffany’s or Lambert’s have not fully appraised it yet, you must allow me that pleasure.” Girthwood took his snuff then closed the box and put it back in his pocket. “My,” he said after a loud sneeze, staring at Holmes’s chest. “That’s a fine emerald tie-pin you’ve got there as well, sir.”
“Thank you. It was given to me by a late, very great lady.”
“You truly are the collector and connoisseur, Mr. Holmes. When all this dreadful business is finished, we must tour London’s jewellery establishments together. Have you, perhaps, the time today? I understand there is a marvellous showroom at Elkington and Company.”
“In Regent Street, yes,” said Holmes. “But let us return to the knife.”
“Mr. Starkey made a sorry choice,” Jasper Girthwood muttered, looking away. “I shall scold the boy for it. By the by, how long will he be in jail?”
“That is not mine to determine, and I do not know if the matter will even be referred to the assizes.”6
Girthwood’s expression betrayed a lack of comprehension.
“You received Dr. Watson’s message concerning the black bird?” Holmes continued.
“That you don’t have it, yes. And you don’t?” The man looked at me with a coy smile. “Neither of you?”
“No,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“And I believe you, sir. I can tell the truth in men as well as gems, and by gad, I think this time your testimony is true—that braggadocio about the messenger notwithstanding. And, perhaps, unlike our previous conversation,” Girthwood continued with a sigh. “When you were less than truthful about the whereabouts of certain…clients?”
“My profession can be a difficult business,” replied Holmes. “Truth must, at times, be a weapon.”
“Oh, yes, it’s dog-eat-dog out there, sir,” said the other man. “Arf,” he muttered after a pause and then laughed heartily. “So tell me, now that we are no longer lying to one another,” Girthwood added, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward as much as his belly would allow. “Do you know where the bird is?”
“No,” said Sherlock Holmes.
Girthwood stared Holmes in the eye. “I accept that,” he said, leaning back and again grasping his chair to assume a magisterial air. “Tell me, have you any idea what the bird is?”
“I take it to be an objet d’art, whose immense value is disguised by, I fancy, a coating of black enamel.”
Girthwood’s eyes widened, and his manner deflated. He joined his hands together and looked down at them. “Why did you arrange this appointment, sir?” the man asked. “For what practical purpose did you call it?”
“You have yet to ask me if I know whose statue it is.”
“Ownership can be a purely metaphysical concept, Mr. Holmes. Accept that when it comes to the black bird, physical possession alone is the only true test of consequence.”
“I observe that it is a test you yourself fail to pass.”
“For the present only, Mr. Holmes. For the present only.”
“If Mr. Starkey represents your best mustering of forces,” the detective said graciously, “I fear nothing will change.”
“I have others at my disposal.”
Holmes merely smiled.
“Yourself, for instance,” Girthwood continued. “You realize, sir, that I was quite serious yesterday with my offer to hire you.”
“I told you I am already in the service of another client.”
“Yes, but that is to locate Robert Hope Maldon, isn’t it? With all those agents you claim to have, surely you can handle more than one investigation at a time? Find Maldon for your anonymous client, and find the bird for me.”
“Given the direction my current investigation is taking, I am quite certain such an arrangement would lead to difficult conflicts of interest. Under the circumstances, I cannot consider your offer.”
“You’re correct about the bird being valuable, Mr. Holmes,” the large man said. He gave a nasal laugh. “You cannot comprehend how correct you are. If you accept my offer, the commission alone would guarantee your future. Why, you might as well refuse a knighthood or a dukedom.”
“I refused a knighthood only last year,” said Sherlock Holmes. “And as for a dukedom, well, I fear that is not in the offing. Even if it were, my answer would still be a firm no.”
“A pity,” Girthwood said with a deep sigh. “The word inevitable always saddens me.”
“Though, when combined with the word victory, I find it most invigorating,” said Sherlock Holmes.
Girthwood laughed yet again and then waved one hand as if it were a closely tethered balloon. “Well, then off with you, sir. I’ve had my fun trying; I can tell you. When the game’s afoot, the blood runs fast.”
“I have often conveyed much the same sentiment to Dr. Watson here in almost the same terms,” Holmes replied, rising from his chair. I followed my friend’s lead at once. “If we are, indeed, each well experienced at the hunt,” Holmes continued. “Perhaps we shall meet again in the field.”
“Either there, Mr. Holmes, or in Hades.”
Without another word, my friend turned to leave. Once more, I took my cue from him. Discreetly looking back as we departed the hotel lobby, I saw our antagonist pick up the knife and clench it before gently returning it to the table.
“I do not see our two vehicles,” said Holmes once we had regained the street. “Come, Watson, let us cross and then proceed northward some small distance.”
I followed my friend’s directions, bending my shoulders against the wind before commenting upon Girthwood’s intolerable rudeness.
“Pure swank,” said Holmes in agreement. “And little more.”
“Do you not view him as a serious enemy?” I asked.
“The man does not yet seriously inconvenience me,” said Holmes. “Let alone hamper my plans. I feel no loss of liberty, and my situation is by no means an impossible one.”
“A simple no would have sufficed,” I observed as we halted and turned round to espy our companions when they should pass.
“I was borrowing your own words, Doctor. Or, at least, those your pen placed in the mouth of Professor Moriarty.”
“Ah, of course,” I said, understanding why the phrases had seemed familiar to me. “We may only hope that this problem will not be your final one.”
“Well played, old fellow. But to respond to your comment, I doubt the apocalypse looms. You know, Watson, you should never have resurrected my fictional persona,” Holmes abruptly remarked as he shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare to search amid the bustle of King’s Crossing for our cabs. “I’d rather that my literary alter ego still were buried beneath the pages alongside our dearly departed professor.”
“You were most efficient in rescuing my recent efforts from the fire,” I said crisply. “I should say your fictional persona possesses strong survival instincts.”
“Your tongue is as cruel as your pen, Doctor,” my friend replied with a puckish smile. “Halloa, I believe Miss Adler’s cab is in sight.”
Hailing our four-wheeler and nodding inconspicuously to Shinwell Johnson aboard the trailing hansom, Holmes approached the vehicle and boarded it; I followed in his wake. Pike touched his hat’s brim as we boarded.
“I have seen some streets in this portion of London that I have not vis
ited for years,” said Irene Adler at once. “I had quite forgotten about Gordon Square.”
“I am glad your jaunt was entertaining,” Holmes remarked in a friendly way.
“How went your interview?”
“Sadly, the occasion entertained no one. I conveyed to Mr. Girthwood those points I wished to impress upon him,” my friend said. “Unfortunately, the man himself remains intractable.”
Holmes turned away to stare at the passing buildings and comment upon them for the benefit of Miss Adler. I sat and listened as well, and little more of consequence was said by any of us for the remainder of the trip back to Baker Street. Within sight of 221, I realized that the hansom driven by Shinwell Johnson was no longer following.
Our four-wheeler halted, and we three debarked. Holmes conversed briefly with Langdale Pike, while I escorted Miss Adler through our front door. Inside I found our agent Hollins passing time in the waiting room. “Pleasant day, Dr. Watson,” the stubby fellow said. “Stannard is out back. It’s been quiet; I can tell you. There was a ring of the telephone that Mrs. Hudson dealt with. She’ll tell you about it. I’ll be going out, I suppose, now that you’re back.”
The man briefly repeated the same to Sherlock Holmes as my friend entered 221. Our landlady appeared almost at once and confirmed Hollins’s report.
“The man did not identify himself,” she said as she took Miss Adler’s hat and coat. “And his voice was muffled, as if through cloth. Most rude, I thought.”
“What did he say?” asked Holmes.
“He asked if Miss Adler were here, and I informed him she was not, whereupon he gruffly suggested I wasn’t telling the truth and cut me off.”
“Hum,” the detective said. “We shall take to the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson.”
Holmes and I parted with our hats and coats, and then we three ascended the stair. The detective and I entered the sitting room, while Irene Adler ascended to her quarters, where she dispensed with her own hat and coat before coming down to rejoin us. Together, we sat round a newly invigorated fire.
