Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

Something kindled for a moment in D'Anglas's lackluster eyes and then disappeared. 'You wonder at the great interest this object, whose intrinsic value is limited, stimulates. But consider the workmanship. There is another factor, of course. Collectors are generally romanticists. If an object has a colorful history it has additional appeal.'

'If there is a story that goes with it,' murmured Holmes, almost to himself. 'Well, the Bird has been much- traveled. The Tartar capital of Samarkand, the Russian and French court, Napoleon, then the Dutch bankers. Lindquist outlined some of its history and left other details in his case report. I note that its presence was known for a considerable period and then it began disappearing.'

D'Anglas was obviously dealing with a subject of fascination to him and, not surprisingly, was well- informed.

'Following the fire in the dealer's shop in Amsterdam, the Bird did disappear. But it is definitely known that it was displayed in the museum in Dubrovnik around 1810. You will recall that the walled city blunted the sword of Islam when the muslem tide engulfed other parts of the Balkans. It is reasonably well-established that the Bird was given to the Turks as part of a peace offering. Then it vanished again.'

'Until it turned up in a shop on the Island of Rhodes and was stolen. Then it vanished again, resurfacing in Constantinople.' Holmes's voice dwindled away and he seemed in a deep brown study.

'Obviously, something intrigues you about this series of events, Mr. Holmes.'

The sleuth nodded. There was a touch of irritation in his manner, indicating that a thread of thought was proving annoyingly elusive.

'The Tartars probably gained the Bird as a prize of conquest. After all, they systematically looted a large portion of the civilized world of their time. It's progress from the Russians to the French and, finally, the Dutch bankers is reasonable. The fact that it disappeared after a fire is not unusual. It might have been discovered by almost anyone in the ruins and its worth not realized. Its passage from the Serbians to the Turks is also straightforward. But then something happened. It appears in Rhodes and is stolen. In its long history this is the first definite indication of criminal involvement and quite a criminal at that. As soon as it appeared in Constantinople, it was stolen again.'

'Your facts are accurate, Mr. Holmes, but what thought do they prompt?' D'Anglas's elephantine face was regarding Holmes intently. Had a tinge of alarm crept into his manner?

'The facts warrant an assumption,' said Holmes. 'Between the time the Bird was in the possession of the Turks and its appearance on the Island of Rhodes, something happened. Something made the statue more valuable.'

D'Anglas permitted himself a smile. 'The interest in collections grew, Mr. Holmes. Also an appreciation of fine craftsmanship and ancient artifacts. With the coming of modern times, art objects are not as plentiful as in times gone by.'

'And your interest in the Bird, Mr. D'Anglas?' Holmes's tone was casual, but I had a feeling that this was a major piece in the puzzle he was fitting together.

The man spread his large and knobby hands. 'Call it a compulsion, sir. I am a goldsmith by trade as was my father and his father before him. It was my grandfather who first fell under the spell of the Bird. Drawings of it exist you know. He felt that the ancient object was the finest example of his art in existence. His passion for the golden roc must have been communicable, for my father was equally obsessed with the desire to possess it. Being without family, I am able to indulge myself somewhat and the pursuit of the Bird has become the driving force in my life as well.'

The man's dull eyes had been sparked with an inner light for a moment but now the mental fire was banked. 'For a wondrous moment I felt that the quest of three generations was ended and that the Bird would be mine before my time had come. Now, alas, I'm not so sure.'

My medical training would not let this ominous remark go unchallenged. 'Surely, you are a man not beyond the prime of life. Your magnum opus still lies within your reach.'

D'Anglas's face slowly registered appreciation for my encouragement. 'Nils desperandum,' he muttered. Then his mood shifted and became grim. 'However, my family is short-lived on the male side. Unless . . .'

His ponderous jaws snapped shut and he summoned a smile that was more an exercise of his facial muscles than any reflection of mirth. His massive head shifted toward Holmes. 'My general health and longevity potential are of no assistance to you in your search. Tell me, sir, is there any other information regarding the Bird which I can furnish you?'

Holmes, who had been listening intently to my words with D'Anglas and not drifting off into his own mental kingdom as he sometimes did, signified that he had no additional questions.

'Then, perhaps, you'll answer one of mine.' The man seemed determined to preserve a businesslike facade and I sensed that he regretted his foray into family history. 'If your visit here was arranged to remove you from London, what do you deduce might be happening there?'

Holmes took his time in answering, probably debating as to how much he wished to reveal to our unusual client at this time. 'I have good reason to assume that two prominent collectors are after the Bird and one has secured possession of it. Therefore, the next move will be an attempt to recover the object.'

D'Anglas gave another display of native shrewdness. 'Your words indicate that one of the collectors had possession and then lost it to the other.'

'I suspect that is the situation,' replied Holmes. 'Whatever countermove has been planned, I imagine it is now a fait accompli. Therefore, rather than rush back to London to tilt at unknown windmills, I propose to continue our journeys.'

'Constantinople,' said D'Anglas, nodding.

'Possibly, the art dealer, Aben Hassim, can provide some additional information,' said Holmes.

'He is honorable and enjoys a fine reputation.' D'Anglas rose from his chair and moved slowly to a desk in the corner of the room. 'Let me pen a brief note to him requesting that he be of assistance to you.'

As his quill pen slowly scratched on parchment paper, Holmes posed a query. 'Actually, Mr. D'Anglas, you are not a collector in the true sense?'

The oversized head shook negatively. 'Nor in any sense. The Bird is my sole passion.'

'Since it has produced such interest from other sources, I'm puzzled that you were able to secure it.'

D'Anglas looked up from his writing. 'When Hassim placed the Bird on the market, he sent a notice to collectors who would be interested in such an object. He included me in the list since I had approached him, previously relative to the object. In addition, Hassim knows me personally. Possibly, my competition delayed in responding. Rest assured I made a bid immediately and Hassim accepted it. The agreed sum was received by him and the bill of sale mailed to me. I will show it to you, if you wish.'

My friend waved this aside as unnecessary and D'Anglas folded the note he had written and sealed it with wax, using a signet ring on his right hand for identification.

Holmes and I had risen and as D'Anglas crossed to hand the missive to Holmes, the detective looked at him with those piercing, all-observing eyes of his.

'One of the collectors so enthusiastically pursuing the Bird is an Oriental. Does this surprise you?'

Possibly, it did. Or, possibly, it was some other emotion that made the massive man sway for a moment. Instinctively, I started forward to lend him support but halted as I realized it was but a momentary reaction.

'Chinese, no doubt?' inquired our client. He continued almost before Holmes nodded. 'A rare puzzle, for you are speaking of a man with one of the largest private collections of art in the world. Why would the Golden Bird mean so much to him?'

'A thought that puzzles me as well,' said Holmes.

There seemed little else to say and our client showed no desire to continue our conversation so Holmes and I departed from the strange house in the suburban West End of Berlin and its even stranger owner with whom fate had placed us in contact.

7

The Hatchet Men

63