'No, sir. It was packed and ready for shipment. I placed the container in the safe and was ready to take it the next morning to supervise the shipment. During the night something must have happened since the Bird was gone the next day.'
Holmes regarded the art dealer for a long and thoughtful moment, certainly not, to the normal observer, unusual for one hailed on all sides as the finest mind of England. But to one who had been associated with him for so long, the orchestra was playing a more sprightly air. The hawk was prepared to swoop on the wings of logic and drive an unsuspecting pigeon to the ground.
'The statue was taken, then, from your safe?' A nod was Holmes's answer. 'Surely,' continued the sleuth innocently, 'someone other than yourself has the combination?'
Hassim shook his head with an air of protest.
'We of more peaceful pursuits are not familiar with the criminal mind or intricate subterfuges but there are certain necessary precautions that are obvious. Even my family do not know the combination of that safe.'
Holmes rose to move closer to the strongbox, which he inspected briefly with his pocket glass.
'No marks of any kind. How was it opened?'
The dealer spread his arms and shrugged his shoulders expressively, but there was a sudden flicker of worry in his eyes. Holmes's question seemed naive, a quality at variance with his worldwide reputation.
'How else but by a skilled burglar? Do not the Anglo-Saxons refer to them as 'master cracksmen'?'
Holmes's manner hardened. He was ready to spring the trap.
'I know this Mills-Stroffner design well and there are four men in the world who could open it in one night without using explosives.' His eyes swung to engage mine for a brief moment. 'One is now in Dartmoor where I put him a short time ago.* The second, a blind German mechanic named Von Herder, is dead. The third is a trusted employee of the British Special Branch, while the fourth, Jimmie Valentine, is in America.' *
A thin sheen of perspiration appeared on Hassim's forehead.
Holmes continued with that inexorable doomsday finality that had struck terror in harder cases than this Turkish dealer in art. 'The crib was not cracked, to use a colloquialism cherished by the ha'penny dreadfuls.'
Hassim, visibly wilting, tried to rally a protest of denial but was not given the chance.
'I picture a different scene,' continued the detective. 'You had concluded your arrangements with D'Anglas in Berlin and the bill of sale was mailed to him. No doubt his payment was banked. Then an unexpected visitor appeared. Oriental, of course.'
Hassim winced as though in receipt of a sharp blow. The panic of defeat flooded his eyes.
'The Chinaman presented himself as an emissary possibly using the overworked and ubiquitous title of 'Commision Agent.' He stated that his client had to secure the Golden Bird and offered a sum beyond your expectations.' Holmes surveyed his victim with a more mellow manner. 'I suspect that ethics compelled you to refuse but it was pointed out that, should the Oriental not depart with the object he wished, certain things would happen to you, or possibly to your shop or your loved ones.'
As though to escape from Holmes's compelling, almost hypnotic gaze, Hassim's eyes sought mine. 'It is as though he had been here,' he said. 'In the next room listening.'
I believe I shrugged. I know I tried to preserve a stolid expression. The poor wretch was suffering as my friend's recreation had been a dead-center hit.
'You admit it, of course,' pressed the detective.
The Turk buried his face in his hands. His urbane, man-of-the-world manner was a thing of the past and he was but a poor, harassed individual sadly beyond his depth.
'Yes . . . yes ... I refused the offer, as you said. I wanted no part of such dealings, but when . . . when . . .'
The instinct of self-preservation stilled his tongue. His dark face was now ashen.
Holmes completed his thought. 'A name was mentioned. It had to be, so that you knew the threats were not idle bombast. It was the insidious Chu San Fu.'
A shudder passed through Hassim's frame. Then a strange thing happened. The dealer's face rose from his hands and a fatalistic calmness spread over his features. It was as though he had thought: 'One can only die once.' His backbone regained rigidity.
'That is correct, Mr. Holmes. The name is known to me and to any other art dealer as well. A shadowy figure headquartered in London who has invaded, nay assaulted, the art world. His Chinese collection, especially the Tang vases, is common knowledge and parts of it have been exhibited.' His voice faded for a moment and Holmes turned to me with a nod, a reminder of our conversation with Inspector MacDonald.
'A gesture toward respectability,' I said, by way of indicating that I was tuned to my friend's thoughts. -
'Correct, Doctor Watson,' said the Turk. There was added respect in his eyes. 'The man has to be a criminal. He has no rating in international banking circles, but his funds seem unlimited.'
'A modern Monte Cristo' commented Holmes.
His remark served as a prod to Hassim's thoughts. 'He has a collection of Eastern art that would rival the possessions of the fictional count. He has outbid the market and, when that is not expedient, I'm given to understand that blackmail and theft are not beyond him.'
I shook my head in despair. 'For what purpose? Currency notes are anonymous and surely preferable to one on the opposite side of the law.'
Hassim's vitality seemed to return as the subject of the conversation gripped him.
'There, gentlemen, I can speak with authority for I have seen and I know. Some men grow beyond the thirst for money because they have so much. Some outgrow the more driving compulsion for power, for one man can have just so much of that. Then they are susceptible to a malady that can be diagnosed as an attempt by each to satisfy his severest critic, which is himself. They sit in a room, possibly a secret room, regard a piece of green quartz, and say, 'Only I in all the world possess a piece of jade of this size and quality. I am superior in this respect to those who rival me in wealth and power.' '
The Turk was sincere. His words rang with conviction but I found it hard to follow his reasoning.
'Should I possess the finest-known piece of jade,' I said, 'I would surely wish to show it to friends, possibly have it exhibited occasionally as the property of J. H. Watson, M.D.'
'But you are delightfully normal, ol' chap,' said Holmes. 'Hassim speaks of a rare breed, but they do exist.'
The dealer's words tumbled forth in response to the irresistible stimuli of attentive listeners. 'Hypothetically, Doctor, let us imagine you are still normal but with far greater assets. Might you not will a priceless collection to one of your many British museums, providing that it was displayed as the Watson collection? Or might you not endow a university with a library to be known as the Watson Library?'
As I shifted somewhat uncomfortably in my seat, Holmes painted another fanciful picture. 'Or you might finance an expedition if you were assured of having a mountain named after you. You will recall, ol' fellow, that even Moriarty could not resist displaying that genuine Greuze painting in his study.'
'And look where it got him,' I argued. 'That was the clue that set you on his trail. All this perpetuation of a name does strike me as ostentatious.'
'But normal, Watson, and we could hardly give you ten lashes for that. Many museums couldn't exist without private collections or objects on loan for showing.'
Hassim, obviously charmed to find a kindred spirit in rapport with his thinking, ploughed ahead. 'As you say, normal, Mr. Holmes. But the abnormal . . . the elusive few who dp not seek to impress their associates, for they care not what others think. A perpetuation of then-name may be impossible if their history is too infamous to bear inspection. Pride they have, possibly more than anyone, but they only crave to impress their demanding inner voices.
'What of all the rare paintings, the statuary, the draperies and rugs and snuff boxes and jewels that have disappeared? If they were exhibited many of them would be recognized and rapidly, too.'
'You feel they are residing in one of those secret rooms you spoke of,' said Holmes, obviously intrigued.
'They have to be somewhere. They are displayed in a sense, but only to an audience of one. The ultimate hoarder who sucks up their beauty, delights in their irreplaceable value and silences his inner voice by saying: 'These are mine. I am unique.' '
Hassim's convincing words conjured up in my mind a Scrooge-like character in an ancient attic, cackling over
