Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

viewed countless messages in times gone by.

'I note the paper is Neeley-Pierpont bond. I'd say it fetches a good price.'

'My dear Watson, you fill me with delight! Obviously, our years together have not been wasted.'

Holmes usually had only sparing praise for my powers of observation and I was much heartened by his tone of commendation. Therefore, I desperately searched for further clues.

'The chap writes in a precise manner, conserving space since his lines are rather close. Might I hazard the guess that, in his role of art expert, he makes his reports in longhand rather than using a machine?'

'Better and better! Pray continue.'

'Alas, I cannot. There seems little else to note.'

Holmes assumed an air of resigned patience, which did not fool me one whit. I well knew that he delighted in producing his little surprises and gloried in his ability to do so.

'I must, ol' fellow, let you read a pamphlet I published some years back: 'Handwriting as a Guide Towards Vocation and Attitude.' It does have some points of interest. Now regard Lindquist's message. The letters slant forward and the writing curves down at the end of each line. The mark of tragedy, Watson. Also regard the first sentence in which he used the word that twice, as well as this and there. In each case, the first letter t has an elongated bar at the top. This is further proven by the first word of the second sentence time, where the capital T is crossed with an even longer stroke.'

'A characteristic of his hand.'

'Agreed. But the cross bar dwindles out. While I am not familiar with Lindquist's penmanship, I contend that in former times this characteristic would have been firmer, more definite. In several instances, there is a waver that denotes weakness. I fear he is a sick man, which may explain the urgency in the note.'

'Despite our long association, Holmes, you continue to amaze me. A short message like this and you deduce that the writer is low in spirits and failing in health. Astonishing!'

'Not really,' remarked the great detective, with unusual modesty. 'It is just knowing what to look for.'

Holmes broke off our conversation and busied himself with a case book. I noted it was the F file and assumed that he was going over the Farintoch Case, possibly looking for a sample of Nils Lindquist's hand. I was not to learn if he found one for the hour of nine was upon us and the sound of a distant church bell blended with a ring at the outer door of 221B Baker Street. Shortly thereafter, footsteps were heard on the seventeen steps leading up to our chambers. Alerted by Holmes's deductions, I noted that they were not steady, but indicated that our visitor paused twice, as though to gain strength, before continuing his ascent.

When Billy, the page boy, ushered the man through our door, I was not surprised to note that he was very thin. Fair hair had receded in front but still made a brave showing on his head. It was the unusually high color around his cheekbones and the feverish glitter of his eyes that captured my medically trained eye. 'By Jove!' I thought. 'Holmes called the shots again. This chap does appear to have had it.'

Holmes's introduction of Nils Lindquist was brief and as I busied myself with the tantalus and gasogene, our visitor seated himself gratefully in the low armchair by the fire. His breathing was labored and had a hoarse, rattlelike sound that affected the hackles of hair on the back of my neck. His voice was strong enough, and while his English was certainly of Oxford, there was the rising inflection of the Scandinavian to it.

'Doctor Watson's training and your unerring eye, Holmes, have doubtless revealed an unpleasant fact to you both. Certainly unpleasant to me,' he added with a grim smile.

Holmes could be soothing and reassuring when called upon, but he seemed to sense that Lindquist did not seek sympathy nor would he welcome it.

'You have secured expert opinion, I assume?'

'Three leading specialists are in agreement. The verdict is definitely in. Which explains my call.'

'How can I help?' questioned Holmes as I gave Lindquist liquid refreshment.

He thanked me with his eyes and drained half the glass in a single draft as if to bolster waning strength. Then he leaned forward in his chair with purpose.

'As time grows short, one does develop a severe case of ethics. You might bear that in mind, gentlemen. There is an obsession to clean the slate. A month ago, I accepted a commission from one Vasil D'Anglas of Berlin. The matter was handled by mail and I received a money order for one thousand pounds to locate or arrange for the return of the Golden Bird.'

Since Holmes's face remained impassive, Lindquist cocked an eye. 'I see you are not familiar with the object. No reason that you should be. In any case, D'Anglas agreed to the payment of another thousand pounds upon recovery of the object as well as reasonable expenses incurred in tracing it. I sent out feelers in the art world but uncovered little. Actually, I should not have accepted the case. My health made the necessary travel impossible, but I needed the money.'

There was a furrow between Holmes's brows. 'Your reference to travel I find confusing. Did not this gentleman in Berlin expect the art object to be here in England?'

'D'Anglas was somewhat vague regarding that. He had purchased the Golden Bird from a dealer in Constantinople, Aben Hassim. The bill of sale was mailed to D'Anglas, making him the legal owner. However, the Bird was stolen from Hassim's shop immediately prior to its being sent to Germany. My employer, for reasons he has not revealed, is of a mind that it will show up here in England. Actually, I should have gone to Constantinople, interviewed Hassim, and picked up the trail from there. Instead, I hired Barker, an inquiry agent of Surrey, to try and find a lead in the London underworld.'

There was a half-smile on Holmes's face. 'My rival,' he stated, with a quick glance at me. 'You will recall that our paths crossed relative to that matter of Josiah Amberley.'

' ' The Retired Colourman,' ' I responded automatically.

'Such was the title you used in your recounting of the affair,' commented Holmes. His eyes swiveled back to Lindquist. 'But what is this Bird which, by the size of your fee, must be valuable?'

'It is that. The Golden Bird stands twenty-three inches high, and is mounted on a pedestal of good size. The detail work is that of a master. The entire figure and base is said to be of twenty-four carat gold.'

'My heavens!' I said, without meaning to.

'I am inclined to doubt that,' added Lindquist quickly. 'The Golden Bird has a unique history. It keeps disappearing.'

Holmes was nodding. 'I follow your reasoning. If this Bird is much traveled, undoubtedly there must be a percentage of alloy to provide rigidity.'

'Eighteen carat sounds more reasonable.' Lindquist and Holmes seemed in agreement on this. Frankly, their discussion was over my head.

'What kind of a bird is it?' I asked.

'A roc.'

'Well, now,' said Holmes with a pleased expression, 'this gives us a touch of melodrama. The legendary giant bird of Arabia, so huge that it carried off elephants in its claws.' Then the shadow of a thought crossed his face. 'A strange subject for the artisan. You mentioned disappearances, which I assume were due to the criminally minded.'

Lindquist leaned back in the chair as if rallying his limited strength. 'See what you make of this sketchy history. The Golden Bird is said to have first appeared in Samarkand, part of the treasure of Tamerlane, the great Tartar conqueror. From drawings it would appear to be of Greek workmanship, though I cannot be certain of that. It was next heard of in the Russian Court of Peter the Great around 1720. This tsar was a great fancier of gold objects. Around 1790 it is definitely referred to as being in France. The royalist owners are said to have sold it to raise money desperately needed during the French Revolution. Then it fell into the hands of Napoleon, who used it as a pledge to borrow money from Dutch bankers. At the turn of the century, the Bird was in the possession of an art dealer named Weimer, of Amsterdam. Weimer's shop was gutted by fire and the Bird disappeared. Around 1850 it showed up on the Island of Rhodes. Evidently, it had been gathering dust in a small shop there until it was stolen by Harry Hawker.'

Holmes, who had been gazing throughfully into the fire as he listened to this strange history, suddenly turned toward the speaker.

'Ah-ha! Hawker, the expert thief, who had been in his youth a disciple of Jonathan Wild, London's master