fellow. We were decoyed from London to Berlin and upon arrival were under the surveillance of at least two Chinese. They stayed with us as far as Serbia and then disappeared. Upon our return to London and during our excursion to St. Aubrey, there was no sign of them. Then last night we were again under the observation of a tool of Chun San Fu. Why, it is all becoming as plain as a pike staff. The Oriental divined that Amos Gridley was the man who secured the Golden Bird from Dowson. He did not realize that the wood-worker was but an emissary and assumed that if he could find him, he would find the statue. Knowing we were also on the trail of the Bird, he lured us from London at the time that he closed in on Gridley.' An added thought furrowed Holmes's brow and he resumed his pacing for a moment before continuing.
'Why his hatchet men should follow us on the Orient Express is puzzling. My theory grows thin there. However, of a sudden, we are of interest to Chu again even though he has disposed of Gridley without retrieving the Bird and has certainly realized that Basil Selkirk is the man who has thwarted him.'
Another thoughtful silence allowed me to try and collect my thoughts. 'Dear me, Holmes, I am more confused than ever.'
'As well you might be. But consider Selkirk, the master chessman who uses men as pawns and countries as bishops. Selkirk realizes that Chu's attention will be attracted to him. In his guarded enclave this might cause him scant concern, but still, he does not underestimate Chu. Fortuitously, a splendid catspaw drops into his lap. Something to divert the Oriental crime tsar away from him.'
'A catspaw?'
'That we are both looking at, my good Watson. We are the catspaw. Basil Selkirk lets it be known that we shall be in possession of the Golden Bird, which explains the Chinaman's renewed interest in our movements.'
Holmes crossed to the window with his quick stride.
'No watcher in evidence, which tells us nothing.
Chu's spies may have secured a less conspicuous vantage point than a dark doorway. But here come, not one, but two carriages and it seems as though they will stop outside.' Turning to me with that bright, almost small-boy look of triumph, he repeated a favorite phrase of his: 'It had to be.'
It was. Joining Holmes at his observation point I watched two closed carriages come to a stop at the curbing adjacent to our door. There seemed to be a number of burly men in the vehicles, but only one emerged from the lead one. It was the heavily built Sam Merton. There was a box in his hand and he gave the street a rapid glance up and down before proceeding to the entrance to 221B, with that insolent grace frequently evident in the very powerful. I had last seen the professional boxer in Selkirk's castle. A known intimate of Count Negretto Sylvius, Dowson's right-hand man, I was not surprised to see the puglilist on this mission once Holmes had explained what was in the wind.
Since our dwelling had been placed on the alert the night previous, Holmes signaled to Billy, the page boy, from our landing. A sudden thought caused me to dash upstairs to my room and when I returned with the reassuring weight of a revolver in my dressing-gown pocket, Merton had already been shown up. The fighter was standing, somewhat awkwardly, beside the desk on which he had deposited the box in his keeping.
'There, Guv,' he was saying to Holmes, 'is the bloody box what I was tol' to give ya. No one tol' me what's in it but the big man said you would know.'
'Let us say I have an idea,' responded Holmes, laconically. 'Sam, I had hopes for you but you're back to your old tricks, I see.'
Rather than take umbrage, Merton nervously shifted from one foot to the other. Belatedly, he removed his cap and, for all the world, resembled a nervous student brought before the headmaster.
'We all gotta live, Mr. 'Olmes. Me speed ain't wot it was, ya know, but I can still drop 'em if I can get to'em,' he added, with a flash of pride. 'You spotted me down at Selkirk's in St. Aubrey. You knew I was back on the shady side.'
'I knew that you again became involved with Count Sylvius over three months ago,' said Holmes, sternly. 'I don't know what to do about you, Sam.'
'Don't worry Mr. Holmes. Maybe it ain't as bad you think.' Nervously, he made his way to the door.
'You take care of yourself, Mr. 'Olmes.'
With that he was gone. It had been an unusual exchange, but I knew that ever since the Crown Diamond Affair, the bruiser with the slab-sided face had been in complete awe of Holmes.
My friend erased the disappointed expression from his face and turned his thoughts from the wayward fighter to matters at hand. Crossing to the box, his thin and dexterous fingers released the twine encircling it.
'Let us view the prize, Watson, but with dispatch. As our American cousins might say—we have a hot potato here.'
With the lid off, he extracted the statue from the box and placed it on the desk top, stepping back to view the object which had left a trail of violence and death behind it.
To my untrained eye, it appeared identical to the Bird we had seen in Dowson's office at the Nonpareil Club. It was of a peculiar whitish gold and glistened in the morning sunlight that suffused the room. Its face was as fierce as a falcon in flight and the legs of the legendary creature seemed capable of grasping a miniature world. The workmanship was exquisite and I had never seen anything quite like it before. But then, how often does one see a roc?
Holmes gave the object a rapid inspection with his pocket glass and seemed satisfied.
'It appears genuine, Watson, though I'd like to have an art expert verify my opinion. But time is pressing.'
'You feel Chu will attempt to take it away from us?'
'He ordered an assault on the Dowson gang in their own back yard, you might say. Our lodgings should hold no terror for him. However, he must plan the method of separating us from the object and while the wily Oriental is so occupied, we shall take action.'
Leaving the box and twine on the desk, Holmes rapidly secured newspapers with which he blanketed the small golden treasure. Tucking his precious cargo under his arm, he gestured to me.
'Come, Watson, the game is not afoot; it is on the wing.'
I followed him out on the landing, up the stairs to the second story, and into the room that Holmes and I used as a catch-all, though, in truth, I could not remember the last time I had been in it. The shelves of books were as I remembered them along with several sizeable bundles of newspapers awaiting inclusion in Holmes's files. My old army trunk was in one corner along with several other pieces of luggage that we had stowed there. One wall was changed completely, however. There was a Jacobean oak bench with a back rest suitable for two to sit upon, flanked by end tables. The bench was somewhat recessed in a manner that seemed strange to me.
'I ordered a little construction work at that time, two years ago, when you felt the call of Brighton. You recall, ol' chap, the considerable tan which you acquired at the seashore?'
While speaking, Holmes gestured me toward the bench, for what reason I could not imagine. As I sat down, I recalled the brief holiday that my friend referred to along with the burn induced by the sun and saltwater that had been most painful. Holmes had by now locked the door to the storage room, a most unusual action, and joined me on the bench. The fingers of one hand fiddled with the oaken side rail and, of a sudden, we were moving in a circular fashion. The bench and the wall behind it swiveled in a half-circle and I was staring into the darkness in a completely reversed direction than a moment previous. I was too stunned to utter a sound and it was most reassuring to hear Holmes's heartening words.
'But a moment, Watson, and there shall be light on the scene.'
I heard the sound of a wooden match and then there was a sulphur flame with which my friend ignited a gas jet. We were in the house adjacent to 221B. No other explanation was possible.
After total darkness, the light dazzled me momentarily, but soon I observed a room somewhat sparsely furnished but with definite indications of tenancy.
'Where are we, Holmes?' I asked, in a rather quavering voice.
'In the lodgings of Hans Von Krugg, the well-known language expert of the University of Munich. The professor is on leave from his university post to explore the link between the ancient Cornish language and the Chaldean. His theory is not without supporters in the academic field and he has printed several papers on the subject, which, translated, of course, have appeared in English journals.'
'Where . . . where is the professor?'
'Standing right here with you, ol' chap. I am Professor Von Krugg. At least, I have been from time to time
