Watney Gas Chamber, as heroic as they seemed to countless theater-goers, were but reflections of the ample imagination of that American dramatist.'
'And besides,' he added, 'the gate is locked, which may allay your fears though I find it inconvenient.'
As he searched in his pocket, I felt another stab of fear. Of course, Holmes had with him one of those efficient devices, possibly designed by Slim Gilligan, that would make short work of the lock facing us. But my friend's actions seemed to follow an irrational path. A mysterious building by its very dimensions certain to stand apart from its fellows, an area wherein Holmes's enemies were known to have been—the whole matter shrieked 'Ambush!' Here was the master of deduction blithely being taken in by a deception like a youthful Inspector Hopkins rushing down a false trail. It just didn't make sense.
Holmes had a thin piece of steel in one hand and had already inserted it in the large keyhole of the door facing us.
'The lock is an old one, Watson, but I think we can force its secret from it.'
'Without a doubt, Holmes, but is this not madness? The street entrance is an impossibility without a scaling ladder, but here we have a convenient alley gate dangling before our eyes like the enticing lure on a fisherman's line. Does it not strike you that we are about to be reeled in?'
'Come now, we must not overdramatize. Ah, I think I have it!'
There was a long, regretful-sounding click, and Holmes withdrew his picklock and tested the handle of the door, which turned, and I heard the creak of hinges. Then another sound intruded itself upon my ears. Footsteps at the far end of the alley. I moved closer to Holmes, in the protective shadow of the wall, and my anxious eyes searched the dim passage ahead of us. There were two ominous silhouettes in the distance, and the distance was not as far as I would have wished it to be. 'Good heavens, Holmes, it is those two giant Manchurians.'
The sleuth's thin face was cocked to one side. He had already spotted the shapes that were closing in on us and was registering on something else. There was the sound of stealthy footfalls behind us as well.
'Holmes, we've been lured here and now, like game-beaters, they are flushing us into the trap.'
'Well, Watson, we have no alternative at the moment.'
He had the gate open in a trice and we flitted through it with the haste of desperation. As Holmes closed the portal, I leaned my considerable weight against it and he worked his picklock feverishly. The sweetest sound I could imagine was the click that signaled that the door was secure, for a moment at least.
'Come, ol' fellow, if we have bought ourselves a bit of time, let us make use of it.'
I followed on his coattails, for it was infernally dark within the grounds of this ancient place and I could but depend on Holmes's ability to operate with proven efficiency while under the blanket of night.
His half-trot took us in the direction of the building, which now loomed before us with all the ghostly charm of the House of Usher! Evidently he spied no exit from the grounds, and I of course could see little at all. As we circled round the building, I did note that the front was devoid of a veranda or porch, consistent with the architecture of the area. On the far side of the building there was a section where the darkness seemed deeper, and Holmes made for it. It was a recessed door, and again he resorted to his burglar tool. Now I heard sounds in the distance and assumed that the Manchurians and whoever else was with them had gained access to the yard area. If Holmes could open the door to the building, perhaps we could secrete ourselves within and avoid capture. This time there was no telltale sound of tumblers, but of a sudden the door came ajar and I thanked fate for the time Holmes had spent studying the techniques of various robbers, many of whom he had brought to justice.
We slipped into the completely black interior of this deserted pile that had led to our undoing. But the last card was not played, and Holmes and I had been in a few other fixes that were just as desperate. His long fingers were on my wrist guiding me forward when there was a sudden burst of blinding light. Then I heard a sibilant voice that was easy to identify.
'Good evening, gentlemen. How pleased I am that you chose to drop in.'
Suddenly a weight struck me from above and I was borne helplessly to the ground, thrashing as I fell but to no avail. It was not human hands that had seized me but a netlike object, which I judged to be of some sort of metal. Its weight alone kept me pinned to the ground, and the shock of its impact certainly dulled my senses. But not so much that I was unable to screw my head round and, through the blaze of lights, I saw the wizened and yellow face of Chu San Fu standing above me. In his hand was a glass container that he emptied with a smile that was more contemptuous than humorous. From its narrow mouth came a flow of crystals that seemed to explode as they fell round me. Then there was a faint mist and a peculiar scent in my nostrils, and I lost consciousness.
Chapter Eighteen
Shadow on the Walls
My first thought was that my eyelids had been glued. I tried to open them but they resisted me. Then I accepted the fact that my lids were just too heavy. It was all too much of an effort. One's mind does exhibit strange quirks. I knew not where I was or how long I was slated to be anywhere, and at this low point of my existence I suddenly as though guided by a mystical power found myself following the path of logic. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong, and it had been from the beginning. Not our being taken by Chu San Fu, but before that.
The coming of the now-dead agent, Cruthers, to our chambers had been the beginning, of course, and his mention of the name of our arch-enemy had been the first alert. The additional information supplied by Mycroft Holmes had sketched the outlines on the canvas of the case, and then Deets's appearance at our door had added revealing brush strokes. Holmes, with his usual brilliance, had joined the two cases into one, but from that point it was as though we had been led by the noses. He had anticipated the taking of the Sacred Sword but, to my astonishment, had allowed the theft to be committed, and now this religious relic was in the hands of the enemy.
We had preceded Chu San Fu to Venice but had allowed him to depart from the Jewel of the Adriatic with his accomplice, Memory Max, whilst we followed a will-of-the-wisp to Berlin. Holmes had outdone himself again by deducing the unknown grave in the Valley of the Kings, and we had routed Chu's henchmen guarding the place. But again we had vacated the field, none the better, as far as I could see, for our triumph. Holmes had indicated on the train back from Luxor that he had finally secured whatever information he had been seeking but, upon our return, had not availed himself of the considerable forces at his beck and call but had instead taken off with none but me at his side, walking full tilt into a trap. Was this the work of he who was hailed as the finest mind in England?
The Anglo-Saxon has been accused of insatiable curiosity and sometimes of flights of fancy, but at this moment it was the practicality inherited from my staunch forbearers that intruded itself forcibly on my thoughts.
Watson, I thought, you are naught but Boobus Brittanicus. For years, your claim to fame has been that of biographer, and has your inimitable friend ever let you down? It is he who is the master of logic, not you. If, as Holmes has generously stated, it has been your faith that has spurred him on then stand fast. Remember Wellington's men at Waterloo. What of Nelson's sailors at Trafalgar? Did they lack faith as that immortal seadog got himself shot to ribbons on the road to glory? Stand fast!
My eyes opened in more ways than one. I was lying on a pallet and looking at the slats of what was evidently a bed above me. It was a double bunk, singularly an arrangement much used on a man-of-war. Aside from a slight giddiness, my principal feeling was that of guilt at the path my thoughts had been following. Logic, indeed! I had been drugged in some manner and had been suffering mental aberrations as an aftereffect. Any doctor could diagnose that.
With a groan I swung my feet to the floor and assumed a sitting position.
'Ah, Watson, you have rejoined the land of the living.'
How welcome were the familiar tones of my friend, and my bleary eyes located him beside a barred window that, along with a door mounted on metal hasps, seemed the only openings to the limited area that surrounded us.
'Where are we, Holmes?'
'In a cell, considerably removed from the ground level.'
As he spoke, Holmes was actively engaged in some manner at the window, and I stumbled to my feet to lend what assistance I could.
'Rest easy, ol' friend, until you regain your equilibrium,' said the sleuth.
