Holmes had no time to dwell on the machinations of Basil Selkirk or the book dealing with the career of Jonathan Wild, for other matters claimed his attention.
At his instigation, Mrs. Hudson and Billy, the page boy, vacated the premises. I could hear our esteemed landlady, obviously instructed by her eccentric boarder, discussing a meeting of the Marylebone Sewing Circle with a neighbor as she departed. What Billy's connection was with this sedate group was never made clear, but my friend had removed the domestic staff from the danger area and, in the process, had made things seemingly simpler for anyone desiring to invade 221B.
A communique from Mycroft Holmes assured Holmes that the Golden Bird was indeed genuine or Mr. Halcroft Crouder, art expert by appointment to Her Majesty, did not know his business. I could see that the confirmation of the authenticity of the art object was no surprise to Holmes and his double-check was but one of the precautions which he took automatically. My delivering the Bird to Mycroft Holmes had served two purposes—removed it from the possible clutches of Chu San Fu, and made it available for close scrutiny by an authority in the field. What did claim my undivided attention was the fact that Mycroft Holmes's message to his brother was delivered by none other than Wakefield Orloff. This surprised Holmes, who stated that he was under the impression that the security agent was abroad. In his quiet tones, that impassive man mentioned that he had just returned from the Continent.
As this seemingly plump figure seated himself in a straight-back with the flowing grace that was his trademark, I felt much comforted. Whatever plots were being hatched by Chu San Fu, there had to be unpleasant surprises for the Oriental with Orloff on the scene. Heavens, I had no doubt that Sherlock Holmes was capable of frustrating the master criminal, but Orloff's arrival was like having a detachment of the Coldstream Guards drop in.
Seated with his back straight and his weight balanced on the balls of his small feet, the fearsome security agent surveyed the scene with his habitual half-smile and fathomless green eyes. His bowler hat, with its steel-reinforced brim, was within easy reach. Of course, there was a Spanish throwing knife between his shoulder blades, for there always was. Whatever other armament he carried was superfluous, since I had seen him, with my own eyes, totally demolish the strongest man in the world in a matter of seconds.* * The Case of the Mysterious Imprint.
If Holmes had any suspicions that I was a motivating factor in the presence of this walking arsenal, he gave no indication. He seemed genuinely delighted to see his brother's agent on the scene, for they had worked together before on a number of occasions. As for Orloff, the faintest sense of danger was like the huntsman's horn to a foxhound. A chilling man not given to jest or banter, yet I noted that whenever he greeted my friend, his green eyes kindled with a warmth completely foreign to them.
"Do I sense a pending crisis?" he inquired.
"If you do," replied Holmes, "I'm comforted by the thought that others are not as acute."
"Two emissaries from New Scotland Yard are down the street and since I know they would not have you under observation, I assume their presence is of a cooperative nature."
"If the back is clear, my Irregulars are going to spirit MacDonald in here. Best have his men maintain their posts. If they have been noticed—a possibility—it continues to draw attention to our front, obviously not the line of attack." Suddenly, his alert eyes locked with Or-loff's. "You have posed no questions as to what is going on or who is behind it." His eyes swiveled quickly to me, though without irritation or accusation, then they returned to the security agent. "Possibly, you are briefed on the matter already."
Orloff was too old a hand to reveal anything. "Two members of the force outside, Mrs. Hudson and the page boy gone, Gilligan present, and Watson's pocket weighted down with his service revolver, it hardly seems that you are prepared for a pleasant evening at Simpson's."
Holmes chuckled. "As I grow older, it seems I become obvious. I assume you know about the golden statue?"
Orloff admitted as much with a nod.
"Chu San Fu thinks it is on the premises and he wants it."
Orloff's lips pursed in a soundless whistle. "That being so you can hardly turn me out. It would be the mark of an unfriendly act. What is the plan?"
"There will be a police van standing by with a flying squad of MacDonald's men. The Chinaman has his people in the building across the street. How many I don't know, but I doubt if they are the strike force. I hope to bag the lot."
There was a glint in Orloff's eyes but his chubby body, which was actually solid muscle, never moved and had not since he had seated himself. The man's ability to relax completely and remain immobile as though saving himself for the critical moment was absolutely amazing to my medically trained mind.
"What makes you feel that Chu hasn't got your rear covered?"
"I've made myself conspicuously present throughout the day. No need to guard against my departing via the back when I'm ostensibly in full view. Besides, the Irregulars would know. Wiggins is no fool."
"Nor are his fellow street urchins." Orloff thought for a moment. "How do you think they'll do it?"
Holmes's reply was swift. "They might try a diversionary tactic but that's doubtful. By rights, they should have no idea that their visit is expected. Therefore, they'll wait till dark and then attempt to sneak in, feeling that there are but two sedate, middle-aged men to deal with. We will make the rear very inviting for them. Since the ground-floor windows are barred, the cellar seems their obvious choice."
"Any arrangement for an alarm?" asked Orloff, as though he knew there was.
"When they come, one of the Irregulars will be positioned in the plane tree in back. He'll signal a cohort and the alarm will be relayed around to Baker Street. Slippery Styles will appear in his organ-grinder guise to signal us."
"What if the hour is late?" I asked, voicing a reasonable possibility.
It won't be. They'll want to get inside and take care of us, Watson, before Mrs. Hudson and Billy return. Then they can start searching the premises and attend to our landlady should she arrive before they've completed the job."
"Good heavens, Holmes, do you think they plan to murder us in our sleep?"
"I doubt it. 'Tis the statue Chu is after. Chloroform seems more likely. When MacDonald arrives we'll be ready for them. Actually, that's more manpower than we need, but I'm quite obsessed with the idea of making this a very silent and sudden job. If we take them to the man without a fuss, Chu will be at a distinct disadvantage. Right where I want him, of course."
16
The Attack
173
It is always the waiting that is the worst. I am not of a buccaneering nature. My period in the service of Her Majesty involved medical duties and was not as a soldier of the line despite the fatal battle of Maiwan. But still, rather than preserve silence, endure darkness and contemplate possible disaster, give me action any time.
An early evening fog made the undetected entrance of MacDonald a simple thing. With the inspector on the scene, our force was complete and I could not think of four men I would rather stand with. The final setting of the stage was pleasing in its detail. We extinguished the light beside the wax dummy, which had served as a target for the eyes without. Another lamp was lit. Shadows moved across closed drapes, but only those of Holmes and myself.
After a suitable time, the light in my bedroom went on and I made myself visible at the window before extinguishing my lamp and rejoining the others downstairs. Holmes carried out a similar deception and 221B Baker Street was apparently dark for the night. Gilligan was downstairs in the cellar just in case the intruders slipped by the Irregulars. Orloff was observing the back yard through a darkened window. Holmes and I stood by the front door in case of a surprise move in this direction. The fog thinned and then retreated to the Thames but the moon did not reveal its presence and, save for the flickering gas jets on Baker Street, the darkness was Stygian. I steeled myself not to release nervous tension by asking my comrade unnecessary questions but it was difficult. The nearby clock chimed the hour and the next one and then it happened. There was the sound of the organ grinder on Baker Street.