"My investigations of the afternoon have not been singularly productive, so we are forced to abandon the realm of speculation in favor of frontal assault. I must inform you that Lindquist died in his quarters at midday."
I half-choked on a mouthful of stout. "Murdered?"
Holmes shook his head negatively. "Considering his condition, it is amazing the man lasted as long as he did. However, as he pointed out, dedication is a spur with long rowels. This case is now a bequest. We must not fail."
"Good show, Holmes! Matter of honor and all that."
"Then there's Barker to be considered. From the message which he left for me, it is obvious that he earned the money Lindquist paid him. There can be no doubt that he uncovered a connection between Baron Dowson and the Golden Bird."
"Else why would he have secured employment at the Nonpareil Club?" I agreed, disposing of the last remnants of my sandwich.
Holmes paused to favor me with a smile.
"Excellent, my dear Watson. I note an improvement in your inferential thinking."
Imbued with this praise, I went one step further. "Since Barker was investigating matters at the Nonpareil, no doubt that is where you plan to launch your own inquiry."
"Exactly," replied Holmes. "This point of embarcation suggests a trump card in our favor." Noting my look of puzzlement, he hastened to explain; "It was in 1888 that our attention was directed to the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood and the card scandal at the Nonpareil. Surely you recall that the club was a haven for card sharps and others of larcenous intent. Since it served as a hideout for wanted men, there were entrances and exits not recorded in the original designer's blueprints."
My mind flew back to this notorious case, one of the most unusual in Holmes's career up to that point.
"Of course. The secret entrance from the warehouse behind the club through which Victor Lynch, the forger, attempted to make his escape."
"You are in rare form, ol' fellow. Fortunately, you never chose to make that case history available to the reading public and the matter was not dealt with in detail by the journals of that period. My thought is that we may be privy to information regarding the Nonpareil Club that Baron Dowson, its present owner, is not."
3
The Battle at the Nonpareil Club
19
And so it was that we departed shortly thereafter from Baker Street, looking for all the world like a couple of swagmen. Holmes had a bull's-eye lantern, an assortment of first-class burglar tools in a valise, and his walking stick that concealed the vicious blade of Toledo steel, which he was capable of handling with such dexterity. The weight of my Smith-Webley was reassuring in my overcoat pocket. My intimate friend had a distaste for firearms and I often contended that he had been born several centuries too late as regards lethal weapons. However, if called upon, he could be extremely accurate with a revolver of small recoil, as evidenced by his occasional indoor target practice with his ridiculous single-shot Continental "salon" piece.
The driver of the hansom we hailed was surprised at the address in Soho that Holmes gave him. And small wonder, since this section seemed hardly appropriate for two staid middle-aged men of respectable appearance. However, he whistled to his horse and soon we were approaching the Thames. Needless to say, Holmes had not directed him to our eventual destination but a convenient intersection some distance away.
As we alighted from the conveyance, the driver was still concerned.
"Would you be wishin' fer me to wyte, gov?" he asked.
"No need, good man," replied the great detective, pressing a coin into the driver's hand. "My thanks for your concern."
Holmes's jaunty wave of farewell had a confidence which I did not share. The night was dark and the dank smell of the river added to the chill in the air. As the hansom clattered away, Holmes led us into a narrow alley and, taking me by the elbow, guided my steps over cobblestones and around corners without pause. As I have mentioned in other recountings of our adventures, his knowledge of the geography of London was uncanny, especially so in those havens of the lawless.
It took us about ten minutes, traveling a devious route, to arrive at a street that barely qualified for the name. It was a scant two blocks in length and there was not a light on it. Various ramshackle buildings studded it, most of them with an abandoned appearance.
I well knew from stories of Holmes, as well as adventures which I had shared with him, that but a block away the parallel street was garishly lit and much-trafficked, for it was a center of the slumming area of Soho. It was replete with gaming establishments, so-called "private clubs" of ill repute that served as after-hour-drinking spots, and even some "houses" in which the world's oldest profession was practiced. I must in truth admit that certain young gentlemen who fancied being called "gay blades" found it exciting to view life in the raw in such establishments. When some eventually paid the piper via narcotic addiction, staggering gambling debts, or venereal disease, it was too late. Reason or words of caution seldom impressed, for the hot blood of youth-promotes an intoxication of personal immunity.
My philosophical wanderings were brought to an end when Holmes came to a cautious halt at the entrance to a shabby building, which bore the barely decipherable sign: austro-eurasian imports. Flattening himself against the warehouse, he indicated for me to do the same and we remained frozen for better than a minute, while Holmes's keen ears were tuned for revealing sounds and his eyes darted to our right and left, studying intently the buildings facing us. Save for traffic noise that filtered from the adjacent street, the Stygian darkness revealed nothing. Occasionally a faint limpid ray of moonlight winked at us, only to be extinguished by the heavy clouds overhead. Eventually, my friend seemed satisfied, for gesturing to me to preserve silence, he tested the warehouse door alongside which we had been standing. The knob turned stubbornly under his hand emitting a squeaking sound which seemed to please him. Holmes had his valise open in a trice and worked on the lock with a narrow curved instrument. There was a faint luminosity from the sky now and I recognized the device as one of those developed by Slim Gilligan, who had figured in other cases, some of which I had recorded. If Holmes gave a grunt of satisfaction, it was barely audible. Extracting the device from the keyhole, he secured a can of thin lubricating oil, which he squirted into the lock and then applied to the hinges of the door as well. He leaned close to my ear.
"Luck favors the bold, Watson. This door has not been opened in a considerable time, strengthening our theory that this entrance to the Nonpareil Club is not known."
With another searching glance up and down the street, Holmes inserted his burglar tool and soon there was a click followed by a squeak. Holmes replaced his equipment in his satchel and then opened the door with no more than a faint protest from its newly oiled hinges. We were inside.
Cobwebs brushed against my face, further proof that this modern-day monk's hole was untrafficked. I could hear my own breathing and the soft sound of Holmes's valise being opened. Then there was a circle of light from the bull's-eye lamp. The illumination revealed a small room, obviously office space for the main warehouse, which was on our left. A flight of wooden stairs at the rear of the room led upward. Holmes swept his light over the stairs, imprinting their distance and the height and number of the treads upon his photographic brain. Then the light flicked out again and my friend's face was close to mine.
"The stairs lead up two flights, ol' fellow. They terminate in a room about the size of a large closet that is immediately adjacent to the private card room of the old club. Through certain sources today, I learned that the area now serves as Dawson's private office. But in the old days, this was where unwary dupes were lured into high-stakes games and Colonel Upwood observed their cards through a peephole. If said peephole is still operative, we may owe Upwood a vote of thanks. Though I have reason to believe that the partition between Dowson's office and what we might term the 'viewing room' is reasonably soundproof, let us remain cautious. In ascending the stairs, stay as close to the bannister as possible since this lessens the possibility of a creak. Sound has a strange way of traveling in old buildings. Also, on each step, place your feet in the middle of the tread and apply your weight slowly."