Dowson's aged head was nodding. The confirmation of the authenticity of the objet d'art being of no surprise.
"Then all that remains is to conclude the arrangements," he said, suggestively.
Sylvius reappeared with an attache case, which he placed on the desk. At a gesture of the Baron, he released the catches and opened it. My eyes widened instinctively for the case was filled with large-denomination currency bills.
"You will thee that it ith all there, gentlemen. Allow me to uthe the case to tranthport the Golden Bird."
The unseen owner of the voice was of indeterminate age: Sylvius tipped the attache case, spilling the currency on Dowson's desk. He disappeared from view toward the unknown as Dowson's trained fingers riffled through the packs of currency with the expertise of a banker.
Holmes's figure at my side drew back and, suddenly, the peephole was closed.
"Quick, Watson, we must get out of here. The Golden Bird is on the move again but this time we shall follow it."
His intention was obvious. If we could regain the street and make our way to the entrance of the Nonpareil Club the attache case would identify the unknown who had just paid such a large sum of money for the statue we were pursuing. With a hand on my friend's shoulders, I followed his sure progress down the stairs, suddenly coming to an abrupt stop since Holmes did. I could feel his sinewy muscles tense and then below us heard the sounds that had alerted him.
"We're trapped!" I thought. "Our exit is cut off!"
Suddenly, behind us, within the Nonpareil Club, a shot rang out and it was followed by a volley. There were screams and the silence we had been so intent on preserving was shattered on all sides.
"Back to the peephole, ol' chap," said Holmes. "See what has transpired. I'll hold the stairs."
In the sudden silence that so often follows an outbreak of violence, I heard the soft slither of steel and realized that my friend had drawn his sword blade. There was a pungent odor in the air and the sound of soft footfalls below.
Back at the peephole, I swung its cover to one side. Sylvius was not in evidence. Baron Dowson was extracting a long-barreled revolver from his desk drawer as another man, bearded and with a scarred face, was pushing the desk toward where I judged the door to the room to be. It was the stranger who was speaking hurriedly.
"It all came of a sudden, Baron. The gaming room was swarming with Chinks. The customers made a bolt for the doors naturally enough."
Dowson, gun in hand, lent his frail strength to his assistant. Evidently, they intended to barricade the room.
"How goes it below?" Dowson asked, venomously.
"Our boys are forted up in the kitchen, serving pantry and the bar room. If them heathen Chinee make their way up here, it will cost them."
The conversation was underscored by sporadic gunfire. As I replaced the cover and turned toward Holmes, there was a scream of pain and a body fell down the stairs we had ascended. Now I understood the pungent odor that had registered on my senses—the scent of spices carried by the Chinese dock workers so numerous in this area. Evidently, the Nonpareil Club had been invaded by a small army of Orientals. My Webley was now in my hand as I located Holmes at the head of the stairs. Below were the soft guttural sounds of a foreign tongue and the unmistakable presence of many bodies. It occurred to me that if a light were shown up the stairs, we would be in a very revealed position, an idea which occurred to Holmes as well. He drew me back from the head of the stairs, listening for the sound of movement that would indicate an upward rush at our position.
But the next sound that intruded itself over the chaos in the Nonpareil Club came from above. There was a sliding noise and a brief glimpse of the night sky overhead.
"Good heavens, Holmes, they're on the roof!" But it was a voice born within the sound of the bow-bells that graced our ears, to my intense relief. "Mr. 'Olmes, be ya down there? 'Tis Slim."
"Right you are, Gilligan," replied Holmes in his coolest manner.
"Best get up 'ere, sir. Things is a moite warm all 'round the block."
Holmes, warned by some instinct, suddenly hurled his sword blade like a lance toward the head of the stairs. There was another howl of pain and a crash of a falling body. Like an uncoiling spring, the great detective sprang upward toward the outstretched arm of Slim Gilligan, which was extended through the trap door in the roof. Grasping the wrist of the safecracker, Holmes reached the side of the opening with both of his powerful hands and drew his body, with Gilligan's help, halfway through the hatch.
"Watson, grab my legs. We'll get you out of there."
Loosening two shots from my revolver, I reached my left hand overhead and made contact with one of Holmes's ankles. As I was drawn clear of the floor, I sprayed the stair landing with the remainder of my cartridges, dropped my trusty weapon, and flailing wildly with my right hand made contact with Gilligan's hand. As Holmes drew his body clear of the opening I somehow managed to hold onto his ankle and, with Gilligan pulling on my other arm, my portly form was dragged through the hole and onto the roof. Gilligan promptly replaced the trap door as Holmes and I, more than a little breathless, regained our feet.
Sounds of battle continued beneath us and, in the distance, could be heard approaching police vehicles. The street below was full of running people. We wasted no time discussing the situation or the fortuitous appearance of Slim Gilligan, but followed the master cracksman as he led us over the roof of the warehouse. It was a short leap to the roof of the adjacent building. We quickly crossed it and found that Gilligan, who had obviously arrived on the scene in this manner, had stretched a plank across the space to the next roof in the block. Gilligan and Holmes went across this slender pathway to safety in a sure-footed manner but, in trying to emulate a tight-wire performer, it crossed my mind that I was much more suited to the life of a country doctor and, in all honesty, should retire to bucolic and peaceful surroundings rather than try to dog the footsteps of the world's greatest detective.
On the third roof, Gilligan kicked the plank, which had served us so well, free of the side of the buildings, to forestall any pursuit although there was none in evidence.
Behind us the sounds of conflict were dwindling and I assumed the forces of law and order had arrived on the scene, but Holmes seemed to wish to avoid the Metropolitan Police. So the three of us regained the cobblestones of the street in short order and dodged through a series of alleys until it was safe to call a halt to our pell-mell rush and hail a hansom.
The driver of the conveyance bad heard the uproar and questioned us regarding it. Holmes satisfied his curiosity with the guess that there had been a raid on a gambling establishment, which was certainly the truth, though as we well knew it had not been a police raid.
4
The Solving of a Message
31
When the hansom delivered the three of us to 221B Baker Street, I couldn't help thinking that the domicile of Mrs. Hudson had never looked more appealing.
Billy, the page boy, had the door open before we could ring the bell.
"I give your message to Mr. Gilligan," he stated to Holmes with a shy smile.
"And how fortunate for Doctor Watson and myself that you did," replied Holmes.
I echoed this thought most emphatically, though silently.
In the sitting room, with glasses in our hands, we tried to make some sense from the pattern of madness that had been the road map of the past few hours. Holmes seemed in no hurry as he thoughtfully extracted shag from the famous Persian slipper and fueled his pipe. Nothing could shake the habitual calmness of Slim Gilligan, but then nerves of steel were what had made him the leading cracksman of his day, until he had abandoned the paths of the lawless because of his association with Sherlock Holmes. One felt that Gilligan had seen so much in his colorful career that no surprises remained.