My friend's firm hand on my arm guided me through the station and into a carriage without. Holmes's directions to the sleepy-eyed driver were inaudible to me, but at this point, I had lost interest in our next destination.
It proved to be a vehicular bridge over the vast checkerboard of Great Eastern rails converging towards the hub that was the transportation empire's London station. Holmes's suggestion that I remain with the carriage was accepted with alacrity. He removed himself to stand on the walk-across of the bridge, his eyes in the direction of Surrey. The appearance of his cigarette case and the lighting of one of the Virginia blends that he fancied suggested a lengthy vigil, and I fell asleep again.
Possibly it was the sound of an approaching freight or the peculiar tocsin that alerts us in some mysterious manner when action is imminent, but my eyes blinked open to catch Holmes watching the cars of a freight train passing beneath the bridge. At a particular moment, his white handkerchief waved in the half-light of the early morning. Since this was obviously a signal to someone positioned further down the line, I now understood the cable that he had taken pains to dispatch from Litchfield.
Not waiting to check the results of his improvised semaphoring, Holmes returned to our carriage, his knuckles rapping on the box. When the trap opened and a bewhiskered and heavy-eyed face peered down, Holmes finally delivered the curtain speech to our nighttime saga: "221B Baker Street, my good man, with all possible speed."
Chapter Nine
Holmes Assumes the Trust
It was well into the afternoon when I finally stumbled from my bed, giving vent to a series of jaw-straining yawns as I rubbed the vestiges of sleep from my eyes. Like an incoming tide, a flood of questions inundated my poor, lethargic brain, but I shoved a mental finger into the dike, effectively plugging the sea of conjecture. At the moment I cared not a whit as to the dramatic happenings of late or the potential fate of the Sacred Sword either.
After steaming in a hot tub, performing my toilet, and dressing with care, I descended to our sitting room feeling more the man and less like an archaic bag of protesting bones.
Holmes was not alone, for Clyde Deets at the moment was depositing his hat and gloves on the end table.
"I have remarked before about your intuitive timing, Watson. Mr. Deets is just upon the scene."
Our client's face was a blend of perplexity and fatigue with a soupçon of haunting fear.
"Gentlemen," he said in a harassed tone, "recent events are just too much for me. A fire at Mayswood, Doctor Watson's disappearance, your message, Mr. Holmes, which arrived with the two riding horses—"
"I trust," interjected Holmes, "that there was no damage to buildings or livestock last night."
"None. I can be thankful of that."
Deets's words terminated abruptly as though he were at a loss, and Holmes came to his aid.
"Best we shred the fabric of secrecy. A confidential inquiry agent cannot operate at a level of efficiency without all the facts. In this case, personal knowledge along with deduction filled some gaps for me."
"You know then. I might have guessed that you did. But do you both—" his eyes flashed to me "—understand the potential peril involved?"
"More than you do," replied Holmes confidently. "For simplicity's sake, let me sum this up. The subject of your father, Captain Spaulding, and his explorations in Egypt and the Sudan is very much off limits in your household, and not once have you made mention of his fame. It was your father's hope that his name and activities would fade into the mists of time, for he wished to become a missing link with the Islamics of the desert."
Holmes was speaking with such fluency that I suspicioned a communiqué from Sir Randolph Rapp. The ex-Regius Cambridge professor, turned motivational expert, was a veritable reservoir of vague incidents and half-known truths round the world, as indicated by his monumental work, The Motivated Minds of Mankind.
"Now I resort to surmise, though I'll stake my reputation on it," continued the sleuth. "Your father had a peculiar affinity with the Arabians. During his expedition to the Sudan he came upon a kindred spirit, a chieftain or sheik, no doubt, who had found wisdom with the passage of the years. This unknown hero realized that the Sacred Sword, a relic and supposedly the weapon of the prophet Mohammed, represented a potential catalyst, a symbol that, in the hands of a wild-eyed zealot, could launch a flood of fierce horsemen on neighboring territories. Faced, as they would have to be eventually, with modern artillery and disciplined troops, they would become the ingredients of a bloodbath, but oh! what carnage they could cause before their onrush could be stemmed."
Deets made as though to summon words but then leaned back with a shrug of acceptance, indicating that Holmes had already said them.
"The sword does exist, authentic, no doubt, and the chieftain saw a means of forestalling the possible annihilation of his people. He entrusted the relic in the hands of your father to be secreted in England. Captain Spaulding fell in with the idea and may have later regretted it, for he accepted an awesome responsibility. The thought of some rebellious nomad faction tracing the symbol to our shores is a bit far-fetched, but agents of an advanced nation might well do that. Great powers have been known to foment insurrection where it will do harm to their adversaries."
"That was my father's fear," said Deets simply.
"But now another piece has been placed on the board," said the sleuth, his large eyes traveling to the hearth fire as though conjuring pictures from its dancing flames.
"Last night, the fire was, as is obvious, a diversionary tactic to draw the attention of you and your household while the employees of a master criminal stole the Sacred Sword. I could have forestalled the happening but chose not to for the simple reason that Chu San Fu, a name unknown to you, would just try again."
Deets was sitting rigidly upright in his chair.
"Do you mean you know where the sword was taken?"
"Of course. Would I let it disappear? I, sir, am Sherlock Holmes."
Our client leaned back as though abashed.
"Of course. Forgive me. But what is your purpose in allowing this—this Oriental—to gain possession of the relic?"
"To learn of the plot that he has conceived. Chu San Fu is the former crime czar of Limehouse and the entire Chinese community. I entertain suspicions as to his sanity, but he is a wily opponent with vast financial means at his disposal. I would not for a moment allow him to possess this potentially dangerous symbol if I thought he was working on behalf of another agency, but that is not his way. He has some personal plan involving the sword, the outlines of which are but vaguely discernible to me at this moment."
"Then you intend to give this criminal rope . . . ?"
"Hoping to hang him with it, of course."
"Mr. Holmes, what would you have me do?"
"Nothing. Was anything else removed from the vault?"
A negative shake of the head was Deets's response.
"Then I have assumed the trust placed in your father's hands in far-off Arabia. It is I who must see that the sword does not fulfill a fateful destiny. I suggest that the fire at Mayswood was the only incident that night. The robbery just never happened."
Deets's lips were pursed as though tasting the sour fruit of decision. He was regarding his hands, nervously clenched in his lap, and then his eyes rose to meet those of Holmes, and the haggard expression seemed to fade from his face.
"I really have little choice, you know. Were I to report to the authorities the taking of an object not even known to exist, they might well send me back to my brood mares with patient words and comforting pats on the back. So be it, Mr. Holmes. The Spaulding trust now rests on your capable shoulders."