"Not so, Watson. Those with an unusual mental aptitude frequently find great relaxation in working with their hands. Max's dexterity with tools and dies proved most embarrassing to the government."
Well, I thought, you rather disprove that, old fellow. But then my mind rejected this thought. Holmes did, in moments of relaxation, derive great solace from his violin.
Orloff was sipping his liqueur thoughtfully. "Max specialized in guineas and sovereigns. I know of him."
"But I know him," said Holmes, and there was an instant gleam in Orloff's eyes.
"I was instrumental in laying Max by the heels, back in '81 as I recall. An early case. He's been safely in Dartmoor for years, but obviously is out now."
"Wait," I blurted. "You mean that Memory Max was a . . . a plant next to Howard Andrade?" I was pleased at coming up with a suitable colloquialism.
"Of course." Holmes's tone, not by intent, indicated that a five-year-old child would be au courant with this.
"But the mysterious 'they' were after Andrade himself. They got into his bedroom, you know."
"I allowed your re-creation to stand, Watson, since it served as an alarm to Howard Andrade. However, you had it all wrong. Bed sheets torn and knotted together to form a rope to allow one to descend from the first-story room to the canal level are not a means of entry but of exit. What happened is clear enough. Memory Max was used as a means of getting close to Andrade, to memorize his files and learn the secret of his decoding of the secret writings. At an appropriate time, the arrival of Chu San Fu's yacht, I presume, he was to be spirited away to join the master criminal. Destination? Egypt. But an unforeseen element was introduced when we arrived in Venice."
"Were I to come face to face with Memory Max, I would recognize him, so the 'they' you refer to had to prevent our meeting. They signaled Max to get out, setting a time for a gondola to be under the window of the master bedroom. Using the plea of exhaustion, the forger arranged to be in the bedroom, and fashioned the rope of bed sheets to facilitate his escape. Your spotting it almost upset their plans."
I leaned back in my chair, more than a little pleased with the last statement. Holmes's eyes adopted that opaque look that I knew so well. Silence fell on the table, and I exchanged a look with Orloff that drew a shrug as a reply. Finally the security agent said softly, "What now?"
"There is," responded Holmes in an almost dreamy manner, "a bit more surmise than I approve of. Chu San Fu has the Sacred Sword and it is headed for Alexandria. The Chinaman's yacht is en route here. Beyond these facts, we are guessing. My thought is that Chu San Fu will pick up Memory Max here in Venice and then continue to Egypt. But what of the Mannheim tablets? I have a feeling those writings in gold are a part of the puzzle. I recall that they were stolen from the Mannheim collection and believe that the thief was captured. Without my files and commonplace books, details elude me. Can you prompt me on this matter, Orloff?"
"In part. One Heinrich Hublein was convicted of the theft and is in prison now. The tablets were never found, but the why of that I do not know."
"Wolfgang von Shalloway might," said Holmes. "I will cable the esteemed Chief of the Berlin Police tonight, and if his answer proves interesting, we shall resume our travels tomorrow, Watson, in an attempt to add more pieces to this international jigsaw."
Chapter Twelve
The Madman's Tale
The Berlin police chief's response to my friend's cable must have been encouraging, and Holmes must have waited at the cable office for it. At dawn I was rousted from my comfortable bed, and we were soon on the Hamburg Express, which passed through Berlin en route to its eventual destination. Our journey is vague in my mind. I dozed fitfully a great part of the time, which was just as well since Holmes was indisposed to talk and there were lines of worry and concern around his eyes and noble forehead.
As was our custom whenever in the German capital, we checked into the Bristol Kempinski, where I was grateful to wash away the dust of our journey. The following morning we made our way to the Alexanderplatz and the nerve center of the machinelike Criminal Investigation Department of the Berlin Police Force.
Holmes had for years enjoyed an entente cordiale with von Shalloway, famous Berlin police chief, and Arsene Pupin, the pride of the Sureté. It was a fortuitous "you scratch my back" arrangement for all three, augmented by actual admiration and friendship. In the matter of "The Four Detectives" they had actually worked together on a case, but that is another story indeed.
Wolfgang von Shalloway was his small and dapper self, and after greetings got to business more rapidly than is customary on the continent. To have his fellow investigator contact him was to summon his best efforts, for it was a matter of pride that the German Eagle display a sharp beak in the presence of the British Lion.
"He is dragging you all over Europe, nicht war, Doctor?"
I summoned a weary smile of agreement.
"I did not think you were in Venice for your health, and now, Germany. It must be something big to entice Holmes from his beloved London."
"It could be," replied Holmes.
"Well, if you can throw some light on the matter of the Mannheim tablets, I will be in your debt."
"You have the thief, do you not?" I asked.
"We have Heinrich Hublein in a facility for the criminally insane. That is all we have. The tablets? Poof!"
Von Shalloway's hands gestured expressively. There was a look of distaste around his firm mouth.
"Not satisfied?"
"Far from it, Holmes. This happened four years ago. Hublein was not my only problem." The chief indicated a file on his desk, then tapped it with his index finger.
"Four cases, gentlemen, all unresolved. You Britishers would call it a blot on my escutcheon, and it is. They are. Never mind. One thing I will say for Hublein. He was good luck. After he confessed, no more unresolved cases."
"The thief confessed?" I asked.
"Is crazy nicht war? And the doctors say he is crazy. 'Catatonic' they call him. Withdrawn into a secret world within himself. Possibly this is so."
Von Shalloway rose from behind his desk as though to remove himself from the file he had referred to. There was a soft knock on his office door and an assistant entered, registered on a gesture from the chief, and disappeared without saying a word. I recalled Holmes once saying that when von Shalloway said "Jump!" his aides asked, "How high?"
Holmes surprised me. "Tell us about the unresolved cases."
He surprised von Shalloway also. "I thought you were interested—" His jaw abruptly clamped shut. "Never mind. Perhaps you can came up with something. I should not look a gift . . . a gift . . ."
"Horse in the mouth?" I suggested.
"Ja. Watson is up on the, how you say, 'lingo.'"
"He reads sensational American literature," commented Holmes dryly. "About those other cases."
Von Shalloway was back at his desk with the file open, but that was purely a gesture of habit. Obviously, he knew the contents backwards.
"Better than six years ago, we have a robbery in Morenstrasse. The thief jimmied the door to a built-in stairs that served as the fire escape. It was a well-to-do apartment house and out of all the residents, he picks a suite occupied by a supposed financier who we know is a big-time fence. His door is jimmied, too, and a lot of money is stolen."
"Ah ha!" I exclaimed. "A receiver of stolen goods would keep a lot of ready cash on hand."
Von Shalloway pointed towards Holmes. "That he learned from you and not from sensational literature. Anyway, we went over the locks. Hammer was on the case."
"Good man!" said Holmes.