We slipped into the completely black interior of this deserted pile that had led to our undoing. But the last card was not played, and Holmes and I had been in a few other fixes that were just as desperate. His long fingers were on my wrist guiding me forward when there was a sudden burst of blinding light. Then I heard a sibilant voice that was easy to identify.
"Good evening, gentlemen. How pleased I am that you chose to drop in."
Suddenly a weight struck me from above and I was borne helplessly to the ground, thrashing as I fell but to no avail. It was not human hands that had seized me but a netlike object, which I judged to be of some sort of metal. Its weight alone kept me pinned to the ground, and the shock of its impact certainly dulled my senses. But not so much that I was unable to screw my head round and, through the blaze of lights, I saw the wizened and yellow face of Chu San Fu standing above me. In his hand was a glass container that he emptied with a smile that was more contemptuous than humorous. From its narrow mouth came a flow of crystals that seemed to explode as they fell round me. Then there was a faint mist and a peculiar scent in my nostrils, and I lost consciousness.
Chapter Eighteen
Shadow on the Walls
My first thought was that my eyelids had been glued. I tried to open them but they resisted me. Then I accepted the fact that my lids were just too heavy. It was all too much of an effort. One's mind does exhibit strange quirks. I knew not where I was or how long I was slated to be anywhere, and at this low point of my existence I suddenly as though guided by a mystical power found myself following the path of logic. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong, and it had been from the beginning. Not our being taken by Chu San Fu, but before that.
The coming of the now-dead agent, Cruthers, to our chambers had been the beginning, of course, and his mention of the name of our arch-enemy had been the first alert. The additional information supplied by Mycroft Holmes had sketched the outlines on the canvas of the case, and then Deets's appearance at our door had added revealing brush strokes. Holmes, with his usual brilliance, had joined the two cases into one, but from that point it was as though we had been led by the noses. He had anticipated the taking of the Sacred Sword but, to my astonishment, had allowed the theft to be committed, and now this religious relic was in the hands of the enemy.
We had preceded Chu San Fu to Venice but had allowed him to depart from the Jewel of the Adriatic with his accomplice, Memory Max, whilst we followed a will-of-the-wisp to Berlin. Holmes had outdone himself again by deducing the unknown grave in the Valley of the Kings, and we had routed Chu's henchmen guarding the place. But again we had vacated the field, none the better, as far as I could see, for our triumph. Holmes had indicated on the train back from Luxor that he had finally secured whatever information he had been seeking but, upon our return, had not availed himself of the considerable forces at his beck and call but had instead taken off with none but me at his side, walking full tilt into a trap. Was this the work of he who was hailed as the finest mind in England?
The Anglo-Saxon has been accused of insatiable curiosity and sometimes of flights of fancy, but at this moment it was the practicality inherited from my staunch forbearers that intruded itself forcibly on my thoughts.
Watson, I thought, you are naught but Boobus Brittanicus. For years, your claim to fame has been that of biographer, and has your inimitable friend ever let you down? It is he who is the master of logic, not you. If, as Holmes has generously stated, it has been your faith that has spurred him on then stand fast. Remember Wellington's men at Waterloo. What of Nelson's sailors at Trafalgar? Did they lack faith as that immortal seadog got himself shot to ribbons on the road to glory? Stand fast!
My eyes opened in more ways than one. I was lying on a pallet and looking at the slats of what was evidently a bed above me. It was a double bunk, singularly an arrangement much used on a man-of-war. Aside from a slight giddiness, my principal feeling was that of guilt at the path my thoughts had been following. Logic, indeed! I had been drugged in some manner and had been suffering mental aberrations as an aftereffect. Any doctor could diagnose that.
With a groan I swung my feet to the floor and assumed a sitting position.
"Ah, Watson, you have rejoined the land of the living."
How welcome were the familiar tones of my friend, and my bleary eyes located him beside a barred window that, along with a door mounted on metal hasps, seemed the only openings to the limited area that surrounded us.
"Where are we, Holmes?"
"In a cell, considerably removed from the ground level."
As he spoke, Holmes was actively engaged in some manner at the window, and I stumbled to my feet to lend what assistance I could.
"Rest easy, ol' friend, until you regain your equilibrium," said the sleuth.
He had a piece of timber between two of the bars and was using it as a lever. There was a strained sound to his voice, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders were tight under his jacket. I well recalled that day in '83 when my friend had straightened out the steel poker, bent into a curve by the villainous Grimesby Roylott, with one sudden effort. I knew the strength he was exerting. Suddenly, he relaxed with a smile.
"This is an ancient structure and I sense that I'm making some progress with these bars. But a moment, Watson, and we shall try together."
"Where did you—?"
"One of the slats on the bed," he replied, anticipating my question and gesturing with the wooden piece in his hand. "Whereas the passage of years decreases the strength of masonry, seasoning increases that of wood. I judge this slat has supported the backs of many prisoners in years long gone."
I was looking out of the window now and could see that we were four stories up, at the top of the building. I noted Holmes's scarf attached to one of the bars and saw that it fluttered limply in the occasional wind that fanned our place of captivity. Suddenly my eyes blurred, and I had to rub them for a moment and shake my head before they came back into focus.
"When I saw Chu San Fu and his infernal phial of crystals, I was able to gasp some untainted air and did not receive the full shock of the gas he subjected us to," explained Holmes.
"What did the beggar use?"
"Haven't the faintest. The Chinese are an ancient race, and I imagine they have a few tricks that our pharmacies, for all their modern developments, might find of interest. Our laboratories as well."
Holmes was rubbing his thin, amazingly strong arms, and his manner, to anyone not used to his calm acceptance of adversity, would have been infuriating. I found it reassuring.
"Look here, if you think we can budge one of those bars, I'm ready for action. But considering our height from the ground, it seems like labor lost."
"A possible exit of any kind could be helpful. Here, ol' chap, let us give it a go."
I was able to position my hands over Holmes's and we put our backs to it. I could feel the iron bar shifting slightly. Then the veins in my friend's forehead stood out for a brief moment, and there was a grating sound. "Enough, Watson. We have it!"