"Call it a sensitivity," admitted his brother. "I picture some mystical pronouncement from the past couched in the general terms used so effectively by the Greek oracle of Delphi. Something that a zealot could twist to serve his purpose. Then it would be like a fire in a wheat field. Conflagration first, with devastation as the aftermath."
Mycroft Holmes had been talking to the ceiling, but now his dreamy eyes fastened on both of us.
"Recently some unusual antika objects have appeared, and there has been talk of a strange expedition in the Valley of the Kings. I sent Cruthers to try to hire out as a digger and evidently he succeeded. Note the dagger, Sherlock. Why did he bring it back? Where did it come from? Who found it? Until now I suspected international politics, but the mention of Chu San Fu in connection with the matter sheds a different light. What interest would he have in Egyptian antiquities other than the fact that he is renowned as a collector?"
"He was a collector," was Sherlock Holmes's response. "I happen to know that his great horde of art objects has found its way to the market and has been disposed of. Which makes the rascal very solvent at the moment. Also, I consider the Chinaman to be a megalomaniac, and in my experience a zealot and a man with a deranged mind have a great deal in common. Yes, fault outlines of a pattern begin to emerge. If you do not object, I shall look into this matter."
Mycroft's ponderous shoulders registered an expressive shrug.
"Knowing you, Sherlock, you will do so whether I object or not. However, I need assistance regarding this and must conceal the activities of my own organization. The P.M. would but laugh at me. Government believes in crossing bridges only when they come to them. If you and Watson and that ragtag army at your command will give a hand, do be my guest."
"That ragtag army can be very effective at times," responded Holmes somewhat haughtily.
"Agreed," was his brother's answer. "But please, Sherlock, no practical jokes. Lord Cantlemere has not yet recovered from your outré sense of humor regarding the Mazarin Stone affair."
Mycroft Holmes's words were delivered lightly, but I sensed that he hoped his plea would be heeded. The intelligence expert was the calmest and most secure of men, as unruffled and serene as the fortress of Gibraltar, yet I felt that dealing with his mercurial brother produced a certain feeling of unrest even in him.
The older Holmes, with the air of one who has done all he can, began to rise from his chair.
"Cruthers will have to be disposed of," he stated, "and the less fuss, the better."
His considerable form moved across the room with the peculiar grace so often exhibited by those of his size. At the window he flashed some signal towards his hansom below, then turned to me with an expressive glance, which I was able to interpret. By the time I reached our ground-floor door, his driver was on the stoop carrying a large lap robe. When I indicated the stairs, he mounted them quickly and silently. By the time I reentered our chambers, the driver had the dead body swathed in the lap robe and was lifting it effortlessly from the couch.
"I'll be right down," stated Mycroft, and of a sudden the driver and his burden were gone. Helping Mycroft into his greatcoat, I attempted to brighten the somewhat grim atmosphere.
"Your driver doesn't surprise easily."
"Men who do have slow reflexes," he muttered. Before turning towards the door, he shot a keen glance at his brother. "You fell in with my Egypt theory with uncommon ease, Sherlock. Could it be that you possess information that I am not privy to?"
Holmes deflected this verbal lunge with a perfunctory parry. "Whatever I come upon will be revealed in due time."
As Mycroft grunted, I made to open the door. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I wondered if the silent driver was returning, but it was Billy on the landing and at his heels was the dour face of Inspector MacDonald. As I stood aside, the policeman caught sight of Mycroft Holmes.
"Good evening, sir," he stammered in surprise. Then his natural instincts took over. "Would that be your hansom at the curb, sir?"
A nod was his answer.
"Well, your driver is placing a most peculiar object within, and—"
"I must leave," interrupted Mycroft Holmes, "since I'm due in Whitehall now. Possibly the Inspector would like a drink, Watson, it being brisk without."
"Thank you, no," said MacDonald, a puzzled expression on his long face. "Not while I'm on duty, sir."
"My point exactly," said the intelligence expert. "Do enjoy a libation, MacDonald."
Understanding forced itself onto the Scot's face as Mycroft Holmes, with a nod to his brother and myself, made his exit.
"Well, if that's the way it is, I wouldn't mind a wee drop, Doctor."
He removed his hat and coat as I crossed to the sideboard.
"I was catching up with some paperwork, Mr. Holmes, but your lad stayed right there till I came with him. 'Tis glad I am that I'll never have to question him officially, for I could nae get a word from him."
Holmes's thin face brightened. He took great pride in Billy.
"I gather there be a spot of trouble, Mr. Holmes," persisted the Inspector, accepting a glass from me with a look of gratitude.
"Potentially," replied the great sleuth, "though there are fewer official complexities than I had anticipated."
There was a wise look in MacDonald's eyes, and instinctively his gaze strayed to the door through which the elder Holmes had disappeared.
"It's our old acquaintance, Chu San Fu, Mr. Mac. He might be throwing his hat in the ring again."
MacDonald's tumbler came down on the end table forcibly enough to make me wince.
"Not that again. 'Twas hard enough to chop the beggar down the last time. Though it did get simpler towards the end."
There was a look of satisfaction about Holmes. "I wondered about that. Do fill me in."
"Well, sir, the Limehouse Squad just happened to get a complete list of the Chinaman's business outlets, associates—a blueprint of his organization. But you know all about that." The Aberdeenian underlined the "you," a tinge of irony in his voice and a rare trace of humor in his expression. "So we closed him down, bit by bit. He'll nae set up shop in England again and that's a fact."
"You mentioned the climax of this extensive project," prompted Holmes.
"Chu San Fu seemed irrational. Had his followers resisting arrest. Twice there were shooting scrapes. 'Twas like he was making it easy for us."
Holmes's eyes shifted to mine. "An interesting pattern for a doctor, Watson?"
"Not unusual," I replied. "A megalomaniac, his grandiose delusions shattered, totters on the brink."
"If you mean he was barmy, I'll go for that," said MacDonald. "We never could convict him personally. He was too well covered. But we put him out of business, for sure."
"At least for the time," commented Holmes, and there was a chilling note to his words. "How are your sources on art objects, Inspector?"
"Safes and Lofts keeps an eye out. We've got a pretty good line on the lenders' shops that pick up the under-the-table stuff, along with the active fences."
"I had in mind the legal trade. Word reaches me that Chu San Fu's treasure trove has been sold. The market is positively glutted, for he had one of the great collections of the world."
"'Twas above board, Mr. Holmes. We could do nothing about that."
"Indeed, no. But it is my thought that, despite the fact that you have dried up all his sources of income, he must be well supplied with coin of the realm."
"From the sale of his collection." There was a wary look about the Inspector. "It's your feeling that he's getting ready for something new?"
"It does seem possible. I assume the Oriental is still in London?"
"Aye, sir. We may have written him off as a has-been on our books at the Yard, but we haven't forgotten him."