Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

During my musings, Holmes had gotten his pipe going and now saw fit to break his silence.

"Any visitors, Watson?"

"None. Nor messages, either."

"No matter."

Followed by a trail of smoke, he began to pace our sitting room with that purposeful manner. Holmes was tall and amazingly strong, the best amateur boxer I had ever seen. As a result, his movements were graceful and his footfall light. Had it not been so, I imagine there would have been paths worn in our carpets, for he did like to think on his feet. I imagined that his mind, so capable of absolute concentration, was completely immersed in the Deets matter and whatever errand he had sent Gilligan on. Slim's mention of Waterloo had led me to associate the cracksman with the Mayswood affair. As usual, Holmes surprised me.

"I agree with your selection, Watson. Vortex should win the Plate with ease."

There must have been exasperation on my face as I followed his moving figure. My racing sheet was on the end table, though how he spotted it and my pencil work I could not fathom.

"Look here, Holmes, I checked at least four of the horses."

"But you underlined Nurania, Vortex's sire, said former champion being the leading stud at Mayswood Farm. Your final choice is obvious, is it not?"

I suppressed a sigh. Everything was obvious, once Holmes explained it.

Having produced his surprise, which gave him joy, the sleuth switched to the matter at hand. His words, presumably directed at me, might well have been delivered to the walls in my absence. But I was a fixture like the commonplace books and his voluminous files, a sounding board that he had become accustomed to.

"Chu San Fu has been positioned for me and there is no undue activity in his lair, which means he hasn't heard, as yet, of our trip to Mayswood."

"You think he has an information source in Surrey?"

"If I read the signs right. One, there was an intruder at Mayswood. That ornamental lion's head gave us a corroborating clue there. Two, the nighttime visitor was not a robber but a one-man survey team. Getting the lay of the land, as 'twere. Three, the Chinaman is after the Sacred Sword."

"Hold on!" Occasionally I rebelled in my role of Greek chorus, a fact that did not nettle Holmes. In fact, he welcomed it since it gave him the opportunity to test the steel of his reasoning. "Your first two statements had a foundation of fact, but now are you not moving a bit out on a limb? Do we know that this sword that intrigues you so is not just a myth?"

"Touché, Watson. We must visit Sir Randolph Rapp to secure an opinion."

An expert one, I admitted to myself. Sir Randolph had figured in a previous adventure of Holmes's and was the dernier cri, to my way of thinking.

"One thing Rapp will mention is that most myths and folklore are not just flights of fancy. The Midas legend for one—"

Whatever other tales, lost in time, Holmes intended to cite I did not learn, since there were sounds from without and he crossed to the door and flung it open. Filling the aperture was the robust form of Burlington Bertie.

"'Ere we be, Guv. Mite late but I did me best."

"Ah, Bertie. Do come in."

As Holmes stood to one side, I fear my eyes must have of a sudden resembled saucers, for behind Bertie there was another figure.

I'm sure it was an illusion, but when this apparition followed in Bertie's footsteps, it seemed that he had to step sidewise to make his way through our substantial doorway. He was no taller than Holmes, but his width dwarfed the burly Bertie. His hair, so blond as to be almost white, topped a round face devoid of wrinkles with no traces of a beard. It was the face of a child set on a sturdy neck that terminated in a huge upper frame. He was, almost literally, as broad as tall. His legs were short but had to be like the trunks of oak trees to support him. There was a smile seemingly painted on his face, and his wide blue eyes had a dreamy quality as though he had just awakened.

I rose to my feet hurriedly and noted that Holmes was regarding our unusual visitor with a surprised look as if wondering if the body was real and not carved by a woodworker using Gog and Magog as models.

"This 'ere's Tiny," said Burlington Bertie.

"I see," replied Holmes. I admired his sangfroid.

"Do be seated, gentlemen."

The humor of Lambeth and Limehouse, Chelsea and Croydon, is of a simple nature. How could this gargantuan be named anything but "Tiny"? I watched his progress into the room with alarm, trusting that our furniture would survive. Holmes directed traffic in such a manner that Tiny was aimed at our largest chair by the fire.

"Tiny don't say much but 'e's a good lad."

"Quite," replied Holmes. "I can see that he would not need many words."

The movements of the good lad fascinated me. They were delicate, as though he trod on eggs and maneuvered in a doll's house. Of course, I thought, the poor chap has to be careful. An inadvertent gesture and he's liable to push down a wall!

Tiny lowered himself into his designated chair in so fluid a manner that there was not even a creak. He sat with his hands placidly folded in his lap, his face slowly moving between Holmes, Bertie, and myself with interest, and his smile never wavered.

"You said there might be some business, Mr. 'Olmes, so I brung the boy along to see if 'e'll pass muster."

"He'll do just fine," replied my friend.

Tiny was obviously listening and capable of understanding, for he started to rise but was forestalled by a gesture from his companion.

"There's more yet."

As the giant resumed his seat, Bertie turned again to Holmes. "Loik I says to yer earlier, Mr. 'Olmes, there's not a sign of that third bloke wot I caved in on the docks when I hies meself back there t'other night."

"You mentioned pursuing some leads," replied the sleuth, who had managed to drag his eyes away from Tiny.

"I 'ad in mind Blind Louie, the beggar. 'E lives not far from the docks and wot 'e don't see ain't worth viewin'." As though this required additional verification, Bertie turned towards me. "Sharpest eyes between 'ere and Land's End, Doctor."

"Blind Louie?"

"At's roight. Oi 'ad me a good idea for Blind Louie was comin' 'ome 'bout the time of the fracas wot 'e seen. 'E's got the end of that white cane of 'is weighted and was goin' ter lend a 'and but 'e sees me and the late Negro 'ad got things under control. Anyways, after I leaves, Blind Louie is thinkin' 'bout gettin' on the dock to see if the cove I coshed ain't got a few pence wot 'e don't need, but Louie is cautious, 'e is, and a good fing, fer some Chinks comes by and picks up the body, and carts 'im away. Now Louie don't know 'oo the Chinks is but 'e figgers maybe the boyo I coshed is Sidney Putz."

Holmes shook his head, disclaiming knowledge of this sinister citizen.

"Me, neither, Mr. 'Olmes, but Louie says Putz used to work fer Weisman, the usurer. And 'at's all I could dig up."

"A good job, Bertie." My friend was crossing to the desk again as he spoke. "We'll see if we can learn more of Sidney Putz. Meanwhile, I am expecting some action and I want you and Tiny to be on call." Holmes secured more notes from the cash drawer and passed them to Bertie. "I don't know what is involved, but I'll get a message to you at the usual place."

"Right-o, Mr. 'Olmes. Wotever the caper, you just do the thinkin' and Tiny and me, we'll make out."

"Of that I'm sure," stated Holmes with deep-seated conviction.

Fascinated, we both watched Bertie and Tiny depart.

I sank back in my chair and mopped my forehead with Irish linen. "Really, Holmes, life is never dull at 221B Baker Street."

"How fortunate for us. Keeps us young, you know."

He did have the good grace not to let the matter drop at that.

"As you gathered, I spoke to Bertie earlier. Almost as an afterthought, I recalled those two giant Manchurians we came in contact with once before. Followers of Chu San Fu. Now Bertie is no midget, so I asked him if he could locate another good man in a brawl."