Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"Possibly for the same reason," commented Holmes quietly.

The Egyptologist did not notice this remark, but I filed it away.

"Lewis said he had heard of my project and had excellent references, including a rather glowing letter from Flinders Petrie. I know Petrie and recognized his distinctive script. Lewis seemed well up on the Egyptian picture and took charge of my files, putting them in workmanlike order. It was such a relief to have the paperwork attended to that I was able to progress much faster towards what is now the final solution."

"What did he look like?" asked Orloff.

"Lewis? Tall, thin-boned. I suppose 'cadaverous' is not amiss as a description. Very quiet chap, used to the simple life, but then those who have been on expeditions to the Nile most often are. Had a nasal problem and tobacco smoke bothered him. Fact is, that is why I suggested that he use my bedroom today. With the successful translation of the Mannheim tablets a fait accompli, I was terribly keyed up and smoking like a blessed steel mill. Lewis is along a bit, age-wise, and I was concerned for his physical well-being."

"As I am for yours right now," I interjected. "You've been on your feet for a day and a half, and the recent events have been wearing. I'm prescribing bed rest immediately."

There were other questions that Holmes wished to ask, possibly Orloff as well, but both stifled their instincts in consideration of Howard Andrade's condition. One of the dividends of my profession is the delight in having the last word. When a doctor says "that's it!" there are seldom arguments, from a prime minister on down.

We took Orloff in our gondola to the Grand Hotel, where I assumed he was staying. I had the idea that he would join us at the Venezia after resolving matters that claimed his attention, one being to throw a net round Howard Andrade. On our journey, Holmes pointed out the beautiful Palazzo Dario to me, planned by Pietro Lombardo, as well as the huge and luxurious Piazza Corner della Ca' Grande, planned by Jacopo Sansovino. Lombardo and Sansovino were unknown to me, but my friend seemed to place great store in their names. I recalled that he indulged in a passion for Renaissance architecture at one time. It was in relation to an old case, not without points of interest, which I may make available to readers someday.

The hour was late but Venice is cosmopolitan, and Holmes and I were able to secure a satisfying meal in the hotel dining room at an hour when most Englishmen would be dawdling over their last brandy and seriously considering their beds.

The same thought was crossing my mind as we occupied ourselves with a bowl of fruit augmented by some fine cheeses. It was then that we were joined by Orloff. Our waiter hastened to secure a chair for the security agent. Whether he knew Orloff, who was well traveled, or just reacted to the commanding presence of the deceptively rotund man I do not know. During dinner Holmes had been preoccupied and I had not disturbed his thoughts, but now revelations would be forthcoming, which delighted me.

Orloff was no Randolph Rapp, but then who was? However, his experience, honed to a fine edge in the shadow-land of international espionage, was extensive. Being a man of acute perception and few words, his conversations with Holmes frequently had a staccato quality, and I was invariably hard pressed to keep abreast of the two.

"Andrade is well covered?" This was more a statement than a question from Holmes as he sliced the peeling from an orange.

"Cooks himself. Simplifies things. Cleaning woman comes in three times a week. We'll check her out." Orloff accepted a wedge of cheese that I offered him. "May put a man on the premises. Butler, courtesy of Her Majesty's government. The cryptographer won't object. Rather keen, you know. Must realize that his discovery has touched off a bit of a chain reaction."

If not, I thought, you will convince him. Orloff was to the manor born, and I could picture said gentleman plying a thriving trade selling sand in the Sahara.

"What news of the Chinaman?" queried Holmes.

"His yacht should be here shortly."

"Hmm! You'd think Chu San Fu's arrival would have signaled the move on Andrade's residence."

"Whole thing was rushed. Sloppy job."

I had poured Orloff a tot of after-dinner liqueur, and he was regarding Holmes over the rim of a sparkling glass.

"I've a mind as to what hurried them. You."

It was at this point that I threw patience to the winds.

"Could you translate this interchange for my dull ears?" I fear my manner was somewhat huffy.

"Chu San Fu's agents are in Venice," explained Orloff. "They hastily removed Aaron Lewis from Andrade's home, ahead of schedule, I'd say. The answer has to be Sherlock Holmes."

"How do you figure that?"

Orloff's lips twitched, a sign of satisfaction rarely seen on his features.

"Noticed your friend here react when Howard Andrade described his assistant."

My gaze shifted to Holmes, whose eyes were twinkling.

"Dear me, I have become transparent, but Orloff is right. The description of the assistant, Lewis, bore a remarkable resemblance to Memory Max."

My inquisitive stare was undiminished, for I did not share Holmes's encyclopedic knowledge of members of the criminal classes.

"In his early years, Max did a turn in the music halls as a memory expert. Answered any question. Photographic memory, you see. However, he turned his not inconsiderable talents to less legitimate pursuits and became one of the leading forgers of our time."

"How strange," I exclaimed. "A man with a freak memory turning to forgery."

"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?"