Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

Chu San Fu had been watching Holmes with unmoving eyes. Several times there had been a restless shifting among his followers, who formed the mute audience for Holmes's re-creation, but the Oriental had halted them with a slight gesture of one of his thin and bony hands. Now he replied in a businesslike voice, much more chilling to me than an emotional outburst, since it indicated that his first-class brain was still working efficiently and had not given way to panic or frustration.

"You have blunted my capabilities, Holmes, but not destroyed them. The tomb idea was a major part of my plan, but it can be abandoned. The golden tablets can be discovered in some other manner, though not as convincingly, that I'll admit."

Holmes was shaking his head. "Come now, you intend to appear as the rumored messiah. You cannot pass yourself off as anything but Chinese. Mohammedanism spread as far as India but no further east, so that is one mark against you immediately."

"Holmes, you are thinking hopefully, not rationally. Prophets spring from faith, not countries. The man who has the Sacred Sword is the one who will grasp their attention. When I appear and it is verified that I have the authentic sword of Mohammed, then all the various sects of the Islamic religion will be prepared to listen and to accept."

"I must agree," was Holmes's surprising response. "I suspected some time ago that the sword was vital to your plans, though I had but a dim idea of what you were up to. Therefore, Watson and I were observers the night your men stole it from the Mayswood farm."

Chu San Fu's restored confidence received a jarring blow from this revelation.

"Doctor Watson was within the house, that I know, but you were not there."

"Correction. I was. You used four men. They came in over the balcony to the secret room they already knew about. They placed the sword aboard the early freight to London and from there it was taken to the hold of the Hishouri Kamu to be transported here."

Each statement from Holmes was like a body blow to the Oriental. His calmness was a departed thing, and his jaw hung loosely.

"If you knew all that—"

"Now it is beginning to dawn, is it not? Do you think I would have let you take that sword and the commanding position that it would bring to you? Two nights before you raided the Mayswood Farm, my men performed the same function. They took the real relic and left a duplicate in its place."

I believe I was as astonished as the Chinaman. Chu sprang to his feet, crossing to a small table adjacent to his chair on which was a teak case fully five feet long. As he feverishly opened it, I realized why Slim Gilligan and Slippery Styles had been down country before my arrival. Holmes had been one step ahead of his adversary all along.

It was Chu San Fu who had been led by the nose and down the path of deception.

Chu was removing a curved weapon, more of a scimitar I would have said, from the teak case. Its hilt was festooned with shiny stones, and it certainly was an impressive object.

"Regard the jewels in the handle," suggested Holmes. "It's a nice job, for three deft but dishonest men worked better than twenty-four hours without stop to create it. But the jewels are glass, Chu. The Mohammedans who will inspect that relic are not without knowledge, and they will label it as spurious in short order."

"No!" cried Chu San Fu, and in his voice was the anguish of a thousand tears. "It cannot be!"

"Your eye tells you that it is, but your mind refuses to accept it."

Holmes's voice had that whiplash quality that I remembered from other times. His inexorable flow of facts, one hard on the heels of the other, had worn down his adversary, and it was now the man from Baker Street who held the upper hand.

"Your dreams of a unified Islam stretching from India to the Atlantic with you as its spiritual leader have, like the murky visions induced by an opium pipe, faded into nothingness. But you recoil and demand proof, so I will give it to you. The night is long upon us, but by now a special edition of the newspaper Al-Ahram is on the streets. It has picked up, from the Reuters' wire, a story already well circulated in England and elsewhere. The Sacred Sword of the prophet Mohammed was recently stolen from its hiding place but has been recovered through the efforts of a consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes and is in the hands of the British Government for safekeeping. Right now the story is spreading like wildfire throughout Cairo, and those religious leaders who responded to your siren song are making ready to return to their own lands. The show is over. The theatre is empty, and your drama has failed."

There was a nervous tick that evidenced itself on one side of Chu San Fu's mouth, and his eyes had a wild and frantic look about them that sent tingles down the short hairs on the back of my neck. Evidently Holmes noticed it too, for his next words were delivered in a calmer manner.

"You know I am right, but you still won't accept it. So be it. Just have one of your men secure a copy of the special edition and you will have proof."

Chu San Fu was breathing deeply, and by what means he signaled his wishes I could not see, but suddenly Holmes and I were seized by the men surrounding us and placed in two chairs. A dirty-looking Lascar proceeded to tie my hands and lash me to the chair, and I noted that one of the giant Manchurians was doing the same thing to Holmes. Another signal from Chu, and a ferret-faced half-breed made for the door.

By the main entrance was an obese Chinese who swung up a wooden bar that had nestled in two large metal "L" shapes firmly secured to the stout door. Peering through a peephole, the fat Oriental then unlocked it and the half-breed slipped through in search of a newspaper as suggested by Holmes. The round guardian of the gate then relocked the door and placed the wooden bar across it again. I judged that it would take an explosion to break that bar, and this thought was of little comfort. When Holmes's story was confirmed, what was our fate to be? Or had Chu already, in the back of his mind, thrown in the sponge? Possibly he was planning our end with considerable gusto even now. I cast a quick glance in the direction of the crime overlord but the Chinaman was back in his chair, his chin resting on a knotted fist, staring into space with unseeing eyes as though in deathly fear of what was to come. The other men in the room were exchanging information in soft tones and in a variety of tongues, and there was an aura of confusion as the whole group waited for the proof that Holmes had promised.

It seemed no time at all before there was a nervous tattoo on the outer door. The rotund Chinaman swung the bar from its sockets and began to unlock the door when inbred caution caused him to glance through the peephole. Suddenly he twisted the key back to the lock position just as the brass-studded wooden barrier swayed from a thunderous blow that sent the Chinaman reeling. He lunged forward again when there was another tremendous crash and the door was sprung from its hinges and propelled vertically back into the room, taking its guardian right along with it. Behind the wall of wood was Tiny with his perennial grin and baby face, and a welcome sight he was. Close by the squat colossus was Burlington Bertie with a short billy club swinging from his right hand.

Still holding the door, which must have weighed better than seven stone, Tiny extended his arms and the fat Chinaman flew to one side, hitting the wall with a resounding crash. Then the door was over Tiny's head and he launched it into the crowd of men in the room like a projectile. There were screams as the object felled at least three, possibly more. The two giant Manchurians, unlike the rest of the ruffians, were not frozen in their tracks, for they were bred for conflict.