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"Take this with
you, Bertie, and dump it somewhere. For all concerned, I think it is
best that you forget this incident. What about the hansom driver?"

"'E's waitin', Guv.
'Tis me sister's fella, and 'e owes me. Mum's the word."

The stairs creaked in
protest at the weight of Burlington Bertie as he descended. Another
of those unusual types that I encountered through my association with
the world's only consulting detective. As Holmes crossed towards the
couch, I heard the front door being shut and bolts going home as
Billy secured our outer portal.

My friend was hunched
down by the body, his eyes surveying the kinky hair, the ebony
skin, and the tall and muscular body.

"Who is it,
Holmes?" I inquired.

"Haven't the
faintest idea."

"But he asked for
you by name."

Holmes shook his head.
His thin fingers extracted a seaman's wallet from the inside
pocket of the man's coat with the gentle touch of a pickpocket.
Opening it, he studied a passport for a brief moment and then
replaced the wallet where he had found it.

"The name means
nothing to me, Watson. However, the papers could be forged. There's a
lot of that going on now."

Holmes's eyes seemed to
attack the dead face like twin scalpels, searching for some
indication, some identity clue perhaps.

"A Nubian, I would
say. Possibly a Wahhabi, but I don't think so. From the Sudan, no
doubt."

His fingers touched the
head gently and then inspected the hairline, which was low on the
forehead.

"Now this is
interesting," he stated almost to himself.

Suddenly he seized the
man's hands, holding them palms-down, staring intently at the nails.
He rose, crossed to the mantel, and seized the clasp knife that was
thrust through unanswered correspondence. Allowing letters to spill
on the floor, he returned to the corpse and, it seemed to me, began
to scrape at the nail of one finger. I was momentarily
horrified, but then that lean face turned towards me and there was
the half-smile of triumph on his lips. "I knew all was not as it
seemed," he said.

Flinging the knife to
the floor, Holmes crossed to the door, which he opened as I watched
in silent amazement. Before he could call, our loyal page boy
appeared.

"Billy," said
Holmes in his clipped manner, always so evident when he was hot on
the scent, "I want you to secure a carriage and go
immediately to the Diogenes Club. Tell Mr. Mycroft Holmes to come
immediately. Speak only to him. If he is not there, do not leave a
message. Then hasten to Scotland Yard and find Inspector Alec
MacDonald. He is an habitually late worker and will probably
still be there. Impress upon him the importance of coming back here
with you." He slipped the lad some coins. "You understand?"

Billy's impish face was
aglow. "Right on, sir." Then he was gone.

Holmes closed our door
with satisfaction. He regarded the body on the couch for a brief
moment and then surveyed me with his slow smile.

"A bit puzzled, ol'
chap?"

"To say the least.
What has your brother to do with this?"

"Everything.
Burlington Bertie acted in good faith. The man said 'Holmes,' and he
brought him here. The corpse is but recently from Egypt. His passport
told me that, and in appearance he is of the Sudan. You see, Bertie
brought him to the wrong Holmes. The dead man wanted Mycroft all
along."

Chapter
Two

The
Revelations of Mycroft

My mouth was agape, not
strange for anyone associated with the great detective, and I tried
to sort out some sense from the events that had descended upon us and
the partial revelations to which I was now privy. Standing like a
block of wood and feeling the dullard indeed, it was frustrating to
view my friend, whose movements were like quicksilver. The languid
theorist of Baker Street was no more; in his stead was the man of
action, his splendid mind churning with possibilities, with
fascinating questions that teased and provoked his completely unique
talents for answers. He disappeared up the back stairs and before I
could frame a question as to what was going on, he was with me again,
a bed sheet in hand.

"Here, Watson, we'd
best cover the inanimate object that was so recently a man. A visitor
is not beyond the realm of possibility, and an unknown corpse on our
couch would excite inquiry from even the ultra-sophisticated."

As I aided him in
arranging the starched and pristine white over the dark body, it
crossed my mind that the sheet, like a tent half-raised, would
provoke speculation as well. However, Holmes had developed
misdirection and half-truths to a fine art. Nevertheless, I ventured
a thought if only to make my presence felt.

"Could we not
remove the body to a bedroom?"

"'Twould induce a
shock in Inspector Alec MacDonald from which he might never recover.
The corpse breathed its last right here, and here it must remain
until the ponderous sinews of the law assume lugubrious movement."
Holmes paused to cock an eye at me. "A correction, ol' chap. The
presence of my brother could well be a signal for a departure from
the norm. Mycroft positively exudes an aura of dark and mysterious
doings."

"I still don't see
how he—"

"Nor do I. Though I
have spotted a glimmer of light. If Billy is sufficiently persuasive,
my brother should arrive in advance of our friend from Scotland Yard,
which may be of aid in resolving the mechanics of this matter."

This went completely
over my head, but there was one point I could comment on, and a long
overdue thought at that.

"Really, Holmes,
your use of that child Billy borders on the shameful. His apparent
innocence could wheedle a haunch of venison from a hungry lion,
whereas in truth he is more knowledgeable of the world and its
foibles than one twice his age."

"And a good thing.
There is an adage among circus people relative to that: 'Catch
them young and break them in early.' It is the Billys of this world
that are our salvation, Watson. We cannot last forever."

My response was a snort
of disapproval, but I could find no rebuttal. Holmes was, above all,
a pragmatist, and pragmatism is a philosophy that tends to defy
argument. Our devoted page boy was a working cog in the machine that
Holmes had constructed. To argue with success is a high-hurdle effort
at best.

A glance of reproach at
my friend found his back as a target, for he was now at the desk
scrawling rapidly on foolscap.

"As soon as Billy
rejoins us, these cables must go out," he commented. "The
latest activities of our old adversary are now of the utmost
interest."

"Our old who—?"
Never had I sounded more like a Greek chorus.

Holmes's eyes were torn
from his writing by astonishment.

"Sure you heard the
dead man's last words?"

"About someone
finding something?"

"After that. He
distinctly said that it was Chu. That can mean but one thing,
Watson."

"Good Lord!" I
berated myself for being so obtuse. "Chu San Fu, of course. Why,
the blighter actually had me kidnapped. I've good cause to remember
him."

Holmes's pen was moving
again when another reasonable thought insinuated itself into my mind.

"But see here,
Holmes. You smashed the Oriental crime czar following that Golden
Bird matter."

"Severed his
tentacles is more to the point," he said, not looking up. "His
opium dens, fan-tan games, houses of ill repute, and smuggling
operations were closed down, one by one, through the offices of
MacDonald's Limehouse Squad. But the wily Oriental is still at large,
and who knows what schemes are brewing in his inscrutable mind?"

This did give me pause,
and I sat by the fire to muse on the matter. If the Chinese criminal
had resumed his old tricks, I would be well advised to keep a sharp
eye out. Chu San Fu had lost much face through the activities of
Baker Street's most illustrious resident, and the fires of revenge
had to be burning fiercely within his concave chest. I sensed that
the recent peaceful atmosphere of our abode was with us no more.

My friend concluded his
writings with a flourish and stacked the cable messages in
preparation for the page boy. With so many things as yet unexplained,
my mind stubbornly settled on a matter of little consequence.

"I say, that silk
sash around the deceased's body. What was it you called it?"

"A nuck. Part of
Burlington Bertie's equipment. He's a smash-and-grabber, you see.
Wears the sash around his middle but can remove it to cushion his
fist prior to smashing a shop window to extricate what is
within."

"Such a strange
name."

"And I don't know
the origin," admitted Holmes. "The jargon of the underworld
springs from obscure genes indeed."

He was standing by the
window again, his eyes intent on the street below.

"Ah, another hansom
and I deduce that it is Mycroft. Billy made fast tracks. In his
absence, do be a good fellow and unlock the outer door."

I was already headed for
the landing when I paused.

"How do you know it
is your brother?"

"For one thing, the
hansom is so inconspicuous, so completely ordinary that it
shrieks of Mycroft, who shuns attention. Then the driver is a
prototype of everyman, devoid of expression. And, finally, the hansom
is at our door and my brother's portly form is alighting with some
difficulty."

Descending to the street
door I felt it small wonder that my deductive powers were limited
since half the time Holmes was twitting me.

Mycroft Holmes's hand
was at the knocker when I opened the door. As he entered, I noted by
the flickering gas jet of the neighboring street lamp that his hansom
was as Holmes had described it. The driver was indeed one of those
faceless types, commonplace and stolid, but Mycroft's agents all
shared a considerable breadth of shoulder and a fit look. The older
Holmes was shaking moisture from his hat and regarding me with his
impassive gray eyes.

"Surely, my good
Watson, you are the most patient of men."

"How so?" I
asked, following him towards the stairs to our first-floor chambers.

"You have put up
with my brother's eccentricities for all these many years with
apparently no ill effects, though I would guess that the strain must
be considerable at times."

"You jest," I
replied automatically.

Mycroft Holmes's
seemingly reluctant acceptance of my friend's activities and style of
life were an old tune that did not grate through repetition.

"I do trust
Sherlock has good reason for summoning me," he continued. His
progress up the stairs was slow of necessity because of his
corpulence and underscored by a series of puffing sounds interspersed
with grunts of protest. "I almost refused his invitation, a
difficult task when facing a sober and sincere lad with the light of
the Grail shining from his innocent eyes."

"Don't be deceived
by that innocence," I cautioned with a chuckle.

"I'm not,"
replied the government man.

Gaining the landing, he
smoothed his coat around his sizable paunch and, with a sigh and
shake of his head, entered our chambers.

I noted that Holmes had
retrieved the clasp knife from the floor and that along with the
unanswered correspondence, it was now back on the mantelpiece.
He was never overly neat but seemed to take pains to tidy up on those
rare occasions when Mycroft Holmes visited our quarters.

Removing his topcoat,
which I took along with his hat, Mycroft surveyed the room with his
light, watery gray eyes that habitually mirrored an introspective
look and missed nothing. Nodding towards his brother with that
precise and somewhat formal manner they adopted with each other, the
second most powerful man in England made promptly for our largest
chair.

"I am greeted with
a touch of melodrama, Sherlock. A Negroid body on the couch? What
will Mrs. Hudson think?"

My mouth must have
dropped, and even Sherlock Holmes looked slightly startled, a fact
that did not escape his brother.