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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.

The first one was headed
for Tiny in a trice, aiming a massive blow at the boy's head. Tiny's
open palm caught the Manchurian's fist in midair, and then his hand
closed and there was a crunch of broken bone as Tiny's other hand
caught the wrestler under his chin. Suddenly the Oriental
strongman was in the air, and Tiny swung in a full circle and let go,
allowing a tangle of arms and legs to spin through the air before
crashing to the floor and taking two other scoundrels with it. The
Manchurian's brother had rushed Burlington Bertie but never reached
him for the Cockney tangled up his legs with an artful foot As the
second bodyguard collided with the floor, Bertie's billy club swung
in a short arc and there was a sound like an axe making contact with
a ripe melon and the second Manchurian was skidding towards the
now-open door with blood pouring from his mouth.

The attack had been so
sudden and violent that I could not keep track of events. The room
was a frenzy of screams and groans, with some trying to retreat
before the onslaught of the lads from London. Chu San Fu had been
petrified, like the others, for a moment. Now he was on his feet. The
wild look in his eyes was akin to that of a drug-inflamed dervish as
he scrambled to the teak box to secure the sword that he had
considered his passport to a life of greatness.

I was trying to gain my
feet, a difficult task when tied to a chair. I noted that Holmes's
chair had been tipped over in the melee and my friend was attempting
to bring himself upright on his knees. By now, Chu San Fu had the
sword in his hands. I knew that he intended to take the cause of his
downfall with him in this final conflict. Out of the corner of my eye
I saw one of the felt curtains that shrouded a great window fall of a
sudden into the room. There was a crash of glass, and then a body was
fighting itself clear of the blackout material. Chu was headed for
Holmes, the sword swinging from his scrawny arms, when there was a
blast of sound. I felt the wind of a high-velocity bullet that
flashed past my face. Suddenly the sword in Chu San Fu's hand
disappeared and I realized that the Mauser bullet had caught the
weapon at its broadest part and shattered the blade. Chu staggered
back, still holding the ornamental hilt. There was a thin sliver of
steel left, a mere fragment of the former weapon but still deadly.
The wild-eyed Oriental recognized this fact and made for my hapless
friend as I screamed a warning and tried to push myself in his path.
Then, out from the tangle of blackout material sprang Wakefield
Orloff, that deadly steel-rimmed hat in his hand. His quick eyes and
uncanny reflexes seized the situation at a glance. One amazing wrist
flipped in what seemed almost a casual gesture, and his hat was
spinning through the air. The rigid brim caught Chu San Fu on the
back of the head, causing a crunching sound. The Oriental's body was
toppled by the impact, and he fell right on top of what was left of
the counterfeit sword. There was a grunt, then a convulsive shudder,
and a sliver of steel slid up through the back of the now late
criminal mastermind. The sword had proven to be his passport to
another world.

The charge of Tiny and
Burlington Bertie, augmented by Orloff, was too much for those left
standing, and men were fighting each other in their attempts to
escape towards the rear of the house—anything to remove
themselves from those awesome instruments of vengeance that had
descended upon them. Orloff was beside Holmes, his throwing
knife severing the bounds that secured the great detective, and
a moment later he had me freed as well. Then there came a backup of
thoroughly cowed criminals who had run headlong into a police squad
that had entered through the rear of the building. I saw more
uniforms at the front door and realized that the battle was over and
the field was ours.

In the confusion of
captured criminals, police, and elements of the army, I searched
vainly for Shadow Schadie, for I had not forgotten the Mauser bullet
that had nearly creased me but had stopped Chu San Fu's fatal mission
for that magic moment before Orloff went into action. But Schadie had
simply disappeared, not so strange for one who could walk up a wall.

Chapter
Twenty

Aftermath

Dawn was not far removed
when we were finally able to enjoy a quiet moment back in our suite
at Shepheard's Hotel. The remnants of Chu San Fu's organization
were incarcerated, and certain cables had been dispatched to
London. Colonel Gray, at Holmes's orders, had been placed in charge
of the windup of the affair and had shielded us from numerous
congratulations from the army and civilian authorities. It was
generally accepted that the crisis was over, and we had been able to
drag ourselves from the area of decision-making.

Tiny and Burlington
Bertie were snoring lustily in an adjacent room as Orloff joined
Holmes and myself for a libation. Though I usually did the honors, on
this occasion it was the sleuth who presided over the bottles. It was
mighty comforting to sit at peace with the world for a change with a
brandy and soda in my hand.

Holmes and I had
carefully refrained from making mention of Orloff's crashing
through the window of Chu's headquarters and his split-second rescue
of my friend and possibly myself as well. This would have but
embarrassed him. There were still matters of policy, and Orloff posed
them promptly.

"What of the tomb
in the Valley of the Kings?"

"That whole matter
is best suppressed," stated Holmes quickly. "The boiling
pot has subsided, and if we wish to keep it that way, let us have no
sensational discoveries or anything else to draw attention to this
area for the moment."

Orloff nodded. "Gray's
men circulated the rumor of the false prophet quite well, and now
that Chu San Fu will just disappear, the whole furor will die down."

"Well, of course,"
I interjected, "the story in the newspaper should have
disposed of it already. The sword being in England and—"

I allowed my voice to
dwindle to a stop, for both of my companions were regarding me
strangely and possibly with a suggestion of mirth.

"Good fellow,"
said Sherlock Holmes, "do always believe me. However, I
must confess that there was no story in the
Al-Ahram
or any
other paper. As far as we are concerned there is no Sacred
Sword. My tall tale was simply a ruse to have Chu dispatch one of his
men outside the building. This was the prearranged signal for Tiny
and Bertie and Orloff here to hit the place, backed up by the locals.
I realized that we might be in a tight spot and wanted our lads on
the scene first should a rescue be required. A good thing I
did."

The truth was finally
seeping through my lethargic brain. "We were followed from the
hotel then."

Holmes nodded. "And
not just by Shadow Schadie. It was, to use the jargon of the American
underworld, 'a loose tail.' We made ourselves available in the area
where I suspected that Chu San Fu was hidden and let whatever was to
happen, happen. Once Orloff knew where we had ended up, he moved in
with the reinforcements."

"And waited for the
appearance of one of Chu's men before rushing the building."

"Exactly. There
were holes in
the plan, but it was the best I could come up
with. Obviously, you felt I was courting capture, Watson, and you
were right. Chu had to be disposed of in some manner. That he went by
his own hand proved convenient."

I did not choose to
comment on this. The Oriental had fallen on the remnants of the sword
and had been skewed by it, but I had heard the sound of Orloff's
reinforced hat when it hit the man. Possibly he was dead before he
reached the floor. But such conjecture served no purpose and I
dismissed it from my mind.

"Then it's back to
London?" asked Orloff.

"By way of Berlin,"
replied Holmes, to my astonishment. "I have a little duty
to perform there, and Gray is giving me a hand."