Unknown (7 page)

"Come in, Billy,"
said Holmes.

The page boy did so but
there was no cable or envelope in his hand.

"It's a
box,
Mr. 'Olmes. Two deliverymen brung it. It's fer Mr. Mycroft 'Olmes,
sir. Care of Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes, this address."

"Now that's
strange. Mycroft made no mention of this, and surely he has any
number of working addresses. Well, best we have a look at it."

"Rather big, sir."

"Oh," said
Holmes, springing to his feet. "Come, Watson, and let us see
what object comes to Mycroft via our dwelling."

Within the front door
was a crate easily five feet long by three feet in width. I glanced
at Holmes blankly and drew a responsive shrug. Holmes positioned
himself at one end of the box, and with Billy's help I lifted the
other end and we maneuvered it up the stairs and into our sitting
room. Happily it was not of a great weight, and we had it lying
adjacent to the fireplace in short order.

As Billy departed from
the room, my friend was surveying the unexpected object with
curiosity, which was heightened by the fact that one of the
slats of the packing case was obviously loose.

For a moment Holmes
waged an inner struggle and then lost it, crossing to secure the
clasp knife, though this time he made sure his unanswered
correspondence remained neatly stacked on the mantel.

"See here, the
object is earmarked for your brother," I protested.

"Agreed, but
Mycroft would not deny us a peek, ol' chap."

Holmes had the loose
piece of wood pried up before I could muster another objection, and
by then it was too late. The knife's stout blade was working out the
thin nails that secured the crate and, I blush to admit, I was
helping Holmes for I, too, had caught the flash of gold in the light
of the fireplace.

What was revealed was
certainly unusual. It was the size of a small steamer trunk but
glistened with a color unknown to commercial luggage. It was
rectangular and its sides were adorned with figures and objects that
were strange to me. Finally, an obvious thought forced itself upon
me.

"Holmes, if this is
of gold, how did we lift it so easily?"

My friend tapped the top
of the box with his knuckles.

"Made of wood, I'd
say, Watson, and overlaid with sheet gold. A backing of plaster,
perhaps."

He had his pocket glass
in hand now.

"The ornamental
work marks its origin. Egyptian without a doubt. Note the
figures, male and female."

"The males seem to
wear a kilt type of skirt."

"With the navels
showing in each case," replied Holmes. "I believe that is a
mark of a certain period in Egyptian art but don't recall which one.
See the plethora of signs? Cobras, birds, and this one,
resembling our infinity sign, is the life symbol of the Egyptians."

"Whatever do you
suppose is inside?"

"That tantalizing
thought must remain unanswered, ol' fellow, for we seem denied even a
brief look-see."

The sleuth's index
finger indicated silver bolts that slid through gold staples and were
secured firmly by small and strange-looking locks. Evidently the top
of this shiny box opened in the middle like a miniature double door.
"The greater mystery is why this object is here. This is no
error, for it is plainly addressed to 221B Baker Street."

Holmes stood by the
mantel for a moment, his broad brow furrowed in thought, and then
either he reached a decision or some new idea came to his superb
mind.

"Well, I can draw
no meaning from the ornamentation save that it reflects court scenes.
Egypt must remain Mycroft's specialty until we learn more, and
as to the contents, we can do naught but guess. Here, Watson,
let's stretch this afghan over the container, for the hour grows
late."

Automatically I helped
Holmes cover the box, though his reason for doing this escaped me
completely. Once the object was under the afghan that my friend took
from our couch, a rapid gesture of warning put me on the alert. All
was not as it seemed.

"Let's see,"
said Holmes calmly. "I'd best get these messages out of the
way."

He was at the desk
fiddling with papers but only with one hand. The other was signaling
towards my medical bag by the cane rack and I made for it with
alacrity, bringing it to Holmes at the desk. He kept up a desultory
flow of conversation, like a man preparing to retire for the night,
all the while removing my stethoscope.

"Stir up the fire,
will you, good fellow?" he suggested, affixing the instrument to
his head.

I had a poker in my hand
in a moment and stirred up the logs, noting that Holmes tiptoed to
the covered object and applied the stethoscope to its cover. I took
pains at this point not to make undue noise and, after a moment,
Holmes seemed satisfied and removed himself to the desk area where he
restored my indispensable medical aid to its resting place.

"Well, Watson,
shall we turn in?"

"I'm for it,"
I said rather loudly, and my accompanying yawn was authentic and not
dumb show.

Without further ado
Holmes extinguished the lights, but now I understood his suggestion
regarding the fire since the flames still provided illumination in
the room. Following Holmes's lead, I went towards the back
stairs. My friend carefully left the door ajar and we progressed up
the steps, making a bit more noise than necessary in doing so.

Before we reached the
landing, Holmes had one of my arms in his steely grasp and his lips
were close to my ear.

"Get your hand gun,
old fellow, and tiptoe back down this way. Position yourself by the
door and watch that box like a hawk. There's something in there,
Watson, something alive. I'll duck round by the front stairs to
the entrance door, which is not locked. When you spot it
opening, you'll know I'm in place and we'll have whatever is in
that Trojan horse bottled up."

Like a dark shadow
Holmes was gone, and my heart was pounding as I made all speed to
secure the Webley from my bedroom and inch my way back down the
stairs to my station. Somehow the thought of a great Anaconda snake
slithering out of the strange box kept coming to my mind and I was in
a bit of a blue funk when I took position by the half-opened door and
peered into our sitting room.

The box with its cover
was plainly visible in the dancing light of the fireplace. I reasoned
that the afghan was a device of Holmes's in case there was a
peephole through which a human eye could have observed us. The
thought of something human helped my nervous state until I began to
wonder what form of mankind could be secreted in such a small area.

It was then I noted that
our front door was silently opening. Its well-oiled hinges made no
protest, for which I was grateful, and then its movement ceased. Now
for the waiting.

Whatever had entered our
quarters in such an outr
é
manner must
have been patient, for at least a half hour went by and my bones were
aching, desirous of a change of position, which I was able to effect
silently several times. Then there was a stir, and the afghan began
to rise and then slide down, revealing the golden box. The entire top
was rising, and I immediately realized that the bolts had been to
create an illusion and that the top was actually secured from the
inside. There was a lengthy pause, and then I could dimly discern two
small, dark hands that lifted the top of the box. A figure rose from
the interior and gently placed the lid on the floor. It was with
difficulty that I suppressed an exclamation.

The black hair of this
almost doll-like figure hung in two braids down the back of an
oversized head that seemed wizened and not young at all as its size
at first had suggested. He hopped out of the golden box agilely,
landing silently with bare feet on our carpet. A flicker of the
firelight revealed broad lips that were skinned back exposing
small teeth, filed to a point. There was such an evil menace about
the face that I shuddered. It looked like a coconut shell with
features painted on it in the manner of primitive art among the
aborigines of the South Pacific. But the filed teeth were shockingly
real and lent a death's-head quality to this bizarre apparition. A
loincloth and a child's-size rough shirt was its costume.

Standing on the floor,
it seemed no more than four feet in height. Small eyes, which were
flicked with yellow, searched the room, and I was careful to remain
frozen at my vantage point. Finally the figure moved, or rather
glided with the grace of a wild animal, and I was reminded of the
quick but fluid motion of a weasel. The creature gave scant attention
to the furnishings, once convinced that the room was empty, but
surprised me by crossing to the bay window and, after some effort,
succeeded in opening it. I could not fathom what this strange form of
humanity was up to and was further bemused when it returned to the
center of the room, peering at the bookshelf with a nervous glance.
Then it clambered onto the chair to survey the desk top and evidently
found the object of its search. The ornamental dagger that Cruthers
had brought with him was plainly visible, and a tiny hand scooped it
up. I thought the figure would hop down from the chair, but primitive
curiosity took over and the blade was drawn from the scabbard and
tested on the tongue of the creature. Then the dagger was returned to
its sheath and the figure did descend to the floor as the front door
swung open and the beam of a bull's-eye lantern fixed the native in
its light. There was a high-pitched, tinny sound from the small
throat and, dropping the Egyptian dagger, the creature shot across
the room and without pause dove through the bay window!

I was in the room myself
now, and as I ignited one of the lamps I heard the sound of a horse
suddenly in the outer darkness. There was the lash of a whip and the
hoof sounds accelerated and there was the rumble of wheels.

Holmes, by the window,
was peering out, but in a moment his face turned to me with a
woebegone expression.

"I've been had,
Watson. Outwitted, and by a pigmy, no less."

"But Holmes,"
I sputtered, "what happened?"

"I should have
known when the little devil opened the window. We had him cornered,
but he sailed out of the window and into a wagonload of hay, which is
how he intended to leave our quarters even had he not been
discovered. The hay wagon is four blocks away by now, and we shall
never find it. Our little friend has made a clean getaway, but he
didn't take what he was after. We can console ourselves with
that."

"He was after the
dagger, of course. Why?"

"Possibly that
cartouche reveals something of its point of origin. Evidently, Chu
San Fu doesn't want the ancient blade in our possession."

"Ah, then this
pigmy was sent by the Chinaman?"

"You know Chu's
methods, Watson. He employs dacoits, Lascars, and other unusual
types with strange aptitudes. I'll give him credit for a most
ingenious scheme of gaining entry here."

Holmes was closing the
bay window as he spoke. "Fortunately, there was not enough
sound to rouse the household. Best we not mention a barefooted pigmy
to Mrs. Hudson, for she might not sleep soundly for a week."

His remark brought an
alarming thought into focus in my mind.

"If the pigmy is
one of Chu San Fu's bizarre entourage, then the Oriental must know of
your involvement."

"It would seem so,
Watson. I'll have the golden box taken to Mycroft tomorrow. Possibly
it will be informative to him, though I doubt it. Just a device to
get the little devil in here." Locking the front door, he made
for the bedroom stairs again. "I'll also have the house watched
during our absence."

"Then tomorrow it
is off to Surrey?"

"Why not? We may
pick up the trail of the insidious Chu San Fu quicker there than here
in London."

"A moment, Holmes.
This chap, Deets—or Spaulding—"

"For the time, let
us refer to him by his assumed name, Deets."

"Very good. But I
don't recall his giving you directions."

"Mayswood, the name
of his residence, was enough, my good Watson."

And on this puzzling
note, Holmes retired to his bedroom.

With my lights
extinguished for the night, a myriad of thoughts tried to march down
the corridors of my mind. Long experience with the affairs of
Sherlock Holmes allowed me to erect roadblocks, and sleep was
not long in coming. However, it was invaded by filmy figures spawned
from the imagination. Wild horsemen thundered over an endless sea of
sand with pyramid shapes in the background sharply defined by a
blazing sun. Each nomad had sharply filed teeth and was swinging a
huge, curved, scimitar-shaped weapon. Heads will roll, I thought
before sinking into total oblivion.