Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

Frank Thomas

PINNACLE BOOKS LOS ANGELES

Preface

In bringing previously unpublished cases of the world's greatest detective to the attention of readers, one is faced with the persistent questions: "How did you come by these adventures, and why have they not been published before this?"

There is no mystery here. The unpublished stories are frequently referred to in the four novels and fifty-six short stories that Doctor Watson made available during his lifetime. Nor is there doubt as to where the voluminous case books, carefully compiled by the most diligent chronicler of all times, were placed, for Watson told us on a number of occasions. They were filed in that famous dispatch box in the vaults of Cox's Bank at Charing Cross. The reasons the good doctor denied the eager reading public of the world access to these adventures was also plainly stated. A number of Holmes's exploits dealt with sensitive government matters best allowed to remain in limbo for the time. Others cast light on social scandals of the late Victorian era and Watson, always the soul of properiety, felt they should not become public knowledge while those involved were still alive. In addition, there were certain cases which Watson rather cryptically described as being of such a nature that the world was not prepared for their revelation. I have often wondered if the months Holmes spent in research into coal-tar derivatives in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France, is classified in this last category.

The adventures were certainly recorded and preserved and the only singular matter is how this editor came by them. I have been vague on this point in previous writings, but the whole matter will be in the open before long because of legal questions regarding ownership. There is, in Anglo-Saxon law, the Treasures of the Realm act of which I have been made alarmingly aware.

It was during the height of the wartime blitz that Cox's Bank was devastated by bombs. Since I was in London at this time, my only thought on that fateful night was to seek refuge from the explosions that seared the darkness with a nightmare of flame, falling masonry, dust, debris, death. By pure happenstance the aged dispatch box and I were thrown together and happily we emerged from the kaleidoscope of horror relatively undamaged. One thing is certain, had I not been in the ruins of the bank, the dispatch box with its historical and irreplaceable contents would have been lost forever, reduced to cinders by the German firebombs.

Such is the statement I shall make when the matter comes to court.

But this unpleasant legal confrontation lies in the future, which must unfold according to the blueprint of destiny. Let us now part the veils of time and walk back into the past. Back to the wondrous world of Baker Street.

The game is afoot, or more appropriately, the bird is on the wing.

Frank Thomas

Los Angeles, 1979

A Note to the Reader

For the purpose of this work, it was necessary to authenticate, in depth, certain elusive historical facts regarding ancient treasure.

The dedicated research of Elsie Probasco of Reno, Nevada proved indispensable in this regard.

As was the case with previous publications dealing with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the author was able to lean on the encyclopedic knowledge of the greatest Holmesian of our times, John Bennett Shaw of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

We shall mention last what came first. Walda, in whose presence the Golden Bird first took wing. Without her, this book would have been completed six months earlier.

1

The Problem

It was a night in late autumn and the wind, which had brought an Arctic cold to the streets of London, had died down. But on its heels came a thick fog that blanketed the metropolis. Neighboring buildings loomed momentarily like blurred objects and then disappeared under swirls of moist eiderdown. There was a chilling wetness everywhere and I had built the hearth fire high, in hopes that the leaping flames would defy the inclemency without.

Sherlock Holmes had been idle for several days, spending the time arranging his voluminous files. He seemed in excellent spirits, unusual when there was no test for his highly trained talents. During a tasty dinner prepared by the solicitous Mrs. Hudson, he had regaled me with tales of that tiny and little-known country of Montenegro with which he seemed so familiar. While removing the dishes, our kindly housekeeper gave Holmes a letter that had just arrived by special messenger. As his thin, dexterous fingers extracted the single page and his eyes flashed over it, the relaxed, somewhat languid mood of the world's only consulting detective disappeared. His manner sharpened with interest and he gave the message a long second look before passing it to me.

"An unexpected communication, Watson. From Lindquist, you know."

As I took the letter from his hand, I regarded my intimate friend with a blank stare, prompting him to continue.

"Possibly, you do not know of him. Rather brilliant chap. Was of considerable service in connection with that matter of Mrs. Farintoch's opal tiara."

The message I read had more than a touch of urgency.

My dear Holmes:

Am hopeful that this finds you in your chambers and that you will be there come nine o'clock when I shall arrive. Time is of the essence and there is no one but you to turn to. In desperation, I am . . . Nils Lindquist.

My eyes elevated to Holmes. "The chap seems in need of your unique services."

"A visitor at a late hour on a night like this would have desperation as a spur. However, Lindquist was always a cool one, not given to flights of fancy." Holmes was rubbing his hands together with a satisfied air. "Which leads me to think his visit will unveil a matter of interest."

The signs were obvious. Holmes was, again, thirsting for actionhungry for puzzles and mysteries in which to subtly insert the probe of his specialized knowledge and experience.

"You mention his association with a previous case," I began, then let my voice dwindle away, knowing he would pick up the conversational lead.

"While Lindquist's fame is limited to a small circle, he's a top-notch gem expert with an extensive knowledge of objets d'art." Holmes indicated the stationery in my hand. "Do you deduce anything else from his message?"

Holding the paper up to the light, I tried to emulate my friend, mimicking the manner with which he had viewed countless messages in times gone by.

"I note the paper is Neeley-Pierpont bond. I'd say it fetches a good price."

"My dear Watson, you fill me with delight! Obviously, our years together have not been wasted."

Holmes usually had only sparing praise for my powers of observation and I was much heartened by his tone of commendation. Therefore, I desperately searched for further clues.

"The chap writes in a precise manner, conserving space since his lines are rather close. Might I hazard the guess that, in his role of art expert, he makes his reports in longhand rather than using a machine?"

"Better and better! Pray continue."

"Alas, I cannot. There seems little else to note."

Holmes assumed an air of resigned patience, which did not fool me one whit. I well knew that he delighted in producing his little surprises and gloried in his ability to do so.

"I must, ol' fellow, let you read a pamphlet I published some years back: 'Handwriting as a Guide Towards Vocation and Attitude.' It does have some points of interest. Now regard Lindquist's message. The letters slant forward and the writing curves down at the end of each line. The mark of tragedy, Watson. Also regard the first sentence in which he used the word