Authors: Braven
Having seated his
visitors, Andrade leaned against the table and surveyed us with a
half-smile.
"I came, Mr.
Holmes, to Venice to insure privacy and must admit that I was a bit
put out when Mr. Orloff appeared on the scene." He shot a
quick look at our friend, who was in the process of lighting one of
the thin Mexican cigars that he fancied.
"However, his
credentials were so impressive that I could not refuse him an
audience, and a good thing, too, since he has done me a great
service." Andrade's eyes shifted to a pile of photographs on the
table and then he moved to sink, somewhat slowly, into a large
armchair. "Then he requested that I meet with you, Mr. Holmes
and Doctor Watson. Now, I would be a dullard indeed if I did not
think that a visit from the world's foremost detective is connected
with the Egyptian research I'm involved in."
"It is,"
replied Holmes. "Myâourâinvestigations are not of an
archaeological nature, but they do seem to point to Egypt, and you
are the first new element in hieroglyphics since Champollion."
Andrade's full lips
twisted in a slight grimace. "The Frenchman gets all the credit.
Not that he doesn't deserve it, you know. Positive genius. Spoke
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew by the age of eleven. Mastered Arabic,
Syrian, Chaldean, and Coptic in two years. However, our own Thomas
Young is rather overlooked. It was he who deduced that in
hieroglyphics the royal names were inscribed in oval frames."
"Cartouches,"
said the sleuth.
The Egyptologist's eyes
brightened and he regarded Holmes with even more respect.
"Exactly, sir. You
have a familiarity with the subject. But I take us from the matter at
hand. You want to know if I have been successful in decoding the
secret writings."
"That's it,"
replied Holmes.
Andrade stirred
uncomfortably in his chair. "Of course, you understand that our
discussion is highly confidential. Later this year I will deliver an
address to a group of skeptical and, in many cases, antagonistic
colleagues. It will serve my purposes best if they are not aware of
my full revelations. Then I intend to publish a paper that might have
the same reception as Champollion's 'Letter to M. Dacier in regard to
the alphabet of the phonetic hieroglyphics.'" His mouth
pursed for a moment and then he gave vent to a sigh of resignation.
"Well, not quite as earth-shaking, since Champollion was first.
No matter, I can give you an answer for the first time."
As though the thought of
his quest produced a sudden surge of energy, Andrade rose from his
chair and crossed nervously to the table. Turning, he slid his
posterior onto its surface. Had he crossed his legs beneath him,
there would have been a resemblance to a seated Buddha. His arms
behind him, he leaned back and there was a creak of protest from the
oak, but the table was stoutly constructed. Andrade's eyes had an
almost dreamy look as though he was reliving the work of years, which
in fact he was.
"It was the temple
of Abu Simbel that first aroused the curiosity of scholars, myself
included. It lies a hundred miles south of Karnak and is the largest
monolithic sculpture in the world. The temple is cut into a
solid sandstone cliff, and its facade is covered with huge effigies
of Rameses Second. Inside the temple, in the inner sanctuary, is
another statue of Rameses Second, and underneath it a number of
inscriptions that have defied translation. Thomas Young became
intrigued with the idea of another form of hieroglyphics, and this
theory, to which I subscribed, was buttressed by certain golden
tablets that had shown up. They are very rare. Grave robbers must
have melted them down in times gone by. Then, with the coming of
our modern era, they realized that the genuine article was worth
much more to a great museum or wealthy collector than the basic worth
of the precious metal."
"Three of the
tablets are in the possession of the Egyptian Museum, and I have
seen copies of the inscriptions but never the tablets. In the
beginning, all I had to work with were the inscriptions at Abu
Simbel. I did decode the secret writing, developing certain ideas of
Young, but that's another story. What I needed desperately was
confirmation of my findings. Now it is common knowledge in the field
that Giovanni Balzoni, the Italian archaeologist and adventurer,
came upon two more golden tablets not long before his death early in
the century. He got them out of Egypt, for things were very easygoing
in those days, but they disappeared. Then they turned up fifty years
later and were purchased by Mannheim, the great German collector.
Since they were the only golden tablets outside of Egypt, Mannheim
made quite a fuss about his acquisition, and they were stolen from
him and have not reappeared to this day."
I could not contain
myself any longer. "But what have these ancient tablets to do
with your discovery?" I asked. Happily, Andrade seemed to
welcome my question.
"Proof positive,
Doctor Watson. I have translated the Rameses inscriptions along with
all the copies of the known tablets that I could secure, but I needed
more material to work on."
He waved a large hand in
the direction of Wakefield Orloff. "It was here that this
gentleman came to my aid."
Holmes was regarding the
security agent with surprise.
"Don't tell me that
in such a short time you located the Mannheim tablets?"
As Orloff laid aside his
cigar, it was Andrade who fielded the conversational ball.
"Almost as good,
Mr. Holmes. He secured photographs of them."
Andrade slid off the
table and spread a pile of large photographs on its surface.
"Here, gentlemen,
are pictures of the Mannheim tablets, which I have translated as
conclusive proof that the riddle of the secret writings is no more."
We all clustered round
the table. The pictures were of rows of inscriptions taken from
various angles. To me they were but a series of carvings bearing no
relation to a written language, but Holmes seemed intrigued and
Andrade was positively bubbling with joy as he pointed to various
lines of ancient text.
Holmes's eyes had gone
to Wakefield Orloff. "Rather nice piece of work, this," he
said, indicating the photographs. "How did you get them?"
There was a fleeting
shadow of self-satisfaction on Orloff's impassive face.
"Memory helped. I
recalled that Mannheim is a great believer in pictures, most often of
himself, and in the newspapers whenever possible. He is no shrinking
violet. His photographer, Werdelin of Berlin, was evidently
influenced by his greatest patron because he is a collector as well.
Of photographs. I had some dealings with the gentleman once and knew
that invariably when on a big job he made copies of his work,
which he carefully filed."
"So you went to
Berlin and secured the copies in Werdelin's files," said
Holmes.
"He owed me a
favor," was the security agent's reply, accompanied by his quiet
smile.
"In any case, with
the pictures I saw the end of the road," continued Andrade. "I
have been at work for thirty-six hours, gentlemen. My poor assistant
gave up the ghost three hours ago and is in my room upstairs in an
exhausted sleep. To be frank, I don't feel the slightest fatigue."
"The adrenalin of
victory," I stated automatically.
Since the Egyptologist
seemed intent in going over various inscriptions and had a
courteous audience in Holmes and Orloff, I withdrew from the scene
slightly. The ancient writings had little appeal to me, and I moved
to the bow window that had captured my attention upon our arrival.
On the San Canciano
canal there was an endless procession of boats and gondolas, and
I noted skyrockets from the direction of Campo San Marco. There was a
drumbeat of sound, almost like muted gunfire, which I identified as
fireworks, concluding that it was but another festival night in the
city noted for such celebrations. As my gaze swiveled towards
the small tributary canal running at right angles to the San
Canciano, I shook my head for a moment and blinked my eyes.
"I say," I
exclaimed, turning to the others, "there seems to be some sort
of rope made of knotted sheets dangling from a window of this house."
My words had an
immediate effect. A quick glance passed between Holmes and Orloff,
and the sleuth darted for the curved staircase leading to the upper
story. I was right on his heels and as I stumbled after Holmes, I
saw, out of the corner of my eye, a remarkable sight. Orloff had not
made a move towards the stairs. Instead, as though levitated, he was
now on the top of the stout table, but for no more than an instant.
Two steps forward on the table surface and his steel legs dipped and
then straightened with a surge of power and he was in the air, arms
outstretched and above his head. His leap would have been admired by
a ballet dancer! Then widespread fingers gripped the top of the
balcony railing and the amazing power of his arms and shoulders took
over, propelling his body upwards. His legs tucked in and then swung
between those knotted arms with exquisite grace, the hands were
released and, catlike, he was on the gallery as Holmes and I came
round the curve in the stairs.
Orloff's movements were
without pause. Already he was flowing across the floor and his
shoulder crashed against the door of the bedroom, knocking it asunder
like a battering ram. There was a flash of light from within the
room and the thunder of a gun, but the security agent had dropped to
the floor in a rolling movement. Scrambling to the head of the
stairs, Holmes and I could see the bedroom interior. By an open
window, an indistinct figure had one leg through the opening. Three
more flowers of light blossomed from the vicinity of the man's
right hand, and the roar of sound was continuous. The ever-moving
mass that was Orloff had rolled behind a substantial chair and was
coming to a semi-erect position, his hand reaching to the back of his
neck and the chamois sheath attached between his shoulder blades. His
arm was no more than a blur, and then there was the flash of metal,
but the Toledo steel of his Spanish throwing knife, buried itself in
the window frame, for the figure had dropped through the opening.
I thought I heard a
splash from without as I reached the bedroom door. Orloff had moved
behind his knife, brushing the chair in front of him away as
though it were a toy. Then the first interruption in his continuous
flow of movement from the floor below to the bedroom occurred.
Crossing like a quicksilver shadow towards the window, his foot
stumbled over a small stool, unseen in the dim light, and his legs
came out from under him. But it did not stop him. The man's reflexes
were truly of another world, for in midair he dipped into a
forward roll, his thick neck and shoulders caressing the floor and,
of a sudden, he snapped erect on both feet beside the window.
His actions really
defied description, for though they were made with a speed that one
could not accept in retrospect, such was his grace that he
seemed to float in slow motion, an illusion fostered by the total
absence of any wasted movement. When danger crooked its ominous digit
and invited mischance, Orloff seemed to embark on a programmed
path, always one step in advance of fate's finger. An outstretched
palm halted Holmes's progress towards the window, and I bumped into
him from behind.
"They've fished him
into a gondola," said the security agent in a calm voice
suitable for an invitation to tea. "They're turning into the
main canal." As he spoke, his right hand dipped to his wasteband
and a small-caliber revolver seemed to materialize. "I
couldâ"
"No." stated
Holmes flatly. "The fireworks have covered the gunfire, but
let's not have target practice in the San Canciano. By the time we
reach our waiting gondola they will have lost themselves in the canal
traffic, so we'd best write this matter off."
Holmes raised the flame
in a gas lamp, throwing additional illumination into the room.
"No aspersions on
your marksmanship, good fellow. I know you could have picked the
intruders off like clay pigeons, but I'm not sure that's the way
we wish to play it." Orloff's green eyes were locked with the
sleuth's for a moment, and a shadow of understanding touched his
face. Then the handgun disappeared, and he calmly retrieved his
throwing knife from the window frame, tucking it back between
his shoulder blades with an automatic movement.
He then indicated a
makeshift rope anchored to the bed and running through the window.
"How about this?"
Holmes shrugged, having
already noted the bed sheets hurriedly knotted together. "Improvised,
which tells us this incident was not preplanned."
As Orloff drew the line
of bed linen back through the window there was an exclamation from
the landing, and Howard Andrade, puffing from his ascent, was
regarding us with wide, startled eyes. I had quite forgotten the good
man, but his appearance served as a further reminder of all that had
happened in such a brief period of time. Our host had been spectator
to the abrupt departure of his three visitors, then the sound of a
shattered door, a burst of gunfire, and finally silence. Having
recovered his wits and made his way upstairs, he found nothing but
two men calmly analyzing the scene and another, myself, looking
befuddled.