Unknown (19 page)

"I say,"
Andrade stammered, "what have we here? A mameluke revolt?"

His voice was a full
octave higher than normal. Suddenly his eyes darted round the
room. "Where is Aaron?"

"Your assistant?"
questioned Holmes.

"Aaron Lewis. I
secured his services in Venice."

Suddenly I shook off the
dazed feeling that had enveloped me.

"Look here, you
said this Lewis chap was exhausted and had retired before collapsing.
This is your bedroom?"

"Yes," replied
Andrade. "Lewis normally resides in a small room on the ground
floor. I sent him up here so that my potting around would not disturb
the poor fellow."

"Why, it's as plain
as a pikestaff," I said triumphantly. "The intruders were
after you, and spirited away your assistant by mistake."

"Good Lord, why?"

Since neither Holmes nor
Orloff seemed disposed to offer a comment, I elaborated for the
benefit of the startled cryptographer.

"Someone wishes to
learn the code of the secret writings. That's rather obvious."

"I think,"
said Holmes gently, "that a discussion is called for."

Falling in with his
thought, I rather led Andrade towards the stairs and the living
room below.

Questions bubbled to the
surface of my mind but were submerged by my medical training. Andrade
seemed to be suffering a reaction from all the excitement, and I
thought it well to get him seated below, securing some alcoholic
stimulation for him from a well-stocked cabinet.

In a moment the
Egyptologist's color improved, and he was able to regard the three of
us with a whimsical expression.

"This rather
bizarre occurrence is much more in your line, Mr. Holmes, than mine.
Am I to assume that there might be more of the same?"

It was Wakefield Orloff
who spoke up. "I think not, sir. At least, I shall take suitable
precautions to make sure your domicile is not invaded again."

I well knew what that
meant. More of Mycroft Holmes's faceless men would appear. For all I
knew, Orloff might already have associates at his beck and call in
Italy.

Andrade took another
sizable sip of his libation. "What is the meaning of all this
melodrama, gentlemen, and what about Aaron Lewis, my poor associate?"

Warned by the haunted
look in his eyes and fearing palpitations, I spoke instantly and in
my most soothing doctor manner.

"Once the hoodlums
learn they have the wrong man, surely they will release Lewis from
their clutches."

"Let us hope so,"
said Holmes. It struck me that his manner was surprisingly casual.
"About your assistant, Mr. Andrade. How did he happen to come
into your employment?"

"I am a bachelor,
so it was easy for me to pull up stakes and come to Venice in search
of solitude to complete my project. The house is mine by virtue of a
generous, now departed, uncle, I knew that I was on the verge of a
breakthrough, and my work was intensified. At this point, much
filing was required. I was at my wits' end when Lewis appeared
at my door, much as Mr. Orloff did but recently."

"Possibly for the
same reason," commented Holmes quietly.

The Egyptologist did not
notice this remark, but I filed it away.

"Lewis said he had
heard of my project and had excellent references, including a
rather glowing letter from Flinders Petrie. I know Petrie and
recognized his distinctive script. Lewis seemed well up on the
Egyptian picture and took charge of my files, putting them in
workmanlike order. It was such a relief to have the paperwork
attended to that I was able to progress much faster towards what is
now the final solution."

"What did he look
like?" asked Orloff.

"Lewis? Tall,
thin-boned. I suppose 'cadaverous' is not amiss as a description.
Very quiet chap, used to the simple life, but then those who have
been on expeditions to the Nile most often are. Had a nasal problem
and tobacco smoke bothered him. Fact is, that is why I suggested that
he use my bedroom today. With the successful translation of the
Mannheim tablets a fait accompli, I was terribly keyed up and smoking
like a blessed steel mill. Lewis is along a bit, age-wise, and I was
concerned for his physical well-being."

"As I am for yours
right now," I interjected. "You've been on your feet for a
day and a half, and the recent events have been wearing. I'm
prescribing bed rest immediately."

There were other
questions that Holmes wished to ask, possibly Orloff as well, but
both stifled their instincts in consideration of Howard Andrade's
condition. One of the dividends of my profession is the delight in
having the last word. When a doctor says "that's it!" there
are seldom arguments, from a prime minister on down.

We took Orloff in our
gondola to the Grand Hotel, where I assumed he was staying. I had the
idea that he would join us at the Venezia after resolving matters
that claimed his attention, one being to throw a net round Howard
Andrade. On our journey, Holmes pointed out the beautiful Palazzo
Dario to me, planned by Pietro Lombardo, as well as the huge and
luxurious Piazza Corner della Ca' Grande, planned by Jacopo
Sansovino. Lombardo and Sansovino were unknown to me, but my
friend seemed to place great store in their names. I recalled that he
indulged in a passion for Renaissance architecture at one time. It
was in relation to an old case, not without points of interest, which
I may make available to readers someday.

The hour was late but
Venice is cosmopolitan, and Holmes and I were able to secure a
satisfying meal in the hotel dining room at an hour when most
Englishmen would be dawdling over their last brandy and seriously
considering their beds.

The same thought was
crossing my mind as we occupied ourselves with a bowl of fruit
augmented by some fine cheeses. It was then that we were joined by
Orloff. Our waiter hastened to secure a chair for the security agent.
Whether he knew Orloff, who was well traveled, or just reacted to the
commanding presence of the deceptively rotund man I do not know.
During dinner Holmes had been preoccupied and I had not disturbed his
thoughts, but now revelations would be forthcoming, which delighted
me.

Orloff was no Randolph
Rapp, but then who was? However, his experience, honed to a fine
edge in the shadow-land of international espionage, was extensive.
Being a man of acute perception and few words, his conversations with
Holmes frequently had a staccato quality, and I was invariably
hard pressed to keep abreast of the two.

"Andrade is well
covered?" This was more a statement than a question from Holmes
as he sliced the peeling from an orange.

"Cooks himself.
Simplifies things. Cleaning woman comes in three times a week. We'll
check her out." Orloff accepted a wedge of cheese that I offered
him. "May put a man on the premises. Butler, courtesy of Her
Majesty's government. The cryptographer won't object. Rather keen,
you know. Must realize that his discovery has touched off a bit of a
chain reaction."

If not, I thought, you
will convince him. Orloff was to the manor born, and I could picture
said gentleman plying a thriving trade selling sand in the Sahara.

"What news of the
Chinaman?" queried Holmes.

"His yacht should
be here shortly."

"Hmm! You'd think
Chu San Fu's arrival would have signaled the move on Andrade's
residence."

"Whole thing was
rushed. Sloppy job."

I had poured Orloff a
tot of after-dinner liqueur, and he was regarding Holmes over the rim
of a sparkling glass.

"I've a mind as to
what hurried them. You."

It was at this point
that I threw patience to the winds.

"Could you
translate this interchange for my dull ears?" I fear my manner
was somewhat huffy.

"Chu San Fu's
agents are in Venice," explained Orloff. "They hastily
removed Aaron Lewis from Andrade's home, ahead of schedule, I'd say.
The answer has to be Sherlock Holmes."

"How do you figure
that?"

Orloff's lips twitched,
a sign of satisfaction rarely seen on his features.

"Noticed your
friend here react when Howard Andrade described his assistant."

My gaze shifted to
Holmes, whose eyes were twinkling.

"Dear me, I have
become transparent, but Orloff is right. The description of the
assistant, Lewis, bore a remarkable resemblance to Memory Max."

My inquisitive stare was
undiminished, for I did not share Holmes's encyclopedic knowledge of
members of the criminal classes.

"In his early
years, Max did a turn in the music halls as a memory expert. Answered
any question. Photographic memory, you see. However, he turned his
not inconsiderable talents to less legitimate pursuits and
became one of the leading forgers of our time."

"How strange,"
I exclaimed. "A man with a freak memory turning to
forgery."

"Not so, Watson.
Those with an unusual mental aptitude frequently find great
relaxation in working with their hands. Max's dexterity with tools
and dies proved most embarrassing to the government."

Well, I thought, you
rather disprove that, old fellow. But then my mind rejected this
thought. Holmes did, in moments of relaxation, derive great
solace from his violin.

Orloff was sipping his
liqueur thoughtfully. "Max specialized in guineas and
sovereigns. I know of him."

"But I
know
him," said Holmes, and there was an instant gleam in
Orloff's eyes.

"I was instrumental
in laying Max by the heels, back in '81 as I recall. An early case.
He's been safely in Dartmoor for years, but obviously is out now."

"Wait," I
blurted. "You mean that Memory Max was a . . . a plant next to
Howard Andrade?" I was pleased at coming up with a suitable
colloquialism.

"Of course."
Holmes's tone, not by intent, indicated that a five-year-old child
would be
au courant
with this.

"But the mysterious
'they' were after Andrade himself. They got into his bedroom, you
know."

"I allowed your
re-creation to stand, Watson, since it served as an alarm to Howard
Andrade. However, you had it all wrong. Bed sheets torn and knotted
together to form a rope to allow one to descend from the first-story
room to the canal level are not a means of entry but of exit. What
happened is clear enough. Memory Max was used as a means of getting
close to Andrade, to memorize his files and learn the secret of his
decoding of the secret writings. At an appropriate time, the arrival
of Chu San Fu's yacht, I presume, he was to be spirited away to join
the master criminal. Destination? Egypt. But an unforeseen element
was introduced when we arrived in Venice."

"Were I to come
face to face with Memory Max, I would recognize him, so the 'they'
you refer to had to prevent our meeting. They signaled Max to
get out, setting a time for a gondola to be under the window of the
master bedroom. Using the plea of exhaustion, the forger arranged to
be in the bedroom, and fashioned the rope of bed sheets to facilitate
his escape. Your spotting it almost upset their plans."

I leaned back in my
chair, more than a little pleased with the last statement. Holmes's
eyes adopted that opaque look that I knew so well. Silence fell on
the table, and I exchanged a look with Orloff that drew a shrug as a
reply. Finally the security agent said softly, "What now?"

"There is,"
responded Holmes in an almost dreamy manner, "a bit more surmise
than I approve of. Chu San Fu has the Sacred Sword and it is headed
for Alexandria. The Chinaman's yacht is en route here. Beyond these
facts, we are guessing. My thought is that Chu San Fu will pick up
Memory Max here in Venice and then continue to Egypt. But what of the
Mannheim tablets? I have a feeling those writings in gold are a part
of the puzzle. I recall that they were stolen from the Mannheim
collection and believe that the thief was captured. Without my files
and commonplace books, details elude me. Can you prompt me on
this matter, Orloff?"

"In part. One
Heinrich Hublein was convicted of the theft and is in prison now. The
tablets were never found, but the why of that I do not know."

"Wolfgang von
Shalloway might," said Holmes. "I will cable the esteemed
Chief of the Berlin Police tonight, and if his answer proves
interesting, we shall resume our travels tomorrow, Watson, in an
attempt to add more pieces to this international jigsaw."