The Empty Birdcage

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “I told you a brisk walk would do me good.”

  “It was that telegram from Sherlock, more like,” Douglas said. “As much of a dust storm as he kicks up, he needs you. And that pleases you.”

  “My Whirling Dervish of a brother needs my wallet, that is all,” Mycroft complained.

  “Well, that is a need, of sorts. And, given the situation at home, you are the closest thing to a father that he has.”

  “Yes, poor lad,” Mycroft said quietly.

  Mycroft’s words were not said to elicit either comfort or flattery, and Douglas offered neither. He had come to understand a fair amount about the Holmes progenitors in the last five years—the strangely passive father, the brilliant but needy and hysterical mother with a penchant for morphine—yet he felt he did not know the half of it.

  “The Holmes family is an odd parcel,” Mycroft said as if pulling the thought out of Douglas’s head and then replying to his musings. “Sherlock and I have attempted, our entire lives, to make heads or tails of its contorted alliances and skewed sensibilities. I swear to you it is not worth the bother. Do not give it another thought,” he added as the two reached Douglas’s quarters.

  Mycroft was walking off to his own suite when Douglas called out: “That is not your decision to make!”

  “Pardon?” Mycroft asked, turning. “To what are you referring?”

  “I can think anything I choose!” Douglas declared. “Of course you can!”

  “You do not have access to my thoughts.”

  “Of course I do!” Mycroft replied with a martyr’s sigh, all the while staring at Douglas as if he were not altogether sound of mind. “In any event,” he went on, “it is not as if I shall find Sherlock on the doorstep when I return. I have an entire month to ponder what to do with my albatross of a brother. There is some small comfort in that.”

  With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked on, blithely whistling a little tune as he went.

  Douglas recognized the aria, for he knew it well. It was from one of Mycroft’s favorite operas, Rossini’s The Barber of Seville.

  Pronto prontissimo son come il fulmine:

  sono il factotum della città…!

  Bravo! Bravissimo!

  As Douglas placed the key in the lock, he translated the words of ‘Largo al factotum’ in his head.

  The lead character, Figaro, was singing his own praises as the only man who could bring order to a chaotic and jumbled world. It was an interesting correlation. Like the Barber of Seville with his scissors, Mycroft imagined himself forever ready, night or day, for any crisis that happened to entangle England, his beloved isle, or touch the handful of people whom he cherished. Mycroft’s fondest hope was that he could make Britain even more powerful and his loved ones’ lives ever easier and more fulfilling… and he would not be contrary, whenever he succeeded, if they were to cry out Bravo! Bravissimo! in his wake.

  For Mycroft Holmes acted out of honor, yes; but he was not above a bit of glory.

  You are not the only one who can read minds, Mycroft Holmes, Douglas thought with a hint of satisfaction as he turned the key in the lock.

  8

  FROM THE MOMENT MYCROFT ENTERED HIS SUITE— which he had been careful to leave unlocked—he could tell that someone had been there, rifling through his things. The evidence of intrusion was clear. The disturbance of dust served as a roadmap. After the hotel staff were done tidying up in the morning, Mycroft had requested that they leave the windows ajar. The subtle deposit of soot and grime that wafted up from the street throughout the day would quickly reveal prying fingers. All Mycroft had to do was to follow the trail.

  On the fireplace mantel, a pair of expensive pearl and gold cufflinks had been picked up, examined no doubt the way a crow might pore over a shiny found thing, then put down again, but not precisely where they had been. At his writing desk, the straight pin he had placed between the ball bearing and the frame of the second drawer had fallen to the floor, unnoticed: another sign that someone had been ferreting within. Near the straight pin, he also spotted a lone white hair, which he picked up, examined, and then discarded.

  But when he opened the drawer, there was his personal financial ledger, precisely where he had left it: the ledger that contained his monetary deposits to the Credit-Anstalt, the preeminent bank in Austria and Hungary, each one clearly marked and dated.

  He moved on to the too-large, too-soft bed. What a ghastly thing it was, with its snow-white headboard and footboard carved with a hundred impuberal angels, their little faces creased with concern! Were the Good Book to be proved myth from Genesis to Revelation, those pudgy putti with their moth-sized wings still had naught in common with the towering avengers described in the Testaments—though he allowed that most people would not think a sword-wielding, fire-eyed seraph terribly conducive to restful slumber.

  On the other hand, that vomitus of baby angels with their watchful eyes did hold one distinct advantage. For though the bed was soft, and though its silk cover held no pattern to speak of, the feather bed underneath it most certainly did: a slight blue stripe, barely visible, but there all the same. Once the chambermaid had finished with her duties, all Mycroft had to do was mark where those lines lay in relation to the cherubs’ faces—a duty he had undertaken that morning before departing with Douglas. The moment someone disturbed bedcover or mattress, those telltale blue stripes would shift out of position. And someone had most assuredly disturbed them, for the cherubs were no longer looking upon the same stripes as earlier.

  He felt between the mattress and the bed board for the note from the Queen that he had squirreled away. Like the ledger, it too was precisely where he had left it.

  Mycroft pulled out the note, sat on the lounge chair with a contented sigh, and read it over again.

  Brilliant.

  He had chosen this particular hotel and these particular rooms so that he might be near the large and luxurious corner suite adjoining his. He was already relishing the thought of its occupant awakening on the morrow (from what Mycroft could only assume would be a fitful night’s sleep) into what was certain to become a living nightmare. Douglas, of course, did not hold grudges and would doubtless be horrified to realize for how long and how assiduously Mycroft had held onto this one.

  But he had despised the Queen’s first cousin, Count Wolfgang Hohenlohe-Langenburg, from the moment he’d laid eyes on him. That dull-eyed, hefty, arrogant creature wielded his large frame about like a cannonball, all but daring others to step out of his way or else be knocked aside. Mycroft had spent the last three years following the trail of his financial misdealings, and the horrid way he used and abused those people unlucky enough to enter his sphere.

  He could not threaten the blackguard with prison. He had no authority to do so, and the Queen would take a dim view. She was painfully aware that, with Gladstone in power, her popularity had waned of late. Were a relative’s royal peccadillos to come to light, they would do naught but reflect badly upon her.

  Now at last, and without laying so much as a finger on him, Mycroft was rather relishing the ping of one more nail in his enemy’s coffin.

  Mycroft had made no secret of his visit to Vienna, nor of his plan to take in the World’s Fair. He had all but bellowed it from the rooftops of every financial institution he had visited in Germany, which was why Deshi Hai Lin had so easily located him. And of course Douglas was always bound to draw attention.

  After his surgery, he had dearly wished to reconcile with his friend, and he was pleased that Douglas could join him in the outing. But there was no denying the obvious: walking about with a genteel, handsome Negro of impressive height and bearing was every bit as effective as waving a banner. As was a rather boisterous quarrel between a black man and a white man at a popular locale in the broad daylight of a staunchly conservative city—a quarrel loud enough to attract notice, yet not so loud that those nearby could overhear a word. Whatever twinge of guilt he felt for making use of the friendship was quickly snuffe
d out by pragmatism. He was, after all, one who kept England from falling into disrepair, the watchman on the wall. Why should he not utilize every weapon at his disposal?

  Like others of means, the count had heard rumblings of possible financial collapse and was prowling the city to ascertain whether or not the rumors were true. Since he was persona non grata with the Queen, he could not ask her directly or even discreetly for advice, for she would give him none. Thus, the advantage of having someone next door whom the Queen would advise—especially were he (or his minions) to happen upon a note tucked away under Mycroft’s mattress, in the Queen’s handwriting. For why would Mycroft take such a note with him to this center of commerce, if not to assure investors that Her Royal Majesty was at peace with the current economic situation?

  Beyond that, Mycroft’s bank ledger showed no hasty withdrawals; naught but diligent monthly deposits into the Credit-Anstalt, to the tune of three million pounds. What more proof would anyone need that the economy of Europe was flourishing, and that the count’s money, and that of his investors, would remain safe and sound?

  And so it would. For the next fourteen hours or so.

  Mycroft had no illusions that this would mark the thorough and definitive end to Count Wolfgang. Once financially dependent upon the Queen, the blackguard had managed to ingratiate himself to other powerful entities that were even now keeping him afloat. He would not be completely undone even by the substantial economic loss he would suffer when dawn broke. Even so, a setback of this magnitude should hobble him long enough that he could do less mischief.

  Mycroft’s stomach grumbled. It was a welcome noise, for he had not been terribly peckish of late. A pleasant repast with his friend Douglas, a rich dessert, and then afterwards, caution to the wind, perhaps even a fine cigar!

  After all, he had nothing left to do now but enjoy the last night of prosperity that Europe was likely to see in quite some time.

  * * *

  At five minutes before six a.m., the world outside Mycroft’s rococo suite was still muffled in darkness. Inside, Mycroft had allowed himself a sole lit candle whose flame he kept well back from the large windows overlooking the boulevard. The night had been cold and unpleasant. No one of consequence was yet walking about; or if they were, they’d probably not chance to look up; or if they did, they’d see nothing much beyond black.

  By the time the streets of the city filled with panicked messengers bearing terrible news, it would be to Mycroft’s distinct advantage to feign that, like the rest of Vienna, he’d been awakened by knocks upon doors, swiftly followed by a cacophony of broken hearts and broken wallets.

  He took his key winder out of the breast pocket of his waistcoat, patiently wound his watch, and waited.

  * * *

  At one minute before six, Mycroft began to hear scattered footsteps up and down the halls as equerries made their way to their royal charges, and aides and assistants to their employers. He could sense the controlled hysteria as their knocks became a pounding, and hushed voices gave way to indignant exclamations, which then rose into full-blown rage and disbelief. Though he had been expecting it, it was nevertheless a startling cacophony of human agony, and he could not help but be moved with sorrow for the many poor unfortunates whose lives had been destroyed in the proverbial blink of an eye.

  But then he heard another sound that helped to mitigate his sense of compassion: the tap-tapping at Count Wolfgang’s suite, the squeak of his door as it opened.

  Mycroft threw on a robe and slipped out into the corridor, anticipating the fear-filled eyes of his enemy. Instead, he saw a corpulent, white-haired figure in street clothes dart inside and close the door behind him.

  Mycroft thought he recognized him but could not be certain; in any event, there was no time to ponder, for suddenly everywhere he looked, up and down the hall, all he could see was bedlam. Men in their nightshirts were flying out of their suites as though on fire, or hurtling towards the stairwells as if urgency alone would stop the imminent collapse of Europe’s economy. Soon they would be moving through the streets in their nightshirts like a rookery of pigeons, madly pecking at the doors of financial institutions, demanding funds that had never existed, or that had vanished in the night. And this was merely the beginning, Mycroft knew; within a day or two, other great money houses of Europe would fall.

  As the hallway cleared, he saw Douglas hurry towards him. He’d most likely just been awakened by the tumult, for his street clothes were askew. Unlike others, Douglas could not spring from his bed in nightshirt and robe, regardless of the emergency. Even after dressing, he seemed to have waited until he was least likely to attract notice. He drew closer, his eyes as wide as Mycroft had ever seen them.

  Just then, the count’s door creaked open, and a more familiar figure emerged.

  Count Wolfgang Hohenlohe-Langenburg, aged fifty or so, had lost neither his fulsome beard nor his girth—and, in spite of recent setbacks, still appeared as arrogant as ever.

  “Mycroft Holmes,” he said in his German-inflected English. “It appears that I might be in need of your assistance.”

  “With what?” Mycroft asked, surprised.

  The count shrugged noncommittally. “I could not prevent him. He is on the ledge.”

  Mycroft and Douglas pushed past him and through the open door into the suite.

  9

  THE MASSIVE WINDOW WAS OPEN, THE HEAVY WINE-RED crewelwork curtains drawn to the side, allowing the wind to blow the beige sheers inward, as if beckoning. And outside on the ledge, his back pressed to the wall, stood Nestor Ellensberg, an accountant whom Mycroft had met in Trinidad, and who had helped Count Wolfgang to hide his ill-gotten gains. Ellensberg’s eyes were bloodshot. His naturally pinkish complexion was flushed crimson with drink and lack of sleep. He did not appear in the least surprised to see Mycroft, thus confirming to whom the errant white hair belonged.

  Mycroft poked his head out of the window. “Cease this foolishness at once!” he commanded. “For you shall not die. At most, the force shall snap your collarbone, your left arm at the elbow as it cushions your left hip, and possibly your—”

  “Mycroft!” This last was Douglas, whispering rather fiercely his disapproval as he balanced along the ledge towards the accountant.

  “Come no closer!” Ellensberg warbled to Douglas as he lifted one shaky foot off the precipice and dangled it into the void.

  But perhaps he did not wish to die at that juncture, or perhaps he did not imagine that he would. In any event, he hesitated—for he was unacquainted with how quickly Douglas could move.

  Douglas slung one strong arm across Ellensberg’s chest and pushed him back to the wall. Keeping him thus pinned in place, his other hand reached towards Mycroft, who grabbed a hold of it. Ellensberg attempted to slip out from under Douglas’s restraining arm, but to no avail. Douglas prodded him sideways, step by halting step, back inside of the suite.

  Count Wolfgang for his part looked peevish, as if the whole event had been manufactured to annoy him. Crisis over, he deposited himself on a small padded Chinese bench whose thin wooden legs creaked and groaned under his weight. Ellensberg went and stood behind the bench, his legs trembling like a jelly macédoine.

  “Sit,” Douglas commanded, indicating a nearby divan.

  Ellensberg complied as decorously as he could, given the circumstances, and met Douglas’s dark gaze like a man trying his level best not to act as guilty as he felt.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes. If you expect thanks, I shall save you the trouble of waiting. For, when one considers that you all but ruined my life some three years back, I owe you no gratitude for saving his now,” the count sniffed, indicating Ellensberg with his thumb.

  “We are more than happy to depart, so long as your accountant is of sound mind—” Mycroft began.

  “Nestor? Are you sound of mind?” the count demanded.

  Nestor Ellensberg croaked out a “Yes.”

  “There you have it! As Nestor is no longer in danger of doi
ng himself an injury, and as this is a wretched day and we have both lost money, a goodly amount I wager, I should like some privacy to lick my proverbial wounds, and I imagine you wish to do the same. So, while I applaud your Negro’s dexterity in my accountant’s regard, for that is, after all, what they are known for, is it not? Speed and agility? I request that you both vacate my chambers at once.”

  “Of course,” Mycroft said. “Douglas? Shall we?” he added, indicating the door and ignoring Douglas’s furrowed brow. Mycroft reached the door and turned the handle. “I suppose I should mention,” he said, pausing, “that our fortunes are not at all the same. For although you are correct that we have both suffered loss, I am not in the remotest danger of being tortured, nor of my head being severed from my body.”

  Count Wolfgang startled at that, the bench beneath him squealing in indignation. Mr. Ellensberg let out a whimper.

  “Mr. Ellensberg,” Mycroft said, “why attempt a leap? Do you fear that the count will blame you for his bountiful losses?”

  Ellensberg stared at Mycroft in horror. “Mr. Holmes,” he bleated. “I am naught but a humble accountant!”

  “Oh, shut up, Nestor!” Count Wolfgang grumbled as he rose shakily to his feet. “Whether I do or do not, that is none of your affair!” he bellowed to Mycroft.

  “So much money you were lent,” Mycroft said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “And now, however will you repay it? Oh, and I must add that I am gratified that your fortunes have not improved since we last met. As a firm believer in divine justice, I thank you for being the living embodiment thereof. But, you are correct, of course, you have your actuary to blame, and besides, it is none of my affair. Douglas, if you please?” Mycroft said to his friend as he finally twisted the handle and held the door open for him.

  In the corridor once more, Douglas gave Mycroft a sour look.

  “I am petty, I will admit it,” Mycroft replied.

  “At least it explains this absurdly dear and rather impractical hotel,” Douglas muttered. “And the feeling all along that I have been had.”