Murder, My Dear Watson

  “How does one learn about a theft?” Mycroft spread his plump hands. “One asks a thief—or if not a thief, then a receiver.”

  “In this case, the King of Receivers,” Holmes answered, gesturing toward the man making his way toward us across the Strangers’ Room, led by a very disapproving waiter.

  “Ah, Magpie, sit down and take some tea with us,” he invited. The little ferret of a man who followed the waiter nodded at us and took his ease in a straight-backed chair.

  His trousers were loudly checked, his jacket plaid, his shirt a violent puce, and his neck cloth bright yellow. Pointed boots of an unfortunate color emerged from the pegged trousers, and the cap in his hand was forest green.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” was his gracious reply. He poured himself a cup, drank it down in one gulp, proclaimed himself famished, and asked if the Club could provide fairy-cakes.

  I was relieved to discover that it could not. Scones with extra jam were ordered, along with a second pot of tea, China this time.

  Upon being formally introduced, the little man extended a brown hand and said affably, “I’m Magpie by name and Magpie by nature. See anything shinylike and I’ve got to ’ave it. Mebbe not to keep, it’s my business to turn things over to others for a profit, but if it’s of value and if it’s in the marketplace, so to speak, then I know about it or I’ll know the reason why.”

  “Do you know anything about a singular bird?” Holmes asked.

  “Shall we speak of the black bird, then?” Magpie slathered jam on his scone and licked the knife before popping the entire pastry into his mouth.

  Holmes’s voice was a near-whisper. “Was it black when you saw it?”

  A broad smile, revealing several broken and brown teeth, as well as a good deal of Devonshire cream, graced the weasel face. “You’re a downy one, Mr. ’Olmes, and no mistake. ‘Was it black when you saw it?’ I’d never ’ave credited it, Mr. ’Olmes—why you know as much as anyone in the game. You could make a fair livin’, you could, if you was to take to my profession, and, sir, it’d be an honor to ’ave you, really it would.”

  “I shall bear it in mind,” Holmes replied graciously, while Mycroft stifled a laugh with his napkin.

  “Let’s just say I’ve seen it black and I’ve seen it not so black,” Magpie said, lifting a finger to the side of his nose. “Less said the better, right, Mr. ’Olmes?”

  Holmes nodded. “Less said the better, Magpie, but are you certain that the bird you saw was the genuine article and not a fake?”

  “Mr. ’Olmes!” The little man was aghast. “I’m wounded, really I am. You think so little of me as that? You think I could be taken in by a rum sparkler? Me what learned me gems at the knee of me old granddad and ’im the greatest receiver what ever lived?” He drew himself up to his full five-foot height and said with exaggerated dignity, “That bird was crusted with ’em. Fairly crusted, like a ham dotted with cloves.” Having seen the bird in question, I nodded at his description, which was so apt as to verge upon poetry. “And they was real, I’ll stake me reputation on it. Real as the Crown Jewels themselves.”

  “Where did you see it?” I asked. “Who brought it to you?”

  The little man narrowed his birdlike black eyes. “It wouldn’t be good for business, would it, if I was to tell the names of all the gentlemen I dealt with?”

  “Come, Magpie,” Holmes said with a knowing smile, “none of your associates can be described as ‘gentlemen,’ now, can they? Who was your principal? I assure you I have no intention of going to the police.”

  The little man shook his head. “I’ve ’eard what I’ve ’eard and not a bit more,” he said. “The bird was said to be the property of a man named Cairo, a Greek. Then it went missing, and ’is cries of anguish could be ’eard round the world.”

  “That would be Aristophanes Cairo, I believe,” Mycroft said with a complacent smile. “Shady chap. Mentioned in the newspapers every so often in connection with art and antiques of dubious provenance.”

  “All I know is a large reward was offered, no questions asked. So when I seen the—well, when I seen what I seen, I thought I’d better get on to Cairo, ’e’s a nasty man when crossed.”

  “Have you told Cairo everything you told me?”

  “’Course I did. No desire to wake up with me throat slit, ’ave I?”

  “Including the name of the person who brought you the bird?”

  “I never knew the name,” the little man protested. “I took it from one bloke I didn’t know and gave it to another, no names mentioned. That’s ’ow it is in my business.”

  Descriptions were elicited, and when the receiver was finished, I looked at Holmes with surprise written on my face. The man Magpie gave the bird to sounded very much like Sir Everard’s tall, lugubrious butler, Barnes.

  “But why?” I murmured. We had moved from tea to whisky and soda; the sun lowered itself behind the grey buildings of London and yet we sat in our leather chairs, our brains cogitating over this intractable puzzle. “Why would Sir Everard steal his own falcon?”

  “He didn’t,” both Holmes brothers replied at once. They looked at one another and smiled. The fraternal resemblance I had never before noticed was readily apparent in that smile; in spite of Mycroft’s bulk and Sherlock’s lean intensity, they shared the same quirk of the upper lip when registering amusement. Sherlock Holmes continued, “He stole the original after he learned that the one he’d grown up with was a fake. Someone informed him that the gems in his falcon weren’t real, and he set out to obtain the genuine bird at all costs.”

  Mycroft took up the tale. “He tracked the bird to Cairo, heaven knows how, and arranged to have it stolen from Cairo’s shop in Constantinople.”

  “But why hide it in the barrow?” I cried, thoroughly frustrated by my inability to understand. “Why not just take it home and substitute it for the one in his ballroom?”

  “Because someone else knew that bird was a fake,” Holmes pointed out. “How could he explain that a bird covered in glass gems suddenly became a bird bedecked in diamonds, rubies, and emeralds?”

  “He could have said the person who told him it was fake was mistaken,” I objected.

  Mycroft Holmes shook his large head. “No, he could not,” he said, “for the person who told him was a great expert, whose word would certainly carry a great deal of weight.”

  “And that person was?” I spread my hands in supplication.

  “Herr Professor Gutman of Magdalen College, Oxford,” Holmes said, emphasizing the Germanic consonants of the man’s name. “He told us he was pleased to see the genuine bird ‘after so many disappointments.’ Those words can only mean that he’d seen fake birds in the past.”

  “And now he is dead,” I said, a chill running through me.

  Within a week, the newspapers carried the news that Sir Everard Addleton was the victim of a particularly vicious burglary on his country estate. He was killed with a poker, his head struck from behind. The local police were said to be baffled, since several small and very valuable objects remained in place, though surely any competent burglar would have known their value.

  “He was a fool,” Holmes said in a harsh tone. “He stole the bird from a man he knew to be ruthless and determined, and he paid the consequences of his folly.”

  The newspapers trumpeted shrill calls for increased police protection. What, they asked, was the world coming to if a man couldn’t live in peace in the peaceful English countryside without being killed in his own study by marauders?

  The bird went unmentioned. For all readers of the Mirror knew, the burglars escaped with little, having murdered a war hero for a pittance. The lugubrious butler had fled; the police wished him to assist them with their inquiries, which meant they suspected him of working hand in hand with the thieves.

  “Cairo’s reach is long,” I remarked.

  “His reach is long,” Holmes replied with a grim smile, “but he will find a rat trap of my making at the end of it when he
tries again.”

  I looked up, startled. “You mean you think he might come—” I broke off uneasily and looked at the mantel, where the falcon winked at me as if amused by my stupidity. I cleared my throat. “You expect an attempt to steal the falcon from this room?”

  “He will soon realize he has a fake,” Holmes said, and, noting my inadvertent glance at our front door, hastened to add, “I have taken precautions, my dear Watson. You need not fear on Mrs. Hudson’s account.”

  “Do you have any notion as to when this event might occur? Are we to lurk in the shadows, pistols drawn, indefinitely?”

  “Turn to page six,” my friend replied, waving a languid hand at the newspaper on my lap.

  Page six—the agony column, one of Holmes’ favorite parts of any newspaper—contained the following notice: ANY PERSON HAVING KNOWLEDGE OF A PARTICULARLY SPECTACULAR BIRD OF FOREIGN ORIGIN WILL BE AMPLY REWARDED BY APPLYING TO MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON, AT THE EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY.

  “Inviting the cat among the pigeons,” I remarked. “I had better clean and oil my revolver.” I spoke as if anticipating the arrival of a notoriously ruthless criminal were not only an everyday but also a much desired occurrence, but my heart beat a little faster and a mild sweat broke out on my forehead. I could not help recalling the doomed Professor Gutman and the tragedy of Addleton’s murder.

  That evening after supper we whiled away the time with a round of whist. My cards were good and I settled into a pleasant frame of mind, resolutely pushing away thoughts of what was to come.

  When Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, Inspector Lestrade in tow, I jumped from my seat, all pretense of normality gone. “Inspector, are you prepared for tonight’s vigil?”

  The inspector rubbed his hands together and made for the fire. “Indeed, I am,” he said with a jaunty air. “I might have wished Mr. Holmes had told me about this fabulous bird a bit earlier, but better late than never, doctor, better late than never.”

  “How many men have you deployed?” Holmes stood at the door, coat in one hand, muffler in the other. “Are all the doorways and windows watched?”

  “There are six in all,” Lestrade replied. “Two in front, two in back, and two on the roof.” His gaze moved from the fire to the mantel above it. His right hand, as if moved by a will of its own, reached for the golden bird.

  “My God,” he said in a reverent tone. “I’ve seen some wonderful jewels in my day, Mr. Holmes. Emerald necklaces and diamond tiaras, one of those Russian eggs all covered with rubies, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Few people have,” Holmes replied.

  “I see why someone would kill to get it back.” He shook his head and replaced the statue. “I still think you should have listened to me and sent the thing to the British Museum. Let them guard it.”

  “They cannot keep it safe from Cairo,” Holmes replied. “Indeed, I’m not sure anyone can in the long run. All I can do is make certain Cairo’s representatives now in England can’t get the bird. He will send more eventually, but we’ll deal with them in due time. For tonight,” he said, flinging his scarf around his neck and uttering the words that never failed to thrill my blood, “The game’s afoot!”

  IT WAS A sharp night. Damp and cold seeped into my very bones as I stood motionless, watching the shadows dance in the flickering light from the street lamps. We’d stood our post for three hours and my legs were growing numb. My feet, even in stout boots, felt like concrete blocks, and my fingers tingled in their leather gloves.

  The sounds of Baker Street filled my ears. Even at this late—or was it early?—hour, the street clattered with hoofs and carriage wheels. Deliverymen and dray horses made their way through the narrow street, boxes and barrels jounced atop flat carts, workmen called to one another, and horses whinnied and stamped their hooves against the cold, filling the air with clouds of warm breath.

  I marveled at the great city’s liveliness at this unearthly hour, when most were asleep in comfortable beds. Men in cloth caps and thin jackets hefted goods from carts into shops, and shopkeepers in white aprons received their deliveries with sleepy smiles. Cats prowled and meowed, showing particular interest in the dairyman’s cart, as if they gathered there every night to engage in high-pitched demands, or hopes that a few drops might spill on the sidewalk for pink tongues to lap up.

  A quick movement, a trick of the shadow, caught my attention. I glanced at the rooftop of 221 B Baker Street and saw what looked like a boy opening the trap door that led to the back staircase. I pointed; Holmes nodded and made a signal to Lestrade. Police officers moved stealthily forward, ready to surround and capture the burglar when he emerged with the falcon.

  Excitement flooded my veins with the same intensity that, I imagined, cocaine swept through my friend’s bloodstream. I put my hand on the butt of my gun and waited in unnatural stillness as booted feet approached. Our trap was ready for the springing, and a nice fat mouse had grasped at the cheese.

  Five minutes later, a loud, triumphant cry went up. “Got him!”

  On the rooftop stood two uniformed policemen, one on either side of the small burglar. He struggled in their grasp, but could not get loose. A large cloth sack hung from his shoulder, and I envisioned the jeweled bird inside.

  Holmes and I raced from our hiding place across the street toward the building. I didn’t see what happened next, but I heard shouts from below and looked up to see the small man running away, the two large policemen chasing him, curses on their lips.

  “’E’s gone, ’e’s scarpered,” came a high-pitched shout. “After him, boys.”

  The quiet night erupted in sounds of feet running, men calling to one another, and, in the distance, a horse neighing. The little man jumped from one rooftop to another like a circus aerialist; the heavier, taller policemen dared not follow.

  “We’ll get ’im down ’ere,” someone ahead of me cried, as several officers made for the alleyway. “’E can’t stay up there forever!”

  I stopped running, bending over to catch my breath. The pain in my leg was excruciating, and I realized I wasn’t really necessary to the chase. I waited for the police to surround and capture the burglar. Several minutes later, Lestrade stepped towards me, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “We’ve got our man,” he said, pardonable pride in his voice.

  I looked up the street to see a phalanx of police officers leading a small, ferretlike man, his hands in iron cuffs, toward us. As they came closer, I recognized the sharp little face, the sparrow eyes.

  “Magpie.”

  “The same, guvnor, and ’ow are you this fine morning, doctor?” The little man had the effrontery to make a little bow, quite as if we’d met strolling along Pall Mall.

  The complacency of his smile and the insouciance of his manner should have told me what we learned after a thorough search of the receiver’s person. He didn’t have the bird, and the capacious sack he carried over his shoulder contained nothing more than old clothes wrapped in bundles.

  “Where did you hide it?” Lestrade demanded, seizing Magpie’s lapels and giving him a shake. “Dropped it down a drainpipe, did you?”

  Holmes murmured, “How many officers did you say were with you, Inspector?”

  “Six,” Lestrade replied with a touch of impatience, “but that hardly matters now, does it?”

  “How many are here right now?”

  “Six,” Lestrade answered, then realized where Holmes was headed. He addressed his men. “Which of you were on the rooftop?”

  No one replied. They looked at one another, shrugged, shuffled their feet, but none admitted to being the officers who’d captured Magpie and then lost him.

  I turned toward Holmes, enlightenment dawning. “They weren’t police, were they?”

  He shook his head. “Cairo’s men. They sent Magpie here to effect entry into our rooms and steal the bird. Then they pretended to arrest him, took the bird from him, and let him pretend to escape. We watched without interference
thinking the police had the burglar, when all the time, he was simply delivering the booty into the hands of those who’d hired him in the first place.”

  Holmes fixed Magpie with stern grey eyes. “Tell the truth now, Magpie. You were the decoy in this little scheme, weren’t you? You let yourself be caught by those two ‘policemen’ so that they could take the bird from you without our interfering.”

  “Can’t convict a man for burglary what ’asn’t got the loot, guv,” Magpie said jauntily. “I expect I’ll get sent up for breaking and entering, but that’s not a long sentence, not compared to some I done.”

  “And I’m sure you were handsomely compensated for your trouble,” Holmes agreed.

  “As to that, guv, I always ’ad a fancy for pretty sparklers. And though it ain’t worth much, it’s still going to look mighty ’andsome on the mantelpiece in my flat in Soho.”

  I gazed at Holmes in sudden enlightenment. “You can’t mean—“

  A chuckle of genuine amusement escaped my friend. Lestrade said, “What is he talking about, and what can you find to laugh about, Mr. Holmes?”

  “He’s got the fake,” I explained. “That was his payment. Cairo’s men said he could have the fake bird in exchange for stealing the genuine falcon for them.”

  “That bird belonged to the late Sir Everard Addleton,” Lestrade protested. “It’s stolen property.”

  “I doubt that Sir Everard has much use for it now,” Holmes said. “Let us admit it, Lestrade. We’ve been well and truly hoodwinked and our friend here has earned his fee. He pays for it with several years in Wormwood Scrubs for breaking and entering, so you don’t go back to the Yard completely empty-handed.”

  The bird had flown.

  “If you were ever,” Holmes suggested, “to recount the adventure of the Rara Avis, you might call it the Addleton tragedy, for his was surely the most precipitous fall. A man of honor reduced to a petty grasper, a liar, and a murderer—now there is a tale to freeze the blood of honest men.”

  “And it all began with the singular contents of an ancient British barrow,” I remarked. “But I will think long and hard before recounting the tale, for the world is not prepared to learn about so valuable an object. Talking about the Black Bird will only lead to more deception, theft, betrayal, and murder. I think its secret is best kept within our small circle.”