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I
finally gained control over the weapon and terminated this needless
firing, which the pasty-
faced man found
hard to believe. He was moaning,
his
hands pressed tightly over both eyes.

"My
God, guv, no more. Mother in heaven, I gives
up!"

His
compatriot had already done so, and the
upper
part of his body was stretched out on the
workbench,
pinned down by the chandelier that had rendered him unconscious.

Suddenly
the comforting presence of Wakefield
Orloff
was on the scene.

"I
just circled the house, and I saw it through the
open
door. Where did you ever learn to shoot like
that,
Doctor?"

"Watson
is a man of many talents," said Holmes.
"The
gunfire has stirred things up, of course."

Orloff
reassured him. "No fear. We've bagged the
servants.
The ground floor is secured. As for the
master
of the house, I assume he is on the first
story."

"Then
we'd best confront him," said Holmes,
"before
Watson reloads and decides to recreate the
famous
battle of the O.K. Corral."

I
gave Holmes a disapproving look as I scooped
up
my bullet-nicked Smith-Webley. Orloff dragged
the
pasty-faced man, still pleading for his life, from
the
floor and marched with us toward the lair of
Burton
Hananish, west coast banker, among other things.

Chapter
18

The
Roar of Sound

THE
MAIN hall of the Elizabethan mansion was a
scene
of quiet disorder. The butler, who had greeted
us
on our previous visit, was seated, as were two
housemaids.
This breach of decorum was explained
by
the watchful presence of one of Orloff's men. The
servants
shared a stolid resignation. Orloff had
words
with his assistant, no doubt relative to the
disposition
of the pasty-faced captive he had in
tow.
Holmes and I made for the grand staircase and
the
first floor.

In
an upstairs drawing room that evidently
served
as an office, we found Hananish going
through
the drawers of a varqeano chest, which
had
been altered to serve as a desk. I judged the piece to be of the time
of Phillip the Second, for
there was the
San Juan Campostella shell design in the pulls and intricate carvings
made by use of gold
leaf. Moorish
cabinetmakers were famous for their
excellent
seventeenth-century work and for their
tendency
to incorporate secret drawers, a practice well known to Holmes.

The
banker was not unattended, for standing
behind
his wheelchair was a rather loutish-looking
fellow,
powerful enough to have served as a bouncer at Sydney Sid's beer
and gin hall in Limehouse.
Hananish
attempted to preserve his saintly façade
when
we burst in upon him, but it was a struggle, for the ends of his
mouth were seized by an
uncontrollable
twitch.

"Mr.
Holmes, though chained to this chair, it is
obvious
that my home has been invaded by a
veritable
army. This is contrary to every
. . ."

His
voice dwindled out, for Holmes had waved
away
his protestations with a gesture indicating
that
they were but verbal fluff. The sleuth seated himself in a
Renaissance leather chair, also Spanish I judged, and proceeded
to cut to the bone and
then the marrow
of the matter.

"We
waste time," he stated, and there was that
grim
note of finality in his voice that I knew well.
"Not
only ours, but the Crown's."

He
indicated the mass of papers on the mitred
drop
door over which Hananish's beautiful fingers
were
fluttering as though to wish them away.

"We
shall not tamper with those papers, please,
for
now they are the property of the English court."

"This
invasion of privacy
. . ."

It
was as though the man had not spoken, for
Holmes
continued in his flat, factual manner,
which
defied both interruption and contention.

"My
eye has not played me false, and in that area
you
find usable for carpentry are scales, remains of
packing
cases—sufficient evidence to support the
chain
of events I have linked together, so let us not
bandy
about the word
circumstantial.
The dirty
tricks
brigade you dispatched to Essex are no more.
The
mine has been opened and the spurious gold
shipment
revealed. It was an involved scheme,
which
added to the risk, but you played for high
stakes.
^*
It's all over, you know."

^*
High
stakes? Four hundred thousand pounds alone converts into two
million
dollars, and this before the turn of the century and the
degenera
tion
of both currencies. Holmes may have been guilty of understatement
here.

The
man's parchment-like complexion was tinged
by
a sickly yellow cast, like something disinterred.
His
eyes flicked to a portion of the disarray in front
of
him, an instinctive and revealing movement that
I
knew Holmes had not missed.

"The
gold came to you for transshipment to
London
from the west coast banks. You had the
ingots
removed from the packing cases, which you
filled
with brass, plus some lead I judge, to conform with the weight of the
gold. The precious metal was
re-crated
and sent to the Bank of England, with the
false
shipment made at a later date. You had
already
arranged the insurance with Inter-Ocean.
The
wooden cases, with authentic freight markings
from
their points of origin, were placed aboard the
B
& N flyer, and there was no cause for alarm. All seemed as it
should be. If the shipment reached the
Credit
Lyonnais, you would have been exposed. So
it
was hijacked. A pretty plan. Once the hirelings
separated
the boxcar from the treasure train, they
had
no great problem as to the disposal of the loot, for they merely
dumped it in the abandoned mine
and
took to their heels. The wagon and its worth
less
cargo might have rotted there for centuries had
I
not taken on the case."

"But
you did, Mr. Holmes." There was a flicker in
what
had been lackluster eyes. This surprised me.
Holmes
might well have been cast in the role of the Archangel Gabriel at
Jericho, for the banker's walls
were
tumbling down.

"I
said it was a pretty plan. The west coast banks
would
be paid. The Credit Lyonnais would receive
the
insurance, and the French, persistent when
faced
with a loss, would have been satisfied and
merely
looked elsewhere for their needs. Only to
find
you waiting for them with the gold they
wished.
It was a circuitous arrangement, with sales
percentages
at each way stop, but it finally led to
you."

"You
know of that?" There was another flicker in
the
tired eyes of that statuesque face, and a sardon
ic
twist came to Hananish's cruel lips.

"I
know everything." From Holmes' tone, I
deduced
that he believed his statement. A suspicion
was
forming in my mind that Hananish did not.

The
sleuth had been leaning forward, and sud
denly
he was on his feet, his long arm snaking out
to
pluck a cable from under the banker's nervous
hands.

"Ah-hah."
There was satisfaction in his manner
as
his eyes flashed over the message then stabbed at
the
banker for a moment before returning to the
words,
which he read aloud.
"'
The
meddler knows all. Get out
.'"
Holmes
dropped the cable on the desk
surface and resumed
his seat. "That
warning came late."

"I
am ill-suited to flight in any case," replied
Hananish.

The
flicker in his eyes had grown to a flare, and
there
was a look about him that raised the short
hairs
on the back of my neck. Then a shadow was
cast
by the morning sun through the door behind
us.
I knew Orloff was present and felt the better for
it.
An apparently unrelated thought sprang to
mind.
Holmes had discussed the Ripper matter,
making
it plain that his forte, reason and logic, was of scant use in
tracking down one who was guided
by
neither. According to the rules of the game,
Hananish
had had it and could now only hope for aid from an astute solicitor
and eloquent barrister.
But there was
about his patrician features a look
that
alerted one with medical training. He had set himself up as a rural
despot and, with his mobility
taken from
him, had dreamed great dreams like
Timur
the Lame. With a treasure like Monte Cristo's at his fingertips,
he might well have pictured
himself as
the second coming of Moriarty. Now, as
with
the professor, Sherlock Holmes was shoving him from the chessboard as
he reached for the king
piece.

My
throat suddenly dry, I tried to utter a warn
ing,
but events were too fast for me.

"Hilger,"
called Hananish in a frantic manner,
yet
a wave of seeming exultation washed his face.

The
brute attending him moved toward me, for I
was
standing with an eye on the man. Then the
shadow
behind me became a shape in front of me and the deceptively squat
figure of Orloff was in action. The servant reached a hand for him,
which was his second mistake. His first was in moving at all.
Suddenly the fingers of Orloff closed on the man's wrist and there
was a twist that spun Hilger around, his arm bent behind his back.
The security
agent's right boot swept
the man's feet from the
floor and Hilger
fell, his jaw crashing against the converted varqeano chest in the
process. Orloff stepped back, allowing the body to slump to the
floor. I noted a trickle of blood from
Hilger's mouth
and suspected a fracture
at least. It had been
nothing for
Orloff, a mere warm-up; but he was not
allowed
to continue his act, which he performed
with
the polished ease of a variety entertainer.