PINNACLE BOOKS NEW YORK (37 page)

Under
cover of the scuffle, Hananish had reached
for
the chest and a panel had sprung open in it.
Now
he was armed, for in his hands was a twelve-
bore
double-barreled shotgun, with half of its twin
cylinders
sawed off. It was pointing right at
Holmes,
both hammers at full cock. What panicked
me
more than anything else was the conviction
that
Hananish intended to fire come what may. If he did, seventy-six grams
of shot at point-blank
range would tear
Holmes to ribbons.

Both
Orloff and I were frozen. Holmes, immobilized by his seated
position, was impotent to act. Then, as though it were all a
slow-motion
pantomime, I saw the fingers
of the banker tighten
and the hammers
fell. There was a roar of sound.

Chapter
19

To
the Lion
'
s
Den

THERE
WAS more smoke than there should have
been,
and when it cleared, I saw why. The shotgun,
a
twisted and broken thing now, had burst and the
full
force of the powder and shot had exploded in
Hananish's
face. What was left would have made a
shocking
illustration for Washington Irving's
Legend
of Sleepy Hollow.
Contrary to
intent, it was
Holmes who was Ichabod
Crane, whilst Hananish
was the headless
horseman.

"Thank
God," I choked.

Holmes
mopped his brow with Irish linen, his
hands
steady.
"I was not meant to die,"
he said.

Holmes
regarded what was left of Hananish for a
brief
moment and his chiseled features, so often
willed
into immobility, could not reject an expres
sion
of horror. I turned away, not only from the
corpse
but my companions as well, for I was overcome with emotion. What was
mirrored in
those fathomless green eyes
of Orloff, I knew not.
But I could
imagine. He walked a lonely path, did
Wakefield,
and what friends he had stood now with
him
in this room of death. In his nerveless, often
heartless
mind I knew he echoed the words that I
kept
repeating fervently to myself.

"Holmes
lives."

He
did indeed and was now his old self, rallying
us
back to those duties that our destiny had
ordained
for us.

"We've
got to keep a lock on this thing till we
return
to London."

Orloff
indicated it could be done.

"Will
you be returning with us?" asked Holmes.

"My
men can handle this, and they know what to
look
for." As if in answer to the thought that came
to
my mind, he added, "Hananish is gone, but
we've
still got to tie up the bundle if only for the
record."
Orloff must have been considering the
orders
he was going to give, for he added almost inaudibly: "Your
brother wishes me to remain by
your
side." A faint cloud passed over his face, and I
knew
he was berating himself. If not asked, he
never
advanced information, especially about his
employer,
the mysterious Mycroft Holmes.

In
the carriage returning to Fenley and on the
train
back to London his remark gave me thought.
The
gold had been found, and those who stole it
had
come to an abrupt end. What now remained
but
the clearing up of details and the necessary
tendering
of information to the authorities in
volved?
But, no, there was still Lightfoot McTigue
at
large.

I
was leaning against the cushioned back of our
compartment
as I pondered on this. Orloff sat
beside
the door, his small, dancer feet flat on the
floor
and his body upright but completely relaxed. The bowler hat with its
concealed steel rim, which
was such a
deadly weapon in his hands, was tilted
over
his eyes. The even cadence of his soundless
breathing,
revealed by the movement of his chest,
convinced
me that he was asleep. Holmes, legs
outstretched,
was by my side.

"I
wonder where Lightfoot is at this moment?"
he
said softly as though reading my thoughts.

"Probably
plotting your demise," was my auto
matic
retort.

"The
man has no bank for his emotions and only works for pay. When we
clear up the treasure train
matter,
who's to foot his bill?"

I
sensed that he was turning this thought over in
his
mind, and there was a considerable silence
before
he spoke again.
"We're one up on
Lightfoot, you know, for he
cannot
realize that we are aware of his redheaded
guise."

I
tilted my head to survey him. My friend's eyes
were
closed.
"The Trelawney matter, and
Michael's death as well, bore his trademark. He was hired to do both
jobs and planned them well in advance."

"What
leads you to that conclusion?" I muttered,
out
of deference to our sleeping companion.

"Ezariah
Trelawney's stepson was first in line as
a
suspect when the banker's body was found. Right
after
him were Staley and Ledbetter, Trelawney's
hereditary
enemies. Michael had incurred the
wrath
of the artist Folks. But Trelawney was killed
first
and Lightfoot was on the scene in the redheaded disguise, which was
created especially for
the Michael
killing. Ostensibly, the Trelawney case
is
closed. The Michael matter is up in the air; and
Lightfoot
must feel that the artist Folks is the
prime
suspect."

Now
I followed Holmes' drift. McTigue, stylis
tically,
performed his antisocial duties so that
others
got the blame. At this point he had no reason
to
think his presence was known.

The
subject was of interest, spiced with an
undercurrent
of danger, but I chose this moment to
fall
asleep.
Back in our familiar
surroundings, with a change
of clothes
and a suitable meal, I felt more ready to
cope
with whatever crossed our horizon. Holmes
had
departed for points unknown but returned to
sit
over coffee with me. Rather impatiently, I
thought,
though we had some time before leaving
for
our appointment at the Birmingham and
Northern.
With our harrowing adventure in Fenley
now
a part of the past, I summoned my courage. It
was
a personal question I had in mind, hence,
delivered
in a tentative manner.

"I've
given more than a little thought to that near-fatal moment this
morning, Holmes. Hananish's
shotgun was
an aged model. Do you feel his
reducing
the barrel length caused it to backfire on him?"

"Gratitude
is what I feel."

Finally
I got 'round Robin Hood's barn. "But
there
you were, looking down those twin barrels.
What
passed through your mind?" I was embarrassed when I said
it, but who has not wondered
what
thought occurs when one stares at death?

Holmes
took his time answering, and I was
grateful
for his treating my question seriously and
not
evading it with a light remark.
"I
believe my first thought was that this was it, something that we all
must come to eventually.
Debitum
naturae.
Then I wished that it had
not
happened so soon. In that split
second, I must have
derived some
satisfaction from the knowledge that I would be revenged with you and
Orloff present."

"But
you did think it was going to happen?"

Holmes
indicated this was so, and I dropped the
matter.
His statement after Hananish had blown
himself
into eternity had been: "I was not meant to
die."
This was at variance with his words now and
rather
smacked of the fatalism of Eastern religions.

At
this point, Billy announced Alec MacDonald,
and
my thoughts shifted to other matters.

"I'll
take but a moment of your time, gentlemen,"
stated
the Scot, and he meant it, for he did not
remove
his coat or cast a glance at the tantalus on
the
sideboard.

"News
of Lightfoot?" inquired Holmes.

"Aye.
I'm not happy dealing with informers, but there's times when it's the
best we can do. There's
this sister of a
woman of McTigue's, you see. The
whisper
is that he's planning on crossing the
Channel
this very day. There's an alert out on him,
but
I'm not feeling hopeful in my bones."

"Nor
I," said Holmes. "If he's making his geta
way,
he'll change his appearance, something Light
foot
is adept at doing."

"You
think, then, the information is correct?"

"I
choose to. His job is done; and he's been paid,
you
can depend on that. What more natural than
his
making for the Continent, where he's been safe
for
some years."

"We'll
never grab him then."

"Not
unless it is in transit. I'll buy the whisper,
Mr.
Mac, and release the watchdogs I've had around here for that reason."

MacDonald
made to leave, but he had an exit
line.
"I've had some boys in the neighborhood
myself
of late."

He
noted Holmes' surprised reaction with satis
faction.
"From time to time I have words with a
certain
master locksmith, you know." He was
chortling
as his heavy-tred sounded on the stairs.

"Watson,"
said Holmes, "my friends conspire
against
me." He was not serious, of course, and
proved
it. "I do think MacDonald's constables were
a
trifle obvious standing in the entrance of Spears
and
Henry down the street. They really should have
varied
their station."

Now
it was I who registered surprise and it was
genuine.
"You noticed, then?"

"When
I stop noticing, we're in trouble, good
chap."

A
tap on the door and another appearance of
Billy
prevented me from replying to this. I had no
rejoinder
in any case.

Our
page boy handed Holmes a cablegram,
which
he opened eagerly. After a long moment of concentration, he folded
the message and placed it
in his pocket
with satisfaction.

"Billy,
fetch us a hansom. Dr. Watson and I are off
to
the lion's den."