I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after
half-past six when I found myself in Baker-street once more. As I
approached the house I saw a tall, gangling man in striped pantaloons, a
short jacket and a stovepipe hat waiting outside the door. In the bright
semicircle which was thrown by the fanlight, it was also possible to
discern the small goatee beard that advanced from his chin.
Just as I arrived, the door was thrown open, and we were shown up
together to Holmes' room, the gentleman with the goatee springing
upstairs before me with an agility that well suited his gnathionic
ornament. He stepped over the threshold, triumphantly waving a passport
above his head.
"You can give me the Silmarilli right now, mister", he
cried. "I'm bringin' my new passport straight from the
embassy."
"A passport signed by the Oromë himself?"
"Same as I said in my cable. Every last dot pricked and
every T crossed. He traced out his Hancock in my presence, confirmin' my
identity as the rightful owner of those little trinkets. It's the real
goods, and you can
lay to that." He slapped Holmes upon the shoulder with a rough
familiarity which I found quite remarkable. Holmes, however, remained
impassive.
"You have shown great dispatch", he remarked, opening
the passport and lazily leafing through it.
The man from across the sea had found a seat and stretched his
long limbs from the armchair. As I had perceived before, he was a gaunt
man, sixtyish, with clear-cut features and a yellow goatee beard. His
tall hat was adorned with a piece of cloth bearing an extraordinary
pattern of stars and stripes. A half-smoked sodden cigar hung from the
corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit it.
"Are the jools in this room?" he remarked, as he looked around
him.
"They are indeed", replied Holmes smiling. His hooded,
grey eyes regarded the other steadily while the finger of his long,
white hand tapped the document given to him. "Are you in a hurry to
take possession of them, Mr Blivens? Or should I say... Fëanor?"
The man's mouth fell open and his eyes suddenly bulged. "Wha-what?"
he stammered, and made a hurried attempt to get to his feet. Holmes,
however, forestalled him, covering the distance between them in three
giant strides.
"Did you really think your charade would fool me?" he
remarked, removing the stovepipe hat of the other with one hand while
tearing out his goatee with the other. "Did you suffer from the
delusion that I am what they call a sucker in Aman? That you could
bamboozle me with your laughable disguise? From the moment you entered
the room for the first time, I knew who you were! I don't need to see
the ears of a renegade Elf to perceive who he is."
The other flushed crimson. "Do you dare to thwart me,
mortal?" he hissed.
"Infamous roundear spy! Holmes the meddler! Holmes the busybody!
Beware of my wrath!"
Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most
entertaining", said he. "However, I fear we must break it off.
There are some old friends of yours who can no longer endure being
separated from you." At a nod from him, I opened the door again to
admit two Valarin policemen who had silently negotiated the stairs while
the conversation was proceeding.
"This is Inspector Alatar, and this is Inspector Pallando",
said Holmes courteously. "The boat that will take you across the
sea is already waiting. And permit me to say, sir, that I hope you will
spend a goodish time in the Halls of Mandos; we don't want Elven
riff-raff of your kind on these shores."
Öjevind Lång
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