Shadows over Baker Street

The Case of the Wavy Black Dagger

STEVE PERRY

Holmes sat in the overstuffed leather chair, making ready his briar pipe. The room was more or less quiet. A small coal fire burned in the iron stove set upon on the brick in front of the fireplace, the stove’s metal creaking slightly from the heat; two oil lamps with well-trimmed wicks provided enough light to read by, and with the window open but a tiny crack, the winter winds and cold were kept more or less at bay. A woolen shawl about his shoulders finished the battle against whatever slight chill might whisper its way into the room. From the adjoining chamber, the door of which had been left ajar, came Watson’s snores, not so loud as to impede Holmes’s concentration, but enough to mark the doctor’s position precisely.

It was not as comfortable as 221B Baker Street, but it was sufficient shelter for their brief visit to New York City. He had certainly stayed in worse places.

Holmes packed a goodly pinch of moist tobacco into the bowl of his briar. It wasn’t his favorite meerschaum, grown golden with the years, but that beauty was too good to risk loss or damage to on a trip to the wilds of America. He compacted the tobacco, using for this purpose a solid gold tamper presented to him by Her Royal Majesty Victoria Regina years past for his invaluable assistance in the affair of the purloined love letters. When satisfied it would produce a proper smoke, he struck a match, allowed the vapors to rise from the stinking sulfur’s ignition, then carefully lowered the flame into the bowl, inhaling until he produced a cheery glow and a cloud of fragrant bluish smoke that enveloped his face.

Ah.

He took another puff, exhaled the smoke, and nodded.

Now the night would become interesting.

“Good evening,” he said, looking at the pipe. “I know you’re hiding there. Won’t you come and join me?”

Two seconds passed. Then, from out the dark shadow of the tall wooden chifforobe that held his traveling clothes, stepped a woman.

She was tall, willowy, and like the stained oaken chifforobe, her skin was dark. She wore a green long-sleeved wool blouse and a black wool skirt whose hem brushed the tops of sensible shoes. Her shining jet hair was pinned on top of her head. Let down, it must reach nearly to her waist, Holmes estimated. When she smiled, her teeth flashed pure and white against her café au lait features. Though he had never been one for the sensual pleasures to be found in most female company, he had to admit she was a handsome woman—strikingly handsome.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

He took another deep draft of the pipe smoke and allowed it to tendril out from his thin nose and lips, wreathing his head. “Shall we get on with it?” he asked. He waved his free hand at the chair across from his own, one that would put her face toward the nearer lamp.

She nodded and moved toward the chair. She had the feline grace of a tigress.

“There is a decanter of port, and one of whiskey there on the sideboard; please feel free to help yourself.”

“Thank you, but I don’t indulge in those kinds of spirits.”

He smiled. Sometimes they made it almost criminally easy for him.

This was a test of his abilities, of course, and save for the sneaking in and skulking in the shadows, not that unusual. He had grown accustomed to such small adventures. They happened with more frequency since Watson’s cataloging of his cases, and he had to confess to himself—even if he would never let Watson know it—that he enjoyed these little challenges.

Wits, like a razor, needed to be honed to stay sharp. The pity was there were so few people who could serve as proper strops for a mind such as his. Mycroft was never around when he needed him. The woman was hardly a threat, and had he felt any worry on that score, he had at hand a Webley revolver, one of several Watson owned, tucked into the pocket of his smoking jacket. This was America, after all.

Holmes took yet another draft of the pipe’s nicely scented mix. They did have good tobacco here, he had to admit.

Now to the business at hand.

“Let me see. You are . . . a priestess of an exotic faith, and you have come here from far away. The tropics, I’d say—the Spice Islands—on a mission of great importance. To recover a lost—no, a stolen item. This item is not in and of itself extremely valuable, though it is certainly not a trifle, but instead has great religious worth, and is necessary for some important ritual. You were chosen for this role because you are an adept in physical and mental disciplines, and you wish my help in recovering the lost treasure. There is some danger in this quest, and while danger per se does not frighten you, you are being cautious because you know a misstep can be fatal.”

That amused smile shined brightly in her face again, even in the dim light. He suppressed his own smile. He knew that such offhand and confident recitations always impressed those who sought to test him. He inclined his head in a short military bow, acknowledging her smile. They always asked at this point, and this would be his moment to give her a clever, if elementary, reconstruction of the clues that had provided his deductive reasoning.

He drew breath to speak, but she surprised him: “Well-spoken, sir, but not really that impressive, is it?”

The pipe threatened to go out. Holmes frowned, tamped the tobacco again, drew more air through it, brightening the glow in the bowl.

“I can offer two trains of thought that would explain how you know these things,” she continued. “First, my appearance. Even though I am dressed as a local woman, it is obvious from my complexion and features that I am of Indian and not European or African descent. My English, while quite good, carries a trace of my native accent, and a man such as yourself would surely be familiar with the Malay tongue, so it is no great stretch to hazard a broad guess at my place of origin. The Spice Islands cover a long swath of ocean, Mr. Holmes. Would you care to localize it a bit more?”

Holmes considered it a moment. “Bali,” he said. He allowed his face to reveal nothing.

“Indeed, that is so. But again, not that difficult a deduction, is it? The Balinese accent is detectable to a trained ear. Although that is not the only reason you called it thus.”

He nodded, growing even more intrigued. “Go on.”

“You watched me walk to the chair, and from a place where I had been concealed for some time before you noticed me—despite your pretense to have known I was there all along—so you realize I have some training in physicality and matters of . . . stealth.”

He nodded again. She was fascinating. “Please—continue, continue.”

“Since ninety percent of the civilized residents of the Spice Islands are of the Islamic faith, and women are not traditionally counted among Muslim clerical circles, then it would be likely that with such training I would be from some other religion, one that allows women adepts. Bali still admits to more followers of the Buddhist and the Hindu persuasion than Java, not to mention some pockets of animism here and there.”

He sucked in more smoke. He was much enjoying this conversation. What a magnificent creature she was!

“And the easiest part, of course, is the reason that I am here. Why else would I approach the renowned Sherlock Holmes if not to garner his help regarding some matter only he could solve? It would involve some criminal behavior, a missing person or thing, and were it merely misplaced, it would hardly have made its way halfway around the world, would it? And if I were seeking a person of my persuasion, such as would be likely, a man or woman of the Indian race would certainly stand out and be more readily identifiable in the United States than in most other countries—in which case, why would I need a great detective? Thus, I must be seeking some harder-to-find item, and one stolen.”

“You, madam, are a woman after my own heart,” he said, realizing it was true.

She inclined her head, still smiling. “Such parlor games are amusing, but prove little.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, madam, ah—?”

“Sita Yogalimari,” she said. At his questioning look, she added, “My grandparents were Javanese.”

“Ah.” She had known he would recognize that the names were not Balinese. What a wondrous creature to realize he would immediately comprehend that! She had his full attention in a way no woman, with the possible exception of Irene Adler, ever had. Mycroft would love her. Perhaps it was best if he never mentioned her to his brother for that very reason . . .

“Can you tell me anything more, Mr. Holmes?”

“The final test, Miss Yogalimari?” He looked into the pipe’s bowl. Gone out. He turned it over, knocked the dottle into the ashtray, set the briar precisely in its stand. He knew what she wanted, and, of course, he knew more than he let on. “You have a rather large knife hidden under your clothes.” He considered it for a moment, then could not resist: “A . . . kris, I believe.”

Again, the flash of perfect teeth. She reached behind her back and did something to the hem of her skirt. When her hand returned to view, she held gripped in it a knife in an intricately carved wooden scabbard with a silver tube covering much of the more than foot-long length. The top portion of the weapon and carved sheath looked somewhat like a high-prowed boat.

She arose, stepped across the short distance, and offered it to him.

Holmes took the weapon, careful to collect it with both hands. He withdrew the blade, a wavy affair, and raised it to touch it against his forehead lightly, the majority of the asymmetrical steel crosspiece above the pistol-shaped grip pointed to his right side. The scent of sandalwood oil rose from the metal, pungent and sharp.

“Interesting, Mr. Holmes. One would not expect an Englishman to know the proper ritual salute when drawing and inspecting a keris.”

He shrugged. “A simple thing, Miss Yogalimari, for anyone who reads even a little Dutch. They have written extensively about these things. Even Governor Raffles mentioned them in his excellent history of the islands.” He looked at the blade. The steel was “watered,” stained a dark black, with a Damascus pattern of shiny nickel threads twisted and running aslant through the iron. “Pamor,” he said. “Is that not what they call the pattern in the steel?”

“Yes.”

“And the dark color comes from a wash made of lemon juice and arsenic.”

“Dried under the tropical sun. The nickel does not take the stain, hence the patterns. Your knowledge is indeed formidable, Mr. Holmes. There are hundreds of pamor patterns, each imbued with its own special magic. This one, of the twisted variety, is called buntel mayit—the ‘death shroud.’ Very powerful.”

He nodded, holding the blade up to the light to examine the pattern more closely. There were five waves in the knife—a dagger—which narrowed from handle to point, and was sharp on both sides. A small symbol was incised into the steel at the base, and he recognized this as the Malay symbol for dexter—the right hand. He nodded. Of course. But let it play out—it was too delicious. He looked at her again.

“This keris is one of a matched pair,” she said. “Made a hundred and fifty years ago by a master empu, a smith in Bali, from magic iron that fell from the sky.”

“A meteorite.”

“Yes.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. “Have you heard of . . . the Old Ones, Mr. Holmes?”

A chill frosted his shoulders, even under the shawl.

She instantly discerned this. “I see that you know the stories. No doubt a man of your erudition has some knowledge of ancient and forbidden texts. There are many of these creatures of legend—among them, one who arose in Bali eons before man came to live there. His true name may not be spoken aloud, but he is sometimes known as the Eater of Souls, sometimes as the Devourer of Children, and sometimes simply as Black Naga. The legend says that Black Naga awakens every thousand years to eat, and before he sleeps again, hundreds will have become his meals. He seeks only the fairest of the fair upon whom to dine, and any man who tries to stay his path will be destroyed, for it is said that Black Naga has six arms and nine legs, and that he breathes a noxious vapor so foul that its touch instantly fires wood and melts even rock. His teeth are longer than the fingers of a man, a hundred in number, and he can bite a man’s arm off quick as a wink.” She paused for a moment, then: “And it is said that he has two hearts.”

Holmes said nothing, but his glittering gaze was fixed on her face.

“Yes, I see you understand. This is the reason for the two kerises. Both his hearts must be struck at once to effect the True Death. Though the kerises were prepared and made a century and a half ago, Black Naga’s next hour has only just begun to come ’round. A month or more, a year or less, and he will shake the earth and cobwebs from his body and rise, coming forth from his hidden cave to kill and dine on his victims.”

“And you believe in this monster.” It was not a question.

“I do.”

“But who would dare face such a fearsome creature, did one actually exist, Miss Yogalimari?”

“Only one trained from birth for that very confrontation, sir. Trained rigorously in the Malay and Balinese arts of pukulan, and pentjak silat, and an expert in the indigenous Chinese boxing system called kun-tao.”

“And such a person could hope to defeat Black Naga?”

“If armed with the magical kerises designed and enchanted specifically for that purpose, yes, such a person could hope for that victory. Though it would by no means be a certain thing.”

“This man would have to be most formidable.”

He hardly saw her move. Of a moment, she was in the chair, smiling benignly at him, and in the next breath she stood next to him, one hand lightly touching his head, and what felt like a sharp fingernail pressed ever so gently against the side of his neck.

“Before you could draw your revolver, Mr. Holmes, I could, if I so desired, slice your carotid arteries in such a manner that Dr. Watson and a host of England’s best battlefield surgeons could not stanch the flow of blood in time to save your life.”

Beyond an initial stiffening of surprise, Holmes made no reaction to her sudden threat. She stepped back a short distance, and what he thought was a fingernail turned out to be a short, hook-shaped knife no longer than a finger.

His composure at least outwardly unruffled, he reached again for his briar and tobacco pouch. As he set about repacking the bowl, he noticed that a few strands of her hair were out place, and deduced where she had kept the blade hidden. He pursed his lips, amazed, but not afraid. She was magnificent! Such a mind, and in such a body—it was hard to believe.

He would definitely have to revise his opinion of women.

She returned to her chair, moving with the grace of an acrobat, and reseated herself.

Holmes got his pipe going again, and drew in a meditative lungful. Calmly—at least he thought he sounded so to his own ears—he said, “But you spoke of two trains of thought, madam.”

He looked for the smile, and was not disappointed.

“Oh, yes. The second way you could have so quickly offered up your expository revelation is much simpler, even though I will grant that your skills of observation are as keen as any man’s.”

He heard the accent on that final word, and knew he was meant to hear it.

“And that way would be . . . ?” he prompted, gesturing gently with the briar, even though he knew what she was going to say. What a wonderful game this was! He had never played a more intriguing one.

Again he was not disappointed. “You expected someone like me, sir. Because you have seen the mate to the keris designed to slay Black Naga. And in fact, you have that weapon in your possession. Once I arrived and made myself known, you knew immediately who I was and why I was here.”

Holmes felt a smile as genuine as any he had ever mustered rise to shape his face. “Bravo, Miss Yogalimari, bravo! How did you come to me?”

She leaned forward slightly, and he was aware for the first time that her breasts strained against the fabric of her blouse. She said, “The thief was Setarko, a Malay with connections in Hong Kong. He stole the pair of daggers nearly twenty years past.

“Those responsible for their care searched far and wide for two decades. The right-hand blade was finally found tucked away in a back room in the Royal Dutch Museum, in Batavia.” She pointed at the dagger in Holmes’s lap. “The other blade, the one marked sinister, remained missing.

“But before he . . . passed away, it was learned that the thief Setarko had had dealings with the late Professor Moriarty, who was a collector of such items. Setarko admitted to having sold one of the blades to your nemesis. When Moriarty died, many of his holdings were sold off, but such collectibles did not come to light.”

“And you assumed that I had it?”

“I considered the possibility.”

“But you could hardly be certain.”

“Not until tonight.”

“And what business assured that for you?” He knew, but he wished to hear her say it.

“A man expert enough to see I carried a hidden dagger under my skirt would also be expert enough to know I carry other weapons hidden upon my person. You did not know about the kerambit—the tiger’s claw—I use as a hair fastener.”

True. But he said, “You cannot be certain of that.”

“I can. A fighter trained enough to see what weapons I carry would not have allowed me to get within striking range with those weapons, for he would also know I can use them with deadly expertise. You are not a skilled fighter, Mr. Holmes, save with your wits. Therefore the only way you could have known I had the keris is if you already suspected I had the one that is mate to yours. A man who has a keris as finely crafted as these, marked with the Malay word for sinister, a man of your caliber of intellect? He would certainly suspect there existed a dexter somewhere. When you saw me, a Balinese woman, you made the connection. It was quite clever of you, that leap. Almost femininely intuitive.”

“I did not think a woman could be so brilliant,” Holmes admitted, perhaps somewhat gracelessly. “To have followed such a long trail, to have found me, and to have learned what you wanted, as well as knowing what I knew—all in so short a time. I am amazed.”

“I am counted least among my sisters in intellect, Mr. Holmes. My talents lie primarily in more brutal skills.”

“So I have seen,” he said, “though I suspect you are too modest.” She smiled slightly at the compliment. Holmes arose. “Well, let me get the keris for you.” He went to the wooden box where the relic was kept and opened it. He lifted out the weapon, wrapped in a piece of black silk, crossed the room, and presented it to her.

She took it reverently, bowed to him.

“Aren’t you going to examine it?”

“There is no need. You are a man of honor, are you not?”

He nodded, pleased by her use of the term. “And what will you do after you dispatch this Black Naga, Miss Yogalimari? When your lifetime of deadly training is no longer necessary? Assuming, of course, that you survive?”

“I will return to my sisters and instruct younger ones in my art. There will ever be a need for women to have such skills. And I shall see what life brings me.”

He weighed his next words very carefully. “And are you allowed to have visitors there?”

She gave him that smile again, and it quite warmed him to see it. “Not usually. But exceptions can be made. I needn’t tell you of all people where to find me, should you ever travel that way, should I, Mr. Holmes?”

He smiled. Another test.

“It has been my pleasure to have made your acquaintance, madam. I expect we shall see each other again someday.” He bowed. There was no need to wish this woman safety in her journey—she carried her own well enough.

She nodded. “Until we meet again, Mr. Holmes, farewell.”

She slipped out of the room like a shadow, like a wraith, and was gone.

Holmes sat back in his chair and attempted to return to his reading of crop statistics in South Africa, but his concentration was less than it should be. After a moment, he heard Watson’s snoring stop abruptly. A few seconds later, his friend padded into the doorway, dressed in his nightcap and gown, ratty slippers shuffling over the wooden floor. He stuck his head into the room, glanced about, and frowned.

“I say, Holmes, did I hear you talking to someone in here?”

He tugged the shawl about his shoulders again; despite the fire, the room had grown much chillier. There were a few adventures—a very few—over the years that had not found their ways into Watson’s catalogs. Usually for reasons of national security, for the safety of the realm. And, even more rarely, for the safety of mankind.

He answered his old friend’s question. “Only the woman of my dreams, Watson.”

“Humph.” Watson eyed him a moment, then yawned, turned, and shuffled back to his bed. “Well, good night, then, Holmes.”

Holmes smiled. Yes. A very good night, indeed.