The year is 1959. The place is Tibet on the southwestern rim of the Himalayas. Draped in silken robes encrusted with beaver skins and a hat of the same such materials, Sir Malcolm entered the palace of the Dalai Lama, his deerskin boots crunching with snow. He removed his hat as warmth enveloped him, exposing his thin, black hair, parted on the left. The strains of a Buddhist chant could be heard in the distance. Servants surrounded him, and he removed his cloaks. The six-foot giant towered over the monks, all of whom were under five-foot, six inches. Sir Malcolm's 168-pound body strutted down the vast corridor, his willowy arms swaying at his side.
The chanting grew louder as Sir Malcolm entered a large, ornately lacquered hall. On the far side of the room, atop a mound of cushions and pillows, sat the Dalai Lama. His robes were a deep magenta, lined with golden silk. Crossing the expanse of floor, the detective began to run the facts through his head.
He had received the telegram on Sunday. It was now Thursday. He had been reading a tattered copy of Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, his hazel eyes peering through gold-rimmed spectacles. A record of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto was playing in the background, and as the ponderous strains of a cadenza filled the spacious study, he looked up at his priceless Bosendorfer piano, previously owned by Rachmaninoff himself. The study was his favorite roon for it housed his collection of curios, collected piece by piece over the years. The most valuable piece was a jeweled Faberge egg given to him by Stalin in 1949 after apprehending an antigovernment conspirator. Then, as the flutes and oboes trilled, the violas arpeggioed, and the piano piled up gigantic chords, the bell on the front of his large Tudor house rang.
The house stood in the middle of an old country farm, just outside of London. This was his main residence, although he had numerous estates, including a chateau on the French Rivera, and an apartment in New York City. The deliveryman stood in front of the double doors . Sir Malcolm's face appeared behind one of the oak door's stained glass panels.
"Certified letter, Sir. All the way from Tibet." The man seemed excited, but Sir Malcolm was used to receiving mail from the far reaches of the globe. The door opened.
"Thank you." Malcolm took the letter and slipped a one pound note into the deliveryman's pocket. The doors closed to the wonder filled eyes of the young man.
Sir Malcolm returned the spectacles to his face and slit the envelope open with a gilded letter opener. The note inside was brief.
.
Tenzin Gyatso
Dalai Lama"
Sir Malcolm was used to spontaneous and difficult travelling. He had been born into a stately British family in l919 and had spent his childhood travelling and playing with princes and princesses. One boy he once played with was the Dalai Lama.
Arriving at the palace, Sir Malcolm hastened to the good man's side. The monk looked up to him and smiled a weak smile. He tried to greet him in English, but Sir Malcolm quicklv responded in the Lama's own language. There was no language, however unwieldy, that the detective could not speak with perfect accent and inflection.
The two immediately got down to business. It seemed that a Chinese Communist, posing as a Buddist monk, had stolen sacred texts and parchments written by the first Dalai Lama himself. Malcolm need not think any longer.
A short flight to Beijing later, Sir Malcolm was standing on the doorstep of the Communist headquarters. Brown paper wrapped parcels in his hands, gun at his hip, and dagger in his boot, the detective rang the bell. When a stout guard with a machete questioned who he was, Sir Malcolm claimed, in a thick Russian accent, that he was delivering important documents from the Premier of Russia. He instantly gained access to the building.
The air was thick with cigar smoke as Sir Malcolm was escorted down the hall, painted red, the color of China. The two turned a corner, opened a door, and began to ascend a steep flight of stairs. They reached the third landing and a closed door, and Sir Malcolm decided to make his move. As the guard was pulling the key out to unlock the door, Sir Malcolm dropped the packages and pulled the dagger out of its scabbard and stabbed the guard in the chest. He ducked to avoid the machete, then pushed him down the stairs. He felt for the wrist of the guard and took his keys. After returning the dagger to its sheath, Malcolm ascended the stairs and slipped through the door.
The detective considered the possible hiding place for the texts. He ran down the stairs, flight after flight, his feet barely touching the steps. Finally, he reached the furnace room. The characters on the wooden door were worn and barely legible. Slowly, he unlocked the door and crept in. There was a tall, slender man in a blue Mao suit shoveling papers into the furnace. Sir Malcolm shouted and the man looked up. He yelled Chinese words and reached for his machete. Sir Malcolm grabbed his revolver and shot the man. He heard footsteps running down the stairs. Now his greatest fear was exposed. If he were to be caught. . . he shuddered to think about it. He locked the door and ran to the box of papers. He spun around searching for an exit. Dashing to a window, he smashed it open with the shovel. As he slid into the icy cold, the door burst open and a group of men in Mao suits ran through the room in a frenzy.
The warmth of his study made him feel comfortable. His fingers danced across the keys of his Bosendorfer, and he was at peace. Russian classics never sounded so good, so complete, or so soulful. The ring on his left hand glittered in the dim banker's lamp atop the music rest. The maharaja of India had given it to him in 1952, and embedded in the gold was a tiger's tooth, in place of a gem. He ended the concerto and sat at his desk. In a leather-bound volume, he began to pen his memories of this adventure.
Later in his favorite armchair, he picked up The Brothers Karamazov. He thought of what adventure tomorrow might bring; maybe he would catch a trout in the lake out back, or maybe he would catch a choice deer in the forest. Perhaps he would save the world from the evil plot of some demon. The people's hero, the man who is everyone's friend, was soon asleep in the chair a contented smile upon his face. Sir Malcolm could rest easily.
The future is uncertain, but it is safer thanks to men like Sir Malcolm Wells.
To learn about another famous fictional detective, visit 221b Baker Street - Sherlock Holmes
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