Between the Thames and the Tiber (7 page)

“And who is Vrukonovic?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” said Holmes. “I have looked through the entire diary and, allowing for Mycroft’s bizarre and often recherché reasoning, I remain puzzled. Die Tote Stadt, if memory serves, is the name of an old anarchist group.”

He interrupted himself to hand me the book.

“Take a look yourself. There is nothing that would illumine the name Vrukonovic, but there are other things perhaps hidden from our gaze at the moment.”

I leafed quickly through the diary. Except for the single entry that Holmes had indicated, there appeared to be little of relevance to my unpractised eye.

“And what other things are there?”

“Look more carefully, Watson, particularly at the second-to-the-last page.”

I did as Holmes directed and saw a thin piece of wire about six inches in length and perhaps an eighth of an inch in width. It had been doubled over and curved so that it looked like a small pair of tongs. I noticed too that the wire had been traced onto the page in pencil.

“But surely, my dear Holmes, this has little to do with anything. It looks as though Mycroft may have been playing with a paper fastener.”

“It is indeed a paper clip, Watson, but I doubt if it is a mere irrelevancy. Mycroft did nothing without a reason. No, the wire and the drawing may be part of an attempt to arrive at a solution to whatever he was investigating. For us, it must remain an indispensable clew. The wire is not of British manufacture. Notice also, Watson, that there are striations at different points scratched onto the surface of the inside. Let us have the glass, Watson.”

I handed him his magnifying glass. He studied the inside of the wire for several minutes and then said: “What I can read, Watson, are numbers and letters but no words. They are quite small, no doubt done by a skilled craftsman, probably a jeweler. Take them down as follows. Reading from the right tong towards the curve: 1G 2J NilR 3C; in the curve RH; and then on the second tong outwards towards its end: 4P 5B NilR 6G 7B.

I handed Holmes what I had written. “A difficult one, Holmes.”

“No doubt, Watson, and a very short message, so cryptic that we may not be able to decipher it. But let us reason it out. Sometimes we may know more than we think. This is a message that may originate with Die Tote Stadt. Let us see what we can find out about them. Watson, please hand me the “D” volume from our criminal indexes.”

I did so, and he quickly leafed through it and read; “Die Tote Stadt: a clandestine group bent on assassination, sabotage, and other anarchist acts. Seven members of mixed nationality forced to leave England. One Gordonov incarcerated. Others still at large; presumably have re-grouped in Europe, probably Italy. Their names: Gabrinowich; Cabez; Jetic; Branko; Vrukonovic; and the leader, Prinzip.”

Holmes paused for a moment. Then glancing at the inside of the wire again he said: “How interesting, Watson. Seven men with seven names. And the first letter of each name corresponds to a letter on the wire.”

The door bell rang, and we could hear Mrs. Hudson open the front door.

“Ah, good,” said Holmes looking at his watch, “it is Sidgwick, if I am not mistaken. I asked him to come at this hour.”

I had never met Sidgwick before. He was a small man, frail, almost entirely grey in color except for his dark eyes which showed certain, if not monumental, intelligence. Despite his thin frame, he resembled Mycroft Holmes in his facial expression. He had been with his master and mentor for many years, and it was quite natural that he had borrowed some of his mannerisms. He sat absolutely still.

“How are you bearing up, dear Sidgwick?” asked Holmes quietly.

“It is most difficult, Mr. Holmes, most difficult. I knew that his health was not the best, but as you know he took no notice . . . only the problem at hand.”

“And what can you tell us of the last problem at hand, if anything?”

“Mycroft kept it to himself. He seemed to relish playing with it, improvising answers, testing hypotheses. I only know this because on occasion I heard him mumble something to himself or shout “no, no, no” when he thought I was out of earshot. I can tell you only that he had mentioned a certain Vrukonovic, asking me to arrange meetings with him.”

“Indeed, my dear Sidgwick. The name Vrukonovic is among the few clews we have from Mycroft’s diary. Who is he?”

“It is a long story, my dear Holmes. For years, he was a member of a group known as Die Tote Stadt, or the Dead City, a secret group bent on creating mayhem in London and elsewhere.”

“I knew of them for a time,” said Holmes. “They could have done infinite damage here and in Europe but they seemed to have dissolved . . . seven desperate men from as many countries threatening havoc. Somehow Mycroft penetrated their organization, perhaps through this Vrukonovic.”

“Quite right. Indeed, and I tell you this in all confidence, it was Mycroft who destroyed their horrific plans with the help of members of our secret cadres. Vrukonovic was the key, for he had so come under Mycroft’s spell that he agreed to turn informer. Once that had happened, it was only a matter of time before the gang was chased out of England. It was recently however that Vrukonovic, after a period of absence, perhaps as much as two years, reappeared, claiming that the Dead City had regrouped and was up to new acts of madness, the nature of which they had managed to keep well under cover. He spoke only to Mycroft at first, and appeared only at night. One evening, while Mycroft was asleep, he asked for me and I went to the back door of the Diogenes Club. There he handed me a piece of wire turned and curved in the middle. ‘Give it to Mycroft, he will solve it,’ he said in a frightened voice.”

“When was this?” asked Holmes.

“The night before Mycroft’s demise.”

“Is this the wire?” asked Holmes, removing it from the notebook.

“Quite,” said Sidgwick, “indeed it is. Mycroft was clutching it tightly when I found him. It was I who put it in his diary.”

“And what of Vrukonovic himself? Where is he?”

“Curiously, enough, he came to the funeral service. He handed me a note which said: “Now Mycroft’s brother.”

“Interesting,” said Holmes, “and how do we find this Vrukonovic?”

“Since Mycroft’s death, I have met with him three times in secret. He claims that the gang still does not suspect his role as our agent. He is most insistent that the Dead City is up to some terrible deeds and that he must discuss them with you. In turn, I have told him that I would speak to you first. In the past, his information has been most reliable, but he has told me nothing of what he considers to be their latest plans. Provided that it is at night, I can arrange a meeting.”

“Then do so immediately. We must assume that Mycroft’s final ruminations had some real import, and that the word brother in his message to you meant me of course. And we must judge, ourselves, Vrukonovic’s bona fides.”

Sidgwick left, and I sat silently watching as Holmes’s expression became graver.

“You know, Watson, it was unusual for Mycroft to be as concerned about something as dangerous as this without his discussing it with me. He was, of course, a bit of a gambler, and perhaps wished to solve the matter himself, but one must wonder at his wider motives, if there were any. And of course he may have solved the mystery just before his death. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had decided that nothing should be done.”

It was not until the following afternoon that we received word that a meeting had been arranged with Vrukonovic to take place that night. Sidgwick appeared at dusk and we took a cab to Russell Square. There we followed Sidgwick a brief distance on Bedford Street, where he knocked. A wizened hag appeared and directed us to the top floor.

As we climbed the stairs, I heard a key turn above us. A door opened and a middle-aged man of about fifty, dressed in a white undershirt and baggy trousers, appeared in the dim hall light and ushered us into his quarters.

“I am Vrukonovic,” he said in English.

Sidgwick introduced us as our host pointed to some worn and rather filthy armchairs. I glanced around as we exchanged preliminaries. There appeared to be one small room, dusty, filled with warm, stale air trapped by a closed window over which a filthy shade had been drawn. It was quite dark therefore, a small lamp providing the only light. The room was cluttered, and there were a few photographs. Vrukonovic spoke quickly in a soft voice, as if he had spent his entire life trying not to be overheard. He was a short man, but slender and lean, of considerable strength, I judged.

“Forgive my circumstances,” he said, “the vicissitudes of life have brought me to a most difficult moment. I have lived through better. Were it not for Sidgwick and your late esteemed brother I would not have survived at all these last few years.”

“You have chosen,” said Holmes, “a most difficult path to follow. The life of a spy is not only dangerous but rarely lucrative. What brought you to the Dead City?”

He laughed, showing badly damaged teeth.

“The desire for revenge,” he said, “as it brought us all. Turk, Serb, Hungarian, Italian, and Russian—we have joined in a brotherhood of revenge.”

His accent was heavy and foreign, but I did not recognize it.

“When I was thirteen, my family was annihilated by the Austrian army in an attack on the poor of Zagreb. I cannot tell you of the grief and horror that I had to live through when I found their bodies in the charred embers of our small house, my mother, father, two sisters, and a young brother of five. My one older sister was carried off by the Austrians. I never saw her again alive. I was left with no one except a friend who brought me into contact with revolutionary groups which were filled with persons who had experienced the same kind of atrocity. One of these groups became the organization known in German as Die Tote Stadt, the dead city being in my case Zagreb, a city butchered by every European army. But from the point of view of the membership, the dead city was any city of suffering, it was for every member the city that he had suffered in—Istanbul, Belgrade, Budapest, Naples, Kiev. It is for us the world itself. As I grew up within the cadres of this group, its members treated me as an equal, and I learned of their unprecedented success among the many anarchist movements of Europe. Their hand had reached into America where they were responsible for killing two presidents, McKinley and Garfield. You cannot imagine the joy that passed through our group when word of these successful executions reached us. I had become part of a sacred order destined, we thought, to change the world and rid it of its parasites.”

“And then?” Holmes asked quietly.

“And then, Mr. Holmes, the leader of our group, Gordonov, was captured in London and arrested. He is now in prison. I was spotted and followed for a long time until it was clear to the remaining leaders that the group would have to leave England and regroup in another country. They chose Italy, in particular a village near the city of Trieste, the home of one of the leaders, who assured the membership that they would be safe and could move quickly throughout Europe, where the group had decided to become very active.

“I was apprehended and brought to Mycroft Holmes for questioning. I was no match for this gentleman, for his eyes saw right through me, and I told him all, just what I am telling you now. Mycroft convinced me that I should continue as a member of the Dead City but report to him any plans that interfered with British interests. He vowed that I would be well paid, and that I could rest assured that I would have as much protection as could be afforded to me. If I did not accede to his wishes, he made it abundantly clear that I would languish in an English gaol for the rest of my life. I of course agreed. I left for Trieste where I explained to our leadership that I was willing to remain in London to see if we could free Gordonov. Since that time, I have traveled back and forth, reporting secretly to Mycroft Holmes on the plans of the Dead City and negotiating with him the release of Attile Gordonov. Gordonov remains in jail, and I am under intense surveillance. On my last trip to Trieste, the group seemed wary of me, and a new policy of secrecy within the group makes it difficult for me to know what the plans are.”

Holmes took the piece of wire from his pocket.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

“I myself do not know. It was given to me by Prinzip, who is in charge until Gordonov’s return. I was told to deliver it somehow to Gordonov. But I gave it to your brother instead. It may mean something to the leadership of Die Tote Stadt, but I myself do not know.” Holmes took it back, fingering it gently.

“I understand, Vrukonovic, the great danger in which you have been placed. We are all in your debt, and I shall see to it that you have safer quarters immediately, outside of London, I think.”

We left and returned home in the dark. By then it was past ten, and Holmes had said nothing along the way. Sidgwick took his leave with a wave of the hand and we parted.

When we entered our quarters, I saw that Holmes’s face was somber and deeply perturbed. He removed his coat and settled on the couch.

“A most enigmatic clew, this piece of wire. Let me have Mycroft’s day book once again, Watson.”

I handed him the book and watched as he leafed through it.

“Note, Watson, the drawing, a tracing no doubt. Note however that something is added in the drawing: a swiggle of a line that crosses the two parts of the wire. The letters Nil are at one end of the swiggle and at the other end there is the letter R.”

“Surely the letters do not refer to the Nile River?”

“Far fetched, but not impossible. The Khedive is not an obvious target for this group. Let us sleep on it, Watson. Maybe some rest will suggest a solution.”

It must have been around three in the morning when I heard a loud knock at the door. I arose, but before I could put on my robe, I heard Holmes say in a clear voice,

“Watson, Lestrade has just arrived. Vrukonovic has been murdered.”

I went out in my pajamas and greeted Lestrade.

“Quickly, Watson, get your clothes on, we haven’t a moment to lose. I misjudged this badly,” said Holmes.