Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (10 page)

‘So what does it tell you?' Houdini asked.

‘That the kidnapper is an educated man of somewhat more than middle age. He is a man of some standing, but is not in business. He is also …' Holmes hesitated. ‘He has made no demand yet for money?'

‘No. I told you. Why?'

‘Because he is already at least moderately wealthy. This fact casts doubt on the obvious interpretation for his actions.'

Houdini took the note back. ‘And you can tell all that from one quick glance?'

Holmes drew a breath and explained patiently, ‘The letters are formed in a bold, masculine hand: we may safely say that our correspondent is male. Although he has tried to disguise his hand by writing his demand in capitals only, he has nevertheless employed a most distinctive curvature every time he uses the letters
a, b, c
and
h,
among others. This tendency was taught with most prevalency some forty years ago, when he would have been
at school and first learning how to write.

‘The sheet of paper itself is of a most unusual dimension – I should say approximately eleven inches by eight and a half. I know of no standard paper size that matches it, but the width implies that it is actually a sheet of foolscap which has been cut down. Indeed, if you inspect the top edge closely, you will see that roughly two and a half inches have been neatly removed with a pair of scissors of medium blade – medium because they have spanned the sheet in just two cuts.

‘There can be only one logical reason why our correspondent has done this – to remove an address with which the original sheet was embellished. Since the paper is of the type known as
ecru,
and thus of a very pale cream colour, we can assume this is personal stationery. Had he been in business, it would almost certainly have been white. That the address was embossed is confirmed by the very faint odour of resin powder, which has effectively been baked into it during the process known as thermography. It also suggests that he is a man of means, for who else could afford such stationery?'

Houdini snorted. ‘All very captivating, I'm sure. But it doesn't do much to get Bess back, does it?'

‘Perhaps not. But we begin to build a picture of who has kidnapped her.'

‘I don't want a picture of who's kidnapped her,' Houdini snapped. ‘I just want her back! And the only way to guarantee that is to do
what
this guy says,
when
he says it. So … with respect … keep your nose out of my business, Holmes. And keep your mouth shut about what you've learned here tonight.'

‘Very well, Mr Houdini, you must do as you will,' Holmes said stiffly. ‘However, before we take our leave, I would ask you to show some compassion for Miss Lane. She merely attempted to enlist our help for the best of reasons – a noble gesture, given that she would have much to gain if anything were to happen to your wife.'

‘What?'

‘Come, now. It's obvious that she is in love with you, as you yourself very well know. But such is the depth, and indeed the
purity,
of her love that she still wants to do whatever she can to
reunite you with your wife. I must say, she has made me revise my opinion of the fairer sex.'

‘But … how do you—?'

‘Even a confirmed bachelor such as I can tell when a woman is hopelessly in love with her employer,' Holmes said. ‘And in this case she has my sympathy, for the burden of unrequited love is a heavy one indeed.'

‘She's the tops, it's true,' Houdini murmured, hating himself for the way he had behaved to her.

‘Then if you are even half as decent and honourable as I believe you to be, she will have your apology and thanks sooner rather than later.'

‘She will,' Houdini replied. ‘And I'd like to thank you, too. But like I say, I'll handle this business their way: no tricks.'

‘I understand,' Holmes said. He removed his glove and they shook hands. ‘And now,' he continued as they went to the door, ‘we shall leave as discreetly as we arrived, and look forward to a happy resolution to your troubles.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Change of Heart

W
HEN
W
ATSON WOKE
the following morning he didn’t immediately see the note that had been thrust under his door. He lay there for a while, feeling bleary-eyed and content, vaguely aware by the watery light filtering in through a gap in the closed curtains that it was still early.

He allowed himself a jaw-cracking yawn and then snuggled back down, luxuriating in the warmth and comfort of the bed, and reflecting sleepily upon the events which had brought him to this moment.

It was remarkable how one’s fortunes could change so swiftly, he thought. So many highs, so many lows. He had returned to medicine and found great joy in the experience. But then he’d discovered the true nature of a woman he had convinced himself he was coming to love, and the knowledge had threatened to thrust him back into the deep despair he had suffered following the passing of his beloved Grace. And yet here he was now, warm and snug in a soft feather bed in quite probably Vienna’s finest hotel, having already met the likes of Sigmund Freud and Harry Houdini.

Abruptly he remembered that not everyone was quite as lucky as he. Poor Houdini: his world, his livelihood and his reputation turned upside-down by kidnappers! And poor Bess … being held somewhere by ruthless criminals, unable even to guess at her fate.

He wished that he and Holmes could have helped the
escapologist, but Houdini had been determined upon that point. Still, he and Holmes had dealt with abduction before – that business with Melas, the Greek interpreter, for example, and the messy affair of the Priory School – and he considered it among the most heinous of crimes.

But he also found himself wondering what Holmes could have done to help the American. There seemed to be little enough to go on in the way of clues. And even if they did unearth anything of use, they were in a foreign land, dealing with people of a different culture and language.

Of course, Holmes would have seen those as minor inconveniences. Even now he seemed as quick-witted and indefatigable as ever. But like it or not, they must respect Houdini’s wishes.

Watson finally threw back the sheets and got up. The hot-water radiator ticked and gurgled, making the room pleasantly cosy. And that was when he saw the envelope standing out in stark contrast against the wine-red carpet.

With a mystified scowl he bent and picked it up.

He recognized Holmes’s handwriting at once; this time his friend had made no attempt to disguise it. He tore open the envelope and read:

Watson scowled. Why had Holmes gone out so early? And for what purpose? Had he decided to take a hand in Houdini’s problems after all? He didn’t really believe Holmes would go against Houdini’s wishes, but there had been many times in the past when he had taken matters into his own hands, regardless of the consequences …

No. Holmes had always exhibited a flair for the dramatic and, therefore, the truth of the matter was probably far more prosaic. There was in all likelihood some perfectly ordinary reason for his absence.

He refolded the note and slipped it back into the envelope. He would doubtless receive confirmation of this in good time.

The Renault cab pulled up outside the Theater an der Burg’s stage door. Houdini climbed out and shoved a handful of change at the driver. He was probably handing over far more than was required, but at that point being too free with his money was the least of his concerns. For just when he’d thought his situation couldn’t get any worse, it had … and that’s why he’d decided to telephone Holmes at his hotel.

‘Hello, Holmes?’

‘Mr Houdini,’ Holmes had replied, recognizing his voice at once. Over the wires Holmes had sounded sharp, alert; if Houdini’s pre-dawn call had woken him, he showed no sign of it.

‘Holmes, I’ll come straight to the point. I’m at my wits’ end.’

‘What is the problem?’

‘It’s Frankie … Miss Lane.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s vanished!’ Houdini said wretchedly. ‘I went to see her right after you left last night. You were right, of course, and I wanted to apologize for my behaviour and tell her I knew she was only trying to look out for me. But her room was empty. So I went down to the lobby and asked the desk clerk if he’d seen her. He said she’d gone out.’

‘Alone?’

‘What? Oh, yeah, yes. Alone.’ Houdini sighed. ‘It was pretty obvious she was mad at me, and with good reason, so I just sat tight right there in the lobby, waiting till she came back so I could set things right between us, but somewhere along the line …’

‘Please, Mr Houdini. Slow down, if you will. I have little enough experience with telephones as it is, and even less patience.’

‘I’m sorry, but … well, I guess this thing’s taken more out of me than I realized. I haven’t slept a wink since Bess … Anyway, the short of it is, I fell asleep, right there in the lobby. Can you believe that?’ He sounded furious with himself. ‘I woke up in the small hours. The lobby was like a ghost town. I figured Frankie had come back while I was dead to the world and not seeing me there, gone straight to her room. So I went up to my own suite,
slept for a couple more hours, then put a call through to her room. There was no answer.’

‘Go on.’

Houdini sighed again. ‘I freshened up a little, went along and knocked at her door. I still didn’t get any response. So I went down to the lobby … and learned that her key was still on its hook. She’d stayed out all night! That … that’s when I started to panic.’

At the other end of the line there was only a crackling, hissing noise.

Houdini continued, ‘Well, what with the mood she was in the last time we all saw her, and everything that’s happened since we arrived in Vienna … I’m worried, Holmes. It’s not like Frankie. If anything’s happened to her—’

‘Let us not jump to any hasty conclusions, Mr Houdini,’ Holmes said firmly. ‘However, we certainly cannot discount the fact that Miss Lane’s disappearance is in some way connected with that of your wife.’

‘That’s what worries me. I figured I’d just pay their damn ransom and get Bess back …’

‘You have still not heard anything from them, then?’

‘No.’

‘Am I to take it that you would now like me to take a hand in the matter?’

‘Absolutely. All I ask is that you be discreet.’

‘Of course,’ Holmes replied a little testily. ‘It seems clear that you are indeed being watched by your wife’s abductors, and for that reason we cannot afford to be seen together lest we tip our hand. But I will meet you at the Theater an der Burg in forty minutes.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Make a point of telling the desk clerk where you are, in case your watchers make enquiries after you leave. Tell the clerk that you are going to check on your props and equipment which, I assume, is presently occupying space in the theatre’s basement.’

‘Correct.’

‘Then that is where I will meet you, and where we may discuss your case in relative secrecy.’

‘Sure, but what—’

‘Good morning, Mr Houdini,’ said Holmes and hung up.

The cab turned around and slowly drove away, leaving a trail of exhaust smoke billowing in the chilly air. Houdini surveyed his surroundings. He had the distinct impression that he was being watched, but if he
had
been followed he could find no evidence of it.

He crossed the narrow pavement to the stage door. Even though it was still early, the door was unlocked. In the stage doorman’s office, a dark-haired man was rummaging through a stack of old newspapers, his back turned toward the door. Houdini cleared his throat to get the man’s attention, and the fellow turned as if startled.

‘
Oh, du hast mich erschreckt!
’ he said in German. He came closer, walking with something close to a swagger, his shoulders squared and his generous belly pointing ahead of him. He was in his forties, with a full, tanned face and a long nose with flared nostrils. He wore a baggy three-piece suit tailored from sackcloth, the waistcoat buttoned incorrectly so that it hung lopsided on his portly frame, and he had what appeared to be a homburg hat squashed flat and shoved into one jacket pocket. He regarded Houdini through a pair of round spectacles and then, switching to heavily-accented English, said, ‘It’s Herr Houdini, isn’t it? I am sorry, sir. I was just saying, you gave me a fright.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Houdini replied, his mind elsewhere. ‘Where’s, uh, what’s his name – Ulrich?’

‘He has the afternoon and evening shift,’ said the man. ‘I am Marius, sir. I watch the place overnight and through the mornings.’ He cocked his head at Houdini and scratched idly at his dark, trimmed beard. ‘Can I help you, Herr Houdini? There is no one else here at the moment.’

‘It’s all right. I, uh, I just want to check on my props.’

‘Very good,’ said Marius. ‘I will escort you downstairs.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘There is every need,’ the other replied, reaching out toward a jumble of hooks from which hung keys of every size and shape. ‘Your props are the tools of your trade, and as such are almost
beyond price. We like to ensure that such valuables are safely locked away … which means that even
you
cannot get to them until I unlock the door for you.’

Houdini relented, but he was feeling so tense it was difficult. ‘Oh … OK.’

Marius swaggered out of his little office and led the way deeper into the theatre and then down a flight of narrow stone steps.

‘Have you, uh, seen anyone else around here this morning?’ Houdini asked, trying to sound casual.

Marius glanced back at him. ‘Should I have?’

‘Possibly. I’m expecting a … colleague to meet me here.’

‘I will send him down as soon as he arrives,’ the stage doorman assured him.

They reached the heavy double doors and Houdini’s companion sorted laboriously through the keys until he came to the correct one. He unlocked and opened one of the doors and then preceded Houdini into the basement so that he could switch on the incandescent bulbs.

Props and equipment stood everywhere under creased dust sheets; it occupied space beside rows of two-dimensional scenery flats and between shelves stacked with voluminous stage curtains. There were several ladders, stacked cans of paint and all manner of belaying pins, drops, road boxes and wheeled platforms.

The large, high-ceilinged room was cold and the sparse lighting did little to illuminate the shadowed corners. Houdini shivered and said distractedly, ‘Thanks. I don’t suppose my colleague will be too long now.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Holmes, as Marius’s grey eyes suddenly sharpened behind his small, round spectacles. ‘I am already here.’

‘What the –?’

‘Forgive what might seem like mere theatricals,’ explained Holmes, allowing the squared shoulders of ‘Marius’ to relax and resuming his usual voice and demeanour. ‘However, I did not want to take even the slightest chance that I might be seen and recognized.

You yourself, Mr Houdini, easily recognized me a few days ago; I feared it would go badly for you if such a thing came to pass.’

‘I’ve got news for you, Holmes,’ Houdini said bleakly. ‘It already
has.
’

‘I beg your pardon?’

The American sagged. ‘As I left the hotel, I did as you said, and deliberately told the desk clerk where I was going. I was about to leave when he gave me this.’

He reached into his pocket and brought out an envelope. Its edge was ragged where Houdini had hurriedly torn it open. Holmes took it, slid a single, folded sheet of paper from within, flicked it open and read:

‘Was the desk clerk able to describe the man who delivered this note?’ asked Holmes, adding: ‘Before you reply, may I suggest that he was tall, slim, between twenty-five and thirty years of age, clean-shaven and with short, fair hair, wearing a linen cap and a dark-grey alpaca topcoat.’

Houdini gaped. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

‘Watson and I observed the same man last night, as we approached your hotel. At the time we could not say if he was one of your wife’s abductors or a member of the press, hoping to discover the real reason you cancelled your show. The answer now seems obvious.’

‘Well, he’s the man, right enough. Same description.’

‘Yet the note tells a different story,’ Holmes mused.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The handwriting, sir. You will note the neatness of the letters, how round and even they are – small, symmetrical and almost ornate. They have clearly been made by one whose musculature requires more pressure on a downstroke to make a  suitable impression, and yet also shows one of great dexterity. To those who study such matters, these are indicators as to the sex
of the author … this was unmistakably written by a woman.’