Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (14 page)

Then they confiscated everything Houdini took from his pockets.

‘So now,’ the portly man said, when they had finished, ‘we have drawn your teeth. But I know you are still a dangerous man, Houdini. Your knowledge of the intricacies of locks and the locksmith’s art are legendary. And for that reason we intend to take no chances with you. At all times until you complete your task, you will be
bolted
safely into your—’

He stopped abruptly, for just then there was the last thing anyone expected to hear – the scream of a woman in apparent agony.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Helping Hand

T
HE PORTLY MAN
whirled around and faced the entrance to the passage, his pasty face going slack.
‘Was ist—?’

No one seemed to know what it was. The cry had frozen them all.

Wolf, recovering first, said, ‘I’ll go and find out.’

Holmes, though thoroughly absorbed by what he had been witnessing, had straightened up at the scream and was already retracing his steps along the narrow passage to the staircase. It was only imagination, he knew, and yet he felt sure he could hear the sound of Wolf’s footsteps right upon his own. Ignoring the warning, he hurried on, reaching the staircase and bounding up the wet steps as soundlessly as he could, two at a time.

Seconds later, he was back outside in the swirling snow. He turned, closed the trapdoor and searched around for a place to hide. Knowing that if he were caught things would go badly for Houdini and his wife, he ran through the empty shell of the church. Every step he took he seemed to encounter weeds or drifts of snow and slippery ice that threatened to trip him up.

The scream came again – this time accompanied by a darting, amber flash of movement to his right. He realized that the bloodcurdling scream had come from a prowling fox.

In the next moment Holmes
did
slip, falling to his knees in a spray of snow. He quickly jumped up and hurried on, knowing he could not now possibly leave the abandoned church before someone
came up from the crypt to see what was happening above ground.

Even as the thought struck him, he heard the trapdoor squeak. He threw himself behind a small, snowy mountain of dirt, rubble and refuse, heedless of the possible injury his fall might cause.

He hugged the mound of earth, well aware that his very life – and that of Houdini – depended upon it and waited, straining his ears to pick up every new sound.

Moments later Wolf climbed the last few steps out of the crypt. Holmes risked a quick glance around the side of the mound and, squinting to see in the darkness, watched Wolf, hoping that hehad been in too much of a hurry to notice the telltale covering of snow on the steps. Silence followed as the young German looked around, searching for the source of the scream. His puzzled expression suggested his bemusement to Holmes: how could he and his companions have heard the cry so clearly below ground if the trapdoor had been closed?

The moon now slid behind the clouds, deepening the shadows while the falling sleet reduced visibility even further. Holmes felt this to be to his advantage, for it would hide his tracks in the snow, tracks that could lead Wolf directly to him.

Hardly daring to breathe, Holmes chanced another peek past the mound and this time pulled his head back immediately. Wolf was inspecting the ground by his feet, trying to decide whether the imprints in the snow – imprints that the sleet was already covering – could possibly be footprints.

Moments later the wind dropped slightly … and Holmes heard the young German shushing toward him through the darkness.

He stiffened. Wolf was approaching him, no doubt with revolver still in hand, trying to pick up any small sound that might betray his quarry.

The only weapon Holmes had was his cane – that, and his knowledge of
baritsu.
Under the circumstances, he could only hope they would be enough.

More
shushing.
Wolf was still approaching, coming steadily, remorselessly closer.

Hardly daring to breathe, Holmes told himself he must time his move to perfection and exploit what little element of surprise he might still possess. Even so, he knew the damage had been done. The kidnappers would know that Houdini had been followed, that, despite their orders to the contrary, he had involved someone else in this business. That they would seek to punish the indiscretion, Holmes had little doubt.

Shush … shush … shush …

Holmes tightened his grip on the cane even as the moon reappeared suddenly through a break in the clouds. Its light cast Wolf’s pale shadow across the ground, its very tip just beginning to slip into view …

The shattering of a bottle about midway along the boundary of the church grounds provided a much-needed distraction. Wolf’s shadow turned away from his previous destination, and an instant later there came another scream – the prowling fox again.

Holmes froze. His back and calves were aching, crying out for release. A few seconds passed. Then he heard Wolf moving away from him, heading back toward the crypt. Holmes sagged, softly exhaled and thanked his good fortune.

The trapdoor gave another creak and Wolf called down quietly.
‘Da war nichts. Nur ein Fuchs. Wir sollten jetzt trotzdem gehen.’

Holmes swallowed, relieved by Wolf’s injunction to his companions not to worry. It seemed that the fox which had very nearly betrayed him had now come to his rescue.

Again, Holmes glanced around the side of the mound. Wolf was helping Annalise out of the crypt. As she stepped aside and smoothed the creases from her coat, Houdini appeared behind her. Holmes’s mouth tightened when he saw that the escapologist was still barefoot and that his hands were now cuffed behind his back.

Finally, the portly man emerged from the crypt with the carbide lamp in one hand, Houdini’s sock-stuffed shoes in the other.

With Wolf’s gun pressed into his back, Houdini made his way over the snow and rubble toward a narrow gap in the rear wall that Holmes had missed during his initial search due to a dense
covering of ivy. Walking erectly, Houdini gave no indication of the discomfort or humiliation he must be feeling as he and his abductors vanished into the darkness beyond the break in the wall.

Holmes waited as long as he dared, then stood up stiffly and went after them. He moved quickly, his breath misting before his hawkish face. Cautiously he pushed through the leafy gap. On the other side was a narrow alley that, after a hundred yards or so, ended at the main road.

There was no sign of Houdini or his captors. Holmes wondered where they were. The cobbled alley ran string-straight, flanked on both sides by the blank walls of more warehouses. There were no other exits that Houdini’s abductors might have taken between there and the end of the alley and, if they had elected to walk to the main road, he knew they would still be in sight.

Even as he pondered the mystery, he thought of another possibility and quickly retraced his steps until he heard the crunch of broken glass beneath his shoes. Here he stopped and examined his surroundings with great care. Finally, satisfied, he pushed on.

He halted again when he reached a shadowed area just inside the entrance where the remains of two pillars had once formed a bay. He knelt down, thrust his cane under one arm and turned his back to the wind. After several attempts he finally managed to light a phosphor match. Cupping the flame, he did his best to examine the ground by its poor, erratic light.

Even before the match failed, though, Holmes believed he had already solved one particular mystery.

Watson found himself becoming increasingly edgy as time hung heavy. At last he could stand it no longer, and was about to go in search of his friend when Holmes suddenly strode into sight and climbed back into the cab.

‘Holmes! What the devil—!’

Holmes tapped his cane against the roof and called in German, ‘The Grand, if you please.’

As the cab began its long journey back toward the heart of the city, Holmes briefly recounted the events in Blood Street. At the end Watson exclaimed, ‘Good Lord! Then if we have no idea where
they’ve taken Houdini, all is lost—’

‘We have no idea
yet
,’ Holmes interrupted. ‘But we have more information than you might imagine. Indeed, I have been a fool not to have seen it before.’

‘Seen what, Holmes?’

‘A few things – including the fact that we have been followed ever since we arrived in Austria.’

‘What?’

‘Patience, Watson. I suspect that we shall have
some
answers, at least, before the evening is out.’

To Watson’s complete surprise, Holmes then peered out into the passing darkness and began to mutter softly under his breath.

‘What was that you said?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It sounded like
poetry
.’

‘I was merely quoting the opening lines of O’Shaughnessy’s
Ode
.’

Watson tried to place the poem, but quickly gave up. ‘You’ll have to help me, I’m afraid.’

‘“We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams”,’ Holmes quoted, ‘“World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers, Of the world for ever, it seems.”’

‘Very profound, I must say,’ Watson muttered. ‘I take it that this verse is supposed to mean something?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘But you’re not going to enlighten me?’

Holmes smiled. ‘It will come to you in the fullness of time, I am sure.’

He said no more until the cab had dropped them outside the hotel twenty minutes later. He climbed out and paid the cabbie, adding a generous tip as he had promised. He then turned to Watson saying, ‘Wait here.’

What he did next left Watson speechless. With scant regard for his age or safety, he walked straight out into the street. There he raised his arms to stop a Unic cab that was heading directly
towards him, and which he had noticed following them at a discreet distance ever since they had left Blood Street.

‘Holmes!’

The driver stamped on the brake and honked the horn energetically. Paying the irate cabbie no mind, Holmes walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger door.

‘It has been a rather eventful evening,’ Watson heard him say amiably, ‘and I should very much like the opportunity to thank you for the assistance you gave me not half an hour since.’

Watching from the pavement Watson tried his best to see inside the cab, but all he could make out was an indistinct silhouette. The passenger appeared to say something – perhaps to tell Holmes he had no idea what he was talking about – but Holmes would have none of it.

‘Come now,’ he said, ‘there is no further need for secrecy. I am onto you, albeit somewhat belatedly, and since we are both working toward the same end, I suggest we pool our knowledge, preferably over a warming glass of brandy.’

This argument seemed to win the day. The passenger grudgingly leaned forward and paid his fare, then climbed from the cab.

As Holmes stood back, Watson was astounded to see a man of about average height and athletic proportions whom he recognized at once. It was the Good Samaritan who had come to his aid during their meeting with Freud, the German fellow who—

Except that the man was
not
German.

For speaking crisply and in a cultured British voice, he said, ‘Very well, Mr Holmes. But I would much sooner have remained in the background until this business is settled. I have a feeling I would have been more use that way.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Holmes, grasping the man’s arm. ‘Come … let us get out of this foul weather. We have much to discuss, you and I. Much indeed, I believe.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Two Birds, One Stone

U
P IN
H
OLMES’S
room, the Good Samaritan took off his hat, self-consciously ran his hand up through his curly black hair then took a small warrant card from his pocket and passed it over. Holmes scanned it briefly and then handed it to Watson.

‘So,’ said Holmes as Watson inspected it, ‘you are Mr Roger Purslane. And, as I suspected, you are connected in some unspecified but doubtless important capacity with His Majesty’s Government. It therefore follows, does it not, that you were dispatched to keep an eye upon me and my colleague here by my brother, Mycroft?’

Watson looked up, surprised. ‘Mycroft?’ he repeated. ‘What the devil has Mycroft got to do with this business?’

Mycroft was seven years older than Holmes, as fat as Holmes was lean, and as seemingly indolent as Holmes was industrious. Over the years, Watson had come to learn that there was more to him than met the eye. Mycroft held some vaguely defined but vital position within the government. Not for one moment did Watson believe Mycroft’s claim that he carried out the audits for various government departments. He was more inclined to believe Holmes’s contention that, when the occasion demanded it, Mycroft himself
was
the British government and that his usual haunt, the Diogenes Club, was little more than a front behind which Mycroft’s shadowy department operated undetected.

As the thought occurred to him, he realized the significance
of Holmes’s earlier quotation, just as Holmes had said he would. For if ever there was an example of O’Shaughnessy’s ‘movers and shakers’, it was indeed Mycroft.

Mycroft shared his younger brother’s eye for detail and observation; he was possibly even more skilled in the art of deduction. But, despite his brilliance, his extreme indolence meant that he seldom used his abilities to their full advantage, allowing others to do the work on his behalf.

Watson had not seen Mycroft for years, not since the affair of the Bruce-Partington Plans, in ’95. It seemed impossible that Mycroft should still occupy such a lofty position within the government almost two decades later. More puzzling still was why he should interest himself in Houdini’s present difficulties.

Purslane broke into Watson’s thoughts by saying: ‘Mycroft Holmes? I’m sorry, gentlemen, the name means nothing to me.’

‘Come, Mr Purslane,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘It was no mere chance that brought you to Vienna at this time, no mere coincidence that you were on hand to help us escape the mob in the Beserlpark Alsergrund. And certainly it was no mere happenstance that you were on hand this very evening to throw a discarded milk bottle at a prowling fox, thereby saving me from discovery by a man who would most certainly have done me harm had he caught me.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. I have no idea—’

‘You have uncommonly small feet, I observe,’ Holmes interrupted. ‘I should say they are not larger than a size six – small indeed for a man of your height and build. And yet I found prints of a similar – I am tempted to say
identical
– size at the very spot from which I calculate that the bottle was thrown. That, plus the unmistakable aroma of Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet – an aftershave I detected upon you during our first encounter, and of which you smell even now – makes denial a rather futile business. Incidentally,’ he added, ‘your German is very good, Mr Purslane. I could almost believe you were German or Austrian, but when we thanked you for your assistance the other day, you responded twice with the curiously formal
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’
I rather fancy that a native would have replied with the
more casual
Bitte,
or perhaps
Bitte sehr.’

Purslane sighed in defeat. ‘Mr Holmes, you are clearly everything your brother says you are.’

‘Then Mycroft
did
send you.’

Purslane shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I will put the matter delicately, sir. None of us is getting any younger. And in sending you here upon a mission of what we believe to be some gravity, your brother also dispatched me with orders to keep an eye on you and ensure that neither you nor Dr Watson, here, came to any harm.’

Growing more confused by the minute, Watson said, ‘What does he mean, Holmes, that Mycroft sent you here? I thought this was supposed to be a simple holiday.’ Before Holmes could reply he added somewhat testily, ‘And didn’t you say something earlier on about a glass of brandy?’

Holmes turned to the drinks cabinet and filled three glasses with Denis Mounie Grande Reserve. ‘All,’ he said as he turned back to his companions, ‘is not entirely as it seems.’

‘So I am beginning to realize,’ Watson murmured darkly.

‘Have a care, Mr Holmes,’ warned Purslane, taking his glass. ‘This business is about as secret as it can possibly be.’

‘There is nothing I cannot say in front of Dr Watson,’ Holmes informed him. ‘I trust him with my life. Indeed, I have done just that, and more than once, in the paSt And he is equally well trusted by my brother.’

‘Even so—’

But Holmes had already turned his attention back to Watson. ‘My apologies, old friend, but perhaps when you hear the story, you will understand why I did not involve you sooner. It might just as easily have been something as nothing. As it is, I now believe that it is something very dark indeed.’

Somewhat mollified, Watson wandered to one of the radiators and, setting his glass down on the windowsill, warmed his hands. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘For some time now Mycroft has become increasingly concerned about the precedent set by Emperor Franz Joseph’s annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina and the ill-feeling that
has engendered among the Serbs. He fears that Franz Joseph’s continued attempts at empire-building will foment discord across Europe and provide the catalyst for the world war he is sure is coming. His misgivings only increased when he read about the robbery that occurred at Christie’s a little under two weeks ago.’

‘I remember that business,’ said Watson. ‘The robbers stole some antiquities and took a hostage to ensure there was no pursuit after they made their escape. The hostage, an unnamed spinster, as I recall, was never seen again.’

Holmes nodded. ‘It was the object of the robbery which first drew Mycroft’s attention – not antiquities, Watson, but rather part of a collection of papers and cyanotypes, blueprints in other words, relating to the architecture of the Habsburg Empire.’

‘That’s it! I remember wonderking at the time what possible value such papers could have had to anyone but a collector.’

‘In that you were correct. To you and me they are merely curiosities, but to a collector or historian they would be worth a small fortune. Far more money than the thieves could have raised to buy them legitimately.’

‘And so they chose to steal them in such a public manner because…?’

‘Because Christie’s has excellent security, my dear fellow. And the gang had no way of breaching it. Had they been able to break in, locate and then break into the strongroom, I have no doubt they would have done so. That proved to be beyond them. So they elected to wait until they could simply enter the building as prospective bidders, and then snatch what they wanted once it had been removed from the vault.’

‘I still don’t understand. What makes these papers so valuable?’

‘Mycroft grasped their potential significance at once,’ Holmes said. ‘You see, suggestively the plans and papers that were stolen contained a preponderance of work by architects – Lukas von Hildebrandt, Emmanuel Fischer von Erlach and the like. Men who had all, at one time or another, worked upon the same project.’

‘Which was…?’

‘The Imperial Palace.’

‘The very place we visited yesterday.’

‘Indeed. You see the significance, of course?’

‘Not really.’

‘Think, man. Why would anyone want the plans to such a building?’

Watson weighed his answer. ‘Because it is a target of some kind? That anarchists would wish to somehow destroy it and—’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Good grief! Are you saying there are plans afoot to assassinate the Austrian Royal Family?’

‘Not at all. Rather, there was something else about these cyanotypes that could potentially provide the thieves with what they really wanted – a means of entering and then leaving the palace undiscovered.’

‘Why would they want to do that?’

‘That is what Mycroft asked himself. The crime itself was an uncommon one. Therefore, it followed that the motive must be similarly uncommon. To steal some of the valuables contained in the Palace? Possible, but unlikely. To assassinate the Royals? They might just as easily kill them during any one of their many public engagements. So what was the true motive? When even Mycroft’s vast intellect failed to provide a plausible answer, he asked me to come here on his behalf and see if I might have better luck.’

‘So that’s why you were so preoccupied as we traipsed around the Palace!’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Then young Purslane here … his presence has nothing to do with Houdini?’

‘That’s a point,’ Purslane interrupted. ‘Perhaps you can clear up that particular mystery for me, Mr Holmes. I’ve been somewhat curious as to your comings and goings where Mr Houdini is concerned.’

‘Houdini’s wife has been abducted and is being held to ransom,’ Holmes replied laconically. ‘That her abductors are indeed serious about this business is illustrated by their killing Houdini’s personal assistant yesterday evening, though whether
by accident or design remains to be seen.’

‘And tonight…?’

‘Tonight they revealed to Houdini exactly what they want in return for his wife’s safe return.’

‘Which is…?’

Holmes looked bleak as he remembered something the portly man had said earlier. ‘“I am going to break you, and then allow you to carry
me
where
I
want to go,”’ he muttered.

Watson chuffed irritably. ‘Just for tonight, Holmes, can you please spare us your riddles?’

Holmes’s grey eyes sharpened. ‘This evening, the price the kidnappers are demanding for the safe return of Bess Houdini was spelled out quite clearly. For reasons as yet unknown, they need to enter and leave a certain building unobserved. They have the plans to this building, but so far they haven’t been able to work out how they can get in and out again without being detected. It is hardly a stretch of one’s imagination to identify the building as the Imperial Palace.’

‘Then these people were also the Christie’s robbers?’

‘Correct.’

‘And I fear we must take Frances Lane’s fate as some indication as to what befell the spinster they took hostage during the robbery.’

‘There,’ said Holmes, ‘you are mistaken, Watson.’

‘Eh?’

‘There never
was
a spinster,’ said Holmes. ‘She was one of the gang all along, and only acting the part. I saw her tonight, out of the disguise she wore on that fateful day. And I believe she is the most dangerous one of them all, for I’m certain it was she who killed Frances Lane.’

‘You have proof that she was there on the day of the robbery at Christie’s?’ asked Purslane.

‘No. But no one had ever seen the spinster at Christie’s before. No one knew her name, no one came forward subsequently to report a missing person, and no one responded to the description of the unfortunate hostage which was quite fully reported in all the newspapers at the time. All of which leads to one inescapable
conclusion.’

‘That the spinster never existed,’ breathed Watson.

‘Precisely.’

‘The cunning beggars!’

‘Yes. But one thing is crystal clear: if we apply ourselves diligently to the task before us, we will save Bess Houdini and prevent whatever these people have planned for the Imperial Palace.’

‘In other words,’ Watson said, ‘we kill two birds with one stone.’

Purslane said, ‘I am completely at your disposal, Mr Holmes. What do you want me to do? Shall I arrange for our embassy here to issue a discreet warning to the Palace staff that an attack of some sort is imminent?’

‘No,’ replied Holmes. ‘In the first place, we don’t yet know the true purpose of this business. Is it an attack of some sort? Burglary? Assassination? Who can say, based upon the data we presently have before us? Secondly, we do not want to do anything to scare these criminals off, or force them into the murder of Houdini and his wife. For the moment, they do not suspect that anyone is on to them. Let us keep it that way.’

‘I will, of course, have to inform your brother.’

‘By all means do so, and as discreetly as you can. Tell Mycroft to put his trust in me, that I will manage this business and if at all possible bring about a satisfactory conclusion.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Our priority for now must be to ascertain the motive for this affair, which in turn may lead us to the identities of its perpetrators.’ He gave Purslane an incisive look. ‘Did you see our quarry leave the church grounds earlier?’

‘No, sir. I did what I could to draw that fellow with the pistol away from where I’d seen you take cover, and then made myself scarce.’