Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (19 page)

‘Come along, Purslane,’ called Holmes with new purpose. ‘We still have much to do.’

Reluctantly Purslane bade goodbye to Miss Bauer, with whom he was obviously smitten, and hurried to join them as they left the building.

Outside, darkness was already approaching, and the snow that had been falling lightly all day now started to come down harder. They tugged their collars up and left the offices of the
Krone
behind them. But as they were about to cross the busy road and find a cab to take them back to the Grand, there was a noise not unlike a car backfiring. In the same moment Holmes grunted, stumbled forward, his hat flying off, and dropped to his knees.

Purslane saw blood darkening Holmes’s collar and his stomach lurched unpleasantly.

‘Doctor!’ he cried. ‘He’s been shot! Mr Holmes has been shot!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tomorrow Is Another Day

‘H
OLMES
!’

The concerned cry was wrenched from Watson. He quickly grasped his companion around the shoulders to stop him from collapsing completely. In that instant he was so concerned for Holmes that he hardly noticed a man bursting out of the alley behind them where he’d been hiding. Knocking Purslane aside, the fellow raced across the road, dodging traffic as he ran.

‘Holmes …’

Purslane said something but Watson, in shock, barely heard the words. As Purslane ran off after the gunman, all Watson could think to do was hold his friend close and at the same time try to examine his wound.

The right side of Holmes’s face was streaked with blood. It seemed to be seeping from an area just above his ear. His breathing was coming in great, gasping clouds of vapour.

Though he looked pale as the snow falling all around them, Watson knew better than to write Holmes off immediately. Even as he tossed his cane aside and reached for a handkerchief with which to staunch the flow of blood, Watson saw Holmes open his eyes, blink a few times, then focus.

‘It’s all right, Holmes,’ Watson assured him. ‘You’re all right now …’

‘Of course I am,’ Holmes replied irritably. ‘Let me up.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Watson, aware of the
curious spectators who were gathering about them. ‘You’ve been shot, old chap.’

‘No …’

‘With all due respect, Holmes, I am the doctor here—’

But Holmes would have none of it. ‘I was
nicked,
Watson. Anything more and I would be unconscious, if not worse. It is … nothing.’

‘You’re
bleeding,’
Watson insisted.

Holmes seemed to realize this fact for the first time. He took Watson’s handkerchief and pressed it gingerly to the right side of his head. Pain briefly crossed his face before he regained control of himself, despite looking decidedly nauseous.

‘It is little more than a shallow furrow,’ he said.

‘But … but that fellow … he
shot
you! I heard the report myself, though I didn’t immediately recognize it for what it was!’

‘Fortunately for me,’ Holmes said, shaken but still in conrol, ‘my would-be assassin obviously made his shot in haste and missed me … though not by much, I confess.’

Relief washed through Watson. He and a couple of onlookers helped Holmes back to his feet. He looked decidedly unsteady, but for a man who had just cheated death, also remarkably composed.

‘We need to get you to a hospital,’ Watson said, retrieving Holmes’s hat and cane.

‘Nonsense. You are a perfectly adequate physician. You can clean the wound when we get back to the Grand.’ Holmes looked around. ‘May I assume from his absence that Purslane went after the gunman?’

‘Yes. As soon as he fired his shot, the fellow belted off across the road there like a scalded cat!’

‘Then Purslane will do well to take care because his quarry is not of sound mind.’

Watson showed surprise. ‘You
know
him? It was too dark and too snowy to get much of a look at him. The best I managed was a brief impression, someone bundled in an overcoat.’

‘I didn’t even see that much,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But it is unlikely that Houdini would betray us to his kidnappers, and we have no reason to believe they are onto us. Which leaves only one
candidate.’

‘The Black Hand?’ muttered Watson, taking Holmes by the arm as they crossed the road in the footsteps of their young companion.

‘I doubt it.’

‘But—’

‘Vasiljavic certainly warned us against interfering with the activities of his group. But since we have done no such thing and Vasiljavic is canny enough to know that any attempt to harm us would inevitably invite the wrath of the British government, I think not.’ He went to shake his head, then thought better of it, for it was aching fiercely. ‘No, Watson, not the Black Hand, but certainly one of its members – young Princip Gavrilo.’

‘That
scoundrel!’

‘Yes. A boy whose emotions are ruled by anger and whose actions are as impulsive as they are ill-conceived. He clearly bears a grudge for what happened during our first encounter at the Beserlpark Alsergrund. Being similarly humiliated during our second did nothing to appease him.’

‘Then I hope Purslane
does
catch him,’ Watson said grimly. ‘Because then I shall teach him a lesson myself.’

‘You may get your wish, old friend,’ said Holmes as they turned a corner and saw two figures grappling beside a low wall in the shadow of the railway bridge that spanned the river, ‘for Purslane has indeed caught our man.’

The British agent now had Gavrilo Princip pinned against the wall, his free hand holding the gun with which Princip had tried to murder Holmes.

Hearing them approach, Purslane looked surprised to see Holmes back on his feet. Gavrilo also glared at Holmes, angry and disappointed that he was not dead.

‘You have had a very lucky escape, Gavrilo,’ said Holmes, when they were close enough. ‘I do not think Javor Vasiljavic would have been pleased had you succeeded in your endeavour.’

The boy spat his defiance at Holmes’s feet. However, it was obvious that the mention of Vasiljavic’s name had unnerved him.

‘Javor would thank me for killing the enemies of the Black
Hand,’ he managed in hesitant English.

‘Enemies, yes,’ Holmes agreed sternly. ‘But we are
not
enemies of the Black Hand, as Vasiljavic knows very well. He has no quarrel with us, just as we have no quarrel with him. And for that reason he would not wish us any harm … but would most certainly be quick to punish the man who
did
harm us.’

Despite his surly expression, it was obvious Gavrilo knew Holmes was right. But still he said defiantly, ‘We’ll see.’

‘Are you really willing to take that gamble?’ asked Holmes, raising one blood-smudged eyebrow. ‘Have you any idea what would have happened had you succeeded in killing me? My government would have demanded that the authorities here spare no effort in bringing my killer to book. And to maintain diplomatic relations with Great Britain Vienna would have done so, too. They would not have had to look too far to find the guilty party.’

Curious, Gavrilo said grudgingly, ‘Why not?’

‘Because Vasiljavic would have taken no small delight in serving you up to them. Anyone who puts the Black Hand at risk becomes an enemy of the Black Hand and is dealt with accordingly. You would have been handed over to the authorities sooner rather than later … and not necessarily alive.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. But I won’t tell Vasiljavic –
this
time. However, this very evening I will see to it that, should anything else untoward happen to me during my stay in Vienna, he will be informed
immediately
of your actions here today. What happens to you then will be up to him, but I do not imagine it will be particularly pleasant for you.’

By now the fear in Gavrilo’s eyes was all too obvious, though he tried to hide it. Holmes took the gun from Purslane, examined it cursorily – it was an antiquated pepperbox pistol – and then tossed it over the wall into the river. Gavrilo started to curse him, then fell silent. His hatred of Holmes appeared undiminished, but the slump of his shoulders showed that he knew he had been defeated.

‘Let him go,’ Holmes told Purslane. ‘And remember this, Gavrilo. Should we ever meet again, you will be poorer for the
encounter.’

Gavrilo glared at him for another moment, then stuffed his hands into his too-large overcoat and stamped off into the gloom.

Only when he had vanished from sight did Holmes allow himself to sag. He’d been successfully fighting the effects of the head injury which were making him weak and nauseous and had been unaware of how dangerously close he was to complete collapse until Watson suddenly grabbed him by the arm. ‘Steady, old chap.’

Purslane quickly moved to Holmes’s other side to help support him. ‘What happened? I was afraid that—’

‘Fortunately it was nothing more than a nasty graze,’ said Watson. ‘Still, he’s lost quite a bit of blood and must surely have a prince among headaches.’

‘You needn’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Holmes grumbled.

‘Well, one thing is certain. You’re not going to Engelhartstetten or anywhere else today.’

‘But—’

‘Be sensible, Holmes! Another inch to the left and you’d be dead now. As it is, there’s no need to use up whatever luck you still possess. Listen to me,’ he continued, his tone softening. ‘If what we suspect about the King of Clubs turns out to be right, then we have already made more progress than we had any right to expect. We’ll resume our investigations tomorrow. What you need now is some food, a stiff drink and a good night’s rest.’

Holmes started to proteSt Then, knowing that Watson was right, he reluctantly nodded. ‘Very well. I shall rest tonight. But tomorrow …’

‘… is another day,’ finished Watson.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Willing Accomplice

‘T
HIS,’
W
ATSON EXCLAIMED
as their cab clattered through the streets of Vienna, ‘is utter madness and quite beyond all the bounds of propriety.’

It was the next morning and Holmes, somewhat recovered following a good night’s rest and with his wound cleaned and neatly bandaged, looked at Watson and Purslane and said, ‘Nevertheless, it is the best and easiest way to obtain the information we require.’

Watson rolled his eyes in despair. ‘By enlisting the help of Sigmund Freud? My God, Holmes, are you forgetting that he’s considered to be one of the most eminent psychologists in the world, a man whose ability to see into the complexities of the human mind are shown almost utmost respect?’

‘That is precisely why he is the best man for the job. No other is more likely to persuade the staff at Engelshartstetten to assist us in our enquiries.’

‘But that is exactly my
point,
Holmes! What you intend to do – enlist Freud as a means to get access to Eder – is highly unethical. It could damage Freud’s reputation irreparably if it were to get out.’

‘Then we must make sure that it does
not
get out.’

‘Dear Lord.’

‘Besides,’ Holmes continued, ‘he may yet refuse our request.’

‘Your
request,’ said Watson petulantly. He turned to Purslane, who had met them earlier and was now sharing their cab as it
headed for Freud’s apartment. ‘Well, don’t just sit there, man. Say something!’

‘Would it do any good?’ Purslane replied. ‘It would appear that Mr Holmes’s mind is made up. If we are right in our suspicions regarding the King of Clubs and if by bringing this gang to justice we can prevent the international incident that Mycroft Holmes fears, then in my opinion, the end justifies the means.’

‘“The end justifies the means”,’ Watson mimicked. ‘I am growing heartily sick of that proverb.’

But Holmes offered a rare smile. ‘Well said, Purslane. I knew you were a man of great common sense.’

Shortly thereafter the cab arrived at Freud’s apartment. They were shown into the psychologist’s study, where Freud – delighted to see them again – alternately puffed at his ever-present cigar and stroked his grey beard as he listened to Holmes’s request.

Freud thought a moment before answering. ‘I am, of course, flattered that you think my participation will carry some weight, but … you do realize you are asking me to do something highly unethical?’

Watson pounced. ‘My own words exactly, Herr Doktor!’

‘Nevertheless,’ Freud continued, still studying Holmes thoughtfully, ‘I believe it would be irresponsible of me not to assist a man of your stature in his investigations, especially since it may well, as you say, become a matter of life and death.’ He smiled. ‘I will telephone the
Palliativestation
at Engelhartstetten at once, gentlemen.’

He went to one of the bookshelves that lined his office and searched until he found the medical directory he was after. Then, bringing it back to his desk, he opened it and quickly found a reference for the hospice. He picked up the handset of the brass telephone on his desk and asked the operator to connect him with the
Palliativestation.

After a long wait he finally said, ‘Ah, good morning, Doktor Meisener. It’s Sigmund Freud. We met briefly at the conference in Steyr, if you remember … Yes, yes, I am fine; and you? … Good. I wonder if you can help me, Herr Doktor? I am presently researching the mental faculties of the injured brain … Yes, yes indeed.
I was especially interested in getting the opportunity to study a patient of yours, a man by the name of Nikolaus Eder. That’s right the King of Clubs … No, I understand that. But do you think his next of kin would be willing to grant permission…? Ah, I see. Do they, indeed? … Yes, it is very difficult to underestimate the importance of a loving family … but still, if you could let me have their address…? It will certainly do no harm to ask.’

He waited a moment, then scribbled an address on the pad in front of him. After exchanging a few final pleasantries, he rang off, tore the page from his pad and handed it to Holmes.

‘Apparently the family live in Pottenmauer.’

Holmes glanced questioningly at Purslane, who said, ‘It’s out on the Slovakian border, I believe, about forty kilometres away.’

‘Are you sure you believe you have the right people, Herr Holmes?’ Freud asked with concern. ‘Doktor Meisener says the family are very protective of Herr Eder, and absolutely devoted to him. They visit him often and sometimes, if the weather is clement, take him for drives in their motor vehicle.’

‘We cannot say for sure,’ Holmes replied honestly. ‘Did Doktor Meisener give you any further information about them?’

‘Only that Eder’s brother, Florian, also happened to be his manager. A positive saint, to hear Meisener tell the story. Following the accident, he took Herr Eder’s children under his wing and has looked after them ever since.’

‘His children?’

‘Yes; though he was a widower, the King of Clubs has a son and a daughter.’

Holmes looked Freud in the eye. ‘Did he by any chance mention their names?’

‘Yes, I believe he did.’ The neurologist frowned as he searched for an elusive memory. ‘What was it he called them…?’

‘Wolf?’ prodded Holmes. ‘Annalise?’

Freud snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it!’

‘Then there can no longer be any doubt at all,’ Holmes said grimly. ‘Thank you, Herr Doktor. You have been of more help than you will ever know.’

As they shook hands, Freud said, ‘How do you intend to get to
Pottenmauer?’

‘We shall hail a cab.’

‘I doubt you will find any cab willing to make such a long journey. But perhaps I may be of one further service to you.’ He looked at Purslane. ‘Young man, do you know how to drive a motor vehicle?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then take this,’ said the neurologist, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’s the key to my own private motor carriage.’ He looked self-consciously at his visitors. ‘It is one of my few extravagances, a Daimler only five years old. My friends told me I could not possibly be without a motor vehicle in these modern times, and so I indulged myself … but in truth I rarely use it. It is parked downstairs; you are more than welcome to it.’

Purslane took the key. ‘Thank you, Herr Doktor.’

‘Thank you, indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, come along, gentlemen. I do believe we have some kidnappers to expose – and a brace of Houdinis to rescue.’