Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

There Is No Trick To It

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
Watson dutifully arranged for a locum to take over the practice in Deptford. Holmes, meanwhile, who was staying at the Goring, less than two miles from their old stamping ground in Baker Street, began arranging every detail of their trip. Thus it was that they departed from Charing Cross aboard the Ostend-Vienna Express promptly at ten o’clock two mornings later.

Watson had mixed feelings about the trip – and with good cause. The Summer Olympics, held in Sweden earlier in the year, had brought together competitors from almost thirty countries and encouraged overseas travel as never before. Austria, though, was still a suspect destination for moSt Although four years had passed since Emperor Franz Joseph I had annexed Bosnia and Herzegovina, there still lingered considerable ill-feeling among the three million Serbs who, quite rightly, objected to Austria’s bullish attempt at empire-building.

The Serbs were not alone in these objections. For some time now, Italy had been threatening military action against Austria as a consequence; while Russia, taking advantage of the unrest, had been inciting a revolution throughout the Balkan states. The situation had become so dire that the leader of the German Catholic Centre Party had warned that any Austrian retaliation against Serbia would inevitably draw Russia even further into the conflict, and that in turn could lead to a European war.

When Watson mentioned his misgivings, however, Holmes only filled his favourite clay pipe with his usual acerbic blend of shag and replied that, with Vienna presently such a hotbed of intrigue, there was little chance of their having a boring holiday.

An hour and forty minutes after leaving Charing Cross, they reached Dover, where they caught a steamer to Ostend. From this Belgian municipality they made their next connection easily and continued their train journey through Brussels, Aix-le-Chapelle, Cologne and Bonn.

In all, the thirty-two-hour trek proved to be a pleasant one, although Watson was not sorry when they’d left Passau behind them; and the train steamed into Vienna three hours later.

A fifth set of tracks was being added to the terminus. More building work was being carried out to the two towers that flanked the station entrance and the roof. In consequence the din was tremendous and so – as they climbed down from their carriage and Watson tried to shake some life back into his gammy leg – they were startled to hear a brass band suddenly break into the Austro-Hungarian national anthem,
Land der Berge, Land am Strome.

Watson turned toward the far end of the platform where the band was playing and could see a group of dignitaries as well as several journalists from the Austrian press.

‘Good Lord,’ he said above the noise. ‘They must have found out you were coming, Holmes.’

Holmes gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘I fear the greeting is not for me.’

‘Really? You mean, they greet
all
their new arrivals this way?’

‘I doubt it. No, my friend, this is in honour of someone
else
.’

He paused as a number of the passengers broke into spontaneous applause.

He and Watson turned just as a short, stocky man in his
mid-thirties
led his entourage off the train and began to work his way up the platform, waving and smiling as the crowd parted to make way for him.

Watson squinted at him. He was well dressed in a suit of grey serge, with a heavy winter overcoat slung over one arm. He looked
vaguely familiar, but Watson couldn’t put a name to the fellow. Finally he gave up and asked, ‘Who is that man, Holmes?’

‘That, my friend, is Mr Erik Weisz.’

Watson sniffed. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Then perhaps you will know him better by his stage name,’ said Holmes. ‘For he is none other than the escapologist Harry Houdini.’

The name, of course, was instantly recognizable. And how could it be otherwise? Houdini was a legend. The son of a rabbi, he was a Hungarian Jew whose family had emigrated to the United States when Houdini himself was four years old. Moving to New York from Wisconsin – the home of the Badger Game, Watson reminded himself sourly – the young Weisz had eventually changed his name in tribute to Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, the French magician he so admired, and went into showbusiness.

From vaudeville, where he had mostly performed card tricks, he had gone on to tour the world as an escapologist extraordinare. No gaol could hold him, no straitjacket restrain him, no set of shackles bind him. He had escaped from all manner of prisons, was an accomplished safe-cracker and a year earlier had astounded audiences with what he called his Chinese Water-Torture Cell, escaping from chains and padlocks whilst being suspended upside-down in a glass case filled with water.

It seemed impossible to believe that this man, who stood five feet, five inches on bowed legs, was the person who had performed so many wondrous acts. At a distance he seemed almost nondescript. And yet here was someone who could walk a tightrope; untie knots with his toes; dislocate his shoulders at will; climb skyscrapers; and hold his breath for more than three minutes at a time. He was an inventor, businessman, a scientist of sorts, philanthropist, magazine publisher, newspaper columnist and author.

As Houdini passed Holmes and Watson he happened to glance in their direction. The next time he looked at them it was with a frown. He took two more steps, then suddenly turned and came back. His entourage stopped at a respectful distance to watch, but the two women flanking him continued to accompany him as he approached Holmes and Watson.

‘It’s Holmes, isn’t it?’ Houdini asked as he came up. ‘Sherlock Holmes?’

‘You are, I perceive, a reader of the American edition of the
Strand
,’ Holmes replied.

Houdini looked surprised. He had dark, wiry hair that was parted in the middle, angular features, sharp cheekbones, and vivid blue eyes.

‘I am indeed,’ he replied with a boyish grin. ‘But how did you know that? Do I have some distinctive type of printer’s ink on my fingertips? Or a myopic squint that indicates that I’ve spent more than my fair share of time poring over the
Strand’s
small type?’

‘Far simpler than that,’ said Holmes, shaking Houdini’s
outstretched
hand. ‘Since I make it a practice to keep as low a profile as possible, it is highly unlikely that you have seen a photograph of me. The late Mr Sidney Paget popularized a spurious version of my appearance as an Inverness-wearing pipe-smoker in a deerstalker. He did, however, capture my physiognomy reasonably accurately. Subsequent artists employed by the
Strand
, such as H. M. Brock and Joseph Simpson, have maintained it.’

Houdini chuckled. ‘Well, I’m sure glad we cleared
that
up.’ Suddenly remembering his companions, he added: ‘Oh, say, let me present my wife, Bess, and my assistant, Miss Frances Lane.’

A petite woman with dark, curly hair and an impish tilt to her nose stood forward; Bess Houdini was of a similar age to her husband and though homely, she had fine, dark brows, large, well-spaced eyes that showed a sense humour, a strong chin and a smooth complexion.

Frances Lane was her complete opposite. She was taller by several inches, slimmer and more elegant-looking in a
well-tailored
, military-style grey coat with a fur hem. Beneath her fetching purple velvet hat, her copper-coloured hair shone richly. Her eyes were sea-green, with a curious upward slant at the corners, and beneath them her cheekbones were high and well defined.

‘How do you do, gentlemen,’ she said, her voice deep and confident.

With introductions out of the way, Houdini – seemingly
unaware that he was keeping his welcoming committee waiting – said, ‘So, what brings you to Austria, Mr Holmes?’

‘We are here on holiday.’

‘Not business, then?’

‘I no longer practise as a consulting detective, Mr Houdini.’

‘Too bad. It might have been fun to watch you in action.’

‘Alas, sir, my skills are not meant to entertain, merely to clarify and resolve. But you, I see, are here in your capacity as an entertainer.’

‘Uh-huh. I’ve toured Europe before, of course, but that was years ago. And now I’ve got a whole new set of wonders to show the folks.’

‘I hope we may be able to come and see you, Mr Houdini,’ said Watson. ‘Where are you performing?’

‘The, ah … what-you-call-it, the—’

‘The Theater an der Burg,’ Frances Lane said with a smile.

‘That’s it.’ Houdini turned to her, adding, ‘Say, Frankie, can we get some tickets for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson? Best seats in the house, naturally.’

‘I believe we can manage that,’ she said. ‘Where are you staying, gentlemen?’

‘At the Grand,’ Holmes replied. ‘On the Kaerntnerring.’

‘I’ll have opening-night tickets delivered to you first thing tomorrow morning,’ she promised.

‘That is most generous of you.’

‘Generous, shmenerous,’ said Houdini dismissively. ‘You being the Great Detective and all, I’m surprised you haven’t already guessed my ulterior motive.’

‘I confess, sir, it appears to have escaped me.’

‘Well, I’ve read Dr Watson’s stories for years now, never miss ’em. And my gut feeling is that you have some sort of
schtick
, Mr Holmes, but for the life of me I’ve never yet managed to figure out how it is that you do what you do.’

Embarrassed, Bess squeezed her husband’s arm. ‘Harry!’

Ignoring her, Houdini continued, ‘After tomorrow night’s performance maybe we can have a late supper, and I can pick your brains.’

‘There is no trick to it, I assure you,’ Holmes said stiffly. ‘It is all based upon simple observation.’

‘OK,’ said Houdini. ‘So tell me something about myself. Right here, right now.’

‘Please, Mr Holmes, pay him no mind,’ Bess apologied. Her voice was gentle, her manner somewhat retiring. ‘I’m afraid Harry’s notorious when it comes to challenging those who question his own illusions and he’s always keen to learn from others.’

‘I quite understand,’ Holmes said. ‘However, I do not deal in illusion.’

‘Prove it,’ said Houdini, but the good humour in his eyes softened the challenge.

By now the brass band had stopped playing, and the waiting dignitaries were beginning to chatter irritably among themselves, irked by the poor manners of these visiting
Amerikaners
. Directly behind Houdini, the rest of his entourage moved a little closer, eager to hear Holmes’s response.

He did not keep them waiting.

‘I perceive that you were sleeping when the train arrived and woke suddenly at the very last moment. Furthermore, for this last stage of the journey you sat with your back to the engine. Though you were not born ambidextrous, you have worked diligently to become so. In your time you have also held a position in tailoring. Oh, and may I congratulate you on giving up the habit of biting your fingernails two weeks ago.’

Houdini stared at him in amazement. ‘My God, Holmes, what the … I mean, how the heck do you do that?’

‘Am I correct?’

‘In every detail. But … how?’

‘I have already told you, Mr Houdini – simple observation. There is a tiny flake of
rheum
, more commonly referred to as “sleep” or “sleep sugar”, in the corner of your right eye. Almost certainly you would have washed it away during your morning ablutions. That you did not implies that you slept for some time
after
you washed this morning. Had you not woken suddenly when the train arrived, you would almost certainly have had the chance to “freshen up”, as you Americans say, or your wife would have
pointed it out before you met your public.’

Reaching up to rub at his right eye, Houdini said, ‘And the fact that I slept with my back to the engine?’

‘You cradled your head in your right hand while you slept. I can still just detect the faintest impression of your fingertips against your right temple. It is far more likely that your right arm in turn was resting against the wall of your compartment as you slept – which would have you seated facing the way we had just come, and thus with your back to the engine.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Houdini said. ‘But what about the tailoring?’

‘If one is sufficiently receptive there is an inordinate amount of information one may obtain from the hands,’ Holmes replied soberly. ‘In your case I noted when we first shook that your right hand carried a ring of noticeably calloused skin around the base of your thumb and between your index and middle fingers, very close to the knuckles. This suggested to me the act of holding and using scissors for long periods of time. The most likely cause for this would not, as one might expect, be associated with the hairdressing trade, but rather with the tailoring industry.’

Houdini chuckled. ‘I started off as a necktie cutter, if you must know. And the business about biting my nails?’

‘Again, when we first shook hands I observed that your fingernails are somewhat uneven, and have not, as one would expect, been clipped into the usual uniform ellipsis. From this I could only surmise that you have recently given up the habit of biting your nails and have allowed them to grow out before cutting them.’