Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (7 page)

The fellow went sprawling onto the cobbles. Enraged, he scrambled up again and made to attack Watson’s saviour. The young man, who was smaller and in his mid-twenties, stood his ground, fists raised in the best Marquess of Queensberry tradition. As the ruffian closed in, the young man hit him with a straight right. His fist struck the big man on the jaw and the fellow went down in a dazed heap, fighting vainly to remain conscious.

Watson sighed with relief and shakily extended his hand to the young man. ‘Thank you, sir. Uh …
danke schön
. You are quite the Good Samaritan.’

The young man had short, curly black hair, a pleasant face with well-spaced brown eyes, an aquiline nose, wide mouth and a dimpled chin. His black felt derby had fallen off in the initial collision; now, as he bent to retrieve it, he said,
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’

He quickly glanced about him. Chaos reigned as the police sought to detain as many of the fleeing fighters as they could, only to discover that none of them intended to go quietly.

‘Ich glaube, wir sollten besser von hier verschwinden – und zwar so schnell wie möglich,’
said the young man.

Watson frowned, cursing his limited knowledge of German. But the fellow’s meaning was clear enough – this area was not the healthiest place to be at the moment.

As if to prove it, another brawler broke away from the group, having seen the unhappy fate of his larger companion. He charged at them like a berserker, yelling obscenities. He was small, dark-skinned and slightly built, and at sixteen years of age seemed shockingly young to be filled with so much hatred.

Seeing him come, Holmes quickly raised his cane and used the handle to hook one of the legs of his chair. He tugged, sending the chair skittering across the cobbles and into the boy’s path. The boy collided with it, stumbled, and went sprawling.

The Good Samaritan, meanwhile, hurriedly gathered Holmes, Watson and Freud together and began to shepherd them toward the Kolingasse. But already the dark-skinned boy was back on his feet and snatching up the chair, raised it above his head and hurled it at them.

Fortunately, the chair missed its mark.
Un
fortunately, the boy, consumed by fury, then grabbed a knife from his belt and charged at Holmes.

Holmes turned to meet him. Dropping into a crouch, he hooked his cane around the boy’s leading ankle and yanked backward. The boy lost his balance and fell heavily to one knee. Before he could recover, Holmes raised his cane again and struck him a single, punishing blow on the temple.

The boy’s dark, malevolent eyes rolled up in his head. Dropping the knife, he collapsed, unconsciousness.

The young man gestured for Holmes and the others to follow him. He then led them into the Kolingasse, where some semblance of calm remained. As they paused to catch their breath, he said,
‘Jetzt müsstet ihr aber in Sicherheit sein.’

‘Thank you,’ Holmes replied in English.

Watson frowned disapprovingly. He knew how well Holmes spoke German and thought the least he could do was thank the man in his own language.

‘Danke schön,’
he said gratefully.

The dark-haired Samaritan smiled and again said,
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’

Then he hurried off.

‘Come,’ said Freud, patting his pockets in search of a fresh
cigar. ‘I believe you will find the tranquility of my apartments more conducive to discussion.’

Holmes, who was watching the young man vanish into the distance, nodded. ‘Yes,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘I rather suspect we shall.’

CHAPTER NINE

No Laughing Matter

A
T THE
G
RAND
that evening they enjoyed an excellent supper of
Eachtlingsuppe
, then followed the thick beef and potato soup with pork pot roast served with grated apple, horseradish and caraway potatoes, and
Salzberger Nockerl
– a sweet soufflé that Watson pronounced as possibly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.

Holmes, as was his custom, ate sparingly. But he seemed more than happy in their surroundings, for the dining room was as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the hotel, and an excellent string quartet played pieces by Mozart, Beethoven and a relatively new composer by the name of Schoenberg of whom Watson had never heard.

Upon their arrival at Bergstrasse 19, Freud had shown himself to be a most convivial hoSt Though he approached his work in a studious manner, the neurologist had inherited a charming sense of humour from his father, who had been a textile dealer in Freiberg, Moravia. Watson had begun to see him in a more favourable light. Freud had made a number of interesting observations about humour and its role in society and had even written a book about it.

‘Earlier today you asked me if there were any symptoms by which one could identify a criminal, or potential criminal, who is ruled by the
id,’
he said to Watson. ‘Though it is not possible to tell at a glance, the use – or indeed the
avoidance
– of humour can
reveal much about a man.

‘You see, it is the
super-ego
that allows the
ego
to generate humour. A selfish
super-ego
will allow nothing more than sarcasm. One that is harsher still will stifle humour entirely. But a kindly
super-ego
will manifest itself in the use of harmless, almost silly humour. Thus, the wit a man uses has the potential to identify him as one who cannot even countenance the breaking of the law; one who might consider it, if there is no other recourse, and one who will break the law quite willingly, as a shortcut to achieving his desires.’

Impressed, Watson said, ‘I have a joke for you, and I do believe it puts me in that first category.’

‘Then pray, let us hear it,’ said Freud.

Stifling a schoolboy grin, Watson said, ‘What is the difference between a tube and a foolish Dutchman?’ Chortling, he then said, ‘One is a hollow cylinder, and the other is a silly Hollander.’

He finally gave way to a full-throated laugh. Regrettably, neither Holmes nor Freud found the joke anywhere near as amusing.

‘I have a favourite joke,’ said Freud, after Watson had finally managed to bring himself under control. ‘The king meets his absolute double, and asks him, “Did your mother work in the palace?” The double replies, “No. But my father did.”’

He and Watson laughed as if it were the funniest thing they had ever heard.

Holmes watched them both in bewilderment. ‘I am afraid the joke escapes me,’ he said dourly.

Freud frowned, surprised. ‘You don’t understand it?’

‘I’m sorry, no. And yet you
do
, Watson.’ He seemed mildly peeved by the fact.

‘Of course,’ said Watson, wiping his eyes. ‘The implication in the question is, “Have we the same father?” The implication of the answer is, “No, but we have the same mother.”’

‘So what is the joke?’ asked Holmes.

But that only caused Freud and Watson to laugh again, and Holmes could only shake his head in near-complete bafflement.

Later, having promised Freud that they would visit him again before the end of their holiday, Holmes and Watson returned to the hotel. Each retired to his room to rest and reflect upon the more tumultuous events of the day.

After an excellent supper, they set out by cab to the Theater an der Burg, and the opening night of Houdini’s show.

The Theater was the last in a series of magnificent buildings to be constructed around the Ringstrasse, and came close to dominating them all. As they stepped out of the cab, Watson craned his neck to look up at the magnificent edifice which was guarded by an imposing statue of Apollo. With its white columns and domed roof, the place bore an uncanny resemblance to a cathedral, although Watson suspected that it was considerably larger than most cathedrals.

‘My copy of
Bradshaw’s
certainly did not mislead me,’ he told Holmes. ‘This place is absolutely stunning.’

‘Quite.’

‘Fourteen years in the construction, you know,’ Watson continued. ‘And it is said to have one of the largest stages of any theatre in the world.’

‘Then I fear Mr Houdini will look rather lost amid so much empty space.’

‘On the contrary, I fancy that a man of his stature would be more likely to dwarf any venue at which he appears.’

As they approached the ornate, brightly-lit entrance, they were quickly surrounded by the patrons in evening dress who were filing in.

‘Shouldn’t we, ah, speak to Houdini first?’ asked Watson. ‘I mean, we
are
here as his guests, and there is still the better part of half an hour to kill before the curtain goes up. Surely we should wish him luck for tonight’s performance?’

Holmes eyed him, amused. ‘And perhaps get the opportunity to rub shoulders with some of his more glamorous assistants? Miss Lane, for instance?’

‘What? Oh, really, Holmes—’

‘Come, now. You’ve had an eye for the ladies for as long as I have known you.’

‘Yes and what has it brought me? Nothing but trouble.’

Realizing that his teasing had been ill-advised in the circumstances, Holmes gave an indulgent smile. ‘Nevertheless, old friend, you are right, as ever. We
should
indeed go and wish our benefactor luck – not that I expect such a consummate professional will need it.’

As they went in search of the stage door, tall streetlamps cast a glow over the wide thoroughfare that was filled with a seemingly endless procession of cabs and coaches, while elegantly clad pedestrians crowded the pavements.

They traced the side of the theatre into a quieter crescent. They continued until they reached a ramshackle stage door beside a loading bay whose doors were now padlocked shut; the area at the back of the theatre appeared as impoverished as its entrance was opulent. They let themselves into a wide hall heated by a single wheezing radiator. A small, open hatch was built into the wall beside a flimsy, glass-panelled door. Further back, the hall led into the usual maze of corridors to be found backstage, complete with a complicated-looking network of copper pipes and cables that were pinned to the dingy ceiling.

There was chaos everywhere, with stagehands and stage managers, wardrobe staff and even members of a paint crew rushing back and forth to carry out some vital, last-minute chore before the curtain rose – with one exception. Through the hatch an elderly man in a grey woollen jumper was visible leaning against a counter, idly reading a copy of the daily
Reichspost
.

Holmes rapped on the counter to get the stage doorman’s attention. The old man peered up myopically, his wispy white hair standing up all over his head.
‘Ja?’

‘We would like to see Mr Houdini,’ Holmes said in German.

‘You would, would you?’

‘If you could get someone to announce us…?’

The doorman thumbed at the clock on the wall of his cluttered little office. ‘Herr Houdini goes on stage in twenty minutes. I can’t disturb him now.’

‘We are here as his guests,’ said Watson, ‘and we want to wish him good luck.’

‘Never!’ the stage doorman said emphatically. ‘I wouldn’t allow it! Don’t you know that it is bad luck to wish an artiste good luck in our hallowed profession?’

‘Well … can you at least pass a note along to him?’ said Watson in English. ‘He invited us to see him after the show, and if the offer still holds we should be delighted to accept.’

Before the stage doorman could respond, a smartly dressed woman came hurrying along the hallway. She brushed past one of the carpenters and a scenic artist whose smock was daubed with a positive kaleidoscope of colour; she called out anxiously, ‘Ulrich! Where is Herr Berger?’

She brushed past Holmes and Watson as if they weren’t there and peered through the hatch. They were surprised to see that it was Houdini’s assistant, Frances Lane. Watson cleared his throat, hoping to catch her attention, for Holmes had been right: he was delighted to see the tall, Titian-haired beauty again.

‘Miss Lane, I believe?’ he said, tipping his hat gallantly.

She quickly turned to him and he was disappointed to see that she did not recognize him. Then her curiously slanted green eyes moved to Holmes, and her face lost its blank expression. ‘Ah, Mr Holmes, and Dr Watson! I’m sorry. If you were hoping to see Harry, this … this isn’t the best time.’

‘So I observe,’ Holmes said.

Her mind elsewhere, she dismissed him with a wave then turned to the stage doorman, demanding, ‘Where is Herr Berger, Ulrich?’

‘Is he not in his office?’

‘No. I’ve just come from there.’

‘Then you will probably find him in the lobby,’ Ulrich said. ‘He knew the press would be coming and always likes to greet—’

But Frances Lane was already hurrying away, the hem of her gored black skirt swirling around her ankles.

Watson watched her go sadly, muttering, ‘Pre-show nerves, I expect.’

‘Ja,’
agreed Ulrich. ‘They all suffer from it, you know, from the lowliest ASM to the biggest star. Now, what was it you were saying about leaving a note?’

‘Nothing,’ said Holmes. ‘It looks as if Houdini has more important things on his mind at the moment.’

They retraced their steps to the Ringstrasse and joined the crowd as they descended upon the theatre. The lobby was sumptuous. Cut-glass chandeliers cast a warm glow across a thick red carpet flanked by black and white tiles in a chessboard pattern. Patrons milled around or chatted with friends. There was no place here for the country’s many problems; the atmosphere was too light, too cordial, too dedicated to pleasure.

Watson was astounded by the predominantly red, cream and gold decor. The ceiling was lined with frescoes, the walls filled with paintings of some of the greatest actors ever to tread the theatre’s boards … and here and there were statues and busts of yet more actors and writers.

Holmes, who had little appetite for such splendour, led the way and Watson dutifully followed him up one of two wide staircases – both painted, Watson was thrilled to note, by Gustav and Ernst Klimt and their companion, Franz Matsch.

It quickly became obvious that Houdini, as promised, had treated them to two of the best seats in the house. As an usher showed them into their own box, they got their first good look at the auditorium itself. It was every bit as impressive as the rest of the theatre and able to accommodate more than a thousand patrons. A glance into the hall itself was enough to show Holmes and Watson that Houdini’s opening night had been a sell-out.

In the orchestra pit the musicians began to tune up. A sense of expectation filled the auditorium. ‘Prepare to be amazed,’ Watson said to Holmes. ‘I suspect that Houdini has a few tricks up his sleeve that even
you
will be unable to explain.’

Holmes was about to reply when a big, bullish man in his late fifties, with thinning fair hair and a trimmed goatee beard, appeared from stage left. The audience dutifully began to applaud, but the man, whose tuxedo could barely contain his girth, quickly indicated that they should desist.

Holmes leaned forward, studying him keenly.

By the time the newcomer reached centre-stage, the audience began to realize that he was not part of the show. Their applause
diminshed until it grew very quiet in the auditorium.

‘
Meine
Damen und
Herr
en
,’ he began. ‘I am Alfred Freiherr von Berger, the director of the Theater an der Burg. I am pleased to see so many of you here tonight, but I am also sorry to announce that due to unforeseen circumstances, Herr Houdini has been forced to cancel tonight’s performance.’

Even as the audience began to react, he raised his voice, adding, ‘Please! Please, ladies and gentlemen! I can only apologize and ask your forbearance in this matter. The management will be happy to refund on your tickets or provide replacements as soon as we are able to resume performances.’

‘And when will that be?’ demanded an angry man sitting in the front row.

‘Alas, I cannot say at present,’ said von Berger. ‘But once again, please accept the apologies of the Theater an der Burg, as well as those of Herr Houdini himself.’

As von Berger walked off stage to boos and catcalls, Watson turned to Holmes and said, ‘I wonder what’s happened? I do hope Houdini is all right.’ And then, ‘No wonder Miss Lane was so short with us.’

‘Indeed,’ said Holmes, rising. ‘Well, since unforeseen circumstances have put paid to our night at the theatre – not to mention our supper with Houdini – I suggest we seek our entertainment elsewhere, old friend. And in Vienna, I do not expect that it will be terribly difficult to find.’