“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” He gazed at each of us in turn before settling his attention on my friend. “I do hope you can give me some advice and help. I am in desperate need of both.”
Without a word, Holmes gestured to the man to take a seat.
“Thank you,” he said. Although he spoke in clear, moderated tones, there was the trace of a foreign accent in his voice. “I am Alexander Rubenstein. Doctor Alexander Rubenstein. I have a private practice in London and I have come to consult you about one of my patients.”
“Then consult,” said Holmes sharply, not masking his irritation at having to cope with a new client at this time.
“I refer to a fellow Austrian – a new patient of mine. His name is Robert Strauss. I am very concerned about him. He came to me because he was suffering from extreme sleep deprivation. Chronic insomnia. I gave him some sedative powders but apparently they were not effective in relieving his malady.” Our visitor gave a bleak smile. “The fellow began to haunt my consulting room. I think he saw it as a kind of confessional chamber.”
“Confessional?” said Holmes.
“Yes. He began to tell me things about himself that unnerved me. He has a dark and perverted imagination. It has become clear that it is his own guilty nature which has prevented him from sleeping at night. His cruel, unnatural thoughts prevent the onset of sleep, which as Shakespeare has it ‘is the balm of hurt minds’.”
“What sort of things did he tell you that made you uncomfortable? Pray be clear and precise.”
“That is the problem, Mr. Holmes. I am unable to be precise. He told me nothing in concrete terms.”
“Yet you use the words ‘confessional’ and ‘guilty’, and refer to his thoughts as cruel and unnatural. Why?”
Rubenstein gave a heavy shrug of the shoulders. “It is so difficult for me to explain. In my consulting room, the fellow relaxes and then rambles in an unnerving, delirious fashion. From his tired brain tumble many strange snatches of conversation, weird imagery. He made references to strangling, to squeezing the fine flesh of a young woman’s throat. When I asked if he had ever done such a thing, he denied it vehemently, but he looked at me in such an odd way as he spoke that I was of the strong opinion that he was not being completely honest. He also told me that when unable to sleep he would often walk the deserted streets and stare in at the windows of darkened houses, envious of the sleepers inside. ‘They make me mad with their easy slumbers,’ he said. ‘It makes me want to kill them.’”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Obviously the man is greatly disturbed and needs treatment. But why have you come to me? Surely he needs a doctor, not a detective. What do you think I can do?”
“I have a horrible feeling that this man has killed, and that he may well kill again. I believe that these fantastic scenes that he conjures up have actually taken place. They are crimes of violence and murder, and yet I have no definite proof. As a result I cannot go to the police authorities. I am sure they would laugh at me or at best think I was delusional.”
“And what makes you think that I will react any differently?”
“Because you are much shrewder. I have read of your work and I know that you can see beyond the obvious, see things that others are unable to see. That you are able to uncover secret truths which lie hidden from the eyes of the official investigators.”
Holmes gave a bleak smile. “You make me sound quite a paragon. You have obviously been overdosing on Dr. Watson’s accounts of my doings. He tends to exaggerate my skills somewhat. However, I am still not clear why you think this patient of yours may be a murderer.”
Rubenstein screwed up his face. “It is so difficult to explain. I suppose it is more intuition than… Yesterday, for example, he came to me in quite a dishevelled state after another night without sleep. He sat in the chair opposite my desk, his long fingers working frantically all the time he was talking to me, as though, as though… as though he were strangling someone.” Our visitor demonstrated the actions in a melodramatic fashion before continuing, pressing his podgy fingers around an imaginary throat. “He told me that his insomnia had led him to walk the streets again. Apparently he found himself in Paddington at one point, before losing track of reality. The next thing he remembered was finding himself sitting on his own doorstep as dawn was breaking. He had no notion of what had happened in the meantime. Then I read in the papers that a young woman had been murdered – strangled – in the Paddington area. I could not help but put the two incidents together. Surely it cannot simply be a coincidence?” He shook his head vigorously. “I really do not know what to do, Mr. Holmes.”
My friend glanced at me. It was a gesture of enquiry, soliciting my view of the garbled but chilling recitative we had just heard. I gave a little shake of the head, hoping to convey the sense that I was perplexed by the tale and was entirely unsure what Holmes should do about it.
“Where does your patient live?” asked my friend at length.
“That is part of the problem. I do not know. He never revealed this information to me. It is not a requirement I make for receiving treatment. I am new to the city and I am keen to take on as many patients as possible to establish my practice. They come to me for consultation; I do not make house calls.”
“So you have no way of tracing him?”
Rubenstein shook his head.
“Then I do not know what you expect me to do. I am afraid the details of your concern are nebulous. I suggest you come back to me when you have something more concrete to relay. I am a very busy man and am currently engaged on a most important case and I cannot spare any time to go chasing will-o’-the-wisps.”
“But Mr. Holmes… I fear… Look, Mr. Strauss has an appointment to see me tomorrow at four-thirty in the afternoon. Is it possible for you also to be in attendance and judge for yourself whether my suspicions are well founded or, as you state, a mere will-o’-the-wisp?”
Holmes thought for a moment. “Very well. I will attend this consultation.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. That is marvellous. It will set my mind at ease, but…” Our visitor hesitated and seemed somewhat reluctant to continue.
“But…?” prompted Holmes.
“Well, I think it would be best if you came alone. I fear that two extra persons in my consulting room might well put Mr. Strauss on his guard. I could introduce you as an esteemed colleague.”
“I am sure Dr. Watson would be more than happy to sit out this particular investigation.”
“Of course. Whatever is for the best,” I averred.
“That is arranged, then. If you will be at my consulting rooms some twenty minutes before Mr. Strauss’s appointment at four-thirty p.m.…” Rubenstein handed Holmes his card.
“I shall be there,” confirmed Holmes, slipping the card into his waistcoat pocket.
“Excellent. Well, gentlemen, I will not take up any more of your valuable time.” He rose swiftly and made for the door. “Your co-operation has eased my mind greatly, Mr. Holmes. I cannot thank you enough. Until tomorrow.”
“And what do you make of that?” I asked, after our visitor had gone.
“Unless my senses are fooling me, I smell a trap,” said Holmes decisively. “We have heard some strange stories in this room, old boy, but nothing quite so risible or preposterous as the one we bore witness to just now.” So saying, Holmes moved swiftly to the window and stared out at the street below.
“By all that’s wonderful,” he cried, with great excitement. “Great Heavens, we have just been entertaining the man himself: our murderer.”
I rushed to Holmes’s side at the window. I saw Rubenstein clamber on to the seat of a black carriage and drive off down Baker Street.
“See, Watson, the cross in white chalk on the back of the carriage: the mark made by Wiggins before he was dislodged. We have just now encountered the man responsible for the murders of Lady Damury and Blanche Andrews, and the attempted murder of Ruth Marshall. The absolute brass nerve of the fellow!”
>
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Oh, oh, that is simple enough. He hopes to lure me to that address and do away with me, of course.” To my surprise Holmes gave one of his shrill, unnerving laughs. “My involvement in the case has unnerved him sufficiently to lure him out of the shadows. I must have got deep under the fellow’s skin if he risked exposure by coming here to set his lure. No doubt he received some kind of thrill at entering the den of the man he views as his deadly enemy.”
“But why?”
Holmes shrugged. “As a medical man you will know that there is little reason or rhyme in a twisted mind. The fellow is obviously an obsessive and I have become his obsession. He will not rest until he has killed me.”
I shuddered at the thought. “What will you do?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Gustav Caligari grinned all the way back to his house in Kensington. He deemed his visit to Sherlock Holmes a tremendous success. He was sure that his story had created the desired effect, that the flimsy nature of his tale of the insomniac strangler would intrigue Holmes. He knew the man was arrogant enough not to resist the challenge he had presented. The reference to the Paddington strangling added yet more finesse to the ruse. He knew too that the suspicious nature of the scenario was the irresistible bait which would lead to the detective’s downfall. Caligari was confident concerning what the great Sherlock Holmes would do next, and he would be ready for him.
On arriving home, he made his way up to Robert’s room, rousing him in order to recount his adventures in Baker Street. Narrating them rather like a father telling a bedtime story to a child, Caligari gave Robert a detailed account of his interview with Holmes, adding various asides to illustrate his brilliance and skill at drawing Holmes like a fly into his sticky web.
“Of course, my dear Robert, you will play a major role in the next sequence of my plan – my plan to destroy Sherlock Holmes.”
Robert stared straight ahead. Now that his feelings had atrophied, he was incapable of registering any sense of emotion on his pale ghost of a face; yet Caligari knew that he listened and understood.
Chapter Twenty-five
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
“A spot of burglary is in order,” said Holmes with great enthusiasm.
My friend elaborated. “Rubenstein, as we must refer to him, although certainly it is not his real name, believes that I will turn up at his consulting room tomorrow just before four-thirty. He hopes to trap me and then, no doubt, attempt to kill me. So, we must be ahead of the game and break into the premises tonight to see what information we can glean, which will lead us straight to our man. He will not be expecting such an early visitation.”
“Why not simply pass the matter over to the police?” I asked.
Holmes gave me a tight, sardonic grin. “I doubt if any other women are at risk. Besides, this is a personal challenge for me – I cannot refrain from accepting it. As you well know, danger is part of my trade.”
“At least have Lestrade provide some support.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And have our quarry alerted by heavy-footed policemen?”
“Then you will not go alone,” I said.
Holmes gave me a warm smile. “I have no intention of press-ganging you into this venture, my dear Watson. However, if you insist on accompanying me, I shall certainly place no obstacles in your way.”
I laughed. “You will not be surprised when I state categorically that I do insist.”
“The old campaigner lives! In that case, I suggest that you make sure you have your pistol with you. An Ely No. 2 is an excellent companion when one is dealing with a character who goes around strangling young women.”
* * *
It was approaching midnight when we turned off the busy and brightly illuminated Marylebone High Street into Cedar Court. Along the narrow lane, crowded with small business properties, we soon found number 7, which bore a makeshift sign outside stating that this was the surgery of “Dr. A. Rubenstein”. Holmes had little difficulty in forcing the feeble lock. With the aid of a pocket lantern to light our way, we entered the premises. The place smelt damp and musty. A corridor led to a flight of stairs to the upper floor and to two doors on the right-hand side, which appeared to be the extent of the downstairs area.
“As I suspected,” said Holmes quietly, “the property has not been used as any kind of doctor’s surgery. It has merely been rented for the purposes of a trap.”
“It all seems somewhat blatant, Holmes,” I said. “He had no hope of fooling you once you had stepped over the threshold of this place.”
“You are quite correct. It is a fact that concerns me greatly…”
Holmes had only just uttered the words when we heard a noise in the room immediately to our right. Holmes placed his gloved finger to his lips and then, slipping his revolver from his coat pocket, pushed the door ajar with his foot.
I stood immediately behind him and, in the dim beam of the pocket lantern, observed a dark shape at the far side of the room.
“Stay where you are. I am armed,” said Holmes, training the lantern onto the face of the vague figure. It was Alexander Rubenstein.
“Good evening. Why, Mr. Holmes, you are far too early for your appointment,” he said smoothly and then looked away from my friend, into the shadows. “Now, Robert,” he cried suddenly.
It was only then that I realised there was yet another presence in the room. A tall, dark figure emerged from the shadows near the door and struck Sherlock Holmes on the back of the head with some implement. My friend slumped to the floor, the lantern falling from his grasp, and the light went out.
“And again, Robert,” came Rubenstein’s voice once more. Before I knew what was happening my revolver had been knocked from my grasp and I felt cold fingers at my throat. I struggled to pull free but it was to no avail. My assailant’s grip was too strong and I could feel my body growing limp as consciousness drained from me. The last thing I remember before darkness overcame me was Rubenstein’s voice. “Gently, Robert. Gently,” it said.
Chapter Twenty-six
Sherlock Holmes awoke with a start. He was cold and his head throbbed. It took him some moments to realise where he was and what had happened to him. With a determined focus he pulled himself up into a sitting position and tried to assemble his thoughts, which were still somewhat blurred. He had been struck a blow on the back of the head; the small egg-like lump bore witness to that. Thankfully, it felt as though the skin had not been broken. Holmes remembered seeing Rubenstein in the room, but it was not he who had attacked him – attacked him from behind. Then, as clarity grew in his mind, a worrying thought came to him: where was Watson? He gazed around the gloomy chamber but there was no sign of his friend. Had he been bludgeoned also? If so, where was he now?
He called out Watson’s name but his voice merely echoed and faded in the gloom. There was no response. If that fiend Rubenstein has harmed Watson, he thought, the flame of anger igniting within him, he will pay dearly for it. He rose to his feet and dusted down his clothes. By the light of dawn, squeezing its way through the gaps in the curtains, he was able to observe footprints in the dust, but they revealed no clear scenario. What he saw, too, was a long cream envelope on the floor, a few feet from where he had lain. It bore his name on the front and he recognised the florid handwriting, which was the same as that on the note that had been left on Blanche Andrews’ body. More games, he thought, as he tore back the flap and extracted a sheet of stiff notepaper. He read the message it contained:
Dear Mr. Holmes
The game is afoot. I present you with a little
challenge. You have until midnight to discover the
whereabouts of Dr. Watson. If you fail – he will die.
It is as simple as that.
Happy hunting.
A friend.
On returning to Baker Street, his head still sore from the blow, Holmes first made a call on Mrs. Hudson to enquire about Ruth Marshall. �
��She’s fine, if a little frustrated with looking at the four walls of her bedroom for most of the day,” the landlady informed him. “She knows that her confinement is in her best interests, but that does not help matters. Mr. Firbank called yesterday, wanting to take her for a walk in the park, but I put my foot down as instructed. He was not amused at my intransigence.” Her face flickered briefly into a smile. “But he is too much of a gentleman to protest.”
“You are an excellent keeper of the gate. I beg that you do not weaken. There is a creature out there bent on ending this young lady’s life, I assure you.”
“I shall do my best, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you. You always do, in all things. I know that I can rely on you. Have you seen Dr. Watson this morning, by chance?”
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “No, not at all.”
Holmes gave a friendly nod and left without another word. He made his way to his room, where he hurriedly washed, shaved and changed his clothes. He then sat by the empty grate and smoked a pipe of strong tobacco while he focused his mind on the problem before him, exerting the full power of his brain: what game was Rubenstein playing, and where was Watson? He was well aware that his friend was incidental to the villain’s plans. The real target was himself. Rubenstein wanted to traumatise the detective before finally doing away with him. That did not unduly concern Holmes; his real worry was for Watson. A knot of fear began to harden in his chest. If any real harm came to his friend, he could never forgive himself. It was a delicate matter that should be handled with the utmost care. Holmes knew he must not involve the police. He could not trust Lestrade and his cronies to deal with the situation effectively. This was his personal challenge.
He puffed heavily on his pipe, his head enveloped in a cloud of pungent grey smoke as he struggled to out-think Rubenstein and to construct a plan of action. In his mind, he ran through their visit to the darkened house in Cedar Court. He envisioned himself and Watson at a distance, as if the two of them were characters in a play. He saw them venture into the darkened chamber on the right and the beam of his pocket lantern picking out the figure at the far side of the room. As the light sought out the man’s face, it became apparent that it was Rubenstein. There was no mistaking that large face and piercing eyes. He said “Good evening,” as though encountering them at some social gathering, and added in a more strident tone, “Now, Robert.” This, pondered Holmes, was a command, an instruction to some other individual who had been primed for action. Then Holmes remembered the rustling sound behind him and the sudden pain he felt as he received a blow to the head. He had fallen to the floor. Heavily concussed but not yet unconscious, from ground level he was still able to register in a hazy fashion the events that occurred in the gloom around him.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 14