The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death

by David Stuart Davies

  “I will walk across the fires of Hell barefoot before I help you,” I cried, with great passion.

  My outburst amused Rubenstein greatly. He gave a gentle chuckle before responding. “I don’t think that you will have any choice in the matter, my friend. It seems that you have not been paying full attention. You are hardly in a position to refuse.”

  He paused for a moment as if a thought had struck him. “Let me explain the matter to you, Doctor. I have to admit that from time to time I do, as you English say, get a bee in my bonnet. Something that irritates me to such an extent that I become very focused in my anger, determined to eradicate that particular bee – squash it until the bodily juices spill out. At the moment your annoying colleague Sherlock Holmes is that buzzing creature, and I intend to destroy him. To squash him underfoot. He foiled my plans, you see. Prevented me from eliminating the Marshall girl. That upset me greatly. I cannot forgive him for it. And so all my energies now are spent on my revenge. First he must suffer and then he will die. I have already given him pain and distress by kidnapping you. No doubt at this very moment, he is running around London trying to follow up clues in order to discover where you are. Don’t worry, he will succeed. I have confidence in him. After all, he is the Great Detective. He will, I am sure, track you down. And in doing so, track me down. And we will be ready for him, won’t we, Dr. Watson? Primed and ready.”

  “I don’t know what on earth you are babbling on about, Rubenstein,” I said as casually as I could, despite the knot of fear that was beginning to form in my stomach.

  “Rubenstein? Oh, I am not Rubenstein. I am Caligari. Caligari, the master hypnotist.” He suddenly moved towards me with a darting motion and ripped back the sleeve of my shirt, exposing my right arm. “For the moment, I need to raise the veil from your eyes regarding your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You will assist me in this matter.”

  “Never. I would rather die.”

  He chuckled softly and retreated to the far corner of the room, returning seconds later carrying a hypodermic needle.

  “Time to knit up that ravelled sleeve of care,” he observed as he inserted the needle into my naked arm and pressed down on the piston. “There now. That will help you relax.”

  “Whatever you do to me, you will not succeed in getting the upper hand on Sherlock Holmes.”

  “What a naïve fellow you are, Watson.”

  It took but a few moments for the wretched drug to have an effect on me. I was consumed with an almost overpowering sense of tiredness, my body growing limp and my vision blurring, as though I were viewing the world through frosted glass. But the overall sensation was that of ease. I no longer held any worries or dark concerns regarding my situation. Indeed, I found myself smiling.

  Chapter Thirty

  Caligari watched with great satisfaction as the drug took hold of Watson. His body relaxed and his head slipped downwards gently, as though he had lost the use of the muscles in his neck. But the eyes, though glazed, remained open.

  “Welcome to my world, Dr. Watson. The little drug I have just administered will help you come around to my way of thinking. To begin with, I want to find out about your friendship with Sherlock Holmes. I have studied all the published accounts of your investigations with him. He is a good friend to you?”

  Watson did not respond immediately. His mind was too fogged by the drug to provide an instant response. At length he raised his head a little and repeated: “He is a good friend.”

  “He never lets you down… this paragon?”

  “Never.”

  “Ah, I think that is not true. Does he not sometimes disappoint you? Take you for granted?”

  Again, there was a pause before Watson responded. “I do not mind. It is simply his way.”

  “You do not mind? Even when he implies that you are somewhat… stupid?”

  “He has never done that.”

  Caligari chuckled. “Oh, come now. You are not only trying to fool me, but yourself. I know that on several occasions he has called your perceptions, your intelligence, into question. Did he not once observe that you are not particularly luminous…”

  “By comparison with Holmes I am not…”

  “And he has certainly pushed that point home on many occasions, has he not?”

  Watson made no reply.

  “Time to delve a little deeper, I think,” said Caligari. “Time to make you see how obnoxious this man is.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a gold watch, holding it before his victim’s bemused face and beginning to swing it to and fro.

  “I want you to sleep now, Watson. Allow your mind to be free of all constraints. You will listen to me and absorb my instructions, my statements, as though they were your own. You will think like me. Is that understood?”

  Again there was a long pause and Caligari realised that Watson was struggling to respond. He was fighting against the effect of the drug and the hypnotic passes – but it was a losing battle.

  “Do not fight it, Doctor. Relax and surrender to my will. See the watch: how charming it is. Swinging to and fro. It helps to release the shackles on your mind. You are now free to accept new thoughts. New beliefs. My thoughts and my beliefs. You will think like me. Isn’t that so?”

  Watson’s eyes followed the trajectory of the swinging timepiece and then his dry lips trembled for a moment as he spoke in a faint, hoarse whisper: “Yes.”

  Caligari beamed. “Good. Now you are completely, totally under my influence. It is time to tell you what a despicable character your so-called friend is. How he has abused your good nature, tricked you and treated you like a fool. You know how the world sees you, thanks to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are his puppet, a menial employed to polish his ego. He has no respect for you. Remember the Baskerville case, how he kept you in the dark all that time. He treated you like a dolt. He did not trust you. He did not respect your intellect.”

  “He did. He does trust me, respect me,” Watson whispered slowly, his eyelids flickering, fingers trying and failing to grasp at anything that might pull him from this nightmarish loss of control. But it was hopeless. He felt himself sinking deeper into oblivion.

  “Oh, but he did not,” murmured Caligari, irked by his subject’s ability to fight the drug. He was confident, however, that his expertise would prevail, although perhaps a slightly higher dose of the drug would assist. He prepared a second hypodermic, smiling as he injected another vein firmly. Watson winced and his eyelids flickered erratically.

  “Now, where were we? Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, hmm? He neither trusts nor respects you. He despises you.”

  “Trust. Respect…” murmured Watson in soft guttural tones.

  “By return, why should you trust and respect him, the man who laughs at your efforts to help him? How often has he made you feel small and insignificant? How often has he told you that you have failed?”

  “Failed.”

  “Many times.”

  “Yes… many times.”

  “He let you mourn him for many months when you thought him dead, drowned in that waterfall in Switzerland. He has no consideration for your feelings. He treats you badly because he sees you as incompetent, Watson. You are dull and stupid.”

  Watson shook his head. “He shouldn’t have done that. He didn’t mean to but it was cruel.”

  “Cruel, indeed. Sherlock Holmes is cruel. Now we are getting somewhere.”

  * * *

  Some long and frustrating hours later Caligari sat in the gloom of the cellar smoking a cigar, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face. He glanced over at the now-unconscious Watson and grinned. It had not been easy, and had taken several attempts to fracture Watson’s instinctive and annoyingly deep core of admiration for the damned detective, but in the end Caligari’s efforts had borne fruit. Watson was now his. He had broken down his victim’s great core of love for Holmes. The effect of the drug and his mastery of the hypnotic technique had corrupted Watson’s mind. The doctor was now his puppet, his
instrument, one that would bring about the destruction of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Sherlock Holmes stood in the shadows on the far side of the road, gazing at the property opposite. It was 34 Sedgwick Street, Kensington, the designated address of Gustav Caligari, hypnotherapist.

  This, thought Holmes, was where the trail ended. Or, he hoped that it was where the trail ended. He was convinced that he was correct in his belief that Alexander Rubenstein was really Gustav Caligari and, for some perverted motive, had taken Watson to use as bait to lure him to this address. All the clues were present and he well knew the way that the mind of a monomaniac functioned. The fact that Caligari had not killed him when he had been rendered unconscious in the empty premises in Cedar Court – the perfect opportunity to do so – clearly indicated the unstable nature of the man’s mind. It was as though he wished to play a game of cat and mouse in order to extend the control he possessed as a hypnotist. He had already exerted the ultimate power by dealing in death. He was responsible for the demise of two women already – he and his strange accomplice. A vision of the tall, stiff-legged figure in the darkened room came to his mind. The vivid memory confirmed his theory that this odd creature was in thrall to Caligari’s powers of hypnotism. He was, in fact, his instrument of death.

  As Holmes observed the building across the road, he lit a cigarette and considered his options. Were Caligari and his strange partner inside just waiting for him to arrive, to ride to Watson’s rescue? Waiting, in readiness, so they could kill him and Watson together? Or was this another trick? Would he find the place deserted? Would there be another cream envelope awaiting him with another taunting message? These were questions he simply could not answer. One thing was certain. This was his challenge. He could trust no one else with the task. If necessary the police would clean up the mess afterwards. For now, he had no option but to go in there and find out.

  He had decided that he would not attempt an illegal entry, clambering in through a window at the rear or any other such melodramatic activity. He would enter by way of the front door. There were moments in his career when he had put all thoughts of his personal safety to one side in order to secure a successful outcome. These had been effective so far, but each had presented him with a dangerous challenge and maybe one day he would fail. Yet, he reasoned, this was a crucial aspect of his calling as a detective, one he could neither deny nor avoid. How could he shy away from the task when the safety of his dear friend was at stake? With a determined shrug of the shoulders, he threw his cigarette in the gutter and crossed the road.

  He stood before the door for a few moments before taking any action. Rather than ring the bell, he turned the handle, and within moments he was standing in a small, dimly lit hallway. He withdrew his pistol, but before he was able to take another step forward, he heard a voice ring out: “In here, Mr. Holmes. The room to your right.”

  It was Caligari.

  Holmes approached and opened the door swiftly, letting it swing back firmly against the wall in order to ensure no one was hiding there. He quickly surveyed the room. No lamp or fire was lit and pools of gloom lay in wait in the corners. The room was sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a small side table, a chaise longue and, by the window, a monstrous leafy aspidistra, its dark leaves resting against the drawn blind, casting abstract, jagged shadows across the room from the streetlamp outside. In the centre of the room was a desk, behind which was seated Gustav Caligari.

  His bulk lay in blackest shadow, but Holmes could see from a brief glint that a shark-like smile had flitted across the face of the hypnotist.

  “What a dramatic entrance, Mr. Holmes. And carrying a gun also. My, my. You appear like a furtive criminal rather than the revered upholder of the law that you profess yourself to be. Do you intend to shoot me?”

  “That is not beyond the bounds of possibility,” replied Holmes smoothly, his impressive dark brow set in a fierce frown. Slowly he took a step closer to Caligari, after scanning his surroundings to make sure that no other persons were present.

  “Then this may prove to be a very entertaining interview. You will not be surprised to learn that I too have a weapon.” He raised his right hand above the desk to reveal that he was holding a pistol. “I do hope that the police do not arrive here some time later to find two bodies on the floor. It would be such a loss to mankind for us to shoot one another.”

  “Where is Watson?”

  “Ah, yes, Watson. Good old Watson. You are missing your friend, no doubt. I am aware of how much you mean to each other.”

  “I will ask you one more time. Where is he?” Holmes said, his voice cold and harsh, eyes glittering with suppressed anger.

  “You would like to see him, no doubt. Very well, I have no wish to disappoint you. I will arrange for him to visit us.”

  Caligari placed the gun on the desk and retrieved a small silver whistle from his waistcoat pocket. With great deliberation, he placed it in his mouth and blew. A thin, reedy, high-pitched sound emerged, echoing eerily around the room.

  As though in response to the whistle, there were sudden noises outside the room: a door opening and footsteps approaching. Holmes turned slightly and saw Watson standing in the doorway, haggard face coated with perspiration and shoulders stooped as though supporting an invisible heavy burden. But it was the eyes that fascinated and shocked Holmes. No longer the lively intelligent eyes of his old friend, they were like the blue empty shells of a dead man. It was almost as though he were sightless. So odd and disturbing was his appearance that Holmes took a step back.

  “Now,” cried Caligari.

  At the sound of his voice, Watson’s eyes flickered more brightly, focusing on Holmes. Before the detective could react, his friend approached him and aimed a savage blow at the hand holding the pistol. The impact was so powerful that Holmes involuntarily released his grip on the weapon and it went spinning across the room into the far corner.

  In the next instant, Watson leapt forward and grabbed Holmes around the throat in a tight stranglehold. Holmes tried to fight back, pushing hard against Watson’s chest, but he struggled in vain. It was though his friend were imbued with the strength of two men. As the grip around his neck grew tighter, he was driven towards the desk. He gasped for air, realising at last that this creature was no longer Watson, his old friend and companion. He had been turned into a murderous automaton through Caligari’s power of hypnotism – with the aid, he suspected, of some powerful narcotic cocktail designed to suppress free will and which appeared to provide him with an almost inhuman energy.

  Watson rammed Holmes against the desk, forcing him backwards and down onto its surface, all the while maintaining the iron grip on his erstwhile companion’s throat. Holmes was aware of Caligari slipping from his chair and moving out of range of the confrontation. He knew that only a few moments of consciousness remained to him as Watson squeezed the air out of his lungs. His hands flailed along the desk, searching for an object he had observed when he first entered the room. At last his fingers found it, and with a great effort he was able to snatch hold of the glass paperweight. He swung it up, hard, against Watson’s forehead. The result was instantaneous. Watson cried out in pain and immediately his fingers relaxed their hold. Within seconds the detective pushed his assailant away. Watson staggered backwards, his eyes blinking wildly before they focused on Holmes. “My God,” he croaked, his right arm shooting out, pointing at his friend. “My God,” he repeated. “Holmes, what…” Words failed him and he sank to the floor in a swoon, a minute trickle of blood running down his forehead from the wound made by the paperweight.

  A shot rang out and Holmes felt the bullet whistle by his ear. He dropped to the floor and, with a few deft movements, stretched out his arm and managed to retrieve his own gun. Caligari fired again and missed, but this time Holmes returned fire.

  From the darkness there emerged an agonised cry and two furious dark eyes glittered in the shadows, indicating that Holmes had been mo
re successful in his aim.

  “That’s for Watson!” Holmes cried, staggering towards Caligari.

  The hypnotist’s fierce features crumpled with pain and he made towards the door, now desperate to escape. Holmes fired once more but this time, in the darkness, the bullet struck only the panel of the closing door.

  Stopping to bend over Watson, Holmes checked that his friend was breathing normally. He was, he deduced, suffering from a mild concussion. Satisfied at his diagnosis, and trembling with rage, Holmes sped after Caligari.

  From the sound of the fleeting footsteps from the upper floor, it was clear that Caligari was making his way to the top of the house rather than out into the street, where it would be easy to lose himself in the maze of thoroughfares that the city had to offer. This alarmed Holmes somewhat, but he did not delay in racing up the steps in hot pursuit. As he approached the stairway to the third landing, all sounds had ceased, and an uneasy silence settled on the premises. Crouching down, he made his way cautiously up towards the top landing. Like a hunter, he cocked his head and listened for some sign of his prey. There was a sound, a kind of faint rustling, its precise nature indistinct.

  Holmes moved up a step and waited before venturing further. It was then that he heard from one of the rooms the eerie whistle and Caligari’s cry, “Now!” In an instant the door flew open and a tall, dark shape appeared in the aperture. Without hesitation, it began moving forward. This was the strange, shadowy individual who had attacked him in the house in Cedar Court.

  With almost preternatural speed, the man was on him. “Stop or I shoot,” Holmes cried, but before he had time to aim his pistol, his attacker had grabbed him by the neck, with long firm fingers at his throat. The ferocity of the attack forced Holmes backwards and both men crashed hard against the banister. His assailant now held Holmes’s arms to his sides, preventing him from raising his pistol. In desperation Holmes pulled the trigger but the bullet thudded harmlessly into the carpet. As his fingers were forced apart his grip loosened on his weapon, which fell to the floor.