The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  Here Holmes and I stared dumbstruck as the man threw his head down upon his deformed chest and wept with joy and relief, the tears covering his monstrous face. I could almost have wept myself, so pathetic was the sight of this poor creature who had endured so much, without a friend or comforter in the world. And yet, were tears to come to my eyes, they would also have been tears of joy and renewed faith in the human heart: for now clearly John Merrick had friends and comforters, and his life as a public horror had drawn to a close.

  “He went to the grounds that night,” Treves continued, “alone and in secret, as strictly instructed by the circus representative—”

  Holmes and I glared at each other. We had little doubt as to the identity of the “representative.”

  “And did you meet this man at the edge of the grounds?” pursued Holmes.

  “Yes, he did,” continued Treves. “He was helped over the fence and led into a narrow tunnel in the tent. There he was told to remain, squatting in his great cloak, which conceals him in public, until the signal was given.”

  “And what was the signal?”

  “When the flaps were raised, Merrick was to fling off his cloak, rise up and wave his limbs about. Thereupon, he was told, the flaps would immediately close again, and he was to refasten his cloak and scurry outside again the same instant—returning to the hospital secretly, and telling no one of this ‘audition.’ ”

  “Was he paid, or offered employment?” I asked.

  “He was paid two pounds for his appearance which is, as we know, remarkably good pay. If the owners decided to hire him, he was to be notified in a week. Otherwise, he was strictly instructed to keep the matter quiet, accepting the generous payment for his efforts.”

  Merrick answered all the questions in a forthright manner, obviously blissfully unaware of the nefarious purpose to which his “appearance” had been put.

  “Finally, John, can you please describe this representative who approached you?”

  When we heard the description, which fit Vladimir Vayenko in every detail, we knew the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. However, so as not to upset Merrick, Holmes and I departed without further questions.

  “Well, we’ve truly met a monster on this case, Watson,” remarked Holmes as he hailed a cab, “although it’s not the poor follow who lies yonder…”

  “The coward! Rather than face his rival directly, he chose to seek revenge by killing his loved one!”

  “Yes. But I’m sure the revenge was direct as well. Love can turn quickly to hate, as you know. He never forgave Anna for throwing him away for Zolnay.”

  “And to use poor Merrick as the means—after all the wretched soul has been through…”

  “It is ugly in every respect, Watson. Also, considering his recent actions towards me, I’m convinced that, like most cowards, Vayenko is a bully.”

  “Lucky for him he didn’t choose to confront you on the ground!”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Like most heavily muscled men, he would be slow to the punch and block. But we digress. The question is: what to do now?”

  “Why, summon the police, of course! It’s clear now that Vayenko caused Anna’s death: he somehow rigged the flaps so they could be opened from the far platform. Then, just as Anna began her difficult stunt, he opened them quickly, revealing a sight so horrid that she lost control—”

  “Yes, of course. We know that’s what happened. But who else would believe us? Zolnay, due to his position high up on the centre bar saw nothing. Anna is dead. We have poor Merrick, who can scarcely speak. Can you imagine his appearing in a public courtroom against Vayenko? On whose side would the jury’s sympathy lie? Also, who would believe such an outlandish tale? The only evidence that Vayenko was directly related to a planned act was his closing of the tent before the rehearsal. No, Watson, it won’t do. Vayenko is a coward and a blackguard, but a deucedly clever one. Somehow, probably in connection with his career, he became acquainted with the whereabouts of Merrick, the elephant man, and has used the unfortunate man in a diabolically clever murder.”

  “Is there nothing we can do, then?” I asked with a curse.

  “Yes,” he answered after several minutes of deep thought. “That is why we’re headed for Chipperfield’s.”

  —

  Once again we found the circus people, usually so gay and sociable, downcast in clouds of fear and gloom. To add to their woes the weather had turned cold and rainy with heavy winds. This is the worst possible weather for the circus, and attendance had fallen to a mere trickle. Accordingly nobody seemed surprised, in fact most seemed relieved, when Lamar Chipperfield announced the afternoon show postponed. Holmes and I ambled along the back yard, splashing through puddles and watching the performers idle about. Most were snug in their caravans, and from the noise issuing from many of them, we could tell that the ale and calvados were flowing freely. Passing close by some of them, we heard more talk of the hoodoo, and how the ugly weather was but one manifestation of the dead monkey’s curse.

  We found Zolnay in his wagon, brooding over a bottle of schnapps. He welcomed us warmly, and managed to keep a composed exterior for several minutes before breaking down into a fit of weeping. We comforted him as best we could. Then my companion, fixing his steely gaze upon the Hungarian giant, said in a low whisper: “Mr. Zolnay, Dr. Watson and myself are close to finding the solution to your beloved Anna’s death. But there remains one matter that must be attended to. Will you help us?”

  As expected, he complied fully and eagerly.

  “Good,” continued Holmes. “Now tonight, the doctor and I shall return here to your caravan. We will arrive late, when everyone should be asleep. Do not tell anyone of our intended visit, not even Larkin. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. But is there nothing more you can tell me about my poor Anna?”

  “Not at this time, I’m afraid. Just be here at one o’clock fully dressed. Adieu.”

  To my surprise, we retraced our route back to London Hospital. There, Holmes dashed from the cab, telling me to wait. In less than ten minutes he came bounding back, a hospital laundry bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Marvelous fellow Treves, and most cooperative as well,” said he after directing the cabbie to Baker Street.

  “Eh, what’s in the bag, Holmes?”

  “Tut! You shall find out soon enough, dear fellow. I think I have devised a rather clever way for Vayenko to confess his guilt, as you shall see tonight. Now where shall we dine? It’s my turn to treat, is it not?”

  —

  Shortly after mid-night Holmes roused me from my fitful dozing in front of the fireplace.

  “I must say I sometimes envy your lethargic nature, Watson,” he remarked, drawing on his coat. “You seem to be able to sleep anywhere at any time, regardless of impending action. Well, up you go and let’s be off. But first, will you lend me your leather coin purse?”

  We arrived at the circus grounds shortly before the appointed hour. I was dumbstruck to see that Holmes had brought the laundry bag with him, as well as a walking stick. It certainly had my curiosity up. We were about to scale the fence when the sound of measured footfalls reached our ears.

  “Watchman!” cried Holmes in a hoarse whisper. “Drat! I’d forgotten him.”

  But we scurried behind a wagon until the man passed, then scaled the fence without difficulty. Slinking from shadow to shadow, we worked our way to Zolnay’s caravan. We were careful to avoid the menagerie wagons, for if aroused, the lions would certainly betray our presence.

  We entered the wagon and Holmes instructed Zolnay to light a single taper, keeping the curtains drawn tight over all the windows. He then stood before Zolnay’s bunk and proceeded to empty the contents of the laundry bag upon it. Out tumbled a ragged pile of clothes, including the strangest, and largest, cap I have ever seen.

  “Good Lord, Holmes, what on earth—?”

  “John Merrick’s walking apparel, Watson. Treves is correct, a most
amazing—not to say outlandish—bit of haberdashery, eh? You see how clever it is? Not a bit of the person can be seen. Notice especially the hat. See the canvas visor that hangs down on all sides? The eye slit is the only opening. Now the cloak, as you can see, actually is more of a tent. The long sleeves conceal the arms. These mittens somewhat resemble the coarse ‘slipper’ we examined at our quarters…”

  Zolnay stared silently in amazement as Holmes held up each strange article.

  “Finally,” he continued, “we have these baggy trousers, which I shall now draw on over my own…”

  I was beginning to follow Holmes’s scheme, and had an inkling of the purpose to which he would put my leather coin purse.

  “Now the two of you must help me. Master of disguise that I am, impersonating the ‘elephant man’ will surely be my most ambitious enterprise to date. Now, Watson, fetch those two rolls of sticking plaster will you. Zolnay, if you’d be good enough to wad up that newspaper yonder and stuff it into this great hat—hardly a task worthy of your strength—that’s a good fellow.”

  Next he brought out an empty snuff tin from his coat. I noticed that its bottom had been removed so that, with the lid off, it became a metal tube about four inches in length. To my utter amazement, Holmes placed the tube against his mouth and, with my help, fastened it there securely with the sticking plaster. When next he spoke, it was in a hollow, distorted voice remarkably similar to Merrick’s!

  “This miniature megaphone does the trick, eh? And the cap’s visor will keep it well-concealed.”

  He then drew on the grotesque slippers and gloves, finally topping off the disguise with the giant peaked cap, from which hung down, from all sides, the curtain of cloth. And when he hobbled about the caravan with his cane, bent over in the strange costume and babbling incoherently behind the visor, the transformation into Merrick, the “elephant man,” was complete. Zolnay continued to gape in confusion until Holmes, unable to keep him in the dark any longer, explained our night-time mission: Holmes, impersonating Merrick, was to go to Vayenko’s wagon—in the dead of night as Merrick would have been forced to do—and ask for more money for performing his “feat.” Hopefully Vayenko’s reaction would implicate him. As expected, the Hungarian trembled with wrath, and almost burst from his wagon in fury to seek the Russian. Holmes and I restrained him with difficulty.

  “There, there, old fellow! I’ve gone to much trouble to arrange this nocturnal visit. If properly carried off, Vayenko will hang. Seek revenge now, and you could hang, and Anna’s killer will go free.”

  The man saw our logic and restrained himself, yet I could hear that his breathing was heavy and fast, and he swore an oath under his breath as we departed the wagon.

  We ambled about in the dark with Holmes in the lead. I was surprised that he headed towards the fence instead of Vayenko’s wagon. But his intentions were made clear by the silent approach of a figure who had been waiting near the fence. In a moment, Lestrade was standing beside us.

  We made our way to Vayenko’s wagon. There Holmes bade us crawl underneath it and sit behind the rear axle. From there, we had a clear view of Holmes as he stood at the foot of the ladder. I felt the excitement growing in me, and noticed that Zolnay’s agitation had increased still; he clenched and unclenched his huge fists and ground his teeth in rage. We hadn’t long to wait. The “elephant man” hobbled up the steps and rapped upon the wagon’s door with his walking stick. A long silence followed, and Holmes rapped a second time. We then heard a thumping and stumbling above us, and the door opened with a curse.

  “Who’s there?” cried a voice still heavy with drink. “What do you want?”

  Holmes backed down the ladder and held up my coin purse. We could hear the unintelligible, hollow groaning that issued from his mask.

  “Oh it’s you, is it?” said Vayenko in a threatening tone. “What have you come back for? I told you not to return!”

  Yet Holmes remained, holding up the purse and groaning.

  “You monster! You have your nerve, you hideous beast! What are you trying to tell me, eh? What?”

  Holmes was busy gesticulating with his arms and mumbling. We could see he was trying to indicate a fall from a high place.

  “Ah, so you know of that, do you?” said Vayenko in a low voice. “So you saw her fall. You have discovered my little scheme, eh? And you now want more money to keep quiet…”

  There was a period of silence. Holmes stood still, as if to indicate that that was indeed what he wanted. When Vayenko spoke next, his voice was full of treachery.

  “See here, man. People will hear us talking out here, won’t you come inside my wagon? There we can share a bottle and discuss the payment…”

  Holmes backed off, still holding the purse upraised towards Vayenko, who began to descend the ladder towards my companion.

  “No need to be afraid, Merrick. I’ll pay you five pounds not to tell anyone about Anna’s death…”

  At that instant, the Russian lunged at Holmes, who would have raised his stick in defence were it not for the cloth that covered his face and so affected his vision. For the night was dark to begin with, and the small eye slit rendered him almost blind. Likewise the loosely draped clothes hindered his normally quick limbs, and Holmes fell beneath the rush of the heavy man.

  Vayenko was no doubt surprised that the man he supposed to be stunted and clumsy was in fact a sinewy boxer of tremendous strength. After recovering from his momentary disadvantage, Holmes dealt his attacker two quick punches to the face. His blows staggered the acrobat, who seized the cane Holmes had dropped. Although we three had already sprung from our hiding place and were racing towards the two combatants, we were too late to prevent Vayenko from striking Holmes on the side of the head and knocking him to the ground. The man turned in time to see us, and went pale with terror at the sight of Zolnay bearing down on him.

  I knelt down over Holmes, who was not seriously hurt, though he had a nasty welt on the side of his face. We heard the din of running feet and shouted oaths as he removed the awkward disguise and joined me in pursuit. Before we had gone ten steps, however, there came a scream that froze the blood in my veins. It was filled with terror and agony, and ended abruptly in a hoarse choke.

  Owing to the darkness, it was several minutes before we discovered the body. By this time scores of people had joined us at the site, as we gazed at the twisted figure that lay bent backwards over a wagon tongue. Vayenko’s eyes were open, and showed the ghostly white of death. His head was flung backwards at a grotesque angle, the back of the neck resting on the wooden beam. A quick inspection with my hands revealed what I had thought from the first: his neck was snapped entirely through. We called for a lantern, and in the light Holmes pointed out four great bruises upon the dead man’s forehead. Each was the size of a shilling. Holmes attempted to place his fingers upon them but they were far too wide apart. In my mind’s eye I swiftly recalled the great gloves that had enveloped my hand, and had no doubts as to how Vladimir Vayenko had met his death. Holmes shot a knowing glance in my direction.

  “You see, Watson,” he whispered softly, “using this projecting wagon tongue as a fulcrum, and placing his hand along Vayenko’s forehead, he bent the head back—”

  “Yes, I know,” I said shortly. Certainly only a man with superhuman strength could have broken the massive neck of Vayenko. Yet I felt no remorse for the scoundrel who lay at our feet. Moreover, my concern was for the Hungarian giant, who was no doubt at that very instant in flight for his life across the fields of Wimbledon.

  I felt a jostling at my side and saw Lestrade, recently arrived, peering down at the corpse.

  “How did this fellow meet his end?” he enquired. “Did he fall in the dark and break his neck?”

  Holmes and I glanced at each other momentarily.

  “That would certainly seem possible,” admitted Holmes noncommittally.

  “And the other fellow, where is he?”

  “We’ve no idea,” I replied. “I
say, Lestrade, shouldn’t I call a hospital van? Eh? Yes, I’ll do so directly whilst you and Holmes see to matters here.” By the time the van arrived, Lestrade, still assuming Vayenko’s death was accidental, had lost all interest in Zolnay. Holmes and I suspected that he was hiding in one of the many caravans belonging to his friends, or else was flying from London, and the horrendous events he was part of, aboard an express train.

  “Wherever he may be,” mused Holmes as we made our way back to the flat as dawn was breaking, “I wish him Godspeed.”

  Epilogue

  But in the end, the hoodoo claimed its final victim.

  Scarcely two months after our adventure with Zolnay the aerialist, Holmes interrupted our morning tea with the announcement that Merrick was dead. The piece in the Telegraph was brief, and obviously devoid of the pain and pathos that had marked the tragic life of young John Merrick:

  “ELEPHANT MAN” DIES IN SLEEP

  London, August 24—John Merrick, the human monstrosity known also as the “Elephant Man,” died in his sleep last night in his private room at London Hospital. According to Dr. Frederick Treves, the physician in attendance, death occurred around 3:00 a.m., and was caused by a dislocation of the neck. Dr. Treves explained that Merrick was accustomed to sleeping in an upright position, yet, perhaps to fulfill his lifelong dream to “be like other people,” he had this night attempted to sleep recumbent, with the result that his massive head—over three times normal size and weight, must have fallen back upon the soft pillow in such a fashion as to dislocate the vertebrae and sever major nerves. All evidence seems to point to a peaceful, if untimely death, since the coverlets weren’t in the slightest disturbed. In accordance with a voluntary arrangement with the hospital, the body shall be donated to the Medical School of the University of London. Merrick was 27 years old.