"Send a copy to my London office," Barnett told him, "and I'll be glad to look at it. And now—"
"Ah, yes. Thank you for your attention. But that, of course, is not why I am imposing my presence on you, despite our lack of any sort of proper introduction. Oh, no, no!"
"It's not?" Barnett found the man's protestations, accompanied with a lot of chubby hand waving, to be simultaneously irritating and amusing.
"Not at all, Mr. Barnett, far from it. It is I who have an offer to make to you."
"You do? What sort of offer?"
"In this matter I represent the Staatlicher Überblicken, a monthly journal of conservative opinion published in the city of Zurich."
"I have heard of it," Barnett said, "although I don't read German. My wife does." He turned to Cecily.
"I know the magazine," Cecily said. "Tell me, Signor Kasper, what have you to do with it, or it with us?"
"I shall explain. You may know, then, that the Staatlicher Überblicken publishes a profile every month of an important, but little known figure of these closing years of the nineteenth century. Those individuals who have accomplishments which are of value to European civilization, but which have gone relatively unnoticed, are the subjects of these profiles." The fat man turned from Benjamin to Cecily and back, as though waiting for a reaction, and surprised that it was not there.
"Yes?" Barnett said. He glanced at Cecily, who gave an imperceptible shrug.
Kasper leaned forward and placed his palms on the table. "Mr. Barnett, you are a friend of the great criminologist and consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is this not so?"
"I am certainly an acquaintance of Mr. Holmes," Barnett replied, repressing a strong desire to laugh at the question. "I doubt whether he would consider me his friend."
Kasper shrugged. "An acquaintance, and a journalist. You are certainly the man we want. There is, as you must know, much curiosity and interest in the life and the professional abilities of Mr. Holmes. Several European police agencies are adopting his techniques for their own detective bureaus." He paused and took a wheezy breath, and then another. "Mr. Barnett, I would like to commission you to write, for the Staatlicher Überblicken, a profile of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Barnett stared at the fat man, speechless. There was hardly a less appropriate journalist in the world than himself to write such a piece. But how was the fat man to know of the enmity that existed between Sherlock Holmes and Barnett's friend and mentor Professor Moriarty? "Well," he said after a moment, "that is certainly an interesting suggestion. But I am not really the man for the task. I have hardly any time to do any writing at all anymore. And, although I have worked with him on several occasions, I'm hardly what would be described as a friend. Why don't you ask his associate, Dr. Watson, who has been recording various cases of his for the past few years?" Barnett couldn't escape the nagging feeling that there was something wrong with all this—the fat man, the meeting, the offer, and all—but he couldn't figure out just what it could be, or should be.
"The good doctor is not suitable to our needs," the fat man said. "He is not of the true journalistic tradition—the probing question, the in-depth answer, the letting of the chips to fall where they may."
The small, round-faced clergyman who had boarded the train with Kasper entered the dining car from the front, his black robes swishing about as he scurried up the aisle. "Signor Kasper," he called in a low, intense, breathy voice, "Desidero parlare con Lei, per piacere."
"English, please, Father Ugarti," Kasper said. "Pause for a moment. Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Barnett. This is Father Ugarti, a man of the cloth."
Father Ugarti nodded, bobbing his head up and down rapidly and peering at them through his round, thick spectacles. His face creased into a large smile that showed many brown, discolored teeth. "It is pleasurable to be making of your acquaintance," he said. "You are an English couple on your honeymoon, perhaps? Traveling through our romantic mountains and lakes. You should find our countryside most interesting. Most interesting." He turned to Kasper. "I hate to seem impolite to your charming friends, but I must, after all, speak with you for a moment."
Kasper struggled to his feet. "I will be a moment, only," he told the Barnetts. "Then we can finish our so-interesting discussion." The fat journalist and the small clergyman went off to the rear of the car and consulted earnestly together.
"This is very strange," Barnett whispered to Cecily when the other two had left the table.
"How odd that you should think so," Cecily replied, smiling sweetly at him.
"What do you suppose it's all about?"
"I imagine we shall find out soon enough, but be on your guard. That priest is not a priest; and that fat man is no journalist."
"I believe you," Barnett said. "But I wish I could figure out what they're after."
Cecily patted his hand. "I think they seek something we do not have."
Before she had a chance to explain, Kasper returned to the table and Father Ugarti left the way he had come.
"A minor matter of liturgical interest only," Kasper told them, "but I most humbly apologize for the interruption. Now, let us return to the matter at hand. An extensive article by you concerning the habits, manners, and abilities of Mr. Holmes would be welcome. I think something of his history, also, should be included. Where he went to school; how he developed these marvelous deductive powers for which he has become so justly noted; his relationship with Professor Moriarty—"
"His what?"
"His relationship with Professor James Moriarty, author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, and a well-regarded monograph on the binomial theorum. Surely his association with such a distinguished scientist must have had some impact on Mr. Holmes's own theories and techniques."
"I couldn't say," Barnett replied.
"Come now, it is well known that you, yourself, are an associate of Professor Moriarty."
"I have the honor to be his friend," Barnett replied, "but I know nothing of his work. I am not a scientist." He stood up. "I regret to have wasted your time, Signor Kasper, but I am afraid I cannot take a commission from the Staatlicher Überblicken at this time."
Kasper pushed himself to his feet. "On the contrary," he said, "if that is the case, then it is I who have wasted your time. I wish you good day." He nodded to Cecily and stalked firmly off down the aisle.
"Of all the nerve," Barnett muttered. "I am impressed with that man's gall!"
"I am impressed with his information," Cecily said. "It's not exactly public knowledge that Mr. Holmes ever had anything to do with Professor Moriarty, or that you are an associate of the professor or know Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson never mentions it in any of his case histories."
"That's true," Barnett admitted. "Holmes once asked Watson, in my presence, not to mention the professor until Holmes had apprehended him for some major crime. Which is a good example of the state of their 'relationship.' And, as that has never happened—"
Cecily stood up. "I'm tired," she said. "Let's return to the compartment."
"Are you still mad at me?" Barnett asked.
"No. I'm no longer angry. Do you grant me that there was something odd about the confrontation we just had?"
"How could I deny it?" Barnett said.
They went back to their compartment and settled down, Cecily to her Baedeker and Benjamin to staring out the window at the passing hillsides. After a while Cecily put down the book and began rummaging through her traveling bag.
"It is a puzzle," Barnett said after a while. "I wish Professor Moriarty were here. He enjoys puzzles."
"Benjamin!"
"What is it, Dove?"
Cecily put the bag on the seat beside her and took a deep breath. "Somebody has gone through my traveling bag."
"Gone through? You mean searched?"
"Yes. Somebody has been pawing about my personal belongings." She shuddered. "It makes my skin crawl to think of it."
"Is anything missing?"
"No. I don't thin
k so."
"But you're sure?"
"I can tell. The bag has been rearranged. I am sure." She got up and pulled the large leather portmanteau from the shelf.
Benjamin caught her and the bag as she staggered back with it. "Here," he said, "let me." They put the bag on the opposite seat and opened it together, undoing the straps and unlocking the small brass lock with a key which Barnett kept in his watch-pocket.
"What do you think?" Barnett asked.
"That red scarf has been refolded. Your two light sweaters are out of line. Someone has been through this bag also. Very carefully, but undoubtedly."
"But why? Nothing seems to be missing. Is anything missing from this bag?"
"No. Your gold cufflinks and studs are still here. My bracelets and earrings are still here. They're not particularly valuable, but they are certainly portable. Whoever searched our belongings thinks it more important that we remain unaware of it than that he makes a profit. If I weren't, as you keep telling me, excessively orderly and organized, we never would have noticed."
"That Kasper fellow!" Barnett said.
"My belief also," Cecily told him. "It was obvious from his second sentence that he was one of the group following us."
"His second sentence?"
"Certainly. He said that the conduttore told him who we are. The conductor of this train has no idea who we are. The ticket was booked by the hotel, and they got our name wrong."
"That's right," Barnett said.
"Kasper was just keeping us out of the way, so that his companions could search our belongings."
"Say," Barnett remembered, "he and that adolescent came into the dining car from the rear of the train. I'll bet they were in the baggage van. It must have disappointed them to discover that our luggage was sent on ahead."
Cecily closed the portmanteau and fastened the straps. "I feel degraded," she said. "I must have all my clothing laundered before I wear any of it again."
"I believe it has something to do with Holmes or Professor Moriarty," Barnett said.
"Well I hope that, whoever they are and whatever they want, that they're done with us," Cecily said. "I don't want this to go on and ruin our vacation."
"We won't let it!" Barnett said stoutly.
"Well it already is!" Cecily said, and burst into tears. "First these people are following us all over, and then you won't believe me when I tell you about it, and then they come into our very own railway carriage and paw through our personal belongings. I'm sorry, Benjamin, but I am very upset."
Barnett pulled a clean pocket-handkerchief from his jacket and passed it to his wife. "There, there," he said, taking her in his arms. "Mustn't be upset, really you mustn't. We won't let anything else happen to spoil our vacation. I've learned my lesson. From now on I shall listen abjectly to anything you say."
"Not abjectly, my love," Cecily said, wrapping her arms around his neck, "but carefully and honestly. I am usually right, you know."
"Yes, dear," Barnett said.
CHAPTER FOUR — THE FREEDOM LEAGUE
One man, with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample a kingdom down
— Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
The Vienna cell of the Geheime Verein für Freiheit, the Secret Freedom League, met in the box cellar of the Werfel Chocolate manufactory in the Mariahilf District of Vienna. A dank, cold, windowless room separate from the main cellar, it held a table, a few chairs, a row of cupboards along one wall, and an assortment of abandoned packing crates. What light there was came from the glare of a single-mantle gas fixture emerging from the ceiling, and the glow of a couple of ancient oil lamps suspended from hooks in the brick walls. Neither Herr Werfel, nor any of the management of the chocolate manufactory knew of the use to which their box cellar was being put.
The members of the League professed anarchism and practiced terror. Their weapons were the bomb, the pistol, the ice pick, and the lives of their members. They seemed to be well financed, although how or by whom was known only to their leaders. The Vienna cell numbered between twelve and twenty-two men, depending on the phases of the moon, the vagaries of conscience, and the diligence of the Kundschafts Stelle—the Austrian counterintelligence bureau.
Fourteen men were present at tonight's meeting; among them a pair with the thick-necked, broken-nosed look of professional toughs who would not be out of place at a daily police lineup; a trio with the furtive look of unsuccessful sneak-thieves; and a well-dressed young man with a bowler hat and the detached air of a gentleman of leisure, or a successful pickpocket. Most of the rest looked like—and for the most part were—university students who divided their time between attending lectures on the economic consequences of the great upheavals of 1849 and plotting upheavals of their own.
The cell leader was known as "Number One" at meetings. Outside, as Paul Donzhof had discovered with a bit of discreet research, he was Dietrich Loomer, called "the Ferret" by his acquaintances. He was a gaunt, sallow, notably short, totally bald man with no eyebrows who habitually wore a black cloak made of a material usually reserved for horse blankets and a black, wide-brim hat pulled close over his eyes. This gave him a furtive look which made one instinctively put him down as a sneak thief or a police spy. He had been both. His formative years had been spent in a horse regiment of the Austrian Army, where he had risen to the rank of corporal before being kicked out for irregularities of a highly personal and unmentionable nature.
Paul, known as "Number Thirty-seven" to his fellow anarchists, was assigned to guard-duty for this meeting. His job was to stand outside the door and give warning if danger, in the form of the police or a Werfel employee, approached.
After a little while he was joined by Feodor Hessenkopf, who paused to smoke a cigarette before joining the meeting. They kept the door open a crack, so they could hear what was going on inside. Hessenkopf had forgone the humpback and was now dressed as a railroad conductor. Perhaps, Paul thought looking at him, the little man truly was a railroad conductor. The gray uniform showed the proper sort of wear that suggested that it was not a costume. Hessenkopf was to be called "Number Eleven" while at meetings; members were under strict orders to address each other only by their numbers and they were not encouraged to know each other outside, although most of them frequented the Café Figaro and could easily be identified by any of the waiters.
For the first half hour the members heard the reading of a new anarchist manifesto called The Coming Revolution, which had just arrived from Paris. It was supposedly written by the anarchist Brakinsky from his jail cell shortly before his execution for murdering three policemen.
A young man named Mandl with a vibrant voice and a sense of pathos stood under the gas mantle in the center of the meeting room and read from the pamphlet. " 'The day is coming when the landlords and the bourgeoisie shall no longer snatch the bread from the mouths of the children of the workers,' " he read fiercely. And, further on: " 'They would have you fight for your country, like a lamb fighting for its shearing pen, or a swine fighting for its abattoir. You are enslaved by fetters of the great lie called patriotism; they are invisible but they hold more surely than iron chains!' "
While Mandl throbbed on, the Ferret slunk outside, saw Hessenkopf, screeched, "My god! That uniform!" and immediately grabbed Hessenkopf and pulled him around the corner of the building. Paul could hear the muffled voice of the Ferret evidently bawling out Hessenkopf, but he couldn't make out what was being said. He thought of sneaking over to listen, but decided it wouldn't be wise. In a minute the Ferret came back, paused to glare at Paul, and went on to the meeting room. Hessenkopf did not return.
After Mandl had finished and sat down, the group ardently discussed the manifesto. What their argument lacked in logic it made up for in fervor, which increased as the discussion hopped from member to member. They spoke of man's inhumanity to man, and touched on man's inhumanity t
o woman and child. They dissected the inherent contradictions in the capitalist system that must surely cause its downfall. They reviewed the inherent evils of monarchy and agreed bitterly that kings would never voluntarily vacate their thrones.
These things, they agreed, made it necessary to agitate the masses, who were too mired in their own misery ever to agitate themselves. Strong measures must be taken to make the lumpen proletariat aware of its own helplessness, of the need for change. Eggs must be broken so that the omelet of social justice might be achieved.
Then on to the business of the night. Paul was called into the meeting room, where the entire group once again renewed their anarchic vows, raising their right hands and swearing never to reveal the secrets of the organization, under pain of death. They swore to obey the orders of their leaders, which Paul found particularly amusing for an organization of anarchists, but he did not smile. Then the new members were taken aside and taught the elements of the anarchists' cipher, which was not a cipher but a book code based on the Lutheran Bible. Then they all went around the room, shaking hands with each other, replying "Anarchy and revolution!" to each murmured salutation of "Justice and equality!"
The Great Game Page 5