The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

  "You think he was killed for his mistake?" Princess Diane asked.

  "I do. And I believe that Paul was implicated in two murders because he received that piece of paper. Killing him might have drawn attention to it if he had passed it on, but making him appear to be a murderer and assassin would discredit him."

  The prince stared at the blackboard. "Hard to believe there's anything evil, or even particularly meaningful, in these seven items. 'Twenty-four and twenty-five April.' That's Friday and Saturday a week from now, if it speaks of this year. 'Third and fourth out of six.' " The prince shrugged. "I give that one up."

  "Some major outrage is being planned for sometime in the near future," Moriarty said. "That much Paul Donzhof was able to find out from his own sources. I believe this list relates to that. Could it be planned for next Saturday or Sunday? Then how could a minor official in the Foreign Ministry know the dates? Will it happen simultaneously in England, France, Germany, and Russia? If so why are we learning about it in Vienna? And just what would constitute a major outrage to this group of people who think nothing of bombing, shooting, and stabbing random government officials?"

  "That's your riddle?"

  "That's it."

  "How do we go about solving it?"

  "We?" Moriarty put his hands flat on the table and stared across at the prince. "Are you sure you want to involve yourself in this?"

  "If some group is going to blow up the Parliament or assassinate the emperor, I think I should get involved," Prince Ariste said. "But I do think that at some appropriate time we should find some appropriate authority to tell. The empire does have some resources, and not all its officials are stupid or venal."

  "Agreed," Moriarty said. "As soon as we have something to tell that might be believed, and we know who best to tell it to, we will do so."

  "Now," Prince Ariste said, "what are we to do about the Barnetts' incarceration?"

  Moriarty leaned back in his chair. "I've come to you because Mummer Tolliver tells me that von Linsz's castle and the grounds around it are well guarded and well patrolled. I have a tentative plan in mind, subject to looking over the area myself. But for it I need some trustworthy men. And, as I said earlier, I have no 'gang' to command. Do you have some men available that you can trust to do as you say?"

  Ariste nodded. "I do. About six hundred. I am commander of a regiment of light infantry. Most of them are reservists, and it would take an official mobilization to call them up now. But the headquarters company is regular army, and their barracks is about a mile from here."

  "Well," Moriarty said. "More than I'd hoped for, but welcome just the same. If you have some way to select, say, a dozen of them to volunteer for some extra-martial duty, we can rendezvous with the mummer and perfect the plan."

  "I'll do that," Prince Ariste said. "And I'll order up a special train to get us to Vienna. You can tell us the plan on the way."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN — YOUR AMERICAN COUSIN

  All nature is but art unknown to thee;

  All chance, direction which thou can'st not see;

  All discord, harmony not understood;

  All partial evil, universal good ...

  —Alexander Pope

  Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson had adjoining rooms on the second floor of the Hotel Leopold, a solidly built, modern edifice which took up one square block on the Schwarzenbergplatz, about as central a location as one could get in the spread-out city that was Fin de Siècle Vienna. It was shortly before dinner time Thursday evening, and Holmes sat at the small writing desk in his room jotting down the day's notes in the next empty page in his notebook. Through the connecting door he could hear Watson whistling "A Wandering Minstrel" from The Mikado as he dressed for dinner.

  "Spent the afternoon concealed in the waiters' pantry at the Danube Cafe," Holmes wrote. "Could hear the conversation in the private back room clearly, but could not always tell who was speaking. Much discussion of the 'great event' that is to take place in the near future. There were at least three groups represented that one would not think were related, or even amicable, and that certainly would not be expected to make common cause. There must be—"

  There was a soft, tentative knock at the hall door. Holmes put down his pen. "Yes?"

  "Entschuldigen sie bitte, Herr Holmes?" It was a woman's voice.

  Holmes switched to German. "Yes? One moment, please." He went to the door and opened it. The woman in the hall looked to be in her forties, and was well, if plainly, dressed. "What can I do for you, madam?"

  "You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

  "I am."

  "Please, it must be that I am sure of that—if you would tell me; what is your landlady's name, in London?"

  "Ah!" Holmes said. "Just so. Her name is Mrs. Hudson. What do you have for me?"

  The woman took a step back. "You know already that I have something for you? Did someone tell you to expect me? I told no one!"

  Holmes gave the woman what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Surely it was obvious from your question that someone sent you to me. It could have been that you wished to consult me, but then the question of my identity wouldn't be so urgent. So I deduced that someone had given you something for me, and the lady wanted to be sure that I received it myself."

  "And now you know, without my telling you, that it is a lady who employs me." She took a small brown envelope from her purse and handed it to Holmes. "Here you are, sir. Please don't deduce anything else about me, or I'll scream, I swear I will!"

  Holmes laughed. "You have my word," he said, digging in his pocket and fishing out a coin. "Now perhaps a little something for your trouble—"

  "No, no, thank you, sir. I have been adequately recompensed. It's been—an event—meeting you. You are everything she said you were!" And with that the woman curtsied and scurried off down the hall.

  "It's true you know, Holmes," Watson said, adjusting his bow tie as he came through the connecting door. "What seems a trite and commonplace deduction to you can be quite startling to the observer. How did you know that the lady was carrying a message from another lady?"

  "Ah, Watson, you could have deduced it yourself if you were standing here observing the woman as I was," Holmes said, stepping back into his room and closing the door.

  "So you have often said in similar situations in the past," Watson told him. "And yet I never seem able to grasp what you consider the obvious until you have explained it to me."

  "You do yourself an injustice my dear Watson," Holmes said. "You have improved your deductive ability greatly since first we began lodging together. Once you started applying the diagnostic skills you learned in the practice of medicine to the greater world about you, your observation of detail increased considerably. True, you have not yet developed skill in detecting the minutia that make for the finer distinctions, and the inferences you draw from your observations lack a certain, let us say, courage; but there is hope for you, Watson, there is hope!"

  "Thank you for that, Holmes," Watson said. "But I am content to let you do the inferring." He stopped fiddling with his tie and shrugged into his dinner jacket. "What was it about that lady that led you to deduce that she was carrying the message of another lady?"

  "She had some straight pins stuck through the collar of her blouse and her left sleeves," Holmes explained. "And there was a smudge of french chalk on the heel of her right hand."

  "Really, Holmes!" Watson managed to sound mystified and exasperated at the same time.

  "Surely the inference is clear," Holmes told his companion. "The woman is a dressmaker. And the hour indicates that she has hurried over at the close of her business day to deliver this message, certainly as a favor to one of her clients."

  Watson said, "Humph! Surely there are a dozen other possible explanations."

  "Perhaps," Holmes admitted. "But the probabilities—and the lady's own response—would indicate that mine is the right one. Now, let's see what this envelope
holds for us."

  Holmes held the envelope up to the gaslight, sniffed it, and peered at it intensely for a minute. Then he shrugged. "Seems to be just an envelope," he said. "Local manufacture. Well, let us see who knows I'm here, and what she has to say for herself." He slit the envelope open carefully with the blade of his clasp-knife, and pulled the folded paper out gingerly with two fingers.

  Watson peered over his shoulder. "What is it, Holmes?"

  Holmes unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on his writing desk. "A letter," he said. "In English." He peered down at it. "Come now, this is most interesting."

  "Really? What does it say?"

  "The salutation is, 'Dearest Emma,' " Holmes said.

  "Dearest Emma?" Watson chuckled. "There you have it, Holmes. The letter is not for you after all. The woman must have a purse full of envelopes, and she gave you the wrong one. Perhaps she'll return in the near future to exchange messages."

  "I somehow don't think so," Holmes said. "There is at least one other explanation for that salutation." He adjusted the gaslight over his desk. "It continues:

  'So finally I have gotten around to writing the letter I promised you those many months ago. How quickly time flies! This letter, I hope, finds you and your father in good health. Really I apologize for not writing sooner, but I have been having a horribly busy time meeting people, making friends, and traveling about here in Europe, and have been most remiss in my communications. You know, I must confess I have not written Mama or Edward, or anyone.' "

  "Does it go on like that?" Watson asked.

  "It does:

  'Have found the most wonderful agent who promises to help me with my singing career over here. Everyone, I must say, has been more helpful than I could have expected. And so I have wandered from Italy to Austria with the most wonderful companions! There you have it, and I hope you can forgive me for my indolence and sloth. Please, please, give my love to all those I left behind and tell them, especially Edward, that I miss them and think of them every day. Especially Edward. And, of course, save some of that love for yourself! I expect to be here for some time, and a letter can always reach me at Post Restante, Uhmstein, Austria (which, my dear, is just a hop and a skip from Vienna).' "

  Holmes paused in his reading there, and Watson asked, "Is that all?"

  "It's signed, 'your loving Jenny,' " Holmes told him. "Nothing on the back of the page. This is most curious."

  "As I said, Holmes, it's obviously some mistake," Watson offered.

  Holmes stared at the letter for a minute, and then put it down and picked up the envelope. He carefully pulled it apart along its gummed edges and examined the inside. "I had thought perhaps— but I find nothing here."

  "Come," Watson said, "Let's go down to dinner. There's nothing to be found."

  Holmes took up the letter again and folded it carefully along its original creases. "You think so, do you, Watson? You don't see anything strange about the letter? No alternate solution for its misdirected salutation suggests itself to you?"

  "No, Holmes, I can't say that anything comes to mind except that the letter was not intended for you, and you're attaching too much importance to an innocent mistake of some kind."

  "Ah, well, Watson, perhaps you're right," Holmes said, putting the letter in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket. "Let's go down to the dining room and consider the matter over a pair of veal chops and some of that thick bean soup. And then there's the question of dessert which will require careful thought." They left the room and headed down the hall. "But nonetheless it's a very curious letter."

  "If you say so, Holmes."

  After dinner they retired to the hotel's reading room, where Watson found a comparatively recent copy of The Strand magazine with which to amuse himself while Holmes once again produced the letter and stared at it. After a while Holmes lit his pipe and puffed on it, alternating between staring at the letter, and staring at the ceiling. This went on for about half an hour when, all at once Holmes sprang to his feet and exclaimed, "Of course! How stupid of me!"

  Watson looked up from his magazine to find Holmes fairly dancing with excitement. "Come, Watson!" he said, "I believe the game's afoot!"

  After all the years Watson had spent as Sherlock Holmes's companion and amanuensis, he still couldn't suppress the thrill of excitement that went through him when he realized that Holmes had picked up the scent and was on his way to solving another mystery. "Where to, Holmes?" he asked.

  "First back to our rooms," Holmes told him, "and then we shall see—we shall see!"

  Back in the room Holmes closed the door and turned up the gas mantle. "We want light," he said, "and heat."

  "What have you discovered, Holmes?"

  "It's what I am about to discover," Holmes replied. "I had it all in front of me, and I wasted a good hour staring at it. Was it not Jonathan Swift who said, 'There's none so blind as they that won't see'? Ah, Watson, I have no excuse—I should have seen it right away!"

  "Seen what, Holmes?"

  "What should have been obvious from the beginning," Holmes told Watson. "First, what were the chances that the message, as you suggested, was not for me?"

  "I would say that the fact that it was addressed to 'Emma' was a good sign of that," Watson protested.

  "It would seem that way at first thought," Holmes agreed. "But surely reflection on the way that seamstress was so careful to ascertain my identity before turning over the envelope would suggest otherwise."

  "Then why the 'Emma'?"

  "Combine that with the envelope's delivery by a seamstress, and what does it suggest?"

  Watson took a deep breath. "I don't know, Holmes, what does it suggest to you?"

  "That the sender could not have it delivered in the usual way; through the post or by a courier. Therefore that she was afraid to be seen posting a letter to Sherlock Holmes. And why is it headed 'Dear Emma'? Surely because she was afraid to be seen writing a letter to Sherlock Holmes."

  "I see," said Watson. "But why would anyone go to such lengths to send you such a letter? It does not convey anything of interest; at least, not to my eyes."

  "Therefore the real meaning is concealed. That is the conclusion I reached before we went down to dinner. But concealed how? At first I thought of pinholes. An old trick of prisoners and lovers is to prick tiny pinholes above the letters to spell out the secret message." Holmes held the letter up to the light. "But, as you can see, there are no pinholes in this paper. Then I tried reading every third word, or fourth word, or fifth word; and for my troubles I got gibberish."

  "And then, Holmes?"

  "And then we went down to dinner."

  Watson dropped heavily into the chair by the window. "Really, Holmes, you can be the most exasperating man."

  Holmes chuckled. "Sorry, Watson. But it came to me after dinner that I was getting too complicated, and the answer was probably very simple. And I looked, and it was. You see the first thing I looked at, the simplest cipher of all, is the first letter of the first word in each sentence. Now look—" he handed the letter to Watson. "The first four letters derived that way are S-H-T-R. Utter nonsense. So I stopped. I should have gone on. The first nine letters spell out S-H-T-R-Y-H-E-A-T. Or, as it suddenly occurred to me, S. H.—Sherlock Holmes—try heat!"

  "Try heat?"

  "Yes, Watson. There are several liquids—lemon juice is one of them—that you can use to write on paper with, and the writing disappears when the liquid dries. But then, when the paper is heated up, the writing reappears. Like this!" Holmes grabbed the paper back and held it up to the side of the gas mantle, moving it back and forth so that it would heat evenly.

  For a time nothing happened. And then, slowly, on the backside of the message, letters appeared, first very faintly and then deepening into a dark brown:

  Sherlock,

  I'm in trouble. Guest/prisoner of Graf Sigfried von Linsz at Schloss Uhm, the castle on his estate in Uhmstein. The Barnetts, friends of Prof. Moriarty, prisoners here also.
Von Linsz thinks I'm on his side, but not sure enough to let me write. He is one of the ringleaders of the plot. Goal to take over Austria/ Europe. Fete for locals planned for next weekend. Come in disguise. Other leaders coming here then I think.