The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

  "The two professions are not unrelated," Moriarty said, choosing not to quibble with Holmes's characterization of him. "How did Miss Vernet get involved with this Graf von Linsz?"

  "As to that, I cannot say," Holmes told him. "My knowledge of Miss Vernet's recent doings is very slight. I only found out she was being kept prisoner by a message she managed to slip out to me."

  "In code, it was," Watson said, "and invisible to boot. Holmes did a masterful job. It was addressed to 'Emma,' whoever she might be, and yet Holmes deduced that it was indeed for him. Incredible!"

  "Elementary," Holmes said, looking annoyed at the praise. "How are you planning to deliver Miss Vernet?" Moriarty asked.

  "At the moment, I have no idea. I assume she's staying at the castle, but it's a large structure, and I don't know where she is within it, or how to effect an entrance without being instantly seized. My inclination is to pound on the door and insist that she be produced forthwith, but I feel that would be counterproductive." Holmes thrust his walking stick into the ground and leaned on it. "I must consider the fact that her status here may well be part of a larger problem I'm working on, but as yet I have no proof of that."

  Moriarty locked his hands behind his back and leaned forward. "A larger problem?"

  "Yes," Holmes said. "I confess that I was tempted to believe that you might be a part of that problem, but your presence here, as you are now—" Holmes waved his hand about to indicate the tent and Madeleine within it, "—would indicate that I was mistaken. It would seem that we have the same enemies."

  "And therefore we should be friends?"

  Holmes smiled grimly. "I wouldn't go that far."

  "I didn't think you would," Moriarty assured him.

  "I assume that the Barnetts are being held physically captive, and that you have a plan for rescuing them. How are you going to go about it?"

  "I do. By air."

  Watson's eyes opened wide. "I say, Professor, did you say 'By air'?"

  "Correct," Moriarty told Watson. He turned to Holmes. "Where are you staying?"

  "There seem to be no rooms available," Holmes told him. "But a bit of the meadow that hasn't been trodden down by the passage of many feet will suffice for the night."

  "Give my assistant and myself a few minutes to close up here," Moriarty said, "and then you must come with us. This may indeed be one of those rare times when we can help each other."

  Holmes stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. "We'll just pick up our bags at the inn on the way."

  Ten minutes later Moriarty and Madeleine led Holmes and Watson through the jumble of tents that filled the meadow toward the siding where Prince Ariste's train was parked. It was early evening and a chill wind had come up. Most of the revelers were returning to their lodgings, and those left in the meadow were gathering around charcoal fires in small cast-iron braziers, warming themselves and setting a variety of wursts, schnitzels, and chicken parts to grill, along with potatoes and turnips. Many of the fires had pots of various sizes on them, and the rich smell of stew was beginning to waft from under the lids.

  Prince Ariste and his princess were awaiting them when they reached the car. Moriarty introduced them to Holmes and Watson, and Ariste looked curiously at them, and then back at Moriarty, but he said nothing. "I would not go so far as to say we have joined forces," Moriarty explained, "but we are here for similar purposes and for the time being we have a better chance of accomplishing our ends if we work together."

  "I see," Ariste said. "And the ends of Mr. Holmes, what are they?"

  "A young lady named Jenny Vernet," Holmes said. "It would seem that she is staying in that castle yonder, possibly against her will."

  "What?" Princess Diane exclaimed. "Another kidnap victim? Has this von Linsz then become a madman, given to kidnaping people off the street like some robber baron of medieval times?"

  "From what I've been able to discover I would say that this man and his friends have a very serious goal," Holmes said, "and I'm afraid that it is one that will make kidnaping seem like a minor peccadillo."

  "Come," Moriarty said, "let us pool our information and reason together. Perhaps we can make sense out of this madness."

  "No time! No time!" Prince Ariste announced suddenly. "I haven't had a chance to tell you, Professor, but you are to come with me to the castle tonight."

  "Really?" Moriarty swivelled to face the prince. "Excuse me, Your Highness, but whatever for?"

  Ariste leaned forward. "Alexandre Sandarel is to give a show for all the notables gathered at the castle." He nodded his head and smiled. "When Diane and I went there to share a bottle of champagne with the count—why is it that when they entertain royalty, so many people think in terms of bottles of champagne? There are other wines—it occurred to me to speak of the great and talented Alexandre Sandarel, who happened to be here in Uhmstein, and who would be a great addition to the evening's festivities, to which the princess and I had just been invited."

  "Ah!" Moriarty said.

  "Yes. Graf von Linsz seemed quite taken with the idea. I described you—Sandarel—as a mystic and clairvoyant of international reputation. He was impressed. I think the count is something of a believer. He asked whether you were a spiritualist. I told him that I believed that your companion—" Ariste gave a little half-bow in the direction of Madeleine Verlaine "—was an accomplished medium. You will forgive me, I hope, for making up your history like that."

  "I forgive you," Madeleine said. She smiled and added, "As does Mim Ptwa Nim, the ancient Egyptian priestess who is my spirit guide."

  "I think you've done very well, Your Highness," Moriarty said.

  "I thought so myself. You'll have an opportunity to look over the interior of the castle. Perhaps you can locate the Barnetts, and this Miss Vernet also. Of course, it's you two who will have to convince them that you are all those things I claimed you were, but I have the utmost confidence in you."

  "Vernet?" Princess Diane joined in suddenly. "This Jenny Vernet, is she an American opera singer?"

  "She is," Holmes said. "Have you heard of her?"

  "No, well, not exactly. It's just that I believe she was on the printed list of people who were to perform tonight, but her name was crossed off." She turned to her husband. "Don't you remember, Ariste? Von Linsz showed us this printed list of the evening's performers. Wasn't an American opera singer named Jenny Vernet among them, but her name had a heavy line through it?"

  "It might well be, my dear," Ariste said. "I confess I didn't inspect the list too carefully."

  "Well, I'm sure that was the name," Diane said.

  "I don't know what to make of that," Sherlock Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. "Is she still here or has she left? Or has she been taken away? She wrote that she was under suspicion. Perhaps, somehow, the suspicions have been realized and she is in immediate danger."

  "Or perhaps they've been resolved in her favor," Madeleine suggested, "but she has a sore throat."

  "Well, if she is still there, we may well have a chance to speak with her—or at least you will, Professor Moriarty, when you're together backstage," Prince Ariste said. "I noticed that there was a stage at one end of the ballroom, so I assume there's a backstage area. And perhaps you can do some exploring and find out how to get to the room in which the Barnetts are being kept."

  "I doubt whether they will allow us to wander about the corridors," Moriarty said, "but nonetheless this is a good idea, Your Highness. We might learn much of value." Moriarty nodded his head thoughtfully. "We might indeed. But it occurs to me that this evening will demand formal dress, and mine—ours—is back in our hotel suite in Vienna."

  "No problem, Professor," Prince Ariste said. "My valet can fit you out in the proper attire."

  "And I believe that I have an evening frock that will do wonders for you, my dear," Princess Diane said to Madeleine.

  "Something very simple," Madeleine said.

  "Of course. Come with me."

  "Have you an
artificer among your people here?" Moriarty asked the prince.

  "An artificer?"

  "Someone with the skills to build something if I draw him a plan."

  "Our Herr Heerschmit should be the man you want," Prince Ariste said. "He travels with the special train just to fix things that need fixing and make things that need making."

  "Sounds like the man I want," Moriarty said. "Where can I find him?"

  "He should be in the last car."

  "Very good. I'll return in a few minutes and we'll see what your valet can do for me." Moriarty nodded and exited the car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO — MADAME MADELEINE VERLAINE

  Strange, is it not? That of the myriads who

  Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,

  Not one returns to tell us of the Road,

  Which to discover we must travel too.

  — Edward Fitzgerald

  Everyone of any importance who had come to Uhmstein for the St. Simon's Day festival, or who resided within tens of kilometers around the town in any direction, was at a table in the grand ballroom of Schloss Uhm that evening, partaking of the light refreshments kept in constant supply by a squad of waiters and watching the entertainment provided by Graf von Linsz. In addition to his fellow members of the secretive Knights of Wotan, who sat at widely separated tables throughout the room and effected but a languid and casual interest in their surroundings, there were two mayors, a bishop, three priests, the commander of the local cavalry troop and most of his junior officers, six government officials including the tax collector, a dozen or so members of the local gentry, along with their wives and unmarried daughters, and a retired field marshal.

  The ballroom was a long rectangle with French windows facing the castle's inner courtyard. It was a recent addition to the building, having been built out on what had been the parade ground for the castle troop. A balcony ran around the room, narrow for the most part but widening over the windows to provide seating for a small orchestra. There was an orchestra up there now, about a dozen men dressed in the court costume of a bygone era: blue pantaloons buckled at the knee above striped stockings and a blue and gold jacket with wide lapels and a double row of large gold buttons running down the front. They didn't look happy but they made music on demand, and few in the audience spent much time looking at them.

  It was a little after eleven that evening when Alexandre Sandarel and Madeleine Verlaine walked out together on the small stage that was set into the far wall of the ballroom. Sandarel was tall and commanding in his evening dress, the cutaway jacket tailored with a certain Viennese flair that was at once cultured and effortless. Madame Verlaine was a regal beauty in a white dress with a full pleated skirt and a high lace collar.

  The audience had just finished listening to a group of traditional Hungarian folk songs sung by Madame Flora Zaropichenski, an aging contralto who would never see two hundred pounds again, accompanied on the piano by her emaciated husband, and they were getting restless. Sandarel and his lovely assistant soon captured their attention.

  "Good evening Your Grace, Your Highnesses, Your Excellencies, ladies and gentlemen. I am Doctor Alexandre Sandarel and I am here to demonstrate, with the aid of my charming and highly skilled associate Madame Madeleine Verlaine, some of the amazing powers and abilities of the human mind." He paused and looked around the room. "Few of us use our minds to anything even close to their full potential. The ancient Greeks used to think that the heart was the seat of intelligence, and the brain was merely an organ for cooling the blood. For some of us that may be true. But for the rest of us, the more we use and exercise our minds, the more we can do with them." Sandarel stepped forward to have a better view of his audience. "With training and practice we are all capable of feats of mental concentration and divination that would seem astounding to the uninformed. Let us start off with a slight test of memory. You sir"—he pointed at a gentleman near the front— "give me a three-place number if you will."

  As he spoke, Madeleine wheeled out a large blackboard that had been liberated from a schoolroom in the castle.

  "Me, sir?" The man thought for a second. "Two-ninety-six."

  Madeleine wrote the number on the board. "Very good sir, and—" pointing elsewhere "—if you'd do the same."

  "Four-eleven."

  Madeleine wrote that immediately after the first number.

  "And you, madame?"

  "Oh my, let's see now. Eight-sixty-three."

  "And you, sir?"

  "Three-zero-seven."

  "Let's have three more. You sir?"

  "Five-ninety-one."

  "And for the last three?"

  "Eight—no, six-four-nine."

  "Very good. Thank you all. Madame Verlaine, do you have all that?"

  "I do, Doctor Sandarel."

  "Fine. Without looking back at the blackboard, I will now tell you fine ladies and gentlemen that the number—the entire number—is two hundred and ninety-six quadrillion, four hundred and eleven trillion, eight hundred and sixty-three billion, three hundred and seven million, five hundred and ninety-one thousand, six hundred and forty-nine. Is that right?"

  Madeleine had been underlining the numbers as Sandarel called them off. "Exactly right," she said.

  The audience was not sure what to make of this, but there was a slight smattering of applause.

  "Now, Madame Verlaine, please step forward and face the audience."

  "Yes, Doctor Sandarel." Madeleine stepped to the front of the stage.

  "Do you remember the number?"

  "Yes, Doctor Sandarel."

  "Please recite it for us—backwards."

  "Yes. The number, backwards, is," Madeleine paused for a second and closed her eyes. She slowly recited: "nine-four-six-one-nine-five-seven-zero-three-three-six-eight-one-one-four-six-nine-two. Is that right?"

  "Exactly right!"

  This time the applause was stronger. The audience was beginning to realize they were seeing something different.

  "Now, Madame Verlaine, please take this pad and go out into the audience and have them create for you another long number. Take one digit from each person you speak to. Write the number down as it's created, but don't tell me what it is."

  Madeleine left the stage and moved among the audience, pausing to hear a whispered number and write it down, keeping up a seemingly meaningless patter to fill the silence. "Perfect, monsieur," she murmured to the first man. "Take your time," she told the second. "Marvelous!" she encouraged the third, and so on for twelve different people. While she gathered the numbers, Sandarel had someone from the audience come up and twist a scarf around his head to blindfold him.

  "Would all those who have given numbers to Madame Verlaine please stand up," Sandarel said, facing the audience. "The blindfold is to help me concentrate, and to assure you that Madame Verlaine is not passing me any sort of secret signals."

  The people Madeleine had spoken to stood up, looking bemused. "We're ready, Doctor," Madeleine told him from the audience.

  "Very good. Now, if you will concentrate on the numbers, Madame, I will try to read them from your mind and the minds of the ladies and gentlemen who gave them to you, in the order in which you received them." Sandarel looked sightlessly around the room. "Those of you who are standing, when you hear your number called, please take your seat. If you do not hear your number, if by some chance I get it wrong, please remain standing in mute testimony to my failure."

  The audience chuckled.

  Sandarel pressed his hand to his forehead. "Please concentrate, madame. Ah, good, I am getting something. It's fuzzy—try to make a clearer picture in your mind. Yes, yes, thank you; very good. The number is—" he paused and then spoke clearly, pausing before each number "—nine-one-three-one—no, that's a seven—four-six-eight-six-nine-five-six."

  As he said each number, one of those standing sat down, until there was but one man left. Sandarel whipped his blindfold off and appeared to be surprised that there was still a man standi
ng. He pointed at the man. "You're still standing," he declared. "Ah, yes—yours is the last number." He closed his eyes and his left hand searched the air in front of him for the number, his right hand remaining pointed dramatically at the man. "Two!" he said.

  The man sat. The audience applauded. Sandarel bowed.

  For the next ten minutes Sandarel did a series of miracles with birth dates—

  "What date were you born, sir?"

  "December third, eighteen forty-one."

  "That was a Tuesday, sir."