“Your leg will not permit it,” he yelled into my ear, and, removing his own jacket, he imitated Holmes’s precautions and followed the detective’s path.
He returned some moments later, carrying a sack of car curtains which we threw into the fire, and Holmes, who was assembling more improvised fuel, suggested that it might now be safe to release the tender. Berger agreed that it was now possible (though not advisable), and we set to work, soon completing this manoeuvre. Holmes returned with more items to bum and the needle on the pressure gauge began to rise. Thanks to the additional fuel and the loss of the tender, we were again gaining on the Baron’s train. Holmes made his way over to Berger, who was busy with the controls and spoke intently into his ear. The man started back and stared at him, then shrugged, and clapped him on the shoulder. Holmes returned to where I stood and asked for the revolver.
“What will you do?” I said, handing it over.
“What I can,” he answered, echoing Freud’s words in response to a similar question. “Watson, old man, if we do not meet again, you will think kindly of me, I trust?”
“But Holmes—”
He gripped my hand with a pressure that stopped all words, then turned to Dr. Freud.
“Is this necessary?” Freud asked. Like myself, he appeared to have no notion of the detective’s intentions, but his words had created an ominous impression.
“I am afraid it is,” Holmes responded. “At all events, I can think of nothing else. Goodbye, Sigmund Freud, and may God bless you for the work you have done and for the services you will yet render mankind; for saving my own wretched life, if for nothing more.”
“I did not save it to assist you in casting it away again,” Freud protested, and it seemed to me his eyes were watering, though this may merely have been the effect of the heat, the soot, and the wind.
In any case, Holmes did not hear him, for he was starting once more towards the car we were pushing before us, as the Baron’s train drew nearer and nearer still. So engrossed were we in observing his progress, that it was not until it was almost upon us that we perceived another train travelling in the opposite direction on the parallel set of tracks. Holmes, preoccupied with his footing, did not see it, nor was he able to hear our frantic shouts to pull himself in as it passed. The train so startled him as it roared by, a fraction from his body, that he let go one hand and was very nearly sucked into the tremendous vacuum. But he regained his hold and nodded to us with a jerky movement of his head that he was unhurt. The next instant he disappeared into the empty carriage.
Exactly what took place then is difficult to describe. I have seen it in my dreams, and even compared recollections with Freud on the subject, but it happened so quickly and amidst such confusion that the events blur in both our memories.
Berger was now overtaking the Baron’s train at his own pace, and he eased the car we were pushing into the Baron’s two remaining carriages. As we wound amongst those stupendous mountains, Berger duplicated the Baron’s pace, imitating precisely the openings and closings of the other engine’s throttle.
In this fashion we dashed into a tunnel, and in the blackness, shots were heard, echoing even above the din of the trains. In another instant we were thrust once more into open air. I could stand no more of the suspense, and, wound or no wound, determined to follow my friend. Freud knew it was useless to dissuade me this time, and together we started forward, when the engineer uttered a cry and pointed.
Someone was climbing on top of the nearest car! It was a man, dressed in black, wearing highly polished boots and holding a pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other.
“It’s the Baron !” Freud exclaimed.
Oh, for my revolver! A weapon—anything! If he had slain Holmes and now intended to fire upon us, we were lost. Without the tender behind there was nothing to shelter us from his lethal perch on top of the car. At that moment, I believe I did not so much mind the thought of dying, as of dying without avenging Holmes.
Yet he was not dead! Even as we watched, a second figure emerged on the roof of the same carriage at the other end. It was Sherlock Holmes, and, like the Baron, he carried a revolver and a sabre, though how these weapons chanced to be aboard the train I did not learn until afterwards.
As we lurched through the magnificent Bavarian countryside, the two men faced each other at opposite ends of the car. They appeared almost motionless but for their efforts to retain their balance on top of the swaying carriage. It was one of those efforts that caused Holmes to lose his footing; as he stumbled, the Baron whipped round his revolver and fired. He had not reckoned with the same jolts that had caused Holmes to slip, however. Another shook him the instant he aimed and his shot went wide. He tried again as Holmes rose to his feet, but the gun would not discharge. Either it had no more bullets or its firing mechanism had jammed. With a furious gesture, he hurled it aside. In automatic response Holmes brought up his own weapon and aimed it.
But he did not fire.
“Holmes! Shoot! Shoot !” we called up to him. If he heard us he gave no sign. Nor did he pay any heed when we tried to warn him of the approaching tunnel behind him. The Baron held his ground while death, in the form of a stone arch, drew rapidly closer to the detective.
Ironically, it was the Baron who saved him. Seeing the tunnel, he lost his nerve and flattened himself on the roof of the car. In an instant Holmes divined the reason for this manoeuvre and did likewise, the gun flying from his hand as he went down.
This second tunnel seemed an eternity in length. What were they doing up there? Was that fiend even now taking advantage of the darkness, and inching his way along the car with the object of stabbing my friend under its cover? One can go mad at such moments.
When we again burst into the daylight, we discovered the combatants moving towards one another, precariously balanced, swords in hand.
In an instant they grappled and their blades crossed, flashing in the clear sunlight. Back and forth they slashed and thrust, struggling to maintain their footing as they duelled. Neither was an amateur. The young Baron had been trained at Heidelberg—and had that pretty scar to show for it—and Holmes was an expert singlestick player as well as fencing champion. I had not seen him work with a sabre before, nor had I ever witnessed a contest of arms on more unlikely or treacherous ground.
Truth forces me to confess, however, that the Baron was Holmes’s superior with the sabre. He pressed him slowly, relentlessly back to the end of the car, his satanic features grinning with eager anticipation as he perceived his advantage.
“Keep her close !” I yelled to Berger, and he opened the throttle—and not a second too soon. We rammed the Baron’s train again, just as Holmes was compelled to retreat to it with a backward leap. Had we not been tight, he would have stepped into oblivion.
The Baron pursued him with an agility and grace that would have done justice to a jaguar, before Berger had time to adjust the throttle and separate them by slowing us down. Again Holmes stumbled and his opponent lost not a moment in lunging for him. The detective rolled to avoid the blow, but the Baron’s blade found part of its mark, at least, and I saw blood spurt from his victim’s exposed arm.
And then it was over. How it happened, or precisely what happened, I have never determined. Holmes himself could not remember, but it appears that in trying to pierce him a second time, the Baron drew back his blade, lost his footing, and impaled himself on Holmes’s sword as the latter twisted round, point upraised, to rise again.
The Baron drew back with such force that the sabre hilt was wrenched from my friend’s hand; yet so furiously had the villain rushed upon it that he was unable to pull it forth from his body. He stood for a moment on the carriage roof, swaying, his evil face, immobile with shock, and then, with an awful cry—I still hear it sometimes in my dreams—he plunged over the side. Holmes remained on his knees for some moments, clutching his arm and striving not to roll off. Then he looked about and down at us.
Freud and I scrambled fr
om the engine as hastily as we dared, and climbed to the top of the car. There we got hold of him and carefully worked him down the ladder at the other end. Freud wanted to examine the wound, but Holmes shook his head stubbornly, insisting that it was only a scratch, and led us through the two cars still connected with the Baron’s speeding train. In the first of these we came upon the prostrate body of the large butler, struck through the temple by a bullet fired by Holmes when he had entered the car. Crouching in one corner, screaming in uncontrolled hysterics, which distorted her every magnificent feature, was the woman who had so convincingly personated the Baroness Von Leinsdorf. She did not move as we made our way through, but sat sobbing like a child in a pet, rocking herself frantically to and fro. The carriage itself was sumptuously appointed with the same lavish trappings that had been characteristic of the Baron’s Vienna mansion. On the walls, alternating between the windows and draperies, were armorial mementos, and it was from one of these gilded crests that Holmes and the Baron had seized their weapons. We paused to gape at the splendid interior of the vehicle, but Holmes urged us on.
“Hurry !” he pleaded in weakening tones. “Hurry !”
He crossed into the first car, which contained the baggage, and a great deal of it there proved to be. In desperate haste, supervised by the detective, we began our search amongst innumerable trunks and portmanteaux.
“Look for the air holes,” Holmes panted, leaning on his sabre and clutching the barred window for support.
“Here !” exclaimed Freud abruptly. He seized the sword and slid its blade behind the lock of an enormous trunk. With a mighty effort he tore loose the catch, and he and I together threw back the clasps and forced the thing open on its massing hinges.
And there, alive, unharmed, and in much the same condition we had left her—her blue-grey eyes open but unseeing—sat Nancy Osborn Slater Von Leinsdorf.
Sherlock Holmes stared down at her for some moments, swaying slightly.
“No backhand,” he murmured, and then, after a pause, “let us stop these trains—” before falling into my arms.
CHAPTER XVII
The Final Problem
“WE HAVE NOT REALLY prevented a war,” Sherlock Holmes observed, setting aside his brandy. “The most we can be said to have done is postponed it.”
“But—”
“It is no secret that fleets are building up at Scapa Flow,” he returned with a touch of impatience, though not unkindly, “and if the Kaiser wishes to go to war with Russia over the Balkans, he will find the means to do so. With the Baron dead and the Baroness incapable, it would not astonish me to learn that the German government has declared the will null and the estates intestate. At that time,” he twisted round in his chair to face Freud, being careful not to disarrange the sling which supported his left arm, “you and I, Doctor, may find ourselves on opposing sides.”
We were back once more in the familiar study at Bergasse 19, though this was destined to be our last visit to that comfortable room, whose smoke-filled atmosphere had, of late, increasingly reminded me of Holmes’s Baker Street digs.
Sigmund Freud shook his head in melancholy agreement, when Holmes had finished speaking, and lit another cigar.
“It was partially to prevent that situation that I helped you, yet I cannot doubt the truth of your prophecy.” He sighed. “Perhaps all our labours have availed nothing.”
“I should not go quite that far,” Holmes smiled and again adjusted his position in the chair. The wound in his arm was not without complications, for the Baron’s blade had pinked a nerve, and every movement was painful. With a great effort he held his pipe in his left hand, slowly bringing it up to his lips, where he lit it and allowed it to remain, easing his hand slowly down again. “We have, after all, gained time, and that is the essential good to be derived from our efforts. You recall Marvell’s choice phrase, Watson? Had we but world enough, and time’?” He turned slightly to face me. “Well, what the world needs desperately is time. Given time, perhaps humanity will come to grips with that terrible half of itself that seems always bent on useless acts of waste and devastation. If our work has gained but an hour more in which to understand the human predicament, it shall not have been in vain.”
“There are other benefits of a more immediate nature to show for our work,” I assured both men. “For one thing, we have rescued that unfortunate woman from a fate worse than death, and for another . . .” I hesitated and stopped in confusion. Holmes laughed gently and continued my train of thought for me.
“And for another, Doctor Freud has saved my life. Had I not come to Vienna, and had your cure not been successful, sir, I should doubtless have missed this and every other intriguing little problem that may ever chance to come my way. And,” he added, taking up his glass once more, “had you, Watson, not contrived to get me here against my will, Doctor Freud would never have had the opportunity to save a doomed addict. To both of you, in fact, I owe my life. To Watson, here, there will be a lifetime to repay the debt, but to you, Doctor, I confess I am at a loss. If my predictions are accurate, this may be the last time we see one another for some—perhaps all-time. How can I repay you?”
Sigmund Freud did not respond at once. He had smiled in his inimitable way while Holmes was speaking. Now he tapped an ash from his cigar and regarded my friend fixedly.
“Let me have a minute to think about it,” he requested.
Our bags were packed; the case was closed. The Baron was dead and soon I should be back in London with my wife. The personator of Baroness Von Leinsdorf proved to be—as Holmes suspected—an American actress who had remained on the Continent after the return of her touring company. Her true name was Diana Marlowe and during the company’s sojourn in Berlin she had met and been seduced by the young Baron. She was released after signing a statement tantamount to a confession (in which she acknowledged her illicit liaison) and also affixing her name to a document in which she swore never to reveal the events in which she had taken part, nor the names of any of the principals involved, including that of Sherlock Holmes. In addition, she was pledged never to return either to Austria or Germany.
The police authorities of two countries were anxious to hush up a scandal of major proportions, a near international incident. The facts had quickly become clear; Berger and the wounded engineer gave their depositions, and like ourselves were instructed to remain for ever silent. The energetic Sergeant of the Viennese Constabulary and his men were enjoined to similar oaths of discretion, though it was abundantly clear to all concerned that there was really no choice or motive other than to keep silent. The perpetrators of this wicked scheme had come to their just end, and as it might be some time (if ever) before the Baroness spoke again. The governments of the Emperor and the Kaiser doubtless deemed it prudent that their political machinations and alliances should not be made public at the present time and under these sordid circumstances. In point of fact, I later learned that it was not the old Emperor at all, but his scheming nephew, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, who had entered into the cabal with Count Von Schlieffen, Baron Von Leinsdorf, and the chancellery in Berlin. In an odd way, the Archduke was granted his terrible munitions: Germany presented them carte blanche to Austria after he had been assassinated at Sarajevo many years later, and the war that ensued cost the Kaiser his throne. I often thought, during those dark years that opened this century, of Sigmund Freud’s brief interior profile of the man, based on his observation of his withered arm, though whether he was right or wrong in his conclusions I cannot say. As I noted earlier in this narrative, there were many points upon which we disagreed utterly.
As we were packing, Holmes and I naturally discussed the idea of violating our agreements with these two pretty powers and revealing to the world their scandalous conduct. Once we were back in England there was nothing to prevent our doing so; our stolen train, the butler Holmes had slain, and the border we had violated could not be used—which they were while we remained in Austria—as inducements to co-
operate. Perhaps the world ought to know what mischief great men were planning for it.
Yet we decided to remain silent. We were not certain what the result of such revelations would be—neither of us being politically astute enough to gauge their importance—and, what was more, we could not reveal the truth of the matter without also revealing the complicity of Dr. Freud. And this, as he continued to reside in Vienna, we were loath to do.
“I’ll tell you what I should like,” Freud said at last, putting down his cigar and gazing steadfastly at Holmes. “I should like to hypnotise you once more.”
I had no idea what he might ask (some part of me suspected that he waive any such offer on Holmes’s part altogether), but I had never expected this. No more than Holmes, who blinked in surprise and coughed before replying.
“You wish to hypnotise me? For what purpose?”
Freud shrugged, retaining the same quiet smile.
“You spoke just now of the human predicament,” said he. “I must confess it is my overpowering interest. And as it has been observed that the proper study of mankind is man, I thought you might permit me to peer once more into your brains.”
Holmes considered the request briefly.
“Very well. I am your willing subject.”
“Shall I go?” I asked, rising to leave the room if Freud believed my presence might interfere with the proceedings.
“I should prefer you to remain,” he answered, drawing the curtains and fetching forth his fob yet again.
It was an easier task to hypnotise the detective now than it had been in the past when we had so desperately relied on Freud’s technique for successfully weaning him from cocaine. Now that the proper rapport was established, there was nothing to cloud either of their minds, and plenty of time. Holmes closed his eyes within three minutes and sat immobile, awaiting the Doctor’s instructions.
“I am going to ask you some questions,” he began, talking in a low and gentle voice, “and you will answer them. When we are finished, I will snap my fingers and you will awaken. When you do, you will remember nothing that has taken place whilst you were asleep. Do you understand?”
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