“As I say, I’ve been out of the country — I’m a little out of touch with recent developments. This Redfern … young fellow, is he?”
“In his early twenties, I should say,” I answered. “Strange chap — claimed to be English, but he had an accent I couldn’t place.”
Without warning, Julius Ferregamo grabbed me by the lapels. “His teeth! His skin! Describe them!”
“Then you do know him!”
As quickly as he had accosted me, the frightened man released me, before staggering as though wounded. “My God!” he breathed. “Ruber! He’s found me out! My God!” His face had reddened, and heavy beads of sweat ran down his brow. I feared his heart might be under some tremendous strain.
“Julius!” I cried. “Julius, what’s happening to you?”
In describing what occurred next, I realize that I risk straining my readers’ credulity. Even the famously eccentric Professor Challenger, the one man in London I imagined would be sympathetic to my tale, dismissed it as some form of narcotic delusion when I related this event to him. Nevertheless, I insist that I speak the absolute truth.
Ferregamo was acting like a madman, first scratching at the painting, then flailing about wildly. I attempted to restrain him, but without success. Holmes, meanwhile, was paralysed by the strange scene, his expression pale but exultant, his lips parted in amazement. At last, our host collapsed to the floor, heaving. But the worst was not over. It seemed from the unnatural movement in his gullet, that something was attempting to force its way out of his body … something alive.
When I viewed the remains of Anwar Molinet — was it really only that morning? — I thought I had witnessed the most hideous sight man could ever see. But now, crouching on all fours, Julius Ferregamo proceeded to disgorge a stream of bile … and live scorpions, more than could ever have been contained within a man’s system, should he have chosen to swallow them whole in the first place. Freed from their unnatural prison, the creatures then proceeded to scuttle about the room, some of them heading towards Holmes and myself.
“Run!” Holmes cried, suddenly himself once more. Needing no further encouragement, I followed him out into the hallway, slamming the door firmly shut behind us.
“Holmes…” I gasped. “What just happened…” It was neither a question nor a statement, but Holmes nodded vigorously.
“It happened, Watson. But I’m at a complete loss as to explain why or how.”
“When you start a chase, Mr. Holmes, you really do it!” With the passing of the day, Lestrade had become quite his old self. Holmes and I, however, were both exhausted and less than willing to accept the Scotland Yarder’s customary twitting. “And you say this fellow’s death is connected to the Molinet business?”
Holmes nodded, dumbly.
“And … you saw live scorpions coming out of his mouth? I don’t mean to question your skill for observation, but really…”
“I am as dumbfounded as you, Inspector — not a sensation I much enjoy. But if you open that door, you will find that what we say is true. But please draw your pistol before doing so; you will have need of it.”
With some hesitancy, Lestrade pushed lightly against the door to the parlor. Then, with a sly grin, he shoved it wide open.
“Having a laugh at the expense of the slow-witted policemen, eh? Well, no scorpions in here. Also no tarantula spiders and no venomous swamp adders.”
Disbelieving, I pushed my way past Lestrade. Julius Ferregamo lay where we had left him, quite dead. But of the ghastly creatures, there was no trace.
“Impossible!” I breathed.
“Merely improbable, I should say.” Sherlock Holmes brushed by and knelt to examine the body. “If there were no scorpions, then there remains the question of how Ferregamo was stung to death.”
“Sounds as though I should have a word with the keepers at London Zoo,” Lestrade suggested, unhelpfully.
I joined Holmes as he lifted Ferregamo’s right hand gingerly. Under the fingernails were traces of paint. “He did begin scratching at the Redfern just before … the end,” I observed.
“Perhaps he wanted to see this other painting underneath,” said Lestrade. We both turned to see the police official examining the picture.
“Underneath?” I repeated. Looking closely, I could see that he was correct; there was a second picture, but it was impossible to tell what it might be.
“No doubt Mr. Holmes has some chemicals in his laboratory that could help reveal it.”
“No need for that,” Holmes responded, “I already know what it is. Lestrade, Watson and I have an appointment elsewhere. I can trust you to take care of the body before you begin waking up the zookeepers?”
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon a scent such as this. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn in deep thought and his thin lips compressed. His face was bent downwards, his shoulder bowed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His eyes shone out from beneath his brows with a steely glitter. Men who have only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. But I recognized the battle-signs; the time of crisis had arrived.
It was close to midnight when we returned to Algernon Redfern’s studio off the King’s Road. Holmes did not wait, but simply pushed the door open and entered. I followed closely, my heart thumping so loudly in my chest, I was certain that I could be found in an instant by whoever or whatever awaited us.
I lack my friend’s cultivated eyesight, but I doubted that even he could make out any details in the darkness. The lamps were unlit, the blinds drawn and were it not for the fact that I knew Redfern possessed virtually no furniture, I would have feared to take a step in any direction.
“You didn’t knock, Mr. Holmes,” said a familiar voice from the other end of the room. “I sensed at heart you were a poor sport. The artist in me … knows these things.”
“Any pretence at sportsmanship vanished when you attempted to kill me, Mr. Ruber,” Holmes replied, stridently.
I strained my eyes, but I could not make out the shape of Algernon Redfern. He chuckled. “Ferregamo told you my real name. Oh, please tell me he said it with his dying breath. It would mean so much to me. Or don’t you propose to give me the satisfaction?” The last traces of his forced English accent were gone for good, I realized.
Holmes remained silent, a fixed point.
“Oh, very well,” sighed the man I had known as Redfern. “If it helps — and I doubt it will — I’m sorry. Not about Ferregamo, of course, but about any discomfort you may have experienced.”
I could remain silent no longer. “You seem to have forgotten, Redfern — I mean, Ruber, that four other people are dead, and I take it you are responsible.”
“Haven’t you told him, Mr. Holmes?”
“If I have kept the good doctor in the dark … so to speak … it is only because I find it difficult to credit that such a thing could occur in the world as I understand it. Very well, perhaps explanations are in order. All these terrible crimes were committed with just one target in mind: the late Mr. Julius Ferregamo. I realized that very late in the day — both figuratively and literally — when I passed on the painting that had been a gift from Ruber here, and all my digestive problems vanished.”
“And were inherited by Ferregamo?” I asked, hardly daring to believe the implications.
“Had he not taken it, I daresay I should have suffered the same ghastly fate, a notion that should give fuel to my nightmares for some years to come.”
From the tone of his voice, I knew that Ruber was mightily pleased with himself. “I was worried you might not have picked up on the little clue I left you — I never even saw you examine the paper I was writing on — but when word reached me about Ferregamo’s death, well … I knew you’d done exactly what I’d wanted you to do.”
“It was not as though I had any choice in the experience. Once you led me to him,
I found I could do nothing but give him your painting. With the assistance of Watson here, I swore off the evils of cocaine because I disliked the sensation of not being in control of my thoughts and senses. All the works you created under the alias of Algernon Redfern — they were meant for Ferregamo, were they not?”
I had some vague notion of what Holmes was driving at, but it seemed simply too fantastic to credit. “What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that Ruber here…”
“Felix Ruber, in case you were wondering,” the man in the darkness interrupted.
“Very well,” Holmes continued, “Felix Ruber, you see, has … an ability. I cannot classify it scientifically, but it seems that his paintings are somehow able to affect their owner — adversely, I need hardly add. Hence, Mrs. Serracoult’s fiery demise, the mysterious disappearance of James Phillimore, the invisible creature that clawed its way out of Molinet’s stomach, and so on. You have a very vivid imagination, sir, if more than somewhat disturbed.” Holmes touched my sleeve. Whether he could see my response or not, I nodded my understanding.
“Given that you have achieved your goal,” he asked, “would you at least satisfy my curiosity and tell me your story?”
“If you’re hoping that my story will contain an explanation of my gift, I’m afraid you’re destined to be disappointed, Mr. Holmes. But why not?” As Ruber spoke, I began to take short, silent steps, tracking the voice to its source. “I was living on the streets of Vienna, when I first met Julius Ferregamo. I was little more than a child, trying to make money any way I could. You might think you’ve seen some terrible things today, gentlemen, but believe me, nothing can compare to the horrors I experienced growing up. Ferregamo was there to see what artwork he could snatch up for the so-called civilized world. The man was no better than a vulture. He’d heard some talk about my work … my abilities. You’d think that would have made me blessed. But once the word spread, life became impossible … I was the miracle-worker, the modern-day messiah. Believe it or not, I simply just wanted to paint. It is what I do, what I am. Ferregamo promised me a new life, away from that hell. I believed him. But he just wanted to use me like all the others. To be richer than he already was, to see his enemies crushed. It was my job to see that those things came to pass.”
I remembered that Ferregamo had somehow retained his position as the premier art collector in London, perhaps even in Europe, but his competitors had all come and gone. Now I had some inkling of how they had gone. “So … you simply paint something and it happens?” I asked, and instantly regretted doing so. Had I given away my position?
“Not quite, Doctor. You have to possess the painting to feel its power. People must have thought Ferregamo was a very generous man — he was always giving them gifts.”
“And those gifts were your paintings,” Holmes responded. “Then you were his accomplice.”
“I was his prisoner! Locked in a cell in his home, with a guard watching over me at all times. But finally, during my one mealtime a day, I was able to scratch a drawing into a metal plate with my fork — it was a drawing of a heart exploding. The guard took my plate and … I was free.”
In his rage, he did not seem to have noticed my approach. I continued, step by careful step, as he expounded.
“I disappeared, studied, changed my style. Then returned to destroy Julius Ferregamo. But that wasn’t easy if he had to possess my work. That was why, in addition to reinventing myself, I hid my revenge paintings under those rather more conventional landscapes. I found that using Brickfall and Amberley’s lead-based paint seemed to block the effects for a time. Don’t ask me to explain it; I don’t really understand it myself. But, of course, I couldn’t just send him one of my pictures, he would have known instantly. The only way was for him to buy one at auction. I had no idea he was out of the country until I saw it in the newspaper.”
“And tell me, Mr. Ruber, does that make you any less of a murderer?” asked Holmes. In the gloom, I could see only the easel on which Ruber’s last painting still rested. Where was the devil?
“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. And I can’t ask for it over … over all those other people you just mentioned who’s names I’m ashamed to tell you I’ve already forgotten.” I still could not see my quarry, but I was certain that I had traced the voice to its source, somewhere close to the easel.
“Of late, I’ve given a great deal of thought to questions of captivity and freedom … it strikes me that I have been a captive for my entire life — even these last few months, living in self-imposed imprisonment, unwilling to go out in public for fear that Ferregamo might recognize me. I have been my own jailer, Mr. Holmes; perhaps, in a way, that is true of us all. And I think that, for once, I should like to taste real freedom. The whole of Europe is open to me.”
“I’m afraid that may not be possible. You must be called to account for the deaths you have caused.”
Another chuckle. I knew that I was close. “I would not have categorized you as a wishful thinker, Holmes. It seems you still possess the ability to surprise me, after all. But you recall I said earlier today that I would stay in London until my work was completed? Well, Ferregamo has been dead some time now … and I departed the moment I knew.”
I pounced. There was a crash — and then I experienced the sudden, overpowering numbness that comes seconds before the onset of great pain. My ribs burned, as I lay on the floor, and I could only hope that I had somehow succeeded in waylaying Felix Ruber as I fell. But I knew in my heart that I had not. Not only had he vanished without trace, but a search of the studio revealed no other entrance or exit. The windows had clearly not been opened in many a year, and we left some hours later, infinitely sadder but no wiser for our experience. Surely, I told myself, the voice could not have emanated from the self-portrait of Felix Ruber, which I had succeeded in knocking from the easel to the dusty floor?
Holmes and I did not discuss the incident upon our return to Baker Street, and we have talked little of the case since. If his own words are to be believed, Ruber is at large somewhere in Europe as I write, and though my friend could easily use his influence with the high officials of several international police forces to arrange a wide-scale search, he has not done so.
“Having given the matter further thought, it strikes me that it would be nearly impossible to bring the fellow to trial in a satisfactory manner,” he explained, some months later. “The average British jury is not composed of massive intellects, and a prosecutor might just as well accuse hobgoblins and fairies of the crime. I fear that the finer scientific points would be lost on the great, unobservant British public.”
For a man who has turned the docketing of fresh and accurate information into an art-form, it seems odd that he should be able to deny that these events occurred as they did, and as — so far as I am aware — the only other surviving witness, I fear that no-one will place any stock in this account. So I lay it aside for now, in the hope that perhaps my friend is at least partially correct, and by the time it is published, long after my death, we will at last have come to comprehend the nature of Felix Ruber’s remarkable abilities.
I should add that I hear rumors, from time to time, of queer noises emanating from the vaults of Cox and Co, where the portrait of Felix Ruber is stored, but I have not felt a pressing need to investigate further.
Sherlock Holmes in The Lost World
Sherlock Holmes in the Lost World
by Martin Powell
Author’s Note: John H. Watson, M.D. wishes to state that both the restriction for restraint and the libel action have been withdrawn unconditionally by Professor George Edward Challenger, who, being content that no criticism or observation in this narrative is meant in an offensive spirit, has guaranteed that he will place no obstruction to its publication.
The cave man’s stomach felt as empty as his head.
Days and nights of starvation, by no means an uncommon happenstance upon the Plateau,
had dimmed his distinctive wisdom and he’d reluctantly ventured down from the relative shelter of the vine-tangled trees in search of sustenance.
He crawled through the open grass on his hairy belly like a filth-encrusted beetle, short spear gripped in a black-bristled paw, with a razor-edge blade made of bone clenched in his broad square teeth. The deer was grazing only a few short yards away.
The cave man scarcely breathed, hungrily eyeing his quarry with mouth-watering expectation. He was down-wind of the slight breeze as planned — he’d not yet lost total reason — and rapid glances over each wide bushy shoulder did not yet reveal a rival predator stalking the same prey. From a kneeling position he raised his spear. Perhaps, this was his lucky day.
The deer’s head sprang up in instant vigilance. The deadly double pair of antlers, and the Y-shaped horn upon its snout at once would have made the otherwise graceful creature utterly unearthly to the typical modern Londoner. Large liquid eyes darted for the coming danger. Before the batting of another long lash the fleet-footed deer sprang away in a series of lofty leaps that were almost miraculous in their prowess.
The cave man hadn’t time for disappointment. At first he sensed the commotion rather than heard it, rather like the thudding of an inaudible drum-beat. Alarm flashed in his deep-set, sweat-reddened eyes as he suddenly felt the rumbling earth beneath him.
Stampede!
A bank of swirling grasses, twelve feet high, parted and exploded outward with an eruption of the thundering brontotherium and her galloping calf. The frenzied terror of the massive beasts prompted the cave man to race for the salvation of the high branches at least a hundred yards distant. Still, he had to try. The brontotheres feared few enemies.
A pack of creodonts swarmed after the massive grass-eaters in all their yellow-eyed, jagged jawed horror. The grisly devils virtually slithered rather than ran, their low, long, ductile feline forms fluidly racing and flowing in the heat of the hunt. Bone-crushing wolfish snouts dripped and snarled with the stuff of nightmares.
Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 13