Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs

by Hayes, Steve

  Embarrassed, Bess squeezed her husband’s arm. ‘Harry!’

  Ignoring her, Houdini continued, ‘After tomorrow night’s performance maybe we can have a late supper, and I can pick your brains.’

  ‘There is no trick to it, I assure you,’ Holmes said stiffly. ‘It is all based upon simple observation.’

  ‘OK,’ said Houdini. ‘So tell me something about myself. Right here, right now.’

  ‘Please, Mr Holmes, pay him no mind,’ Bess apologied. Her voice was gentle, her manner somewhat retiring. ‘I’m afraid Harry’s notorious when it comes to challenging those who question his own illusions and he’s always keen to learn from others.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ Holmes said. ‘However, I do not deal in illusion.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said Houdini, but the good humour in his eyes softened the challenge.

  By now the brass band had stopped playing, and the waiting dignitaries were beginning to chatter irritably among themselves, irked by the poor manners of these visiting Amerikaners. Directly behind Houdini, the rest of his entourage moved a little closer, eager to hear Holmes’s response.

  He did not keep them waiting.

  ‘I perceive that you were sleeping when the train arrived and woke suddenly at the very last moment. Furthermore, for this last stage of the journey you sat with your back to the engine. Though you were not born ambidextrous, you have worked diligently to become so. In your time you have also held a position in tailoring. Oh, and may I congratulate you on giving up the habit of biting your fingernails two weeks ago.’

  Houdini stared at him in amazement. ‘My God, Holmes, what the … I mean, how the heck do you do that?’

  ‘Am I correct?’

  ‘In every detail. But … how?’

  ‘I have already told you, Mr Houdini – simple observation. There is a tiny flake of rheum, more commonly referred to as “sleep” or “sleep sugar”, in the corner of your right eye. Almost certainly you would have washed it away during your morning ablutions. That you did not implies that you slept for some time after you washed this morning. Had you not woken suddenly when the train arrived, you would almost certainly have had the chance to “freshen up”, as you Americans say, or your wife would have pointed it out before you met your public.’

  Reaching up to rub at his right eye, Houdini said, ‘And the fact that I slept with my back to the engine?’

  ‘You cradled your head in your right hand while you slept. I can still just detect the faintest impression of your fingertips against your right temple. It is far more likely that your right arm in turn was resting against the wall of your compartment as you slept – which would have you seated facing the way we had just come, and thus with your back to the engine.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Houdini said. ‘But what about the tailoring?’

  ‘If one is sufficiently receptive there is an inordinate amount of information one may obtain from the hands,’ Holmes replied soberly. ‘In your case I noted when we first shook that your right hand carried a ring of noticeably calloused skin around the base of your thumb and between your index and middle fingers, very close to the knuckles. This suggested to me the act of holding and using scissors for long periods of time. The most likely cause for this would not, as one might expect, be associated with the hairdressing trade, but rather with the tailoring industry.’

  Houdini chuckled. ‘I started off as a necktie cutter, if you must know. And the business about biting my nails?’

  ‘Again, when we first shook hands I observed that your fingernails are somewhat uneven, and have not, as one would expect, been clipped into the usual uniform ellipsis. From this I could only surmise that you have recently given up the habit of biting your nails and have allowed them to grow out before cutting them.’

  Houdini exchanged glances with his wife.

  ‘You … you’re absolutely right again,’ she said. ‘But how did you know Harry had only given up in the past two weeks?’

  ‘The same way I knew that he had trained himself to be ambidextrous, Mrs Houdini. Fingernails grow at a rate of just less than a millimetre a week, slightly quicker on the dominant hand. By estimating the length of the faster-growing nails on your dominant hand from the distal nail fold to its edge, I was able to reach a figure of roughly fourteen days. Since there was barely any difference between the rate of growth upon the nails of your left hand, I concluded that you had taught yourself to use both with equal facility.’

  Houdini grinned admiringly. ‘I still say it’s a trick. But it’s a darned good one.’ He stuck out his hand and they shook once more. ‘Now, if it’s OK with you, Mr Holmes, I’d better get a move on. My audience awaits, as they say. Oh, and by the way,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘if by some unlikely chance you should figure out how I perform the impossible … keep it to yourself, will you?’

  ‘My lips shall remain sealed, Mr Houdini.’

  With a theatrical flourish Houdini and his entourage continued on their way along the centre of the platform toward the waiting dignitaries and reporters, and seeing him approach, the band once again struck up Land der Berge, Land am Strome.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kunstmaler

  HOUDINI WAS GREETED like the celebrity he was. Cameras clicked and flash-pans ignited. Dignitaries accorded him as much deference as they would visiting royalty, and story-seeking reporters yelled questions at him in broken English. Diplomatically, Frances Lane stepped to one side, allowing Houdini and Bess to take centre stage and promise all kinds of wonders for his new run at the Theater an der Burg.

  Holmes and Watson skirted the ever-swelling crowd and left the station unobserved. A row of Bersey cabs were lined up outside. As they got into the first one, Holmes called their destination up to the driver, who was perched on his exposed seat above and in front of the cab. Moments later the mechanized taxi whirred out into the broad thoroughfare known as the Ringstrasse.

  As the cab took them toward the Kaerntnerring and the Grand Hotel, Watson consulted the paperwork relating to their holiday. ‘I say, Holmes,’ he concluded enthusiastically, ‘you have certainly done us proud. The Grand is one of the finest hotels in the city, if not the fineSt It says here they have close to four hundred rooms, all heated with hot-water radiators, and half of them fitted with telephones!’

  Holmes scowled. He had used telephones in the past – they were rapidly becoming a necessary evil – but had never been enthusiastic about them.

  ‘And see here,’ Watson continued. ‘It boasts its own steam-powered lift and its own telegraph office. The dining room even holds two concerts every day, one during afternoon tea at five, and another at eight, so that guests may listen to fine music while they eat.’

  But Holmes was now busy studying the city itself.

  Vienna was magnificent. And when Watson finally slipped their paperwork away and settled back to enjoy the ride to their hotel, it seemed to him as if every one of the capital’s two million inhabitants had descended upon its major shopping routes, the Kaerntnerstrasse, the Graben and Stephansplatz. Posted everywhere were colourful posters promoting Houdini’s run at the Theater an der Burg, while beside them were anti-government notices urging a quick change of regime.

  At length they reached the Grand Hotel, a vast, majestic building that exuded old-world charm and more than lived up to its name. While Watson booked them in, Holmes purchased a street-map of Vienna. He then scribbled a message and asked that it be sent immediately, via telegram, to Dr Sigmund Freud at Bergstrasse 19.

  As they crossed the lobby to the lift, Holmes told Watson that he had just informed Freud of their safe arrival, and were looking forward to meeting him at the earliest opportunity.

  Watson’s good humour abruptly vanished. ‘Well,’ he remarked stiffly, ‘I am sure that you are, at any rate.’

  Holmes waited until they were in the lift and heading up to their suite before saying, ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I told you at the outs
et, Holmes, that Freud has certain … theories … of which I heartily disapprove.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘It is hardly important.’

  ‘On the contrary, your behaviour suggests that it is highly important.’

  ‘Well, since you insist, may I remind you that Freud, like yourself, is a proponent of cocaine. I’ve read his papers upon the subject. He claims that cocaine has beneficial effects in that it can stimulate the senses and relieve pain.’

  ‘And you do not agree?’

  ‘No, I most certainly do not! Furthermore, I worry that you may take Freud’s rather cavalier approach to the drug as a reason to use it all the more.’

  ‘I can assure you that I will not.’

  Watson offered a sad smile. ‘Your word has always been good enough for me in the past, Holmes. But as a doctor, I have learned that the word of an addict should always be taken lightly.’

  ‘Are you still suggesting I am an addict?’

  ‘Are you still suggesting you are not? After all these years?’

  The lift jerked to a halt and they stepped out onto the opulent fourth floor. As the attendant closed the doors behind them, Holmes said, ‘I see you have lost none of your mother hen qualities, Watson.’ Then before Watson could take offence, he added softly, ‘And it is good to have someone fretting over my health once more.’

  Watson shrugged self-consciously. ‘I don’t mean to preach—’

  ‘But if you do,’ Holmes interrupted, ‘it is only with the best of intentions. And though I may not be good at showing it, your concern is greatly appreciated. As for my addiction, I assure you that you need not fear any relapse on my behalf. Age has brought with it a degree of … perspective. I no longer dread the mundanity of everyday life as I once did and neither do I crave constant stimulation.’ He offered his hand. ‘You have my word on it – whether you care to accept it or not.’

  ‘Of course I accept it,’ said Watson.

  They shook.

  For a moment Watson was tempted to ask Holmes if he regretted his bachelor existence. After all, he was approaching sixty, and to face one’s declining years alone was, in Watson’s mind at least, a daunting prospect. But though he sensed that time had softened Holmes, Watson did not believe he had softened that much. The only thing Holmes would ever regret was that he might not use his amazing abilities to observe and deduce to their fullest extent. He would have removed anything from his life that stopped him doing that, clinically and efficiently. For as fine a man as he was, he did not think in terms of love and companionship as other men do. Although, mused Watson, he might once have, had he not met his match in the opera singer and sometime-courtesan, Irene Adler.

  ‘It has been a long and tiring journey,’ Holmes said, breaking Watson’s train of thought. ‘Rest, my friend, and await the arrival of your luggage, which I daresay will be along shortly. Then we will meet again for supper, do a little sightseeing and retire early, so as to be fully refreshed for the morrow.’

  The following morning, as they were entering the dining room for breakfast, the desk clerk called Holmes’s name and held up two envelopes which had been delivered overnight. Holmes took them, tore open the first and, after scanning the note within, said, ‘Freud will be delighted to meet us at lunchtime. He recommends a cafe called the Türkischer, of which he speaks highly, and says we will find it facing the Beserlpark Alsergrund.’

  ‘Which is…?’

  ‘A Beserlpark is like an oversized traffic island, except that it has grass and trees and benches – in essence, a miniature park set in the heart of the city. And here,’ Holmes continued, opening the second envelope, ‘are our tickets for Houdini’s opening performance this evening.’

  Watson beamed. ‘That, I suspect, is going to be quite an experience.’

  They spent the morning exploring the city, known throughout the world as the City of Music due to the many prestigious composers who had been born there; it was also becoming known as the City of Dreams, in tribute to Freud’s groundbreaking work in psychoanalysis.

  Shortly before noon they caught a cab to the small park Freud had mentioned in his message and from there quickly crossed the street to the Türkischer Café.

  Freud was seated at one of the tables on the pavement outside. The neurologist was younger than Holmes by two years, but looked considerably older. He had removed his black homburg upon his arrival, and they could see that he had a high, domed forehead and thinning, grey-white hair brushed across the pate. His dark, incisive eyes were deep-set, his nose long and slightly hooked, his mouth a wide, sober line that was all but lost in his cropped white goatee beard. At present he was involved in a conversation with a young man who was punctuating every remark with an angry gesture.

  ‘It would appear that Dr Freud is otherwise engaged,’ Holmes noted. ‘And rather unhappy to be so.’

  This was true. Freud, wearing a full-length tweed frock coat buttoned to the throat, sat as if cornered by the young man, his dour expression suggesting he would much rather be drinking his coffee or smoking the cigar smouldering in a nearby ashtray. The young man was standing over him, talking animatedly. In his early twenties, he was small and slightly built. His straight, side-parted black hair was unkempt and his long fringe, which he nervously kept brushing back, constantly fell slantwise across his forehead.

  Freud was trying to calm the young man, but he refused to be placated. Freud kept nodding, unable to speak his piece during the tirade.

  ‘I should say the good doctor needs rescuing,’ said Holmes, and so saying, broke into a brisk stride.

  As they approached Freud’s table, Holmes, whose knowledge of Austrian German was as good as his grasp of French and Latin, caught the tail-end of the angry young man’s rant.

  ‘… you don’t understand, Herr Doktor. Our Lord and Saviour should not be remembered only as a sufferer, but as a fighter! He recognized the Jews for what they were and summoned men to fight against them!’

  ‘That is your interpretation,’ Freud said patiently. ‘But that’s all it is, Kunstmaler.’

  It was a curious name – it translated as ‘Painter’ – but Holmes suspected that it was a pseudonym. He had read that Freud often gave his patients suitable aliases in order to protect their anonymity.

  The young man vehemently shook his head. ‘No, no! The Bible is perfectly clear about it. It tells us how the Lord at last rose in His might and seized the scourge to drive out of the Temple the brood of vipers and adders. How terrific was His fight against the Jewish poison. And therefore, as a Christian, I have a duty to fight as He fought, for truth and justice. As a Christian I have a duty to protect my people!’

  ‘And your beliefs give you the right to persecute the Jews? Is that it?’

  Kunstmaler drew himself up pompously. ‘I do not agree with your use of the word persecute, Herr Doktor, but if by that you mean to identify and then deal with the enemy, then yes, I believe it does.’

  Freud regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I am Jewish,’ he said. ‘Well, Galician Jewish. Why should I be persecuted? What have I ever done to warrant such treatment?’

  Kunstmaler offered no reply.

  ‘Your trouble is that you are too easily influenced, Kunstmaler. You have allowed the anti-Semites, who run wild in your Mariahilf District, to cloud your judgement. You must learn to think for yourself.’

  ‘I do!’ the young man protested. ‘And by defending myself against the Jews I am fighting for the Lord!’

  Holmes cleared his throat, causing the two men to look at him.

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ he said to the young man, ‘but does not the Bible say, “You yourselves know how unlawful it is for a Jew to associate with or to visit anyone of another nation, but God has shown me that I should not call any person common or unclean”?’

  Kunstmaler glared angrily at him. Then he nodded. ‘In Acts ten, verse twenty-eight, yes,’ he agreed. ‘But John one, verses ten and eleven, also says, “If anyone comes to yo
u and does not bring this teaching, do not receive him into your house or give him any greeting, for whoever greets him takes part in his wicked works”.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Holmes said, ‘it is not your right to pass judgement upon another race. “The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent”. Exodus, fourteen-fourteen.’

  Kustmaler replied angrily, ‘“Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock.” Psalm one-three-nine, verse nine.’

  ‘“Judge not, that you be not judged”.’ Holmes countered. ‘Matthew, seven, one.’

  Kunstmaler started to reply, realized he had nothing to say, and, frustrated, said threateningly, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I think you are a trickster, just like all foreigners. One who twists words and meanings to suit his own purpose.’

  ‘Kunstmaler …’ Freud began warningly.

  ‘Please, Herr Doktor,’ said Holmes. ‘Kunstmaler is entitled to his opinion. But I would ask him to consider Colossians, three, thirteen. There can be only one interpretation there, surely?’

  Kunstmaler said nothing.

  ‘Coloss – forgive me, gentlemen,’ said Freud. ‘I am obviously not as familiar with the Bible as you are. What does it says in Colossians, three, thirteen?’

  Holmes cocked an eye brow at Kunstmaler.

  Scowling, the young man muttered grudgingly, ‘“Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”’

  ‘That seems an admirable sentiment,’ said Freud, rising. ‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, I believe. I have, of course, been expecting you.’ To Kunstmaler, he said sternly, ‘We will finish this conversation at the appropriate time and place. And in future, I will thank you not to attempt to continue your treatment beyond the confines of my office.’