Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs

by Hayes, Steve

  Though still angry, Kunstmaler managed to contain himself. ‘I am sorry, Herr Doktor,’ he said stiffly. Then, giving Holmes and Watson a disdainful glance, he stormed off.

  Freud shook hands with Holmes and Watson. Reverting to English out of deference to his guests he said, ‘I must apologize for young Painter’s behaviour. He saw me waiting here for you and before I could do anything about it he had invited himself to an impromptu session.’

  ‘He certainly appears to have … opinions,’ said Watson.

  Freud sighed and gestured for them to sit. ‘These are worrisome times, gentlemen. You are both men of the world, and as such doubtless keep abreast of current affairs, so you know that. At present Vienna is like a bomb that threatens to go off at any moment – perhaps quite literally.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Holmes. ‘How so?’

  ‘Our War Ministry has recently confirmed rumours that certain … militant factions … have been infiltrating our country with orders to assassinate members of the Habsburg Imperial Family, and feelings have been running high. In some quarters the hot-heads have seen this as an opportunity to stir up discontent, claiming that we are being overrun by foreigners.’

  ‘It is clearly having an effect,’ said Watson. He watched as Freud’s irate patient entered the park, where a surly-looking crowd was gathered around a bearded man in a dark pea jacket who was making an impassioned speech. ‘Young Painter there … he is a man to watch, I think – and watch carefully.’

  Freud smiled sadly and picked up his cigar. ‘I’m afraid he is just misguided, as are so many of them. Hopefully, with maturity – and my help – he will see the error of his present beliefs. He has twice been rejected by the Academy of Fine Arts – which is why I refer to him in my notes as “Painter” – and because of this he feels disaffected. Furthermore, he is an orphan now that he has lost his mother, and lives in a house for poor working men on the Meldemannstrasse. That’s where he hears all the foolishness he later espouses, and why I agreed to take him on as one of my “charity” cases.

  ‘But does he deserve special attention? I think not. I do not believe we need trouble ourselves overmuch with a misguided young man like Herr Hitler.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Good Samaritan

  WHILE FREUD ORDERED fresh coffee and a selection of tortes and strudel for his guests, Watson told him all about their journey, and their chance meeting with Houdini. Freud’s English was reasonably good, which was not surprising. Though the language had a somewhat higher profile in neighbouring Germany, it was still seen as valuable in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, where many wealthy Austrians deliberately employed British governesses to ensure that their children became fluent in the language.

  ‘I must say, Herr Doktor, I find your theories on the conscious and unconscious mind fascinating,’ Holmes said after a pause.

  Freud puffed absently on his cigar. ‘You mean, of course, in relation to the criminal mind?’

  ‘Certainly, though by no means exclusively. However, the possibility that our actions can be a consequence not of our conscious desires but rather of our unconscious ones could prove revolutionary in the study of criminology.’

  ‘Perhaps so, Herr Holmes. But we are all at the mercy of our minds. And if you accept that the mind is divided into three distinct divisions – that is, the id, the ego and the super-ego – then it becomes somewhat easier to see why a seemingly inoffensive man who, in the normal course of events would not even harm a fly, can suddenly become the most heinous of killers.’

  ‘That is the thing I have always had some difficulty with, Herr Doktor,’ said Watson, ‘these so-called divisions you speak of. How do you define them, as such?’

  ‘The id is ruled solely by instinct,’ replied Freud. ‘You feel hunger, so you eat. You feel tired, so you sleep. The ego, by contrast, is dictated by order and reality. You feel hunger, but your ego tells you that you cannot eat until lunchtime; you feel tired, but it is only one o’clock in the afternoon, and so you accept that sleep must wait until your customary bedtime.

  ‘Sometimes, however, it is not so easy to dismiss the demands of the id. If, say, the id tells you that your life would be better if only you could murder your harridan of a wife, or your tyrant of an employer, then that prospect may be impossible to resiSt That is where the super-ego plays its part. This stronger but oft-times latent version of yourself may be able to stop you from submitting to the will of the id when the ego itself cannot resist the impulse.

  ‘But if the individual has no super-ego, or a super-ego that is able to be stifled by the id … well, he may turn out to be the perfect criminal.’

  ‘A man without a conscience,’ mused Holmes.

  ‘Or a man driven by conscience,’ said Freud. ‘A man who deliberately allows his conscience to dictate his actions, so long as that same conscience also justifies them.’

  ‘Is there any way to identify such people?’ asked Watson, intrigued despite his original scepticism of Freud’s theories. ‘I mean, do they exhibit any symptoms that we may come to recognize?’

  Freud hesitated, weighing his response. ‘The id is the dark, inaccessible part of our personality,’ he said, blowing cigar smoke into the chilly air. ‘We only know that it exists at all thanks to our research into dreams and the identification of specific neuroses. We can say, however, that it is of a negative character. We approach the id with analogies: we call it chaotic, a cauldron full of seething excitations…. It is full of the energy generated by our basest instincts, but it has no organization and produces no collective will. It strives only to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual needs subject to the observance of what I term “the pleasure principle”.’

  ‘The id fails to recognize the difference between good and evil, and often it seeks to express itself as an instrument of destruction directed against the external world. How can one ever identify such deep-rooted emotions with barely a glance? I am afraid that the only way is and always will be with long-term, in-depth psychoanalysis.

  ‘But let us remember,’ Freud concluded, ‘that the id is not always the villain it is made out to be. Sometimes it can be … beneficial … to dismiss the so-called “voice of reason” that tells us to ignore it. As an example, take my cigar, here. I began smoking cigarettes thirty-odd years ago, and I cannot tell you how much pleasure I have derived from the practice. I am convinced that smoking has helped me focus upon my work and given me greater energy than I would otherwise have enjoyed. But one day a medical doctor of my acquaintance, a certain Wilhelm Fleiss, told me that it would ruin my health if I continued to smoke.

  ‘As you can imagine, gentlemen, the choice I faced was stark. I could smoke, enjoy the act of smoking, and feel the benefits of it … or I could run the risk of encountering all manner of medical problems in the years to come. The voice of reason told me that I should follow Wilhelm’s advice and give it up, but the id, that part of me whose actions are based solely upon the gratification of my urges, suggested an alternative….

  ‘So I substituted the cigar for the cigarette, and in so doing found a means of smoking that gave me infinitely greater pleasure than it ever did before – without the potential to damage my health.’

  Pausing, he studied his cigar as if it were an old and dear friend, then added: ‘Think what I would have missed out on, had I listened to my ego, or my super-ego! So the id can sometimes provide benefits, if one is able to control it and wise enough to heed its less destructive advice. And let us not forget that the act of smoking itself is perhaps the best substitute of all for the one great and harmful habit to which we are all heir.’

  ‘And what might that be, Herr Doktor?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Masturbation,’ Freud replied matter-of-factly.

  Watson almost choked. Holmes, less easily shocked, immediately leaned forward and slapped him on the back. A moment later, eyes watering, Watson managed, ‘My … apologies. That last … mouthful of strudel must have … gone down the wrong way
.’

  He reached for his cup and sipped steaming Verlängerter coffee. Then, to change the subject, he said hurriedly, ‘I must say, you have a beautiful city, here, Herr Doktor. But I can’t say as I care much for the look of that group of rabble-rousers over there.’

  Freud followed his gaze toward a gap in trees, where a crowd had gathered, and his mouth thinned to a disapproving line. Though they couldn’t hear what the bearded man was telling the crowd, he was clearly using rhetoric to whip his audience into a belligerent frenzy.

  Freud looked grim. ‘I fancy that what you are seeing there is a member of a secret society called the Crna Ruka.’

  ‘The Crna Ruka?’

  ‘The Black Hand,’ translated Freud. ‘Well, that is the name by which it is best known. More correctly it is called Ujedinjenje ili Smrt … that is, “Unity or Death”. Initially its members sought to create a unified Serbia. More recently it has dedicated itself to freeing those millions of Serbs under the rule of my country. And it is this group to which I alluded earlier – one of those “militant factions” who have been infiltrating our country, our cities and, as you can see, even our very capital. They are at work across our empire, practising sabotage and political assassination, propaganda, abduction and, as you see here, rabble-rousing. And yet, though I deplore their methods, I can hardly find it within me to blame them. In our misguided attempts to build an empire, we have mistreated them, seen them and their lands as little more than possessions to be acquired. But I fear that the Black Hand is now attracting the wrong sort to its cause, those disaffected souls – like young Hitler, for example – who join up only for the promise of excitement and violence.’

  Watson glanced at Holmes. ‘I was right, then. It appears we have come at a time of some intrigue.’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ Freud sighed. ‘But come, gentlemen, let us speak of happier things.’

  Before they could follow his advice, however, a dozen burly working men appeared from the direction of the Kolingasse and started across the road toward the park. Many of them carried weapons in the shape of wooden battens or empty beer bottles, lead-lined saps or billy clubs.

  Concerned by probability of violence, Watson said to Freud, ‘I must confess, Doctor, I don’t care for the looks of this, either.’

  ‘You shouldn’t, my friend. The police are well aware that the city is riddled with these anarchists, but tell me – do you see any policemen in evidence here today? Of course you don’t. That is because the Bundesgendarmerie use paid thugs like those you see over there to come and break up these gatherings.’

  Watson was scandalized. ‘Do you know this for a fact, Herr Doktor?’

  ‘Not for a fact, no. But it makes admirable sense. If the very fabric of your country is being undermined by foreigners, it is far more effective to have – or rather, appear to have – “ordinary civilians” defend themselves against such an enemy. These hired thugs can break skulls and arms and legs and then be hailed as patriots. If the police were to do the same thing, Austria would be branded a police state, where so-called freedom of speech could not be practised.’

  By now the crowd gathered around the bearded speech-maker was aware that a new faction had entered the park and an ominous quiet descended over them. Then came a few shouted taunts at the newcomers, who aggressively shouted back. Distorted by distance, it was impossible to translate their remarks, but the meaning behind them was clear. The newcomers were issuing a challenge – break up and clear out, or else – and the members of the Black Hand among the bearded speaker’s audience, and even some of the ordinary men they were hoping to convert to their cause, were clearly not prepared to do that.

  Then one of the newcomers hurled a bottle at the Black Hand speaker. It missed him but hit someone in the crowd. Immediately, both groups suddenly charged at each other, screaming challenges and obscenities at the tops of their lungs.

  In seconds the two groups had absorbed each other. Rivals automatically sought each other out and then began exchanging kicks and blows. Billy clubs rose and fell; men collapsed and curled themselves into balls.

  More bottles rained down on the Black Hand faction, some finding their targets and sending men to their knees, clutching bloodied faces. Enemies continued to clash, trade blows, then stumble on to find new opponents.

  Even as Freud, Holmes and Watson watched, one burly man broke away from the throng. Staggering as far as the park gates he then collapsed, holding the back of his head with bloodstained fingers.

  Watson, obeying the dictates of his profession, at once started to go and help him, but Holmes quickly grasped his forearm. ‘Best we keep our distance, Watson. This thing is turning uglier by the second.’

  It was true. Already the brawlers had broken up into smaller groups, taunting each other, trading punches, and hurling any missiles that came to hand. As the altercation quickly spread beyond the confines of the park, shop windows were smashed and newspaper placards were snatched up and used as makeshift shields or weapons. Worse still, the combatants were slowly coming ever closer to the onlookers outside the cafe.

  ‘I think it would perhaps be prudent if we were to beat a hasty retreat, gentlemen,’ suggested Freud.

  Watson nodded in agreement. He hated violence and had never quite understood how human beings could treat one another with such cruelty and intolerance. Rising, he had to duck to avoid a brick that was thrown his way. It sailed overhead and crashed through the cafe window, shattering glass with a sound like artillery fire.

  ‘Good grief!’

  A third group now came charging around the corner at the other end of the street. Some twenty in number, their military-style uniforms identified them as policemen, finally putting in an appearance now that the dirty work had been done for them. One of the brawlers yelled the alarm and the rival groups quickly scattered in all directions.

  Several men came racing toward the cafe, overturning anything in their path in an effort to hamper their pursuers.

  One big fellow with a flattened nose and ugly, cauliflowered ears came barrelling out of the melee. Busy keeping an eye on the police, he failed to notice Watson, who was standing directly in his way. Seeing him come, Watson froze, again acutely aware that he was no longer a young man.

  Dimly he heard Holmes yell his name, but he still remained rooted to the spot.

  Then the onrushing ruffian saw him. He went to push Watson out of his path, but before he could do so, a newcomer came as if out of nowhere, charging in from Watson’s right. He caught the bigger man with one hunched shoulder and the impact flung the man aside.

  The fellow went sprawling onto the cobbles. Enraged, he scrambled up again and made to attack Watson’s saviour. The young man, who was smaller and in his mid-twenties, stood his ground, fists raised in the best Marquess of Queensberry tradition. As the ruffian closed in, the young man hit him with a straight right. His fist struck the big man on the jaw and the fellow went down in a dazed heap, fighting vainly to remain conscious.

  Watson sighed with relief and shakily extended his hand to the young man. ‘Thank you, sir. Uh … danke schön. You are quite the Good Samaritan.’

  The young man had short, curly black hair, a pleasant face with well-spaced brown eyes, an aquiline nose, wide mouth and a dimpled chin. His black felt derby had fallen off in the initial collision; now, as he bent to retrieve it, he said, ‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’

  He quickly glanced about him. Chaos reigned as the police sought to detain as many of the fleeing fighters as they could, only to discover that none of them intended to go quietly.

  ‘Ich glaube, wir sollten besser von hier verschwinden – und zwar so schnell wie möglich,’ said the young man.

  Watson frowned, cursing his limited knowledge of German. But the fellow’s meaning was clear enough – this area was not the healthiest place to be at the moment.

  As if to prove it, another brawler broke away from the group, having seen the unhappy fate of his larger companion. He charged
at them like a berserker, yelling obscenities. He was small, dark-skinned and slightly built, and at sixteen years of age seemed shockingly young to be filled with so much hatred.

  Seeing him come, Holmes quickly raised his cane and used the handle to hook one of the legs of his chair. He tugged, sending the chair skittering across the cobbles and into the boy’s path. The boy collided with it, stumbled, and went sprawling.

  The Good Samaritan, meanwhile, hurriedly gathered Holmes, Watson and Freud together and began to shepherd them toward the Kolingasse. But already the dark-skinned boy was back on his feet and snatching up the chair, raised it above his head and hurled it at them.

  Fortunately, the chair missed its mark. Unfortunately, the boy, consumed by fury, then grabbed a knife from his belt and charged at Holmes.

  Holmes turned to meet him. Dropping into a crouch, he hooked his cane around the boy’s leading ankle and yanked backward. The boy lost his balance and fell heavily to one knee. Before he could recover, Holmes raised his cane again and struck him a single, punishing blow on the temple.

  The boy’s dark, malevolent eyes rolled up in his head. Dropping the knife, he collapsed, unconsciousness.

  The young man gestured for Holmes and the others to follow him. He then led them into the Kolingasse, where some semblance of calm remained. As they paused to catch their breath, he said, ‘Jetzt müsstet ihr aber in Sicherheit sein.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Holmes replied in English.

  Watson frowned disapprovingly. He knew how well Holmes spoke German and thought the least he could do was thank the man in his own language.

  ‘Danke schön,’ he said gratefully.

  The dark-haired Samaritan smiled and again said, ‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’

  Then he hurried off.

  ‘Come,’ said Freud, patting his pockets in search of a fresh cigar. ‘I believe you will find the tranquility of my apartments more conducive to discussion.’