by Hayes, Steve
‘Because it is forty-five kilometres upriver from where the body was found,’ said Purslane, suddenly understanding. ‘Forty-five kilometres being the distance the body was carried by the current.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What do you hope to discover there, sir?’
‘That I cannot say,’ Holmes said. ‘But even the smallest, seemingly insignificant fact may act as a signpost.’
A few minutes later, they were in a cab and passing through the misty streets of Vienna, bound for Enghilstrasse. They soon found themselves dropped at one end of a long row of large, bow-fronted residential houses that faced the Danube. The day was grey but dry, and what little snow had fallen the night before had nearly melted. The river looked especially cheerless, its waters a sluggish and uninviting olive green.
Holmes paid the driver then turned to his companions. ‘Knock at each door in turn, if you will, and enquire as to whether or not the occupant noticed anything unusual the night before last,’ he instructed. ‘Anything at all, no matter how seemingly trivial. Meanwhile, I shall examine the pavement that runs along the river.’
He crossed the road at his usual brisk pace, already fully intent upon his task. Shaking his head, Purslane then turned his attention to the row of houses before them. ‘How is your German, Doctor?’
‘Nowhere near good enough for the kind of questioning Holmes has in mind.’
‘Then we’ll work together.’
While Holmes paused every so often, occasionally kneeling in order to examine the kerb or the low brick wall beyond which a chill wind rippled the surface of the Danube, Watson and Purslane walked up the path of the first house. Climbing the steps to reach the front door, Purslane rang the bell.
Their investigation quickly proved to be fruitless; they got no response at most of the houses. At others, the residents eyed them with understandable suspicion and said they had seen nothing at all.
Disappointed but persistent, they kept at it, until, near the end of the street, they came to a property that seemed to be in such poor condition that Watson assumed it must be empty. He was wrong, for when Purslane knocked at the flaking door panels the door was opened almost at once by a tall, thin woman in her seventies, whose long, wrinkled face was crowned by a wild mane of frizzy, near-white hair.
She looked from Purslane to Watson with open distrust, and said, ‘Ja?’
Purslane tipped his hat and spoke in rapid German. ‘We’re sorry to disturb you, madam, but we believe there may have been some sort of disturbance in the street here two nights ago and we are looking for information that might corroborate this.’
The old woman’s watery blue eyes shuttled from one face to the other. Watson smiled somewhat hesitantly in an effort to assure her of their honest intentions.
‘Are you the police?’ she demanded finally.
‘We are on official business, yes,’ Purslane replied, deciding that since he was working for the British government, he was bending the truth only slightly. ‘Have you seen or heard anything unusual?’
‘I have indeed. And a more shameful sight I have never beheld in all my life. Two women fighting like common trollops!’
Watson and Purslane exchanged a quick look. ‘What time was this, Frau…?’
‘Seidl.’
‘What time was this, Frau Seidl? And what happened, exactly?’
‘Well, I don’t know the exact time. Sometime between seven and eight o’clock, certainly,’ said the old woman. ‘I was just resting my eyes, you see. I don’t sleep well at night, I never have. I prefer to nap during the day and spend my nights reading. So there I was, just resting my eyes, when suddenly I heard a scream outside. I looked out of my window’ – she gestured vaguely towards a window on the first floor, directly above the door—’and there they were, two women, fighting with each other, as if they hadn’t got the shame they were born with.’
‘What happened?’ Purslane prodded.
‘They were struggling with each other – drunk, I daresay! Then one of them hit the other one on the head and her hat fell off. Well, I knew then that if they were going to carry on like that, one of them was going to injure the other or worse, so I decided to come down and tell them to take their differences elsewhere. I mean, the man with them wasn’t doing anything more than just standing there, watching them – useless, like all men!’
‘So you decided to break it up yourself?’
‘Yes. And I would have, too! They didn’t frighten me! But as I was putting on my dressing gown the girl who was doing all the screaming suddenly stopped. I went back to my window and saw that she’d passed out, and the other girl and the man were now standing over here. Dead to the world, she was!’
‘What happened then?’
‘They all got back in their car and drove away.’
Speaking slowly to allow for his less-than-fluent German, Watson said, ‘They had a car then?’
‘Oh yes,’ Frau Seidl replied. ‘Most definitely. Saw it with my own eyes, I did. They’d stopped it in the middle of the road, right where that man is … what is he doing, anyway?’
Watson glanced over his shoulder. There, in the middle of the street, Holmes was crouched down using his pocket glass to study some barely discernible marks in the road. ‘I think he is a surveyor of some sort,’ he said, using the first thought that came to mind. ‘Now, if you could tell me more about this car –?’
‘Nothing to tell. It just drove right off and that was that,’ the old woman replied.
‘You mean that was the last you saw of them?’
The woman nodded.
‘So you actually saw them drive away?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of them?’
‘What kind of a question is that? Of course, all of them!’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, obviously I can’t be completely sure. It was dark, for goodness’ sake, and the weather was wretched. But they didn’t leave anyone behind, I can promise you that!’
‘Could you see what colour the car was?’ asked Purslane.
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Was it large? Small?’
‘I know little about such contraptions,’ said Frau Steidl.
‘But surely you could tell, at least within a little, how big or small it was?’
‘Small.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘I told you so, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, of course. Can you describe the two women for us? And the man with them?’
Frau Steidl considered briefly. ‘Youngish. The man was very tall. I didn’t see much of the woman who hit her friend. She had black hair, I think. The woman who passed out, when her hat came off, I saw that she had fair hair.’
‘Blonde, you mean?’
She frowned in thought. ‘No. Light, but not blonde. Sandy or perhaps red. It was snowing, so it was difficult to see anything properly.’
‘So you didn’t see their faces?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. You have been most helpful, Frau Steidl. Danke schön.’
They turned and started down the steps.
The woman called after them. ‘There was one thing,’ she said.
They turned back. ‘Yes?’ Purslane asked.
‘Well, I know I’m deaf,’ the old woman said. ‘Who wouldn’t be, at my age? But I’m not that deaf.’
Purslane narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘The car,’ Frau Steidl said irritably. ‘It passed right by me. I stood here and watched it go. But it didn’t make a sound.’
‘You mean the motor was turned off?’ asked Watson.
‘No, no. It couldn’t run if the motor was off, now could it?’ she replied. ‘It was silent!’
‘It made no sound whatsoever?’
‘It was as silent as sleep or shadow,’ she confirmed.
‘And it drove off? You didn’t see anyone pushing it?’
‘Sir, I am not blind,’ sh
e said petulantly.
Purslane tipped his hat. ‘Thank you again, Frau Steidl. You have been a great help.’
They crossed the road toward Holmes, who had just finished his examination of the road and was waiting for them. ‘What did you discover?’ he asked.
Watson gave him a brief report of the exchange. When he’d finished, Holmes said, ‘So my hypothesis was correct. It was the girl who killed Frances Lane.’ He turned and peered out across the river above the rippling surface.
‘The Steidl woman’s testimony would seem to confirm my own suspicions,’ he continued. ‘When she left the Royal during our meeting with Houdini, Miss Lane was somehow captured by the gang for purposes as yet unknown. I believe it is most likely that they wanted to find out where she had been that evening, since it is doubtful they would feel the need to apply any more pressure on Houdini than he was already under. In any event, she was bundled into their car and, as they were taking her to their base of operations or some secluded spot where they could question her without fear of interruption, she tried to escape.
‘The car came to a halt approximately where the Steidl woman indicated. On the road surface there,’ he pointed, ‘I detected minute traces of what appear to be carbon-enriched rubber, suggestive of automobile tyres coming to an abrupt halt.
‘So – Frances Lane makes a dash for freedom, the second woman goes in pursuit and there is a struggle. The blow intended to quieten Miss Lane only serves instead to make her more desperate to escape. Her captor panics; he grabs her around the throat, perhaps to silence her screams, and caught up in the heat of the moment, applies sufficient force to choke her to death instead.
‘There follows a moment of shock. Then, thinking quickly, one or other of the kidnappers drags the body to the retaining wall there and drops it into the river before deciding to turn the event to their advantage.’
‘How much of this is just speculation?’ asked Purslane.
Holmes gave him a withering glance. ‘Hardly any of it,’ he replied, making a careless gesture back toward the pavement. ‘The last time we saw her, Miss Lane was wearing a sage-green pair of what is popularly known as Astoria shoes. That particular style of shoe has very smooth leather soles, which make them ideal for dancing in. The scuffed heels I noticed when I examined Miss Lane’s body at the morgue told me she had certainly been dragged somewhere post-mortem. Had both her companions been involved in the disposal of the body, they would have carried her to the retaining wall. And caught in the uneven surface of the bricks which form the wall nearby I have found two strands of some distinctive chequered cotton fibre which would seem to match those of the wrap she was wearing at the time of her death. I imagine these marks indicate the spot where the body was pushed over into the river.’
‘So it wasn’t murder, as such,’ breathed Watson.
‘No. But once it happened, the malefactors were certainly not burdened by conscience.’ He tapped his lip with the edge of the pocket glass. ‘A car that makes no sound …’ he murmured. ‘That would certainly explain how they could have left St Petronius’s so quietly and without alerting me to the fact that they had a car waiting for them in the back alley. But is there such a thing, Purslane? A car that makes no sound?’
‘If there is,’ replied Purslane, ‘I have yet to hear about it. But that’s not to say it doesn’t exist.’
‘Well, if it exists and we haven’t heard about it, there cannot be too many of them. If we find the car, it follows that we may well find our quarry.’
‘I’ll see to it immediately,’ Purslane promised.
‘Good man,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘And while you are thus occupied, Watson and I will go and see this reporter Mycroft has recommended – Herr Lenhard.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Fourth Threat
WALTER LENHARD’S APARTMENT was located in a small, densely packed region near the city centre. Lenhard, a freelance journalist whose work appeared mostly in such papers as the Czernowitz Allgemeine Zeitung and Czernowitzer Tagblatt, occupied a small flat within the Freihaus, a sprawling tenement complex that had been built two centuries earlier and was now completely at odds with the district’s more opulent palaces.
As Holmes and Watson climbed the echoing stone staircase to the fourth floor, where Lenhard lived, it was hard to imagine that this area, now almost a slum, had once sheltered the likes of Brahms and Strauss the Younger. The block itself was drab, its square, unimaginative lines constructed from cheap, pitted bricks now stained black by decades’ worth of accumulated grime. Orderly rows of small, dark windows had overlooked their arrival in a narrow street where the sun never quite managed to penetrate and here and there on the few small balconies, the occupants had tried to cultivate window boxes in an attempt to soften the harsh reality of their mean existence.
It was difficult to imagine a journalist with such prestigious credentials living in such squalor, but when they introduced themselves to Frau Lenhard, and she led them into a small, chilly living-room, the answer became all too obvious.
Lenhard sat in a wheelchair by the room’s only window, his withered legs covered by a threadbare blanket. He was in his early forties, but his illness had taken a shocking toll. To Watson, Lenhard’s laboured wheezing as he took each breath, the high colour in his cheeks and the apparently complete paralysis of his left arm all suggested paralytic poliomyelitis. He was badly emaciated, his chin covered in stubble, and his dark eyes – the single most alert thing about him – were couched in fleshy pouches. His hair was fine, brown, uncombed and untrimmed.
His wife looked little better. She was almost as gaunt as her husband. Her face was long and hollow-cheeked, almost bloodless, her deep-set eyes were of the palest blue, her hair wispy and fair. ‘Walter,’ she called ahead as she showed them in, ‘you have visitors. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.’
Lenhard had been staring out the window, tapping his right hand impatiently upon the arm of his chair. Now he turned around, as if disturbed from deep thought, and looked happily surprised to see the newcomers. He nodded, as if comparing them to the images he had seen in The Strand, then wheeled himself forward to greet them.
‘Well, we certainly do not get many visitors here, Mr Holmes, and certainly not of your calibre.’ He shook hands with them, his grip showing surprising strength. ‘If you have come to see me, it is because your brother has sent you. And if Mycroft has sent you, it is because you need information. Am I correct?’
‘I cannot fault your reasoning,’ Holmes replied. ‘Is this a convenient time for you?’
‘Any time is convenient for me,’ Lenhard said wearily. His English was good, but his voice was just a low, papery memory of what it had once been. ‘As you can see, I seldom leave this apartment, which means that my stories – they are little more than fillers these days – have to find me.’
‘And yet,’ said Holmes, indicating a writing table in the corner that was covered in papers and open reference books, many of which had slips of paper marking relevant pages, ‘according to my brother, you are the man to seek out if one wishes to know the political landscape of Austria.’
‘Your brother …’ Lenhard smiled. ‘How is Mycroft these days? I have not seen him since … ah, but that would be telling, and he is a great one for secrets.’
‘He is well,’ Holmes said. ‘And still has an interest in international politics.’
‘More than an interest, I would say,’ Lenhard said with a knowing smile. ‘But you are correct in what you say, Mr Holmes. Before I was struck down by this miserable disease I built an impressive network of, ah … shall we call them “sources”? The word is infinitely preferable to “informants”, which carries all manner of distasteful, even criminal, connotations. And even though I am now but a shade of my former self, I am still reasonably well informed. Furthermore, I owe your brother much. Though he would probably have me killed for saying it – and he could do, quite easily, I suspect – he is a kind man with a big heart.’
>
He gestured with his good hand. ‘Please, gentlemen, be seated. While you tell me what it is that Mycroft – you – wish to know, Margaret here will be pleased to prepare tea and scones – her one concession to the land of her birth.’
‘We have already eaten,’ Watson said quickly. That this couple was already living a hand-to-mouth existence was all too obvious. The last thing he wanted to do was deprive them of the few luxuries they still possessed.
‘Then please, ask away,’ said Lenhard. ‘You may speak freely before Margaret.’
As they made themselves comfortable, Holmes said, ‘We have reason to believe that someone is planning to break into the Imperial Palace. What we should like to know is why.’
Lenhard absorbed Holmes’s words. Then remarked, ‘Is it an assassination plot, do you think? Aimed at our emperor?’
‘I do not believe so, but neither can I rule it out completely. What we do know, however, is that we are dealing with an enemy who has already shown themselves to be quite capable of abduction and murder.’
‘So you are trying to piece together a list of suspects,’ mused Lenhard. ‘Who would wish to enter the Palace, what they plan to do when they gain that entrance, and how they stand to benefit from it.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Then I do not envy you your task, Mr Holmes. For if it is suspects you’re after, I can provide you with four distinct threats straight away.’
‘Then let us begin with the most likely one.’
Lenhard considered the matter for a few moments. His breathing was a painful, liquidy rasp in the cold silence of the cluttered room. ‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand,’ he said softly.
‘Franz Joseph’s son?’
‘His nephew,’ corrected Lenhard. ‘Franz Joseph’s only son, Archduke Rudolph, committed suicide over twenty years ago. And the emperor’s brother, Karl Ludwig, died whilst on a pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.’
‘Was there any suspicion of foul play?’ asked Watson.