by Hayes, Steve
‘Probably so,’ Holmes agreed. ‘Nevertheless, this meeting has been an enlightening one.’
‘How so?’
‘It has convinced me that our present line of questioning is unlikely to produce anything of use to us. Therefore the time has come to approach the problem from a different direction.’
He turned and followed the path back toward the church gates. Around them, snow began to heap itself on the worn crosses and headstones still visible through the tall grass to either side.
‘And which direction is that?’ asked Watson as he caught up.
‘Suppose this business serves a dual purpose? Suppose it is not just about gaining entry to the Imperial Palace? Suppose it is also about Houdini himself?’
‘Now you’ve lost me, Holmes.’
‘There seems to me to be something personal about this affair. From what I overheard here last night, the man behind this business wishes to punish Houdini for some reason, to break his spirit just as St Petronius broke the spirit of the bear that attacked him. Why should this be? What is the connection between them – a connection of which even Houdini himself seems unaware? If we can discover that, we may well be able to uncover the identity of our enemy. His identity, and his whereabouts. Come, old friend – let us rendezvous with Purslane and take this investigation one stage further.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The King of Clubs
PURSLANE WAS WAITING for them in the lobby when they arrived back at the Grand. As soon as they came through the doors he jumped up and hurried over to intercept them.
‘You have found our silent car,’ guessed Holmes.
‘I have indeed, sir. It’s known as a Waverley, and the reason it runs silently is because—’
‘It runs on electricity,’ finished Holmes.
Purslane looked crestfallen. ‘How did you discover that?’
‘Watson and I found a small pool of sulphuric acid in the alleyway behind the church. And since I could find no other logical reason for it to be there, I could only conclude that it had leaked from a battery, or a series of batteries … used, perhaps, to power a silent automobile.’
‘Well, you are right,’ said Purslane. ‘The Waverley Electric, to give it its full name, is powered by no fewer than thirty batteries.’
‘There cannot be many such vehicles around,’ mused Holmes. ‘Is there any way we can locate a list of owners?’
‘There is one, I believe, but it is based at the Waverley company’s offices in the United States. I have already telegraphed them, requesting a copy.’
‘Then all we can do is wait for it to arrive. But no matter, Purslane. It is possible that we may put our time to better use by following a more promising line of enquiry.’
‘Enquiry into what, sir?’
‘Houdini himself,’ said Holmes. ‘And for that we shall require a newspaper archive.’
‘There is no one, single archive,’ Purslane explained. ‘I imagine every newspaper maintains its own.’
‘But they will all have reported on many of the same subjects. And our search will encompass only one – Houdini.’
‘Very well. We’ll start with the back numbers of the Kronen Zeitung. It is a somewhat sensationalist newspaper, but it has an interesting political stance and quite a bit of influence. It also reports on a wide variety of topics.’
Purslane stepped outside and bought a copy of that day’s Krone – as it was more familiarly called – and turned to the back page to obtain the address of its offices. Shortly thereafter the three of them found themselves at the top of the Muthgasse, a busy street that was within walking distance of the city’s northernmost railway bridge.
With Purslane smoothing the way ahead, they were eventually given directions to the newspaper’s morgue, which was situated in the basement. It proved to be a large, airless room with a central aisle set between row after row of ceiling-high wooden shelves; each of these was stacked with cartons upon which had been written a brief summary of their contents and the dates to which those contents related.
A petite woman seated behind a cluttered desk at the far end of the basement looked up at they approached. About the same age as Purslane, she had lovely skin, serene blue eyes and a small, heart-shaped mouth. She wore her dark hair to nape-length, with a side parting and tight curls. As they drew closer, they saw that the nameplate on her desk identified her as Eveline Bauer.
‘Guten Tag, meine Herren,’ she said, smiling. ‘How may I help you?’
Purslane made their request, speaking German so quickly that it was all Watson could do to even catch the name ‘Houdini’.
Miss Bauer told them to be seated at one of the tables reserved for researchers, only one of which was currently in use, and then went off to check the shelves. She soon returned with a box folder, which she set before Purslane.
He smiled at her. ‘Danke sehr.’
Once she’d returned to her desk, Purslane opened the folder and quickly perused its contents. ‘This is all primarily concerned with the recent cancellations of Houdini’s shows,’ he said in disappointment. ‘There has been no shortage of rumours, by the look of things. Houdini’s producers have apparently run off with all his money … Houdini’s temperamental rages have caused a rupture between him and his company … Houdini is awaiting the arrival of a brother named Dash, who performs all his stunts for him … but nothing else of any import.’
He stood up, returned the folder to Miss Bauer and in German said, ‘I’m sorry, but … is this all you have on Herr Houdini?’
‘I am afraid so. To be honest with you, I didn’t even know we had that much.’
‘Well … thank you, anyway.’
‘You did not find what you were looking for?’
‘No.’
‘What are you looking for, exactly?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Purslane replied with a boyish grin. ‘We don’t know, exactly. We won’t know until we find it.’ He caught her look and added, ‘I know it sounds mad. But then, we are British.’
She laughed and took the box folder from him. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t help you.’
‘You are forgiven.’
He, Holmes and Watson were about to leave when Miss Bauer said, ‘I wonder if there’s anything in the Eder file.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The Eder file,’ she repeated. Then as Purslane continued to look blankly at her: ‘The King of Clubs.’
He, Holmes and Watson exchanged a look. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand what you mean by “The King of Clubs”.’
‘Yes. It was his stage name. He was Austria’s very own Houdini. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll show you.’ Rising, she hurried away to find the file she wanted. A few moments later she came back and set down a box. ‘You never know. It might be of help.’
‘Thank you,’ Purslane said. She smiled and returned behind her desk.
Purslane continued to stare at her until Holmes, losing patience, rolled his eyes and cleared his throat loudly. Purslane turned back to the table with some embarrassment, although, Watson wryly observed, not without some further glances in Miss Bauer’s direction. A moment later Purslane’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he sifted through the contents of the new file.
The box was filled with newspaper clippings, all arranged chronologically. Some were small fillers or press releases, but many of the larger ones were accompanied by a photograph of a lean but well-developed man in his forties, wearing a leotard and brandishing a scimitar. He was smiling hugely, revealing large, white teeth. He had fair, tousled hair, personable eyes, a long straight nose and a square, manly jaw.
Purslane continued to examine the clippings until finally, after several minutes, he summarized what he had just read.
‘The subject of all this material is one Nikolaus Eder, best-known by his stage name, “The King of Clubs”. He was a sort of … comedy conjuror, I suppose you’d call it, who also employed a little ventriloquism in h
is act. It says here that he would throw his voice quite convincingly to make it appear as if different members of the audience were constantly challenging him to perform ever more outrageous tricks, all of which he then, of course, performed flawlessly.
‘By all accounts he was a very gifted magician. One of his specialities was to make a chicken vanish from a box that was in full view, only to have it reappear beneath the seat of a member of the audience. But principally he was an extraordinary juggler.’
He quoted, ‘“The most startling feats and tricks in the world are those performed by numerous professional jugglers from India and these have been unvaried since the days of Baber, the descendent of Timour, in the sixteenth century. Nikolaus Eder has clearly derived inspiration from the same source, and performs feats of legerdemain superior to anything this reviewer has seen before. With seeming ease, Eder holds no fewer than nine Indian clubs in play with his hands and feet and the muscles of his arms and legs, each club weighing not less than three pounds. He then astounds his audience by adding six more clubs to those already in the air, so that he somehow manages to create the impression that he is surrounded by fifteen ivory-white clubs with a combined weight of forty five pounds, each with a will of its own.
“Before his audience can pause for breath, however, Eder deposits all fifteen clubs neatly into a rack, then takes from his red trunk the most impressive club I have ever seen. It is at least three feet in length and cannot weigh less than fifty pounds. Indeed, to prove as much, Eder requests a man of large build to join him on stage, and the poor man can barely lift the club.
“And yet Eder then begins to swing the club back and forth, until at last he has sufficient momentum to fling it some twenty feet in the air. It turns end over end, light flaring from the small, circular mirrors with which its tip and tail are adorned, and then he catches it with an air almost of nonchalance and throws it high again. He works his way from stage left to stage right and back again, making this massive club appear more like an extension of his arm; and though he was breathing hard by the end of his performance, he was able to enjoy the great show of appreciation of the crowd and come back for an encore, during which he juggled a dozen razor-sharp knives.”’
‘Fascinating, I am sure,’ said Holmes testily. ‘But what does it have to do with Houdini?’
Purslane continued to read through the clippings, then stiffened. ‘Here …’
Watson leaned closer. ‘What is it?’
‘“Inspired by Houdini,”’ Purslane translated, ‘“Eder has started to incorporate ever more dangerous elements into his act. He allows himself to be bound hand and foot and placed beneath an ever-descending pendulum blade as he attempts to free himself from his bonds. He also lets himself to be locked inside a milk can filled with ice-cold water, only to escape at the last moment, and performs Houdini’s famous Needle Trick not with needles, but with razor blades.”’
‘So he was Europe’s answer to Houdini,’ said Holmes.
‘There’s more,’ said Purslane, quickly reading on. ‘And … yes, I believe it’s relevant.’ He continued reading, ‘“About a year and a half ago the King of Clubs was said to be working on a new sensation, something he referred to as the Underwater Box Escape. The idea was that he would be bound hand and foot, and locked into a crate that was then chained and padlocked. The crate was to be thrown into a lake or river and only then could he begin his attempt at escape. Unfortunately he got word that Houdini was working on a similar stunt and in order to trump Houdini he brought the date of his own performance forward by two months. It was a complete disaster.’
‘What happened?’ asked Watson.
‘The trick was well publicized. It was billed as a challenge to Houdini – that anything Houdini could do, or thinks to do, the King of Clubs could match and indeed surpass. Pure showmanship, of course. I doubt that Houdini even knew who Eder was. But it did the trick. The performance was a sell-out. It was staged on Ascension Day – that’s quite a popular holiday here – and Eder’s manager received permission to close off a section of the Danube at its narrowest point – a span of about three hundred metres from shore to shore, or thereabouts – so that only ticket-holders could actually watch the performance. Eder was handcuffed, his feet were shackled and he was then locked into the box, which was subsequently chained and padlocked before finally being thrown into the river.
‘There followed a wait of some minutes. The tension continued to grow … but it was only after ten minutes that Eder’s manager realised that something had gone wrong. Members of a local swimming club, who had been hired for the purpose, dove into the river and located the crate. The chains were removed, the box unlocked and Eder was brought to the surface, unconscious. Back on dry land, a doctor tried to revive him.’
‘But it was too late,’ Watson murmured, caught up in the story.
‘No, they did manage to revive him,’ said Purslane, ‘but he had been starved of oxygen for too long. Apparently the man suffered a …’ he paused, stumbling over his translation, ‘a massive cerebral …’
‘Infarction,’ Watson finished grimly. ‘In other words, a stroke. It must have virtually destroyed the poor devil’s brain.’
‘According to this report, it did. Eder ended up in a vegetative state, neither dead nor alive but simply … existing.’
He read on. ‘There was an investigation into what went wrong, and it concluded that Eder had hit his head when the crate first struck the water, and lost consciousness. Today he resides in a Palliativestation in Engelhartstetten.’
Watson said, ‘Palliative – you mean, a hospice?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you make of it, Holmes?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘We need to make further enquiries and I can think of no better place to start than at the hospice.’
‘Well, it’s too late to do anything now,’ said Purslane, consulting his pocket watch. ‘Engelhartstetten is about thirty miles from here, perhaps a little more.’
‘And with or without a prior appointment,’ argued Watson, ‘I doubt they’ll allow us to see Herr Eder, and they certainly won’t release any personal details regarding their patients.’
‘We shall see,’ Holmes said.
While he and Watson donned their coats, Purslane returned the box to Frau Bauer. Watson watched the two young people talking softly and gave a melancholy smile. He missed being young, but more than that he missed his beloved wife and the simple joy of being in love. In the early years at Baker Street his bachelor existence had suited him. He had had the freedom to come and go as he liked, and to join Holmes on one adventure after another. But following his marriage to Mary Morstan in the late spring of 1889, he had changed. At first he had missed those heady days in Holmes’s company. Now he missed those quiet evenings at home and the company of a woman just as much.
‘Come along, Purslane,’ called Holmes with new purpose. ‘We still have much to do.’
Reluctantly Purslane bade goodbye to Miss Bauer, with whom he was obviously smitten, and hurried to join them as they left the building.
Outside, darkness was already approaching, and the snow that had been falling lightly all day now started to come down harder. They tugged their collars up and left the offices of the Krone behind them. But as they were about to cross the busy road and find a cab to take them back to the Grand, there was a noise not unlike a car backfiring. In the same moment Holmes grunted, stumbled forward, his hat flying off, and dropped to his knees.
Purslane saw blood darkening Holmes’s collar and his stomach lurched unpleasantly.
‘Doctor!’ he cried. ‘He’s been shot! Mr Holmes has been shot!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tomorrow Is Another Day
‘HOLMES!’
The concerned cry was wrenched from Watson. He quickly grasped his companion around the shoulders to stop him from collapsing completely. In that instant he was so concerned for Holmes that he hardly noticed a man bursting out of the alley behind
them where he’d been hiding. Knocking Purslane aside, the fellow raced across the road, dodging traffic as he ran.
‘Holmes …’
Purslane said something but Watson, in shock, barely heard the words. As Purslane ran off after the gunman, all Watson could think to do was hold his friend close and at the same time try to examine his wound.
The right side of Holmes’s face was streaked with blood. It seemed to be seeping from an area just above his ear. His breathing was coming in great, gasping clouds of vapour.
Though he looked pale as the snow falling all around them, Watson knew better than to write Holmes off immediately. Even as he tossed his cane aside and reached for a handkerchief with which to staunch the flow of blood, Watson saw Holmes open his eyes, blink a few times, then focus.
‘It’s all right, Holmes,’ Watson assured him. ‘You’re all right now …’
‘Of course I am,’ Holmes replied irritably. ‘Let me up.’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Watson, aware of the curious spectators who were gathering about them. ‘You’ve been shot, old chap.’
‘No …’
‘With all due respect, Holmes, I am the doctor here—’
But Holmes would have none of it. ‘I was nicked, Watson. Anything more and I would be unconscious, if not worse. It is … nothing.’
‘You’re bleeding,’ Watson insisted.
Holmes seemed to realize this fact for the first time. He took Watson’s handkerchief and pressed it gingerly to the right side of his head. Pain briefly crossed his face before he regained control of himself, despite looking decidedly nauseous.
‘It is little more than a shallow furrow,’ he said.
‘But … but that fellow … he shot you! I heard the report myself, though I didn’t immediately recognize it for what it was!’
‘Fortunately for me,’ Holmes said, shaken but still in conrol, ‘my would-be assassin obviously made his shot in haste and missed me … though not by much, I confess.’