Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs

by Hayes, Steve

  Relief washed through Watson. He and a couple of onlookers helped Holmes back to his feet. He looked decidedly unsteady, but for a man who had just cheated death, also remarkably composed.

  ‘We need to get you to a hospital,’ Watson said, retrieving Holmes’s hat and cane.

  ‘Nonsense. You are a perfectly adequate physician. You can clean the wound when we get back to the Grand.’ Holmes looked around. ‘May I assume from his absence that Purslane went after the gunman?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as he fired his shot, the fellow belted off across the road there like a scalded cat!’

  ‘Then Purslane will do well to take care because his quarry is not of sound mind.’

  Watson showed surprise. ‘You know him? It was too dark and too snowy to get much of a look at him. The best I managed was a brief impression, someone bundled in an overcoat.’

  ‘I didn’t even see that much,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But it is unlikely that Houdini would betray us to his kidnappers, and we have no reason to believe they are onto us. Which leaves only one candidate.’

  ‘The Black Hand?’ muttered Watson, taking Holmes by the arm as they crossed the road in the footsteps of their young companion.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Vasiljavic certainly warned us against interfering with the activities of his group. But since we have done no such thing and Vasiljavic is canny enough to know that any attempt to harm us would inevitably invite the wrath of the British government, I think not.’ He went to shake his head, then thought better of it, for it was aching fiercely. ‘No, Watson, not the Black Hand, but certainly one of its members – young Princip Gavrilo.’

  ‘That scoundrel!’

  ‘Yes. A boy whose emotions are ruled by anger and whose actions are as impulsive as they are ill-conceived. He clearly bears a grudge for what happened during our first encounter at the Beserlpark Alsergrund. Being similarly humiliated during our second did nothing to appease him.’

  ‘Then I hope Purslane does catch him,’ Watson said grimly. ‘Because then I shall teach him a lesson myself.’

  ‘You may get your wish, old friend,’ said Holmes as they turned a corner and saw two figures grappling beside a low wall in the shadow of the railway bridge that spanned the river, ‘for Purslane has indeed caught our man.’

  The British agent now had Gavrilo Princip pinned against the wall, his free hand holding the gun with which Princip had tried to murder Holmes.

  Hearing them approach, Purslane looked surprised to see Holmes back on his feet. Gavrilo also glared at Holmes, angry and disappointed that he was not dead.

  ‘You have had a very lucky escape, Gavrilo,’ said Holmes, when they were close enough. ‘I do not think Javor Vasiljavic would have been pleased had you succeeded in your endeavour.’

  The boy spat his defiance at Holmes’s feet. However, it was obvious that the mention of Vasiljavic’s name had unnerved him.

  ‘Javor would thank me for killing the enemies of the Black Hand,’ he managed in hesitant English.

  ‘Enemies, yes,’ Holmes agreed sternly. ‘But we are not enemies of the Black Hand, as Vasiljavic knows very well. He has no quarrel with us, just as we have no quarrel with him. And for that reason he would not wish us any harm … but would most certainly be quick to punish the man who did harm us.’

  Despite his surly expression, it was obvious Gavrilo knew Holmes was right. But still he said defiantly, ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Are you really willing to take that gamble?’ asked Holmes, raising one blood-smudged eyebrow. ‘Have you any idea what would have happened had you succeeded in killing me? My government would have demanded that the authorities here spare no effort in bringing my killer to book. And to maintain diplomatic relations with Great Britain Vienna would have done so, too. They would not have had to look too far to find the guilty party.’

  Curious, Gavrilo said grudgingly, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Vasiljavic would have taken no small delight in serving you up to them. Anyone who puts the Black Hand at risk becomes an enemy of the Black Hand and is dealt with accordingly. You would have been handed over to the authorities sooner rather than later … and not necessarily alive.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. But I won’t tell Vasiljavic – this time. However, this very evening I will see to it that, should anything else untoward happen to me during my stay in Vienna, he will be informed immediately of your actions here today. What happens to you then will be up to him, but I do not imagine it will be particularly pleasant for you.’

  By now the fear in Gavrilo’s eyes was all too obvious, though he tried to hide it. Holmes took the gun from Purslane, examined it cursorily – it was an antiquated pepperbox pistol – and then tossed it over the wall into the river. Gavrilo started to curse him, then fell silent. His hatred of Holmes appeared undiminished, but the slump of his shoulders showed that he knew he had been defeated.

  ‘Let him go,’ Holmes told Purslane. ‘And remember this, Gavrilo. Should we ever meet again, you will be poorer for the encounter.’

  Gavrilo glared at him for another moment, then stuffed his hands into his too-large overcoat and stamped off into the gloom.

  Only when he had vanished from sight did Holmes allow himself to sag. He’d been successfully fighting the effects of the head injury which were making him weak and nauseous and had been unaware of how dangerously close he was to complete collapse until Watson suddenly grabbed him by the arm. ‘Steady, old chap.’

  Purslane quickly moved to Holmes’s other side to help support him. ‘What happened? I was afraid that—’

  ‘Fortunately it was nothing more than a nasty graze,’ said Watson. ‘Still, he’s lost quite a bit of blood and must surely have a prince among headaches.’

  ‘You needn’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Holmes grumbled.

  ‘Well, one thing is certain. You’re not going to Engelhartstetten or anywhere else today.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Be sensible, Holmes! Another inch to the left and you’d be dead now. As it is, there’s no need to use up whatever luck you still possess. Listen to me,’ he continued, his tone softening. ‘If what we suspect about the King of Clubs turns out to be right, then we have already made more progress than we had any right to expect. We’ll resume our investigations tomorrow. What you need now is some food, a stiff drink and a good night’s rest.’

  Holmes started to proteSt Then, knowing that Watson was right, he reluctantly nodded. ‘Very well. I shall rest tonight. But tomorrow …’

  ‘… is another day,’ finished Watson.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Willing Accomplice

  ‘THIS,’ WATSON EXCLAIMED as their cab clattered through the streets of Vienna, ‘is utter madness and quite beyond all the bounds of propriety.’

  It was the next morning and Holmes, somewhat recovered following a good night’s rest and with his wound cleaned and neatly bandaged, looked at Watson and Purslane and said, ‘Nevertheless, it is the best and easiest way to obtain the information we require.’

  Watson rolled his eyes in despair. ‘By enlisting the help of Sigmund Freud? My God, Holmes, are you forgetting that he’s considered to be one of the most eminent psychologists in the world, a man whose ability to see into the complexities of the human mind are shown almost utmost respect?’

  ‘That is precisely why he is the best man for the job. No other is more likely to persuade the staff at Engelshartstetten to assist us in our enquiries.’

  ‘But that is exactly my point, Holmes! What you intend to do – enlist Freud as a means to get access to Eder – is highly unethical. It could damage Freud’s reputation irreparably if it were to get out.’

  ‘Then we must make sure that it does not get out.’

  ‘Dear Lord.’

  ‘Besides,’ Holmes continued, ‘he may yet refuse our request.’

  ‘Your request,’ said Watson petulantly. He turned to Purslan
e, who had met them earlier and was now sharing their cab as it headed for Freud’s apartment. ‘Well, don’t just sit there, man. Say something!’

  ‘Would it do any good?’ Purslane replied. ‘It would appear that Mr Holmes’s mind is made up. If we are right in our suspicions regarding the King of Clubs and if by bringing this gang to justice we can prevent the international incident that Mycroft Holmes fears, then in my opinion, the end justifies the means.’

  ‘“The end justifies the means”,’ Watson mimicked. ‘I am growing heartily sick of that proverb.’

  But Holmes offered a rare smile. ‘Well said, Purslane. I knew you were a man of great common sense.’

  Shortly thereafter the cab arrived at Freud’s apartment. They were shown into the psychologist’s study, where Freud – delighted to see them again – alternately puffed at his ever-present cigar and stroked his grey beard as he listened to Holmes’s request.

  Freud thought a moment before answering. ‘I am, of course, flattered that you think my participation will carry some weight, but … you do realize you are asking me to do something highly unethical?’

  Watson pounced. ‘My own words exactly, Herr Doktor!’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Freud continued, still studying Holmes thoughtfully, ‘I believe it would be irresponsible of me not to assist a man of your stature in his investigations, especially since it may well, as you say, become a matter of life and death.’ He smiled. ‘I will telephone the Palliativestation at Engelhartstetten at once, gentlemen.’

  He went to one of the bookshelves that lined his office and searched until he found the medical directory he was after. Then, bringing it back to his desk, he opened it and quickly found a reference for the hospice. He picked up the handset of the brass telephone on his desk and asked the operator to connect him with the Palliativestation.

  After a long wait he finally said, ‘Ah, good morning, Doktor Meisener. It’s Sigmund Freud. We met briefly at the conference in Steyr, if you remember … Yes, yes, I am fine; and you? … Good. I wonder if you can help me, Herr Doktor? I am presently researching the mental faculties of the injured brain … Yes, yes indeed. I was especially interested in getting the opportunity to study a patient of yours, a man by the name of Nikolaus Eder. That’s right the King of Clubs … No, I understand that. But do you think his next of kin would be willing to grant permission…? Ah, I see. Do they, indeed? … Yes, it is very difficult to underestimate the importance of a loving family … but still, if you could let me have their address…? It will certainly do no harm to ask.’

  He waited a moment, then scribbled an address on the pad in front of him. After exchanging a few final pleasantries, he rang off, tore the page from his pad and handed it to Holmes.

  ‘Apparently the family live in Pottenmauer.’

  Holmes glanced questioningly at Purslane, who said, ‘It’s out on the Slovakian border, I believe, about forty kilometres away.’

  ‘Are you sure you believe you have the right people, Herr Holmes?’ Freud asked with concern. ‘Doktor Meisener says the family are very protective of Herr Eder, and absolutely devoted to him. They visit him often and sometimes, if the weather is clement, take him for drives in their motor vehicle.’

  ‘We cannot say for sure,’ Holmes replied honestly. ‘Did Doktor Meisener give you any further information about them?’

  ‘Only that Eder’s brother, Florian, also happened to be his manager. A positive saint, to hear Meisener tell the story. Following the accident, he took Herr Eder’s children under his wing and has looked after them ever since.’

  ‘His children?’

  ‘Yes; though he was a widower, the King of Clubs has a son and a daughter.’

  Holmes looked Freud in the eye. ‘Did he by any chance mention their names?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did.’ The neurologist frowned as he searched for an elusive memory. ‘What was it he called them…?’

  ‘Wolf?’ prodded Holmes. ‘Annalise?’

  Freud snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it!’

  ‘Then there can no longer be any doubt at all,’ Holmes said grimly. ‘Thank you, Herr Doktor. You have been of more help than you will ever know.’

  As they shook hands, Freud said, ‘How do you intend to get to Pottenmauer?’

  ‘We shall hail a cab.’

  ‘I doubt you will find any cab willing to make such a long journey. But perhaps I may be of one further service to you.’ He looked at Purslane. ‘Young man, do you know how to drive a motor vehicle?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then take this,’ said the neurologist, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’s the key to my own private motor carriage.’ He looked self-consciously at his visitors. ‘It is one of my few extravagances, a Daimler only five years old. My friends told me I could not possibly be without a motor vehicle in these modern times, and so I indulged myself … but in truth I rarely use it. It is parked downstairs; you are more than welcome to it.’

  Purslane took the key. ‘Thank you, Herr Doktor.’

  ‘Thank you, indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, come along, gentlemen. I do believe we have some kidnappers to expose – and a brace of Houdinis to rescue.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Meanwhile …

  HOUDINI BELIEVED HE had conquered claustrophobia years ago. Such a fear would have been disasterous for a man who allowed himself to be locked into a filled milk can; or who spent as long as possible in a tub, under water, to increase his lung capacity. But now, as he looked around the small attic room in which his captors had imprisoned him, he began to feel, for the first time, that these dark, angled walls were crowding in on him and squeezing all the air out of their meagre confines.

  He had always gone his own way in life. He had set goals and gone after them with utter dedication and complete focus. He had never before been forced to submit to any will but his own, but now he was at the mercy of another, a man whose name he still didn’t know, and it was …

  God, he hated to confess it, even to himself, but it was true: it was breaking him.

  More of a torture still was the knowledge that Bess, his beloved Bess, was also being held prisoner in the cellar of this very house. And equally frustrating was the realization that there was not a single thing he could do about it.

  He got up irritably from the archiect’s drawing board where he had been studying the blueprints of the Imperial Palace. This was crazy! Here he was, the world’s greatest escapologist, unable to do the very thing he was so famous for.

  He went over to the skylight set high in the north-facing section of the roof. It wasn’t much, a window barely sixteen inches square. He reached up, pushed it open and cold air immediately rushed inside.

  He inhaled deeply and felt invigorated; he tried to bring sharpness and order to his thoughts. After a moment he dragged a box across the floor, climbed onto it and looked out at his surroundings.

  The three-storey house in which he and Bess were imprisoned was set in acres of foreSt Leafless oaks and black pines stretched as far as he could see on this bleak winter’s day, with its low, heavy clouds and light, breeze-blown snow.

  After leaving the church, his captors had shoved him into a narrow alley where a square-looking car built along the lines of a four-seater brougham was waiting for them. The younger man, the one called Wolf, had then driven them through Vienna. There had been no conversation, except for the fat man with the tortoiseshell glasses occasionally telling him to keep looking down, presumably so he wouldn’t have any idea where they were taking him.

  The car had made barely any noise; Houdini had wondered what kind of a car could travel so soundlessly.

  As near as he’d been able to tell, the journey had taken them across the Danube and then through a sparsely populated area. Soon the lights of Vienna fell behind them and darkness filled the car. Houdini tried the cuffs with which they had bound his hands behind his back, but these people really did know all the tricks. He had tried to make them cuff him
more on the forearm than the wrist, so that he could later slide the cuffs down his arms and slip out of them, but that was an old dodge and one with which they were all too familiar.

  So he was theirs for the taking.

  He estimated the journey had lasted perhaps an hour. Then the car crunched along a gravel drive until at last it braked and came to a halt. While Wolf turned off the engine, the girl, Annalise, got out, hurried around the car and opened Houdini’s door. Sleet lashed at the exposed side of his face. The muzzle of the gun in the fat man’s hand pressed into his side. ‘Get out,’ he was told.

  Houdini obeyed, finally looking up in order to examine his surroundings. It was a wretched night and visibility was poor, but as he glanced around he noted that they had halted before a large, dark and seemingly isolated house.

  Wolf climbed out of the car, closing the driver’s door, then walked hurriedly to the front door, unlocked it and went inside.

  Houdini wondered about Wolf. He talked tough, but Houdini sensed that it was just an act. He wondered if he might be able to exploit that in some way. During the cab ride from his hotel to the church, Wolf had even apologized for what had happened to Frankie, saying that this hadn’t been part of the plan, but that it had been an accident. Houdini found this of no comfort at all.

  A few seconds later lights began to show inside the house.

  ‘Go inside,’ said the fat man.

  Again, Houdini did as he was told. He went through the front door and into a spacious lobby, now hardly able to feel his frozen feet. Electric lamps showed him a comfortable area with old, expensive-looking paintings and fine furniture. Whoever these people were, they clearly had money.

  ‘Now,’ said the fat man, confronting him, ‘you will be quartered upstairs, in a room from which I fancy even you will be unable to escape. And it is there that you will work upon the problem that has caused me considerable vexation.’