by Ted Riccardi
“You have chosen,” said Holmes, “a most difficult path to follow. The life of a spy is not only dangerous but rarely lucrative. What brought you to the Dead City?”
He laughed, showing badly damaged teeth.
“The desire for revenge,” he said, “as it brought us all. Turk, Serb, Hungarian, Italian, and Russian—we have joined in a brotherhood of revenge.”
His accent was heavy and foreign, but I did not recognize it.
“When I was thirteen, my family was annihilated by the Austrian army in an attack on the poor of Zagreb. I cannot tell you of the grief and horror that I had to live through when I found their bodies in the charred embers of our small house, my mother, father, two sisters, and a young brother of five. My one older sister was carried off by the Austrians. I never saw her again alive. I was left with no one except a friend who brought me into contact with revolutionary groups which were filled with persons who had experienced the same kind of atrocity. One of these groups became the organization known in German as Die Tote Stadt, the dead city being in my case Zagreb, a city butchered by every European army. But from the point of view of the membership, the dead city was any city of suffering, it was for every member the city that he had suffered in—Istanbul, Belgrade, Budapest, Naples, Kiev. It is for us the world itself. As I grew up within the cadres of this group, its members treated me as an equal, and I learned of their unprecedented success among the many anarchist movements of Europe. Their hand had reached into America where they were responsible for killing two presidents, McKinley and Garfield. You cannot imagine the joy that passed through our group when word of these successful executions reached us. I had become part of a sacred order destined, we thought, to change the world and rid it of its parasites.”
“And then?” Holmes asked quietly.
“And then, Mr. Holmes, the leader of our group, Gordonov, was captured in London and arrested. He is now in prison. I was spotted and followed for a long time until it was clear to the remaining leaders that the group would have to leave England and regroup in another country. They chose Italy, in particular a village near the city of Trieste, the home of one of the leaders, who assured the membership that they would be safe and could move quickly throughout Europe, where the group had decided to become very active.
“I was apprehended and brought to Mycroft Holmes for questioning. I was no match for this gentleman, for his eyes saw right through me, and I told him all, just what I am telling you now. Mycroft convinced me that I should continue as a member of the Dead City but report to him any plans that interfered with British interests. He vowed that I would be well paid, and that I could rest assured that I would have as much protection as could be afforded to me. If I did not accede to his wishes, he made it abundantly clear that I would languish in an English gaol for the rest of my life. I of course agreed. I left for Trieste where I explained to our leadership that I was willing to remain in London to see if we could free Gordonov. Since that time, I have traveled back and forth, reporting secretly to Mycroft Holmes on the plans of the Dead City and negotiating with him the release of Attile Gordonov. Gordonov remains in jail, and I am under intense surveillance. On my last trip to Trieste, the group seemed wary of me, and a new policy of secrecy within the group makes it difficult for me to know what the plans are.”
Holmes took the piece of wire from his pocket.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
“I myself do not know. It was given to me by Prinzip, who is in charge until Gordonov’s return. I was told to deliver it somehow to Gordonov. But I gave it to your brother instead. It may mean something to the leadership of Die Tote Stadt, but I myself do not know.” Holmes took it back, fingering it gently.
“I understand, Vrukonovic, the great danger in which you have been placed. We are all in your debt, and I shall see to it that you have safer quarters immediately, outside of London, I think.”
We left and returned home in the dark. By then it was past ten, and Holmes had said nothing along the way. Sidgwick took his leave with a wave of the hand and we parted.
When we entered our quarters, I saw that Holmes’s face was somber and deeply perturbed. He removed his coat and settled on the couch.
“A most enigmatic clew, this piece of wire. Let me have Mycroft’s day book once again, Watson.”
I handed him the book and watched as he leafed through it.
“Note, Watson, the drawing, a tracing no doubt. Note however that something is added in the drawing: a swiggle of a line that crosses the two parts of the wire. The letters Nil are at one end of the swiggle and at the other end there is the letter R.”
“Surely the letters do not refer to the Nile River?”
“Far fetched, but not impossible. The Khedive is not an obvious target for this group. Let us sleep on it, Watson. Maybe some rest will suggest a solution.”
It must have been around three in the morning when I heard a loud knock at the door. I arose, but before I could put on my robe, I heard Holmes say in a clear voice,
“Watson, Lestrade has just arrived. Vrukonovic has been murdered.”
I went out in my pajamas and greeted Lestrade.
“Quickly, Watson, get your clothes on, we haven’t a moment to lose. I misjudged this badly,” said Holmes.
I dressed in haste, and the three of us without a word hopped into a cab. Holmes gave the man the Bedford Street address. A distraught landlady showed us to the room. Vrukonovic was seated in the chair that he had occupied when we had met. His hands were now tied behind his back and he had been badly beaten and shot through the left eye. The room bore the signs of a great struggle.
“An execution,” said Holmes.
“Indeed,” said I, “within the last two hours is my guess.”
“How did you learn of this, Lestrade?”
“The landlady let someone enter around eleven. He was a large muscular man, and he pushed his way in, and frightened her, but she did nothing. He had been there several times before so she gave his rudeness little thought. She said she thought he was an Austrian named Karl Ritter. At around two, she heard an argument, in German, and a shot. She ran out to find help, and while she was gone, the killer escaped. The bobby who eventually appeared notified Scotland Yard. The bobby said that two gentlemen had appeared earlier. From the description, I judged that it might be Holmes and Watson. Hence, I stopped at Baker Street before coming here.”
As Lestrade spoke, Holmes began his search of the room. So thorough was the search that he did not finish until it was nearly dawn. I saw him take two photographs from the table that had served Vrukonovic as a desk. As he put them in his coat pocket, he snapped his fingers and the trace of a smile went across his face.
“Let us depart, Watson. I have done what can be done. And Lestrade, have the contents of the room packed and sealed until we can give them a thorough scrutiny. They will provide ample evidence for conviction of the gang, if we get that far. And Lestrade, have Gordonov released immediately. We must follow him to his gang. If you have difficulty with the prison authorities, tell them that I shall go to Mr. Gladstone himself, with whom I am on excellent terms. And Lestrade, please have Gordonov followed. If you do not have a good man available, get Shinwell Johnston to do it.”
Holmes remained deep in thought on our way home, but once we reached Baker Street he began to tell me what he had deduced.
“It is obvious, my dear doctor, that Vrukonovic was executed. But by whom? His own gang or some agent from police abroad assigned to wipe out members of the gang? I suspect the latter, though we may never know for sure. The executioner was a large powerful man who was able to subdue Vrukonovic, a well-built man himself. He was known to the dead man, smoked Turkish cigarettes, and drank straight gin, judging from what was left on the table before them. But now we have only one way of locating the gang, and that is by following Gordonov in the hope that he may lead us to them. Let us get a bit of rest, Watson, before Shinwell or Lestrade arrives.”
“Wake up, Watson, it is almost four in the afternoon. And Shinwell is here with his report.”
Shinwell almost ran in, and spoke in a breathless voice. “From Scotland Yard jail, Gordonov went immediately to the nearest telegraph office where he sent a message to Trieste. A reply came almost immediately. When he left, the telegrapher allowed me to see them. The first one was “Where?” the reply “On schedule, Trieste.” I caught up with him at Victoria where he purchased a ticket for that city. The train leaves in two hours.
“He may not make it to his destination, for Bobby saw the Austrian police agent Ritter buy a ticket for the same train. Ritter is presumably the one who killed Vrukonovic.”
“Watson, pack a valise quickly. We shall be on that train to Trieste. Shinwell, purchase a ticket for yourself as well. You will be accompanying us. Pack your weapons, Watson. We shall be among desperate company.”
Within the hour we were aboard the first of two trains that would take us to Trieste. Holmes was silent, deep in thought. Shinwell made one short visit to us reporting that Gordonov was safely aboard in the next car and that Karl Ritter had also boarded.
It was night and we were about to retire when the door of our compartment opened. A large, tall man in a long black coat entered and sat opposite us. He lit a Turkish cigarette.
“I believe we have met before,” he said, directing his remark toward Holmes with barely concealed animosity. “My name is Karl Ritter.”
“When we last met, your name was Heinrich Kurtz, of the Austrian secret police and the Archduke’s chief body guard and myrmidon.” said Holmes coldly.
“You have a strong memory, Holmes, though your characterization of me is not as complimentary as one could wish. However, let that rest. This time our governments have common interests, interests in stopping Die Tote Stadt and its gang of filthy criminals. But neither of us knows enough—we must combine our efforts. Otherwise we shall fail.”
Kurtz looked at Holmes and said without expression, “I want the piece of wire.”
Ignoring the Austrian’s words, Holmes reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope out of which he took the two photographs that he had taken from Vrukonovic’s room.
“The wire, Herr Kurtz, is concerned with events still in the future. Let us for a moment consider the past. These belonged to the late Vrukonovic, your most recent victim. But he was playing a complicated game. Do you still hunt, Herr Kurtz?”
Kurtz took the photographs as they passed through my hands. They were of a much younger Kurtz and two others, a man and a woman, in what appeared to be a hunting camp. The woman was quite beautiful.
“Ah,” said Kurtz, “Prinzip and his wife, the younger sister of Vrukonovic. So you remember that night.”
“Indeed I do.”
Holmes turned to me. “Another of those horrible events that leads only to even greater disasters. Let me tell you, and recollect for Herr Kurtz the early circumstances that led to our present meeting on this train.
“It was January, 1893. If you recall, Watson, at that precise time I was about to leave India to return to England. I had foiled Anton Furer but he had escaped. As I was about to leave the Nepalese jungle, I received word that the Austrian archduke Ferdinand and his camp were only a few miles away and that the Maharajah wished me to join the party. Reluctantly, I did, arriving by elephant in a few hours at the camp.
“It was by far the most lavish camp I had as yet seen. The gentleman seated opposite us was in charge. Indeed it was he who introduced me to the Archduke himself, an immediately repellent character, who was drunk already in the late morning. There was a large contingent of Austrian soldiers, a full complement of personal servants to His Majesty, and the usual women’s camp, made even larger by a number of native women supplied by the Maharajah for the Archduke’s seemingly inexhaustible appetites.”
Kurtz said nothing as Holmes spoke, silently smoking cigarette after cigarette.
“One evening, just before dusk, the Archduke was heard to call out at the top of his lungs in anger. His wrath was directed toward his chief valet, a young man named Prinzip. Prinzip had readied the wrong boots for His Majesty and was punished then and there in front of the assembled crowd. He was tied to a tree and severely flogged by the Archduke and by the gentleman seated opposite us. Prinzip screamed as no man I had ever heard. Then his wife, who had refused the prince’s advances, was tied to a tree next to him. They were covered with fresh goatskins and honey to attract the wild of the jungle. The Archduke climbed gleefully into his machan to await what predators might come. ‘Let us see what I decide to do—kill another tiger or watch it eat,’ he said with a laugh.”
“The honey had by now attracted swarms of ants and flies and other insects which began to torture Prinzip and his wife. At the same time, the Archduke’s dinner and drink were brought to him by a number of trembling servants, one of whom he kicked off the ladder and who fell, breaking his leg. I remained a witness to this scene, helpless to do anything.
“The hours passed, and by now Prinzip and his wife were almost in a faint from the torture to which they had been exposed. Then, around eight, I saw a large tiger enter suspiciously and quietly into the cleared area in front of the trees. It moved very close to the two prisoners. The Archduke did not move but stared down, his gun nowhere to be seen. The crowd of attendants was silent, frozen. The tiger began licking the honey off Prinzip’s back. The man was shaking with fear. I quietly took my gun, stepped out of the circle, and with one shot felled the tiger. Then, I shot one warning shot at the Archduke and ordered him out of the machan or I would shoot him dead.
“Bewildered and drunk, the Archduke struggled down. His minions were about to grab me when I was surrounded by a group of the Maharajah’s men, who escorted me a short distance away. The Maharajah then ordered Prinzip and his wife to be treated and freed, and they were brought to where I was. In minutes, the three of us were on elephants, our destination the Indian border. Faced with a dead European or an angry potentate, the shrewd Maharajah chose the latter, making it clear that the Archduke was expected to leave his territory as soon as possible. Furious, the Archduke ordered his party to pack and leave.
“We escaped to India, where I parted company with the Prinzips, who disappeared from my view until I saw their photographs at Vrukonovic’s flat. I gather that in the face of the Maharajah’s sovereign authority and his superior military might the humiliated Archduke made a fast retreat out of Nepal and headed to the Viceroy’s palace in Delhi, the incidents described here never coming to public notice. Later, I received a personal handwritten note from the Maharajah, complimenting me for my help in avoiding needless bloodshed.
“I leave the past to you, Holmes. It is the wire that interests me.”
“I give it to you with great pleasure, Herr Kurtz.”
Kurtz took it and greedily perused it. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“I suggest that you submit it for analysis to your experts in Vienna. Waste no time. And Kurtz, at the earliest opportunity, get word to the Archduke that he should stay within the protected walls of his palace until Die Tote Stadt is apprehended. I can assure you that although we may have thought that an assassination attempt might take place against the Emperor, the Kaiser, or the Czar, the chosen victim is the Archduke, of this I have no doubt.”
Kurtz rose stiffly and left.
“The attack dog returns to his master,” said Holmes.
“Now what, Holmes?” I asked.
“My guess is, Watson, that Gordonov is already off the train at some previously agreed stop before Trieste and that all we have to do now is await the assassination attempt, which we shall attend.”
Holmes’s words I found puzzling.
“How indeed do you know that?”
“Just before we left London, Watson, I deciphered the message. It is quite simple: the wire itself stands for a curved road on which the Archduke is supposed to travel. The letters are the initials of the assassins and their positions along the route. The groups of assassins are placed mostly at the curve in the road. You will remember that the letters RH remained undeciphered. They stand for Rat Haus, or City Hall in German. A building located right in the curve. Thus, the Archduke is expected to cross a river that begins with Nil, and that is the Nilichka. He is to be greeted by local dignitaries at the Rat Haus and then proceed. At the curve, before or after he enters the Rat Haus, his limousine must slow down. It is there, then, near the Rat Haus, that the attempt will be made. There is only one city on the Archduke’s tour that meets all these requirements.”
“And which is that?”
“The sleepy city of Sarajevo.”
In Trieste, Holmes wired Sidgwick who informed us that the best information of the British Government was that the Archduke would visit Sarajevo on 28 June, and that he would enter the Rat Haus at approximately three p.m. He would be accompanied by his wife and an armed bodyguard which was thought sufficient to ward off any attempt on his life. The Foreign Office also had information that the Archduke, when told of the possible assassination plot somewhere along his route, refused to change it, declaring that he was safe among his people.
After a week in Trieste, Holmes and I journeyed to Vienna and then to Sarajevo. After a walk along the road the Archduke would travel, we settled into a small inn near the central square run by a Frau Dreisschok, a rather slatternly woman of indeterminate age and features, since her disheveled hair fell in long thick locks over her face. There we waited. Holmes had talks with the local police, who arranged for us to be at the Rat Haus as the Archduke entered.
And so, on that fatal afternoon, Holmes and I took our places in the large crowd that had assembled to greet the Archduke and his wife, Sophie. Somewhere in that great mass, standing nearby, was the assassin, Prinzip, his accomplice Jetic, and perhaps his sister. Holmes kept staring through the endless people, hoping to recognize Prinzip after so many years.
