“Mark my words, Watson,” said he, “we shall soon see police investigators all over the world locked in their laboratories, bent over microscopes to look at haemoglobin. It is inevitable.”
“Do you truly believe that bloodstains are more useful to criminologists than, say, footprints?” I asked, attempting to draw him out on the Gairstowe problem.
“Decidedly,” he answered. “Once the full properties of haemoglobin are known and understood, the traditional methods of tracing criminals will be abandoned as musty relics. I have known it for years.”
“Surely not footprints!” I persisted. “Such as the footprints in Lord O’Neill’s study? Won’t these footprints be of use to you in this case?”
“Footprints! Footprints are boorish clues, Watson! See how easily a mind such as Lestrade’s is led astray by them! Haemoglobin affords the analytic precision of modern science, whereas a footprint is subject to any number of variants. A footprint may expand or contract, or be trod upon by one of Lestrade’s henchmen—”
“But surely the traditional methods of crime detection may be reconciled with the advantages of the laboratory? For example, if you were able to analyse the unusual mud used to make the prints—?”
“No, no, good fellow. That small irregularity would in no way be illuminated in the laboratory. Now, if the thief had been so obliging as to leave a bit of haemoglobin—”
“Holmes! You are insufferable! Will you tell me nothing about the Gairstowe matter?”
“My dear Watson, the facts — such as they are — are all before you.”
“But I can make nothing of them.”
“Nothing, Watson? Can this be the man whose natural wit and perspicacity are the delight of millions? You have seen all that I have seen, but you have not observed. Think, Watson! Cudgel your brain!”
“Well,” I began, endeavouring to employ my friend’s celebrated logic, “whoever stole these letters must have known of their existence in advance. This limits our suspects considerably.”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes. “Proceed.”
“The thief must have been connected with the diplomatic party in some way, to have gained access to Gairstowe House. Either as a guest or an employee.”
“You surpass yourself! Pray continue.”
“Further,” I went on, much pleased with my companion’s enthusiasm, “he would have to possess the remarkable ability to penetrate what is, in effect, a bank vault.”
“Marvellous!” cried Holmes, applauding vigorously. “You have painted a precise portrait of our suspect. I must say, Watson, that if I find one fault in these chronicles which you occasionally lay before the public, it is that you often flatter me by making yourself appear dim-witted in comparison. You are far too modest concerning your own gifts.”
“Why Holmes,” I said, deeply moved, “these are kind words indeed!”
“Yes, while it is true that you have taken a somewhat rudimentary view and perceived only that which is painfully obvious, you have nonetheless provided a succinct and functional summary.”
“But—”
“Come now, Watson. If we base our speculations on the facts as you have just outlined them, who must our prime suspect be? Who had both the opportunity and the ability?”
“Houdini,” I admitted sheepishly.
“Precisely. And what place does Kleppini, who was in no way connected with the gathering at Gairstowe, have in your summary?”
“None,” I said.
“Exactly. But do not despair. The matter is quite complicated. I believe that even my brother, Mycroft, has failed to recognise the true depth of this problem. And if we should fail...” His voice trailed off.
“Holmes,” I persisted, “what if we should fail? Suppose the letters were to become public?”
“At best, a dark and protracted scandal. But at a time when succession seems so close, and relations with Germany are so strained—”
“Then we must recover the letters,” I said resolutely. “It is not the first time we have averted a royal scandal.* Where shall we begin?”
“We shall begin, stout fellow, by leaving you off at Baker Street. There are one or two small points which I must look into on my own.”
“But Holmes—”
“It won’t do, Watson. This is one of those rare occasions when your presence would be a hindrance.”
“But what are you going to do? Will you see the countess?”
“The countess? No, decidedly not, Watson. Not without you. The countess is a woman. I should be foolish indeed to interview a woman without availing myself of your natural gifts.” He chuckled merrily to himself. “In fact, I was on the point of suggesting that you pay a call on the countess in my absence.”
“Me? What would I say to her?”
“Take her measure, Watson. Uncover her true motives with that quiet, fascinating charm of yours. See if you can’t discover what really happened between her and the prince. And more importantly, I must know whether or not she still cares for him. Only then will we know if we are dealing with a blackmailer or a jealous lover.”
“All right,” I nodded, “I’ll go straight away.”
“Ah, wait,” Holmes said as a new thought struck him, “if I may impose still further upon your good nature, I suggest that you first go to see how Houdini is getting on at the Yard. Remind him of his pledge to remain there. I fancy that by this time he is, shall we say, fit to be tied.”
In fact, that expression proved more accurate than Holmes could have imagined, for I arrived at Scotland Yard to find Houdini not only tied, but chained and manacled as well. Evidently, Lestrade had realised that merely confining Houdini in a cell was not sufficient proof against escape. Accordingly, I found Houdini tied to a chair with a length of rope which had been looped about his body so many times as to resemble the shroud of an Egyptian mummy, leaving only his head exposed. Over this cocoon were wound several lengths of steel chain, tightly fastened by several formidable padlocks, and finally, to all this was added several of the heavy leather straps used to restrain madmen. Any of these restraints would have sufficed, so that the layering of them was stifling and uncomfortable, and, in Houdini’s case, humiliating.
“Dr Watson,” said the unfortunate man, managing a weak smile, “forgive me if I don’t get up.”
“Mr Houdini!” I cried angrily, gripping the small barred window of his cell. “This treatment is outrageous! It is unnecessarily severe! I shall speak to Lestrade at once!”
“Don’t bother, Doctor,” said Houdini with a bitter laugh, “Bess is with him now. Believe me, if she cannot move him, he has a heart of stone.”
“It simply is not decent that you should be treated in this way,” I insisted.
“Well, it is unnecessary,” he sighed listlessly. “I told them I would not escape. Houdini always keeps his word. If I wanted to escape, Dr Watson, these little annoyances wouldn’t stop me.”
It was a noble sentiment, and bravely spoken, but Houdini could muster only a trace of his former conviction. Seeing him thus, helpless and dispirited, eyes glazed and expressionless, I was reminded of a bird of prey when its wings are clipped for sport. I should have preferred his customary overweeningness to this, for now, bereft of his fire and dignity, Houdini had become the palest shadow of a man.
At that moment the far door to the cell block was opened and Bess Houdini was shown in by the duty constable. “Harry,” she called, rushing over to her husband’s cell, “Harry, I have done my best, but that Lestrade is impossible. He insists that you will escape if he lets you up. I told him that you gave your word, but he said that your word meant nothing to him. I gave him a good piece of my mind for that, I can tell you!”
Houdini stared down at the floor.
“Dr Watson,” said the small woman, turning to me, “this business hasn’t gotten into any of the newspapers, has it? Harry would be ruined. A performer must guard his reputation offstage as well as on. Any stain or suspicion of misconduct sets everyon
e whispering. If this gets out Harry’s career is finished, whether Holmes clears his name or not.”
“There hasn’t been a word in any of the newspapers.”
“Well, that’s some relief, anyway.” She looked through the bars at her husband, who was straining his shoulders against his bonds in an apparent attempt to relax his stiff muscles. Mrs Houdini continued, “Have you and Sherlock Holmes made any progress? Have you turned up any clues in our favour? You seem to be the only people in London who believe that Harry is innocent.”
“Holmes is confident,” I assured her. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t discrediting the case against your husband even now.” I went on to describe our encounter with Mycroft Holmes at the Diogenes Club, which seemed to interest Mrs Houdini greatly.
“Mycroft Holmes?” she asked. “And he works at Whitehall, you said? Very well. Harry, I’ll be back in an hour or so. Franz will be here at two. Dr Watson, I hope to see you when this business is concluded. I’m off to Whitehall.”
“But Mrs Houdini,” I said, “Mycroft Holmes is—” But the resolute woman was already at the far door, calling for the guard to let her out.
“You may as well save your breath, Dr Watson,” Houdini told me. “Bess is determined to clear my name even if she has to speak to the prime minister himself. If your Mycroft Holmes is anywhere in London, she’ll find him.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I suspect she’s let herself in for more than she knows with Holmes’s brother.”
“Maybe not, Watson. I have a brother of my own, you know. His name is Theo. Theo Hardeen, the Wizard of Handcuffs.”
“I don’t believe I’m familiar with the name,” I allowed.
“No one else is either, Doctor, that’s Theo’s problem. And those people who do see him remember him only as Houdini’s brother. I know he dislikes that, but Mama always said — Mama! Thank God she didn’t live to see me like this! Can you imagine? It would have killed her. She was so proud of my success, so proud. And now” — Houdini lowered his eyes — “they say I’m a crook. How can I prove I’m not? I never did a dishonest thing in my life. I earned everything I ever got. Try telling that to your Inspector Lestrade, or to your Mycroft Holmes of the British government.”
“You’ll be free soon, Mr Houdini. Sherlock Holmes will vindicate you. You can go to the Diogenes Club and tell Mycroft just what you’ve told me.”
“At one of your exclusive British clubs? Hah! I’m a master at getting out of things, Dr Watson, not getting in. There are some walls even I cannot pass through.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No? Dr Watson, my father was a rabbi. I am a Jew. My real name is Erich Weiss. How many American Jews do you suppose one finds in your British clubs, dining with the earls and dukes?”
I considered this for a moment, then I recalled something which Mycroft Holmes had said the previous evening. “Mr Houdini,” I hesitated, “Mycroft Holmes said, that is, I believe he said that your father was a... a murderer.”
Houdini gave a choked cry and twisted violently in his bonds. “A murderer! My father! Had you known, Dr Watson! He was the gentlest spirit I ever knew, a holy man!” Houdini paused here, breathing heavily. With an effort, he brought his emotions under control. “My father was forced against his will to fight a duel of honour, after which he fled from Budapest to America so that he would not be persecuted. That is why he was so determined to raise his sons as Americans, though he never truly understood American customs, or even the language. That is why I am proud to be an American, in spite of what you British say about us. And can you doubt it? Look at what has happened to me here! Accused of a crime I did not commit, the master of escape rots in jail! Hail Britannia!”
Having delivered himself of this diatribe, Houdini hung his head as if exhausted. After a few moments he recovered himself and raised his head to look at me. His eyes had glazed over once more, and he spoke in absolutely lifeless tones. “Perhaps you had best leave me now, Doctor. Soon it will be time for the guards to let me up for my exercise and meal, and then I will be trussed up again. Tell Sherlock Holmes I am still here. The Great Houdini is still in jail.”
I could not bring myself to meet his eyes as I rose to take my leave.
* In fact, it was at least the fourth time.
Ten
THE COUNTESS IS INDISPOSED
From Scotland Yard I went directly to the Cleland Hotel, where the Countess Valenka had taken rooms. Seeing Houdini in such a state had given me an even greater desire to bring this unhappy matter to a close as quickly as could be managed. As I alighted from my cab before the Cleland, I resolved that if the countess knew anything at all which would hasten this conclusion, I would not withdraw until I had discovered it.
The Cleland is one of the smaller, more private hotels of the kind which have now grown lamentably scarce. Operated for more than a century by successive generations of the Cleland family, the hotel is known for its hearty Scots hospitality and for its justifiably famous haggis.* I often had occasion to lodge there during my student days, and it is some indication of my boisterous youth that I am remembered there still. Happily, the staff bears me no ill will, and upon enquiry I was politely directed to the countess’s suite of rooms on the third floor. I recall wondering, as I was taken up in the lift, why the countess had forsaken the fashionable hotels in the Strand for this more reclusive and modest dwelling. Perhaps she had grown weary of society, I thought, or perhaps she did not wish her movements to be observed.
*Haggis is a Scottish dish made from the lungs, heart and other offal of a sheep or calf, mixed with suet, oatmeal and seasonings, and boiled in the animal’s stomach. One supposes that Watson’s Scottish heritage enabled him to tolerate it.
In the antechamber of the countess’s rooms I was met by a diminutive German handmaiden who, though she was clearly well-bred, spoke a rather tortured and unwilling English. Attempting to communicate the nature of my visit as best I could, I quickly discerned, amid a great flurry of answering gestures, that the countess was indisposed.
The reader will understand that from a very early age I was taught that the right of a woman to find herself suddenly indisposed is sacred and inviolate. Under normal circumstances I should have immediately taken my leave, but the thought of Houdini languishing in his cell pressed me to continue, even at the risk of indelicacy. Using a series of grave facial expressions and gesticulations, I somehow managed to impress the great importance of my visit upon the countess’s attendant, and she, with a beautifully eloquent shrug, agreed to present my card to her ailing mistress.
The handmaiden had scarcely left the room before the sound of a most animated discussion issued forth from the countess’s bedroom. Though I did not intend to eavesdrop, I could not fail to note that one of the voices undoubtedly belonged to a gentleman. I need hardly point out that a gentleman in the bedroom of a proper lady is acutely irregular. A moment later, the bedroom door opened and Herr Osey, the German diplomat, stepped out.
“Ah, my dear Dr Watson,” he said in his careful English, “how good it is to see you again! A most unexpected pleasure!”
“Yes,” I replied with some asperity, “most unexpected.”
“I see that you are, ah, surprised to find me here, Doctor. You must allow me to explain.”
“I require no explanation, Herr Osey,” I said. “I wish only to speak to the countess.”
“But that is impossible!” he cried, throwing up his hands. “The countess is very ill! That is why you found me in her boudoir, Doctor. Do you understand? She will not allow anyone else near her until her private physician arrives from München.”
Here again I was treading on very thin ice, for Herr Osey was a highly placed German official. But I did not need Sherlock Holmes to tell me that there was a good deal more here than met the eye, so I continued to press my suit.
“I am sorry to learn that the countess is unwell,” I said, “but I must see her. I wish only to ask her a few questions
on behalf of Mr Holmes. A man’s freedom may depend upon it.”
“It is quite impossible,” Herr Osey said firmly.
“Then I shall wait here until it becomes possible.”
He eyed me carefully. “A gentleman would not insist.”
“There are many things which a gentleman would not do,” I said pointedly, nodding towards the countess’s chamber, “but you forget that I am also a doctor, and may be of some assistance.”
“But I’ve already told you, she refuses to see any British doctor. She will see only her personal doctor.”
“That’s absurd!” I cried. “If he is coming all the way from Munich it may take a week for him to arrive. I’m certain that I can be of some use to the countess in the interim. If she does not wish to see me, so be it. But I should prefer to hear that from her own lips.”
Herr Osey faltered, evidently seeking further arguments to dissuade me, but seeing that I remained firm he had no choice but to consent.
“Very well, Dr Watson, I will see what I can do.” I stood at the window until Herr Osey reappeared to take me in to the countess.
“She really is feeling quite weak,” he said. “I don’t know what it is that you wish to ask her, but I’m afraid she may not be able to speak at all.”
Indeed, I was not certain myself just what it was that I wished to ask the countess, save that I was to determine the state of her affections for the prince. This would have been a tricky business even under the best of conditions, but now my task was complicated by her apparent ill health and by the unexpected presence of the German diplomat. I have some experience with women, as Holmes is so fond of reminding me, but this situation was quite foreign even to me, and I had no idea of what to expect as Herr Osey ushered me into the countess’s presence.
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