by Hayes, Steve
‘But what about …’ the man gestured toward Irene, who had crossed the room to help the still-seething Robert get to his feet.
‘Never fear,’ said Holmes. ‘This woman and her companion are finished.’
The man needed no second urging. Greatly relieved, he grabbed his scarf and topper and ran from the room.
After the sound of his departing steps had faded, silence again filled the room. The woman Watson knew as Irene Hastings said, ‘John, this isn’t what it looks like.’
Watson almost laughed. ‘Then please explain it to my satisfaction. That, I think, would be quite a feat.’
Before she could answer, Robert, having finally extricated himself from the broken tripod, grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the door. ‘We’re leaving,’ he snarled at Holmes. ‘And you’d better not try and stop us!’
Instinctively, Watson moved to bar their escape. But Holmes shook his head. ‘Let them go, old friend. We have done our bit.’
Watson disagreed, but he trusted Holmes and if he said the matter was finished, then he must have a good reason for doing so.
Irene Hastings – Watson still couldn’t think of her as anyone else – and her brother brushed past him. At the door she gave Watson one final look, and then she was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Second Chance
THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF it all suddenly caught up with Watson and he sagged. ‘I have been a fool, haven’t I?’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘You have been human, old friend, and heir to all the failings of that species,’ Holmes replied. ‘And if you have been a fool, then so have a great many other men of similar station before you. But in your case …’
Watson looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘Well, let us say there were … extenuating circumstances … where you were concerned. At the outset, Mrs Channing and her husband – the man you were led to believe was her brother – identified you as a mark for the badger game. After your wife died so unexpectedly, however, they realized there was no one to whom they could expose you.
‘But they are of agile intellect, those two, and it soon occurred to them that no man is easier to manipulate and beguile than one thoroughly preoccupied by his grief. You were lonely and the attention of “Mrs Hastings”, as she called herself, was a soothing balm, a pleasant comfort. But all the time it was just a pretence to take more and more of your money. And she did, didn’t she?’
Watson nodded, ashamed. ‘But why did you not come to me directly, and sooner?’ he asked.
‘Would you have believed me, Watson? Or more correctly, would your heart have allowed you to believe me? No, my friend, it was better for you to see the truth with your own eyes. Besides, I had to make absolutely sure of my facts first.’
‘But how did you know? I mean … what first put you onto her?’
‘That, my dear fellow, was simple,’ Holmes said, idly inspecting the shattered remains of the camera. ‘As you know, I have an excellent eye for detail and a keen memory for faces. And even though I am now retired, I still continue to read the Police Gazette with great interest.
‘You will remember that I met Mrs Hastings when I attended your wife’s funeral. She was and indeed remains a handsome woman, but I noticed at the time that she overuses her rice make-up in two places, one at the left corner of her mouth, the other on her forehead, between her eyebrows up to her hairline. I confess I did not make much of it at the time, and of course there was no reason why I should. But I am afraid I have lost none of my mistrust of women. It was only upon reading a report in the Police Gazette about a certain Mrs Violet Channing that I connected the two events.’
He paused and regarded Watson keenly. ‘I need hardly explain the term naevus flammeus to you.’
Watson scowled. ‘A port-wine stain?’
‘Indeed. As you know, they are much less common than the so-called “salmon patches” which usually occur in newborns and fade with time. The naevus flammeus remains and as the years progress the mark or marks tend to become somewhat uneven. This is what Mrs Channing was attempting to disguise with the overuse of powder.’
‘There is no crime in that.’
‘None at all. Indeed, for what it is worth, the poor woman has my sympathy for the condition. But Mrs Channing was reported to have the self-same affliction, Watson. And so I took it upon myself to investigate her a little more closely.’
‘Ever the detective, eh, Holmes?’ Watson said with a hint of bitterness.
Holmes smiled wryly. ‘Let us say that, even if there was the faintest chance that your Mrs Hastings was in reality the larcenous Mrs Channing, I could not allow you to be taken in, as had so many men before you. And I dearly wish I had been mistaken, Watson, but unfortunately I was not. The facts I was able to unearth regarding “Mrs Hastings” were suspiciously few. Indeed, as near as I could ascertain, she seemed to have appeared out of thin air, some months after Mrs Channing, on the run from the police, went to ground. From there it was a small matter to keep the woman under observance until her own actions condemned her.’
‘Then we must report her, Holmes! We cannot allow her to continue with such an abhorrent business!’
‘There is, I believe, no need for that. To bring them to book now might only cause the very embarrassment and exposure that their victims were hoping to avoid. Besides, after tonight’s little encounter, I fancy they will go to ground once more.’
‘Then they will have got away with it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Holmes replied enigmatically.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that upon reaching their lodgings in Tooting, the Channings will pack their bags and leave the city for pastures new. But as they gather their belongings, they will discover three curious things. One – the notebooks in which they recorded all the sordid details of their victims will have mysteriously disappeared. Two – so will the vile collection of photographs they used in their demands for payment. And three – all the paperwork relating to their several well-stocked bank accounts will have been destroyed, rendering them all but penniless; for to make any attempt to reclaim those accounts may well invite close scrutiny of their somewhat questionable finances – firstly from the banks themselves, and then, in due course, from the police.’
‘You have well and truly ruined them, then?’
‘Let us just say that I have lost none of my skill at breaking and entering.’
Watson snapped his fingers as something else suddenly became clear to him. ‘And those letters you posted earlier this evening …?’
‘Were all addressed to those same victims, informing them – anonymously, of course – that they have nothing further to fear from their blackmailer, and suggesting they learn a salutary lesson from the experience.’
‘So there is some justice, then.’
‘There is nearly always some justice, old friend,’ Holmes agreed softly.
‘And there is no fool like an old fool,’ Watson grumbled. ‘And I will be perfectly honest with you, Holmes: I doubt that I have ever felt so old or so foolish.’
Unexpectedly Holmes smiled, and the light of good humour entered his grey eyes. ‘Then allow me to give you a second chance to recapture your salad days.’
‘Salad? You’ve lost me, Holmes.’
‘I must confess, as much as I enjoy my life in Sussex and my study of bees, it falls far short of the adventurous life you and I once enjoyed in Baker Street. It is, as Browning would have it, “That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!”’
‘You are, as usual, speaking in riddles and displaying a knowledge of verse that I never before suspected.’
‘Then I will say it plainly,’ Holmes replied. ‘We cannot go back, Watson. But we may go forward. I have recently been thinking of travel … but where is the pleasure in travelling alone?’
‘Where were you thinking of going?’
‘Austria,’ came the startling reply.
‘Austria!’
‘Yes. For some time now I have been corresponding with the neurologist, Dr Freud. He appears to be a most fascinating man and one I will enjoy meeting, for I am keen to discuss at greater length a diagnostic technique he calls psychoanalysis. What do you say, old friend?’
‘I am hardly enamoured of Freud’s theories,’ Watson said. ‘Indeed, I heartily disapprove of some.’
‘But Vienna, man!’
Watson could hardly deny the temptation. But still he hesitated. ‘When do you plan to leave, Holmes? I mean, I have my duties as a locum to consider….’
‘Then first thing tomorrow morning,’ Holmes said, clapping him on the arm, ‘arrange for a replacement, and I will take care of everything else. Within forty-eight hours, my friend, we will be on our way – and who knows? Once again, if we are lucky, the game may well be afoot!’
CHAPTER SIX
There Is No Trick To It
THE FOLLOWING DAY Watson dutifully arranged for a locum to take over the practice in Deptford. Holmes, meanwhile, who was staying at the Goring, less than two miles from their old stamping ground in Baker Street, began arranging every detail of their trip. Thus it was that they departed from Charing Cross aboard the Ostend-Vienna Express promptly at ten o’clock two mornings later.
Watson had mixed feelings about the trip – and with good cause. The Summer Olympics, held in Sweden earlier in the year, had brought together competitors from almost thirty countries and encouraged overseas travel as never before. Austria, though, was still a suspect destination for moSt Although four years had passed since Emperor Franz Joseph I had annexed Bosnia and Herzegovina, there still lingered considerable ill-feeling among the three million Serbs who, quite rightly, objected to Austria’s bullish attempt at empire-building.
The Serbs were not alone in these objections. For some time now, Italy had been threatening military action against Austria as a consequence; while Russia, taking advantage of the unrest, had been inciting a revolution throughout the Balkan states. The situation had become so dire that the leader of the German Catholic Centre Party had warned that any Austrian retaliation against Serbia would inevitably draw Russia even further into the conflict, and that in turn could lead to a European war.
When Watson mentioned his misgivings, however, Holmes only filled his favourite clay pipe with his usual acerbic blend of shag and replied that, with Vienna presently such a hotbed of intrigue, there was little chance of their having a boring holiday.
An hour and forty minutes after leaving Charing Cross, they reached Dover, where they caught a steamer to Ostend. From this Belgian municipality they made their next connection easily and continued their train journey through Brussels, Aix-le-Chapelle, Cologne and Bonn.
In all, the thirty-two-hour trek proved to be a pleasant one, although Watson was not sorry when they’d left Passau behind them; and the train steamed into Vienna three hours later.
A fifth set of tracks was being added to the terminus. More building work was being carried out to the two towers that flanked the station entrance and the roof. In consequence the din was tremendous and so – as they climbed down from their carriage and Watson tried to shake some life back into his gammy leg – they were startled to hear a brass band suddenly break into the Austro-Hungarian national anthem, Land der Berge, Land am Strome.
Watson turned toward the far end of the platform where the band was playing and could see a group of dignitaries as well as several journalists from the Austrian press.
‘Good Lord,’ he said above the noise. ‘They must have found out you were coming, Holmes.’
Holmes gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘I fear the greeting is not for me.’
‘Really? You mean, they greet all their new arrivals this way?’
‘I doubt it. No, my friend, this is in honour of someone else.’
He paused as a number of the passengers broke into spontaneous applause.
He and Watson turned just as a short, stocky man in his mid-thirties led his entourage off the train and began to work his way up the platform, waving and smiling as the crowd parted to make way for him.
Watson squinted at him. He was well dressed in a suit of grey serge, with a heavy winter overcoat slung over one arm. He looked vaguely familiar, but Watson couldn’t put a name to the fellow. Finally he gave up and asked, ‘Who is that man, Holmes?’
‘That, my friend, is Mr Erik Weisz.’
Watson sniffed. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Then perhaps you will know him better by his stage name,’ said Holmes. ‘For he is none other than the escapologist Harry Houdini.’
The name, of course, was instantly recognizable. And how could it be otherwise? Houdini was a legend. The son of a rabbi, he was a Hungarian Jew whose family had emigrated to the United States when Houdini himself was four years old. Moving to New York from Wisconsin – the home of the Badger Game, Watson reminded himself sourly – the young Weisz had eventually changed his name in tribute to Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, the French magician he so admired, and went into showbusiness.
From vaudeville, where he had mostly performed card tricks, he had gone on to tour the world as an escapologist extraordinare. No gaol could hold him, no straitjacket restrain him, no set of shackles bind him. He had escaped from all manner of prisons, was an accomplished safe-cracker and a year earlier had astounded audiences with what he called his Chinese Water-Torture Cell, escaping from chains and padlocks whilst being suspended upside-down in a glass case filled with water.
It seemed impossible to believe that this man, who stood five feet, five inches on bowed legs, was the person who had performed so many wondrous acts. At a distance he seemed almost nondescript. And yet here was someone who could walk a tightrope; untie knots with his toes; dislocate his shoulders at will; climb skyscrapers; and hold his breath for more than three minutes at a time. He was an inventor, businessman, a scientist of sorts, philanthropist, magazine publisher, newspaper columnist and author.
As Houdini passed Holmes and Watson he happened to glance in their direction. The next time he looked at them it was with a frown. He took two more steps, then suddenly turned and came back. His entourage stopped at a respectful distance to watch, but the two women flanking him continued to accompany him as he approached Holmes and Watson.
‘It’s Holmes, isn’t it?’ Houdini asked as he came up. ‘Sherlock Holmes?’
‘You are, I perceive, a reader of the American edition of the Strand,’ Holmes replied.
Houdini looked surprised. He had dark, wiry hair that was parted in the middle, angular features, sharp cheekbones, and vivid blue eyes.
‘I am indeed,’ he replied with a boyish grin. ‘But how did you know that? Do I have some distinctive type of printer’s ink on my fingertips? Or a myopic squint that indicates that I’ve spent more than my fair share of time poring over the Strand’s small type?’
‘Far simpler than that,’ said Holmes, shaking Houdini’s outstretched hand. ‘Since I make it a practice to keep as low a profile as possible, it is highly unlikely that you have seen a photograph of me. The late Mr Sidney Paget popularized a spurious version of my appearance as an Inverness-wearing pipe-smoker in a deerstalker. He did, however, capture my physiognomy reasonably accurately. Subsequent artists employed by the Strand, such as H. M. Brock and Joseph Simpson, have maintained it.’
Houdini chuckled. ‘Well, I’m sure glad we cleared that up.’ Suddenly remembering his companions, he added: ‘Oh, say, let me present my wife, Bess, and my assistant, Miss Frances Lane.’
A petite woman with dark, curly hair and an impish tilt to her nose stood forward; Bess Houdini was of a similar age to her husband and though homely, she had fine, dark brows, large, well-spaced eyes that showed a sense humour, a strong chin and a smooth complexion.
Frances Lane was her complete opposite. She was taller by several inches, slimmer and more elegant-looking in a well-tail
ored, military-style grey coat with a fur hem. Beneath her fetching purple velvet hat, her copper-coloured hair shone richly. Her eyes were sea-green, with a curious upward slant at the corners, and beneath them her cheekbones were high and well defined.
‘How do you do, gentlemen,’ she said, her voice deep and confident.
With introductions out of the way, Houdini – seemingly unaware that he was keeping his welcoming committee waiting – said, ‘So, what brings you to Austria, Mr Holmes?’
‘We are here on holiday.’
‘Not business, then?’
‘I no longer practise as a consulting detective, Mr Houdini.’
‘Too bad. It might have been fun to watch you in action.’
‘Alas, sir, my skills are not meant to entertain, merely to clarify and resolve. But you, I see, are here in your capacity as an entertainer.’
‘Uh-huh. I’ve toured Europe before, of course, but that was years ago. And now I’ve got a whole new set of wonders to show the folks.’
‘I hope we may be able to come and see you, Mr Houdini,’ said Watson. ‘Where are you performing?’
‘The, ah … what-you-call-it, the—’
‘The Theater an der Burg,’ Frances Lane said with a smile.
‘That’s it.’ Houdini turned to her, adding, ‘Say, Frankie, can we get some tickets for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson? Best seats in the house, naturally.’
‘I believe we can manage that,’ she said. ‘Where are you staying, gentlemen?’
‘At the Grand,’ Holmes replied. ‘On the Kaerntnerring.’
‘I’ll have opening-night tickets delivered to you first thing tomorrow morning,’ she promised.
‘That is most generous of you.’
‘Generous, shmenerous,’ said Houdini dismissively. ‘You being the Great Detective and all, I’m surprised you haven’t already guessed my ulterior motive.’
‘I confess, sir, it appears to have escaped me.’
‘Well, I’ve read Dr Watson’s stories for years now, never miss ’em. And my gut feeling is that you have some sort of schtick, Mr Holmes, but for the life of me I’ve never yet managed to figure out how it is that you do what you do.’
