by Hayes, Steve
‘Have you, uh, seen anyone else around here this morning?’ Houdini asked, trying to sound casual.
Marius glanced back at him. ‘Should I have?’
‘Possibly. I’m expecting a … colleague to meet me here.’
‘I will send him down as soon as he arrives,’ the stage doorman assured him.
They reached the heavy double doors and Houdini’s companion sorted laboriously through the keys until he came to the correct one. He unlocked and opened one of the doors and then preceded Houdini into the basement so that he could switch on the incandescent bulbs.
Props and equipment stood everywhere under creased dust sheets; it occupied space beside rows of two-dimensional scenery flats and between shelves stacked with voluminous stage curtains. There were several ladders, stacked cans of paint and all manner of belaying pins, drops, road boxes and wheeled platforms.
The large, high-ceilinged room was cold and the sparse lighting did little to illuminate the shadowed corners. Houdini shivered and said distractedly, ‘Thanks. I don’t suppose my colleague will be too long now.’
‘Indeed not,’ said Holmes, as Marius’s grey eyes suddenly sharpened behind his small, round spectacles. ‘I am already here.’
‘What the –?’
‘Forgive what might seem like mere theatricals,’ explained Holmes, allowing the squared shoulders of ‘Marius’ to relax and resuming his usual voice and demeanour. ‘However, I did not want to take even the slightest chance that I might be seen and recognized.
You yourself, Mr Houdini, easily recognized me a few days ago; I feared it would go badly for you if such a thing came to pass.’
‘I’ve got news for you, Holmes,’ Houdini said bleakly. ‘It already has.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The American sagged. ‘As I left the hotel, I did as you said, and deliberately told the desk clerk where I was going. I was about to leave when he gave me this.’
He reached into his pocket and brought out an envelope. Its edge was ragged where Houdini had hurriedly torn it open. Holmes took it, slid a single, folded sheet of paper from within, flicked it open and read:
You will be waiting outside your hotel at ten this evening. You will tell no one of this and make no move to involve the police. If you are not entirely certain that we are deadly serious about the course upon which we have embarked, you soon will be.
‘Was the desk clerk able to describe the man who delivered this note?’ asked Holmes, adding: ‘Before you reply, may I suggest that he was tall, slim, between twenty-five and thirty years of age, clean-shaven and with short, fair hair, wearing a linen cap and a dark-grey alpaca topcoat.’
Houdini gaped. ‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Watson and I observed the same man last night, as we approached your hotel. At the time we could not say if he was one of your wife’s abductors or a member of the press, hoping to discover the real reason you cancelled your show. The answer now seems obvious.’
‘Well, he’s the man, right enough. Same description.’
‘Yet the note tells a different story,’ Holmes mused.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The handwriting, sir. You will note the neatness of the letters, how round and even they are – small, symmetrical and almost ornate. They have clearly been made by one whose musculature requires more pressure on a downstroke to make a suitable impression, and yet also shows one of great dexterity. To those who study such matters, these are indicators as to the sex of the author … this was unmistakably written by a woman.’
‘A woman’s involved with these bully-boys?’
‘You do not recognize the hand?’
‘No.’
‘Then they did not coerce either your wife or Miss Lane into writing the note for them.’
Houdini paled. ‘This really isn’t a trick, is it? What would you do?’
‘My dear sir,’ Holmes replied, ‘though it would serve no useful purpose in the circumstances, I could in all probability isolate the area in which the author of this letter received her education, had I sufficient time.’ He fell silent a moment, then read the note again.
‘They’re talking about Frankie, aren’t they?’ Houdini said desperately. ‘When they say how serious they are about this thing?’
‘I prefer not to speculate.’
‘Come now, Holmes! It’s a bit late to spare my feelings!’
Holmes looked grim. ‘Very well, yes, I believe we should indeed fear for Miss Lane’s safety,’ he confessed.
Houdini gave an anguished groan. He turned in a tight, restless circle, his hands repeatedly balling into fists and then flexing. ‘Why are they doing this to me, Holmes? I haven’t given them any reason to think I’m planning to double-cross them. Hell, they haven’t given me the chance, yet!’
‘Nevertheless, if their demands are sufficiently high, they may wish to impress upon you the folly of not submitting to them.’
Houdini’s face tightened. ‘But Frankie …’
‘Take heart, sir. We may be worrying needlessly.’
‘But we’re not, are we?’
Holmes did not reply. No reply was necessary.
‘You were right, Holmes,’ the showman said miserably. ‘I’ve known how Frankie feels about me for … God, it seems like forever. You’d have to be blind not to see it. She’s a great girl, and I don’t mind admitting, she’d be the girl for me if I wasn’t as devoted as I am to Bess. It’s made things difficult, Holmes. Just being around her, stifling the feelings I have for her … and out of her great respect for Bess she’s been equally strong in keeping our relationship as business-like as she can. Without her, without Bess, without my beloved mother … I owe just about everything to those three women.’
‘Then you will do precisely as you have been instructed in this note,’ Holmes replied. ‘Go with them. Offer no resistance whatsoever … and place your faith in me.’
Houdini gave a sour, fleeting quirk of a smile. ‘It doesn’t seem like I have much choice, does it?’
‘Perhaps not. But know this, Mr Houdini – whatever happens tonight, I will be with you every step of the way.’
‘Thanks, Holmes. But you’ll stay out of it, right? I mean, unless there’s no help for it. You’ll stay out of it and just gather enough evidence to make sure we can find them again once I have Bess and Frankie back … and then we can make them pay together.’
Before Holmes could reply there came the sound of footsteps descending to the basement. Houdini turned, startled, but Holmes immediately replaced his glasses and threw back his shoulders.
‘I am Ed Martin,’ he whispered urgently. ‘That is the name I gave to the stage doorman upon my arrival. I am a member of your entourage and arranged to meet you here so that we could inspect your props.’
Houdini gaped. ‘I—’
‘I then asked the doorman to step out for a moment so that he might fetch us some sandwiches,’ Holmes continued. ‘I would say that is he now coming to deliver them … except that he has two other men with him.’
As he finished speaking, a tall, dark-haired man in a well-cut black suit followed old Ulrich into the basement. Behind them came a police constable, resplendent in a military-cut tunic with two rows of brass buttons and stiff collar.
Holmes, deciding that there could only be one reason for the presence of the police, hissed, ‘Hold your nerve, Houdini.’
‘Herr Houdini?’ called the tall man as Ulrich led them between all the draped props, a sandwich bag in his hand.
The escapologist cleared his throat. ‘I … I’m Houdini, yes.’
The tall man looked steadily at Ulrich who, taking the hint, nodded respectfully to the policeman, set the bag down on one of the draped props, then turned to go back upstairs.
‘Your hotel told me I would find you here,’ the tall man continued, reaching into his jacket and bringing out a warrant card. ‘I am Kapitan Erwin Janosi of the Bundesgendarmerie. I wonder if I might have a word�
��.’
Houdini tried to speak but couldn’t. He cleared his throat and managed, ‘Of course.’
The kapitan’s dark eyes flickered meaningfully toward Holmes. Adopting an American accent, Holmes said, ‘My name’s Ed Martin. I work with Mr Houdini, here.’
Following his lead, Houdini nodded. ‘Y-Yes,’ he said. ‘Anything you need to say to me can be said in front of … of Ed … Kapitan.’
Janosi sighed. ‘Do you know a Miss Frances Lane?’
Fearing the worst, Houdini swayed slightly. He said, in what seemed like someone else’s voice, ‘Yes. She works with me. With us. She’s my personal assistant.’
‘Then I must ask you to prepare yourself for some very bad news, Herr Houdini. Miss Lane is dead, sir. We retrieved her body from the Danube some two hours ago.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chance Encounter
THE NEWS HIT Houdini like a slap and Holmes quickly reached out to steady him. ‘May we ask what happened?’ he enquired softly.
‘You may,’ Janosi replied. ‘The body of the unfortunate woman was seen floating in the water by a resident of Adendorf, who was walking his dogs by the river. The body had been snagged in some reeds at the water’s edge. The local Bundesgendarmerie were summoned and brought the body ashore. There were no signs of foul play, which leads us to believe that the woman took her own life.’
‘Adendorf?’ asked Holmes.
‘It is a small market town forty-five kilometres to the north and west of this city.’
‘The water carried her quite a distance, then?’
‘It would appear so. When was the last time you saw Miss Lane, Herr Houdini?’
Houdini seemed to have retreated into himself. When it became obvious that he hadn’t even heard the question Holmes said, truthfully, ‘We were together in Mr Houdini’s suite last night around seven o’clock.’
‘And how did she seem?’
‘Distraught,’ Houdini croaked, hardly aware that he was speaking aloud.
‘We were all pretty distraught,’ Holmes added. ‘There’s a lot hingeing on this tour, and it hasn’t got off to a great start. We’ve had problems with some of our props. You probably heard that we’ve had to cancel the show until we’ve had a chance to iron all the problems out.’
‘So I understand,’ said Janosi.
‘Well, as Mr Houdini’s personal assistant, it’s possible that Miss Lane felt the pressure more than anyone.’
‘But is it possible that she would have taken her own life?’
‘No …’ Houdini muttered.
‘Who can say?’ Holmes added quickly.
‘No,’ Houdini repeated, still stunned by the news – or rather, by confirmation of what he had already suspected and dreaded. ‘Not Frankie. She was tougher than that.’
‘Nevertheless, our preliminary examination suggests that she did indeed take her own life.’ Janosi’s tone softened as he added, ‘I am sorry to bring you this news, Herr Houdini.’
‘What? Oh … yeah … thank you.’
‘Someone will have to make a formal identification of the body,’ Janosi continued.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Holmes.
‘The deceased has been brought to the city and her body is presently being housed at the government mortuary on the Schillerplatz.’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Danke. Once again, Herr Houdini, my condolences.’
They watched as Janosi and the policeman turned and left. Houdini’s mouth twitched with emotion, and, obeying the Jewish ritual of mourning, he absently reached up and tore the lapel of his overcoat. ‘They killed her, didn’t they?’ he said brokenly.
Once again Holmes stepped out of his assumed character. ‘We will not know that for certain until I have had a chance to examine the body.’
‘They did it,’ Houdini said with absolute certainty. ‘Damn them!’
‘If they did,’ Holmes said, placing one hand gently on the escapologist’s shoulder, ‘then rest assured, Mr Houdini, we will indeed make them pay. Upon that, sir, I give you my solemn oath.’
In Holmes’s absence, time weighed heavily upon Watson. He tried to settle in the lobby, there to await the return of his friend, but his thoughts were still dominated by Houdini’s misfortunes. Where was Holmes, anyway? Not knowing, and not knowing whether or not his disappearance was connected in some way to the events of the previous night, made him feel restless, irritable and, frankly, left out.
Eventually, seeking distraction from his concerns, he decided to go out and explore the city on foot. No longer required to keep up with his energetic friend, he was able to set his own more leisurely place, and was soon caught up in the elegance and charm by which he found himself surrounded.
The walk was a voyage of discovery. Here was a bank with a glorious marble facade; there a tiny museum dedicated to Richard Wagner. In St Michael’s Square he stopped off at a surprisingly grand cafe and enjoyed a pot of tea and a slice of Dobostorte: a delicious sponge cake with no less than five separate layers of chocolate butter cream. And then, being mindful of his leg, which had so far behaved itself, he hailed a cab and continued his tour in comfort. He took in the elegant Kursalon, where Johann Strauss had once directed concerts, and then passed the surprisingly small Theater an der Wien, which had been built especially to perform the operas of Mozart.
At length the cab entered a tree-lined boulevard and all at once he realized that they were actually winding their way through an enormous park. On impulse he rapped his cane on the roof of the cab and the cabbie pulled over to the kerb. Watson climbed out, paid his fare and glanced around. Judging that he was not far from the hotel now, he decided to spend a short time in the park, then make the remainder of his journey on foot.
He crossed the road, found a bench and sat down, there to watch several children playing tag on the grass in front of him. As they chased each other around, their laughter was a joy to hear, and he forced himself to banish all further thought from his mind and simply take pleasure from it.
A horse-drawn carriage clattered paSt Glancing around, he watched it idly for a moment, until something else caught his attention and his gaze stopped abruptly. He felt something distinctly unpleasant wrench at his stomach as he recognized the woman on the pavement across the street, walking arm-in-arm with her companion whose resplendent uniform identified him as an officer in the Austrian army.
Watson blinked, for a moment quite literally unable to believe his eyes. But a second look confirmed that he had not been in error … the woman was definitely Irene Hastings!
Stubbornly, he tried to convince himself that he was mistaken. He had to be! Irene was finished; Holmes had said so. And yet he could not convince himself that the woman now laughing and chatting to her officer friend was anyone but she. She had the same tall, willowy build, the same fine, fair hair that was so typical of the Nordic race; pale skin, pink lips, eyes as clear blue as the azure surface of a southern sea.
It was her, dammit!
But what was she doing here?
The answer, he felt, was all too obvious. She was up to her old tricks again; she had learned nothing from their confrontation at the Shiells House in London!
Feeling his anger growing, he decided to follow her, but first made sure that her brother – or husband – Robert was nowhere in evidence. When he was satisfied as to that fact, he got to his feet and hurriedly left the park.
The traffic was reasonably heavy, for it was the middle of the day, and it took him several moments to cross the street. By then Irene and her companion were a block ahead of him. Heedless of his gammy leg, he pushed himself to walk faster, weaving between the other people walking ahead of him.
He still harboured the belief that he was mistaken. He must be. But as he drew closer to the couple, the woman turned to say something to her escort, and Watson had no choice but to admit that she was indeed Irene.
He slowed his pace a little as Irene and the officer entered a restaurant; the man
was wearing an immaculate tunic of dark-blue serge and somewhat lighter blue trousers. His epaulettes doubtless denoted his rank, but Watson was unable to work out what it might be. It was only when the restaurant doorman touched the brim of his hat to the man and said, ‘Good afternoon, Feldmarschalleutnant,’ that Watson realized he was the Austrian army’s equivalent to a major general – an ambitious target indeed for Irene.
They entered the building and Watson came to a halt to watch them go. He wondered what he should do next. Did he dare enter the restaurant and risk being spotted by Irene, or should he wait outside until she and her major general came out again, and then follow them wherever they went?
For several moments he was in a quandary. Even if a confrontation with Irene were not to his liking, his conscience dictated that he should not let this man, this innocent victim, have his reputation ruined.
Before he could decide what to do, however, Irene, who was now seated at a table across from the man, happened to glance toward the window. For an instant she, like Watson earlier, doubted her eyes. Then she quickly excused herself, got up and walked swiftly out of sight.
A moment later she appeared in the restaurant entrance. She had removed her coat to reveal a gown of black stripes over ivory satin, and she looked magnificent.
‘John,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’
Watson glared at her. Even though he was angry with her and wanted nothing more than to see her behind bars, he couldn’t deny that just being in her presence, smelling her perfume, was so intoxicating that a tiny part of him still wanted her.
But he quickly stamped out that desire and said bitingly, ‘I see you’re up to your old tricks again. I should have thought that you would have learned your lesson after what happened in London.’
Irene cast an uneasy glance over one shoulder, then moved aside, where they would not be visible to her major general, who was watching them curiously from the window table. ‘John,’ she said softly, ‘this isn’t what it looks like.’
