A Study in Murder (30 page)

‘That’s very kind,’ Bloch said. ‘But I think I’ll also need both knees for the climb up the tower.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Balsom frowned. ‘Still, we’ll think of something, I am sure.’ He snatched the cigarette from Bloch’s mouth and tossed it in the foaming wake of the
ferry. ‘Let’s be havin’ you, then.’

Bloch hesitated, feeling cheated of the last few lungfuls of smoke and then shrugged. If by chance, he decided, they gave him more than one bullet, he really would use the second on the
thick-necked sergeant.

Von Bork entered the working men’s café near the bridge and nodded to the customers, some of whom acknowledged him. He had almost become accepted by the regulars.
The owner, too, had softened, no longer demanding he change the course of the war single-handedly. Von Bork, cheered by the thick soup of tobacco and wood smoke that made up the atmosphere, asked
for a coffee and set about building himself a pipe of Latakia tobacco. He was close to the bottom of the pouch now, and his suppliers in Berlin were claiming fresh supplies were difficult to source
thanks to events in the Middle East. Von Bork knew that meant the price was about to go through the roof. He should buy all he could find on his next visit to the city.

When the coffee arrived Von Bork beckoned the proprietor to sit down. He did so and his daughter automatically fetched him his own coffee. ‘This must be the best cup of
koffie
in
the world,’ the Dutchman said, ‘given how much time you spend with us.’

‘It isn’t just that. Or the company. Or your charming daughter,’ said Von Bork, producing an envelope from his pocket and laying it on the table.

The Dutchman looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but his clients were too busy with their newspapers or dominoes. ‘What’s this?’

‘Payment.’

‘For what?’ He flipped it open with a fingernail and glanced inside. ‘That buys you a lot of
koffie
, man.’

Von Bork smiled and carried on with his pipe. When he had finally stoked it to his satisfaction he said: ‘It is for services to be rendered.’

It was the owner’s turn to be silent as he watched Von Bork put match to bowl. ‘What kind of services would that be?’

‘Two of them.’ A burst of puffing and sucking interrupted him. ‘One, I am looking for information about an Englishman.’

‘We don’t get many of them hereabouts. There’s some kept in Venlo. Most are up in internment camps near Groningen or Scheveningen.’

‘I know that. The man I am interested in is a civilian. Well past military age. Tall, almost two metres perhaps, but stooped now. Black and grey hair, receding, a distinctive thin,
hawk-like nose. Grey eyes, which seem to look right through you.’

The Dutchman shook his head. ‘Sounds like I’d remember that one.’

‘Well, he’s around here somewhere,’ said Von Bork. He could be certain of this because he knew his instructions for the exchange had been taken before they reached the hotel at
Venlo. Holmes knew the plan for the exchange and that it would centre on this river crossing. ‘You just get word to me at this number . . .’ He scribbled on the envelope. ‘Or send
a cable or a runner to this address across the border.’ He was staying in a hostel next to the barracks at Holt, where the second-rate soldiers who guarded the border were stationed.

‘I can do that,’ said the café owner. ‘But not for me. The cash will come in useful as a bribe to get my nephews away from the front. You know that can be done? People
are selling safety.’

‘Nobody can guarantee such a thing,’ said Von Bork, well aware that fraudsters were fleecing concerned relatives by promising cushy clerical posts. ‘Be careful who you hand
money over to.’

The owner shrugged and rubbed his bald pate as if for luck. ‘I know it’s a gamble. But so is leaving them out there. You don’t know anybody?’

‘I can make enquiries.’

‘I would like that.’

‘Very well.’

‘There was something else you wanted.’

‘The man who operates the Knok bridge down the river there. Who opens and closes it.’

‘It’s not a man. It’s the Meuse Navigation Company who decides when it opens and closes. The man just does their bidding.’

‘I am talking about an opening of perhaps fifteen minutes. I don’t want the bureaucracy.’ Or the prying busybodies that would come with it. ‘There must be someone who
knows how to open and close it.’

Von Bork had inspected the bridge. The mechanism was electrically operated, hydraulically assisted, probably quite straightforward but was sufficiently complicated that he would rather an expert
did it. Plus the controls were encased in a locked metal box, just to the left of the bridge entrance.

‘You give the man some of this cabbage,’ said the Dutchman, stabbing at the envelope, ‘and I am sure he’ll oblige.’

‘You know him?’

‘Know him? He’s a regular.’

‘Then ask him how much he wants. To open it at about eight in the morning in two days’ time.’

The Dutchman’s eyes flicked over to the bearded figure near the window in a coarse blue jacket and matching hat, puffing on a clay pipe while he read a Louis Couperus novel, his dark brows
furrowed in concentration as if doing battle with the text.

‘Is that him?’

‘Old Herman, yes. A grouchy bastard at the best of times.’

‘Leave him to me.’ Von Bork made to rise but the owner put a hand on his wrist.

‘If you’ll allow me to do the negotiations . . . He’ll charge you double.’

Was that greed he could see in the Dutchman’s expression? No doubt he would skim a fee off any agreed price. So be it. Von Bork glanced over at the bridge operator once more. ‘Is he
reliable?’

‘Once everything is agreed, very. How do you think black-market goods from Holland get across into Germany? Not all of them by boat and barge.’

‘I’ll call by later, then,’ said Von Bork. ‘Let me know the price.’

The owner drained his coffee and left, palming the envelope with all the skill of a stage magician as he went.

Von Bork checked his watch. He had a meeting with the UFA cinematic people at the bridge in thirty minutes, They were concerned about ‘the light’ during the exchange. Could he make
it an hour later? No, he could not. Eight was already an hour later than he had originally hoped for. He had already sent word for Dr Watson to be brought to Holt, ready for the piece of theatre at
the bridge. And then, he would have Sherlock Holmes. He recalled their last meeting in August 1914 and the threat he had uttered when he still thought Holmes was an Irish-American double agent.

‘I shall get level with you, Altamont,’ he had said, speaking with slow deliberation. ‘If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!’

As Holmes would find out, that was no idle boast. Now, as that fool of a doctor used to put it, the game was afoot.

Watson hardly slept that night. When he did it was for a few fitful hours and when he awoke he felt as if his bones were too heavy for his skin, as if they might burst through
at any second. He remembered the walk under the camp, the eeriness of it, a tunnel – no, tunnels: there were unlit side passages, with dark uninviting mouths – hewn out by hands long
dead. Gold had been mined since Roman times, the priest had told him, up until the turn of the century, when the seams had finally given out. Even so, he held a lamp up to show some lustrous veins
in the walls. Such skeins were simply not valuable enough to return the effort of extraction, Hardie had said. Most of the excavations were tall enough for a man to stand – Watson had to
admire the complex supports that had been put in place over the centuries – but in some places he had been forced to crouch and scuttle like a troglodyte through dark sections where the air
tasted gritty and foul. But they had made it to the rec room, and now the whole incident felt like a bizarre dream.

As Watson shook the subterranean images from his brain, he climbed out of the bed, straightening slowly lest his poor back protested and spasmed. He needed his staff to get to his feet and
stumble over to his desk. There, written in a burst of activity by candlelight, was the final chapter of ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’ story. He was gathering up the papers and adding
his previous drafts when Harry entered with tea.

‘I didn’t expect to see you today,’ Watson said curtly.

‘Are you all right, sir? You don’t look too clever. I’ll fetch your breakfast. Sod of a wind out there, snow, brass monkeys.’

‘Harry, you can drop the pretence.’

‘Pretence?’

‘That you are in any way attached to me. Or ever have been.’

The lad looked offended. ‘It wasn’t a pretence. I am a big admirer of your stories, sir. When they needed someone to keep an eye on you—’

‘Spy,’ corrected Watson. ‘When they needed someone to spy on me.’

‘I knew all of them adventures backwards. Knew you’d had lots of Boots and Buttons and Billys over the years. It was like I said, an honour to serve you. In my mind I was just making
sure you didn’t get into no mischief.’

It sounded so heartfelt Watson was taken aback. He grunted. Then he remembered the walk back through the old workings with the priest, only a lamp to guide them, and the rock walls seeming to
close in on him. He supposed it had been that experience in the coffin that had triggered a sense of claustrophobia. He looked down at his fingertips. He had been rubbing his fingers together so
hard the skin had come away.

‘How do they manage to dig fresh graves in this weather? The ground must be frozen solid. And there is a rocky substratum once you get through that.’

‘Ah, that’s the clever bit, sir. There are three permanent graves, three coffins. They move the crosses around so that the Germans never realize they are using the same plots over
and over. Once the men have dropped through, the coffins can be manhandled down into the tunnels later on, y’see, and then stripped down, brought up top and reassembled, see?’

‘Ingenious. But don’t you feel aggrieved that you can’t have a go? That it is all based on the ability to pay?’

‘No, sir. I wouldn’t get ten miles. Can barely speak English, let alone German. Nah, that game is for officers, that is. Now you stay here, I’ll get some breakfast.
Appell
isn’t until eleven today, it being Sunday.’

‘Is it?’ He had quite lost track of the days. ‘Can you drop these pages off to the colonel? For printing. They do have a printing press?’

‘Of course, sir. For more than the magazine, if you get my drift.’

Of course, they would produce the false papers and travel documents needed too. ‘I see. And, Harry, you’d best cancel my surgery today. I’m not up to it.’

Watson limped over to the cot bed, still using his stick for support, and lay back down on it. He had a residual headache from the blow to the head he had suffered. Why they had had to clump him
was another mystery. As to why they chose to lay him out in the coffin so he thought he had been buried alive . . . Couldn’t they just have
told
him about the coffins? Unless . . .

‘Major Watson?’

His eyes snapped open. He had dozed off. It was Hugh Peacock, the overfed captain from next door.

‘Yes?’

‘I just wanted to say thank you for helping.’ His eyes shone with happiness. ‘The thought of getting out is all that kept me going. That and my food parcels.’

‘I haven’t agreed to help,’ said Watson, swinging his feet off the bed and patting his hair back into place.

‘But I thought as a doctor you were going to find a way to fake my death.’

‘Captain Peacock, first I think there have been too many deaths here of late for another to go unnoticed. Kügel and Steigler are already suspicious. I would wait a month or
two—’

‘No! I am ready to go. I have signed all the papers, paid over the bribes.’ The formerly cheerful features had collapsed into something like despair. He gripped Watson’s
shoulder. ‘Look at me. Everyone says – good old Cocky, living the high life with his pâtés and his champagne. But I tell you, if I don’t get out of here soon,
I’ll be cutting my wrists or measuring myself up for a new necktie.’

Watson gently removed the man’s fingers, aware once more how raw his own were. ‘Calm down, Captain.
Ich bin auch besorgt, das Ihr rundes Gesicht vielleicht machen Sie sich, sobald
Sie entkommen sind. Die meisten Menschen sind dort hungern.
’

‘What?’

‘How is your German?’

Cocky took a deep breath and grimaced. ‘
Ich kann ein Bahnticket bestellen.
’

He could buy a railway ticket. It sounded like a bad ventriloquist was at work.

‘Well, that’s hardly fluent. And I said before that you might be a little well fed to fit in with the general populace out there.’

‘We have thought of that. I have a hat with flaps that covers my cheeks.’ He squashed his plump face together, making him look like a slapstick star of the moving pictures.

‘And this?’ Watson prodded Cocky’s belly.

‘A big coat will cover that. All we need is to convince them I am dead and I am as good as home.’

‘As good as home? Do you know how far we are from the Swiss or Dutch borders here?’

‘The others made it. All it takes is organization.’

‘And money, apparently.’

‘So you can’t help me?’

‘There is no safe way to mimic death. Not that would fool someone like Steigler.’

Harry entered with a metal tray. On it was a bowl of soup and two hunks of dark bread. The usual fare.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Major Watson needs to keep his strength up.’

‘Think on it. Please,’ said Cocky, his eyes imploring.

‘I can’t help you.’

‘Then I shall find someone who can.’

He stormed out, almost knocking Harry aside. ‘Careful, sir,’ he said as the level in the soup bowl yawed alarmingly. ‘Touchy,’ he said to Watson.

‘Fragile,’ he replied. Watson took the soup, which was thicker than usual, and broke some of the hard bread into it, letting the liquid soak into the honeycomb of crumbs.

‘You’ve put the word out about the surgery being cancelled?’

‘Yes, and it will be announced at
Appell
. Not that you’ll be there, sir.’