Nicholas Meyer (19 page)

"I know it."

He stared again at the bottle on the dresser, his chin propped up in his palms. The cocaine and the syringe took on the bizarre aspect of offerings at an altar. I shuddered to think how many wretched folk were forced by their compulsion to view narcotics as a religion and a god, but I knew before Holmes rose and turned away from them that he was no longer of their number.

He scooped up the vial and needle and casually handed them to Freud (I never did learn how or where he had procured them) and, picking up his black briar, followed us out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Returning to our chairs in the study, Freud chose not to allude to the incident. Instead, he related our encounter with the young Baron at the Maumberg, a recital to which the detective listened without comment, except to remark, "No backhand? That is interesting. How was his service?"

I interrupted this curious line of enquiry to ask if Holmes had arrived at any conclusions regarding the case.

"Only the obvious ones," he returned, "and they must remain provisional, subject to further data and subsequently to proof."

"How are they distinguished?" Freud demanded.

"In a court of law, I am afraid. We may come to all the conclusions we please, but unless we can prove them we might just as well have remained in bed." He chuckled, and helped himself to the brandy he had declined earlier. "They have been very clever; deuced clever. And where their cleverness has not availed, nature has come to their rescue by presenting us with a witness whose testimony is not only limited but would undoubtedly be suspect if not totally invalid in a court."

He sat in silent thought, puffing at his briar while we watched, neither of us daring to break in upon his reflections.

"I am afraid my grasp of European politics is not particularly profound," he sighed at last. "Dr. Freud, could you assist me?"

"In what way?"

"Oh, just a little general information. Prince Otto Von Bismarck is alive, is he not?"

"I believe so."

"But he is no longer Germany's chancellor?"

Freud stared at him, bewildered. "Certainly not; not for nearly a year."

"Ah." He lapsed into profound silence once more as Freud and I exchanged mystified glances.

"But, see here, Herr Holmes, what has Von Bismarck to do with—?"

"Is it possible that you do not see?" Holmes sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. "No, no, I suppose not." Then, returning to his chair he said, "A European war is brewing, that much is evident."

We looked at him, thunderstruck.

"A European war?" I gasped.

He nodded and looked about for another match. "Of monstrous proportions, if I read the signs aright."

"But how can you infer this from what you have seen today?" Freud's tone indicated his gathering doubt concerning the detective's state of mind.

"From the rapport between Baroness Von Leinsdorf and her step-son."

"But I did not observe any particular rapport," I struck in, my own tones echoing those of our host.

"That is because there was none." He set down his glass and looked at us keenly with his grey eyes.

"Doctor Freud, is there an office of registry in Vienna where wills are on file?"

"Wills? Why, yes, of course."

"Then I should be obliged if you would have the goodness to spend some time there tomorrow moming and tell me who controls the bulk of Baron Von Leinsdorf's estate."

"I have a patient at ten," the doctor protested automatically, but Holmes smiled grimly and held up a hand.

"Will you believe me when I tell you that not one but millions of lives are at stake?"

"Very well. I shall do as you ask. And what will you do?"

"With the help of Dr. Watson I will search for a chink in the armour of our enemies," Holmes responded knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Can our client travel tomorrow, do you think?"

"Travel? How far?"

"Oh, only within the city. I should like her to meet someone."

Freud considered this for some moments. "I don't see why not," he answered dubiously. "She appears in perfect health aside from her condition and the feebleness imposed by an inadequate diet, and that should be somewhat remedied already."

"Excellent!" Holmes rose, and yawned, tapping his mouth lightly with the back of his hand. "Our day has been long," he observed, "and as the succeeding ones promise to be still longer, I think it time to retire." Saying which, he bowed and left the room.

"What can it be that he sees in all this?" I wondered aloud.

"I have no idea," Freud sighed. "At any rate, it is time to sleep. I cannot remember being so tired."

I too was exhausted, but my brain kept racing long after my body was still, trying to piece together the puzzle upon which we had stumbled in the course of our visit to this beautiful yet increasingly sinister city. A European war! Millions of lives! Often I had been astonished by my friend's amazing powers, but never had I seen him infer so much on the basis of so little. And, great heavens, what if it should prove true? I do not know how Freud passed that night, but my dreams surpassed my waking fears. The gay and colourful city of Johann Strauss was no longer revolving to the stately strains of his waltzes, but swirling to the shriek of a terrible nightmare.

The next morning we three shared a hasty breakfast before we departed on our separate errands.

Holmes ate with an enthusiasm that pronounced his return to health. Freud ate with decision, but his lack of conversation and worried expression proclaimed that he, like me, had spent a restless night.

We were on the point of parting company at the front door when a messenger arrived with a telegram for Sherlock Holmes. He tore open the missive and perused it greedily before tucking it into the pocket of his Inverness, without comment, and signing to the boy that there was no reply.

"Our plans are unchanged," he said and bowed slightly to Freud, ignoring our evident curiosity. The doctor departed with a disgruntled scowl and Holmes turned to me. "And now, my dear Watson, let us be on our way as well."

We proceeded by fiacre directly to the hospital, where a note in Freud's handwriting secured us the custody of the patient. She appeared much improved physically, though she was still appallingly thin and spoke not a word. Accompanying us without resistance, she stepped obediently into the waiting fiacre outside the gate. Holmes had inscribed our destination on his shirt cuff and we started off across the city on our mysterious errand. The precise nature of the errand he was loath to divulge in the presence of our mute passenger, as he indicated when I enquired.

"All in good time, Watson. All in good time."

"What do you expect Dr. Freud to find at the registry?" I asked, determined to be made a party to his plans.

"What I know he will find."

He turned and smiled reassuringly at our client, but she stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware of his gesture, her blue-grey eyes vacantly devoid of expression.

The fiacre crossed the Danube Canal and entered a section of the city occupied by spacious and, in some instances, palatial residences. These were set back some distance from the street and were shielded by high shrubbery from more than a modest view of scalloped towers and imposing grounds.

We stopped at length on Wallenstein Strasse and turned into a wide drive that led to a hideous enough house situated on a slight rise of ground; the area immediately before it was occupied by an elaborate formal garden.

A closed carriage stood beneath the
porte
cochère
, and, as we handed down our client, the door to the house opened and out strode a gentleman of medium height with the straightest back I have ever seen.

Though he was dressed in a civilian greatcoat and mufti, his movements bore that unmistakable precision one associates not merely with the military but with the strictest Prussian training. His features, however, were not Prussian. Indeed his face, which struck me as vaguely familiar when I saw it, reminded me more of an English clerk's. He wore a pince-nez, neatly trimmed whiskers, and a slightly distracted air, as though he did not know or remember exactly where he was.

He bowed to us, or rather to the lady on my arm, and graciously tipped his bowler, before disappearing into the carriage, which started off without a word of command that I could detect.

Holmes stared at the retreating vehicle for a moment, frowning. "Do you recall having seen that gentleman recently, Watson?"

"Yes, but I can't for the life of me think where. Holmes, whose house is this?"

He smiled and pulled the bell. "It is the Vienna residence of Baron Von Leinsdorf," he replied.

"Holmes, this is monstrous!"

"Why so?" Gently he extricated his arm from my impulsive grasp. "The Baron is not here at the moment."

"But if he should return! You've no idea what harm this confrontation might do—" And I gestured obliquely to our mute companion. "Surely you ought to have discussed the matter with Doctor—"

"My dear Watson," he interrupted serenely, "your sentiments do you credit, and, for all I know, your professional judgement as well. Nevertheless, time is of the essence, and, if it is possible, we must force a play. In any event, she does not appear to be reacting to the sight of the house. Who knows? If she does, it may turn out to be just the sort of shock to get her back on her feet."

This last sentence was completed as the huge door swung wide. A liveried servant of impassive mien wished to know our business. Holmes handed him his card, and in German that had improved steadily with his stay in Vienna, begged that he present it to the lady of the house.

With no change of expression the fellow took the card and stepped back, allowing the three of us to wait in a high vaulted antechamber from which we could see an enormous rectangular entrance hall, as opulent and hideous as the exterior of the house. It was panelled with oak and covered with tapestry, medieval weapons, and gilt-framed portraits whose subjects I was unable to study from our position in the vestibule. Dim light filtered down through incongruously small mullioned windows.

"Have you ever seen a more ghastly place?" Holmes muttered quietly at my elbow. "Just look at those ceilings!"

"Holmes, I really must protest this procedure. At least tell me what is going on. Who is to fight in this awful war?"

"I fear I have not the slightest notion," he answered languidly, still gazing with disapproval at the rococo wooden carvings above us.

"Then how on earth do you deduce a—"

"Well, surely," he broke in somewhat testily, "we have here a contest for the possession of an estate composed of incalculably productive and extensive munitions works. It is no great matter to infer—"

He broke off, perceiving the butler returning the length of the hall.

"If you will follow me," the man said with a gesture, "I shall conduct you to the Baroness."

As it fell out, we had need of a guide, for the place was so vast and labyrinthine that we never should have located the lady's drawing room without assistance.

It was furnished in a more contemporary vein than the other rooms we had glimpsed on our way, but in the same atrocious taste, all gaudy pink chintz with yards of lace antimacassars on every article of furniture in sight.

Seated on a divan in the midst of this single-hued profusion—like some graceful bird at the centre of her nest—was the beautiful woman we had glimpsed the previous evening. She rose as we entered and addressed us in American-accented English.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe? To what do I owe the—" She broke off suddenly and uttered a cry of recognition, her hand involuntarily flying to her bosom, her magnificent eyes wide with astonishment.

"Good God!" she exclaimed. "Is it Nora?"

She rushed forward, ignoring Holmes and myself, and took the arm of our client, gently leading her to the light, where she peered intently into her face. For her part, our charge remained as pliant yet listless as ever, tolerating the Baroness's scrutiny with what almost appeared to be the weariest indifference.

"What has happened?" that lady cried, glancing from one to the other of us in imperious confusion.

"She is very changed."

"You know the lady?" Holmes asked quietly, watching closely as the Baroness returned her attention to the woman she had called Nora.

"Know her? Why, to be sure I know her. This is my personal maid, Nora Simmons. She has been missing for weeks without a trace. Great heavens, Nora, what has happened and how ever did you contrive to reach Vienna?"

Her features were clouded with bewilderment and then with concern as she studied the wan

countenance of the other woman.

"I fear you will find her unable to answer your questions," Holmes stated, gently disengaging the ladies and helping Nora Simmons (if that, indeed, was who she was), to a seat. Briefly, he then proceeded to explain to the Baroness how we had chanced upon her servant.

"But this is monstrous!" the lady exclaimed when he had done. "She was abducted, you say?"

"So it would appear," the detective responded in neutral tones. "Do I understand you to say that she accompanied your ladyship to Bavaria?"

"She never left my side from the moment we sailed—except on her days off." The Baroness's complexion mounted to a magnificent hue of indignation as she spoke. "It was under those circumstances that she disappeared some three weeks ago."

"The day of the Baron's death?"

The lady flushed yet more deeply and clasped her hands.

"Why, yes. Nora was not in the villa when the misfortune occurred; she was in the town below us—

Ergoldsbach, I believe it is called. In the confusion, she was not missed. In any case, as I have said, it was her day off. When she did not return the following morning I thought that perhaps, having learned of the tragedy, she had, for some reason, fallen into a panic. Hers was an excitable and nervous disposition, as I had good cause to know." She paused. "You see, we were always very close—much more than mistress and maid, really—but when she failed to return and sent no word of farewell, I began to fear something untoward had occurred, and informed the police. Perhaps I should have done so sooner had not my husband's unexpected demise so thrown me into confusion."