Nicholas Meyer (25 page)

Freud and I scrambled from the engine as hastily as we dared, and climbed to the top of the car. There we got hold of him and carefully worked him down the ladder at the other end. Freud wanted to examine the wound, but Holmes shook his head stubbornly, insisting that it was only a scratch, and led us through the two cars still connected with the Baron's speeding train. In the first of these we came upon the prostrate body of the large butler, struck through the temple by a bullet fired by Holmes when he had entered the car. Crouching in one corner, screaming in uncontrolled hysterics, which distorted her every magnificent feature, was the woman who had so convincingly personated the Baroness Von Leinsdorf. She did not move as we made our way through, but sat sobbing like a child in a pet, rocking herself frantically to and fro. The carriage itself was sumptuously appointed with the same lavish trappings that had been characteristic of the Baron's Vienna mansion. On the walls, alternating between the windows and draperies, were armourial mementos, and it was from one of these gilded crests that Holmes and the Baron had seized their weapons. We paused to gape at the splendid interior of the vehicle, but Holmes urged us on.

"Hurry!" he pleaded in weakening tones. "Hurry!"

We crossed into the first car, which contained the baggage, and a great deal of it there proved to be. In desperate haste, supervised by the detective, we began our search amongst innumerable trunks and portmanteaus.

"Look for the air holes," Holmes panted, leaning on his sabre and clutching the barred window for support.

"Here!" exclaimed Freud abruptly. He seized the sword and slid its blade behind the lock of an enormous trunk. With a mighty effort he tore loose the catch, and he and I together threw back the clasps and forced the thing open on its massive hinges.

And there, alive, unharmed, and in much the same condition we had left her—her blue-grey eyes open but unseeing—sat Nancy Osborn Slater Von Leinsdorf.

Sherlock Holmes stared down at her for some moments, swaying slightly.

"No backhand," he murmured, and then, after a pause, "Let us stop these trams—" before falling into my arms.

*17*—The Final Problem

"We have not really prevented a war," Sherlock Holmes observed, setting aside his brandy. "The most we can be said to have done is postponed it."

"But—"

"It is no secret that fleets are building up at Scapa Flow," he returned with a touch of impatience, though not unkindly, "and if the Kaiser wishes to go to war with Russia over the Balkans, he will find the means to do so. With the Baron dead and the Baroness incapable, it would not astonish me to learn that the German government has declared the will null and the estates intestate. At that time," he twisted round in his chair to face Freud, being careful not to disarrange the sling which supported his left arm, "you and I, Doctor, may find ourselves on opposing sides."

We were back once more in the familiar study at Bergasse 19, though this was destined to be our last visit to that comfortable room, whose smoke-filled atmosphere had, of late, increasingly reminded me of Holmes's Baker Street digs.

Sigmund Freud shook his head in melancholy agreement, when Holmes had finished speaking, and lit another cigar. "It was partially to prevent that situation that I helped you, yet I cannot doubt the truth of your prophecy." He sighed. "Perhaps all our labours have availed nothing."

"I should not go quite that far." Holmes smiled and again adjusted his position in the chair. The wound in his arm was not without complications, for the Baron's blade had pinked a nerve, and every movement was painful. With a great effort he held his pipe in his left hand, slowly bringing it up to his lips, where he lit it and allowed it to remain, easing his hand slowly down again. "We have, after all, gained time, and that is the essential good to be derived from our efforts. You recall Marvell's choice phrase, Watson? 'Had we world enough and time'?" He turned slightly to face me. "Well, what the world needs desperately is time. Given time, perhaps humanity will come to grips with that terrible half of itself that seems always bent on useless acts of waste and devastation. If our work has gained but an hour more in which to understand the human predicament, it shall not have been in vain."

"There are other benefits of a more immediate nature to show for our work," I assured both men. "For one thing, we have rescued that unfortunate woman from a fate worse than death, and for another—" I hesitated and stopped in confusion. Holmes laughed gently and continued my train of thought for me.

"And for another, Dr. Freud has saved my life. Had I not come to Vienna, and had your cure not been successful, sir, I should doubtless have missed this and every other intriguing little problem that may ever chance to come my way. And," he added, taking up his glass once more, "had you, Watson, not contrived to get me here against my will, Dr. Freud would never have had the opportunity to save a doomed addict. To both of you, in fact, I owe my life. To Watson, here, there will be a lifetime to repay the debt, but to you, Doctor, I confess I am at a loss. If my predictions are accurate, this may be the last time we see one another for some—perhaps all—time. How can I repay you?"

Sigmund Freud did not respond at once. He had smiled in his inimitable way while Holmes was

speaking. Now he tapped an ash from his cigar and regarded my friend fixedly.

"Let me have a minute to think about it," he requested.

Our bags were packed; the case was closed. The Baron was dead and soon I should be back in London with my wife. The personator of Baroness Von Leinsdorf proved to be—as Holmes suspected—an

American actress who had remained on the Continent after the return of her touring company. Her true name was Diana Marlowe and during the company's sojourn in Berlin she had met and been seduced by the young Baron. She was released after signing a statement tantamount to a confession (in which she acknowledged her illicit liaison) and also affixing her name to a document in which she swore never to reveal the events in which she had taken part, nor the names of any of the principals involved, including that of Sherlock Holmes. In addition, she was pledged never to return either to Austria or Germany.

The police authorities of two countries were anxious to hush up a scandal of major proportions, a near international incident. The facts had quickly become clear; Berger and the wounded engineer gave their depositions, and like ourselves were instructed to remain forever silent. The energetic sergeant of the Viennese Constabulary and his men were enjoined to similar oaths of discretion, though it was abundantly clear to all concerned that there was really no choice or motive other than to keep silent.

The perpetrators of this wicked scheme had come to their just end, and as it might be some time (if ever) before the Baroness spoke again, the governments of the Emperor and the Kaiser doubtless deemed it prudent that their political machinations and alliances should not be made public at the present time and under these sordid circumstances. In point of fact, I later learned that it was not the old Emperor at all, but his scheming nephew, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, who had entered into the cabal with Count Von Schlieffen, Baron Von Leinsdorf, and the chancellery in Berlin. In an odd way, the Archduke was granted his terrible munitions: Germany presented them
carte blanche
to Austria after he had been assassinated at Sarajevo many years later, and the war that ensued cost the Kaiser his throne. I often thought, during those dark years that opened this century, of Sigmund Freud's brief ulterior profile of the man, based on the observation of his withered arm, though whether he was right or wrong in his conclusions I cannot say. As I noted earlier in this narrative, there were many points upon which we disagreed utterly.

As we were packing, Holmes and I naturally discussed the idea of violating our agreements with these two petty powers and revealing to the world their scandalous conduct. Once we were back in England there was nothing to prevent our doing so; our stolen train, the butler Holmes had slain, and the border we had violated could not be used—which they were while we remained in Austria—as inducements to cooperate. Perhaps the world ought to know what mischief great men were planning for it.

Yet we decided to remain silent. We were not certain what the result of such revelations would be—

neither of us being politically astute enough to gauge their importance—and, what was more, we could not reveal the truth of the matter without also revealing the complicity of Dr. Freud. And this, as he continued to reside in Vienna, we were loath to do.

"I'll tell you what I should like," Freud said at last, putting down his cigar and gazing steadfastly at Holmes. "I should like to hypnotize you once more."

I had no idea what he might ask (some part of me suspected that he would waive any such offer on Holmes's part altogether), but I had never expected this. No more than Holmes, who blinked in surprise and coughed before replying.

"You wish to hypnotize me? For what purpose?"

Freud shrugged, retaining the same quiet smile. "You spoke just now of the human predicament," said he. "I must confess it is my overpowering interest. And as it has been observed that the proper study of mankind is man, I thought you might permit me to peer once more into your brains."

Holmes considered the request briefly. "Very well. I am your willing subject."

"Shall I go?" I asked, rising to leave the room if Freud believed my presence might interfere with the proceedings.

"I should prefer you to remain," he answered, drawing the curtains and fetching forth his fob yet again.

It was an easier task to hypnotize the detective now than it had been in the past when we had so desperately relied on Freud's technique for successfully weaning him from cocaine. Now that the proper rapport was established, there was nothing to cloud either of their minds, and plenty of time.

Holmes closed his eyes within three minutes and sat immobile, awaiting the doctor's instructions.

"I am going to ask you some questions," he began, talking in a low and gentle voice, "and you will answer them. When we are finished, I will snap my fingers and you will awaken. When you do, you will remember nothing that has taken place whilst you were asleep. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Very well." He took a breath. "When did you first use cocaine?"

"At the age of twenty."

"Where?"

"At University."

"Why?"

There was no answer.

"Why?"

"Because I was unhappy."

"Why did you become a detective?"

"To punish the wicked and see justice done."

"Have you ever known injustice done?"

There was a pause.

"Have you?" Freud repeated, licking his lips and eyeing me briefly.

"Yes."

I had resumed my seat and was listening to this exchange with the utmost attention and fascination, my hands propped upon my knees, my body thrust forward as I strained to hear the soft replies.

"Have you known wickedness personally?"

"Yes."

"What was this wickedness?"

Again the subject hesitated and again he was encouraged to answer.

"What was this wickedness?"

"My mother deceived my father."

"She had a lover?"

"Yes."

"What was the injustice?"

"My father killed her."

Sigmund Freud straightened up with a start and looked wildly about the room for an instant, as totally out of control as myself, for I had risen to my feet in automatic response, then froze, though my eyes and ears still functioned. Freud recovered more quickly than I, however, and bent down once more to the subject.

"Your father murdered your mother?" (This amazing event was actually deduced by Trevor Hall in his essay, "The Early Years of Sherlock Holmes," included in his masterly volume,
Sherlock Holmes—Ten
Literary Studies
, St. Martin's Press, 1969.)

"Yes." The voice choked back a sob that split my heart as I heard it.

"And her lover?" Freud persisted, his own eyes beginning to blink rapidly.

"Yes."

Freud paused in order to collect himself before going on. "Who was—"

"Doctor!" I cut him off and he looked at me.

"What is it?"

"Do not—do not ask him to reveal the man's name, I beg you. It can mean nothing to anyone now."

Freud hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"Thank you."

He nodded again and returned to Holmes, who had sat motionless, his eyes closed, throughout this digression. Only the sudden appearance of perspiration beads on his forehead served to indicate his inner torment.

"Tell me," Freud resumed, "how did you learn what your father had done?"

"My tutor informed me."

"Professor Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"He broke the news?"

"Yes."

"I see." Freud drew out his watch fob and stared at it for some moments, then put it away again. "All right, sleep now,
Herr
Holmes. Sleep. Sleep. I will awaken you shortly and you will remember nothing, nothing of this interview. Do you understand?"

"I said that I did."

"Good. Sleep now."

Watching for some moments and ascertaining that he did not move, Freud rose once more and crossed the room, pulling up a chair close to mine. His eyes were sadder than ever. He said nothing as he clipped and lighted another cigar. I had sunk back into my own chair, my brain in a whirl and my ears roaring with the shock.

"A man does not turn to narcotics because it is the fashion or because he likes it," he said at length, squinting at me through the smoke of his cigar. "You remember I once asked you how he had been introduced to the drug, and not only were you unable to answer, you did not at the time perceive the importance of my question. Yet I knew from the first that something had provoked his dangerous practice."

"But—" I cast a look in Holmes's direction, "did you dream—?"

"No, I did not. I never imagined anything like what we have just heard. Yet as he would himself observe: see how much is explained by these facts. Now we not only understand the origin of the addiction and the reason he adopted his chosen profession; we also comprehend his aversion to women and the difficulty he has in dealing with them. Further, his antipathy to Moriarty is explained. Like the Persian messengers of old who bore bad news, Moriarty is punished for his role in the affair, negligible though it appears to have been. In your friend's mind, under the influence of saturating cocaine, Moriarty becomes part of the illicit liaison and is guilty by association. Not merely guilty," here he leaned forward and gestured with the cigar for emphasis, "but
supremely
guilty! Lacking a genuine scapegoat for his pain, Herr Holmes pins the outrage itself on the man who has disclosed it. Of course all these conclusions he buries deep in his soul—in an area to which I have tentatively applied the clinical term 'unconscious'—never admitting any of these feelings to himself, but exhibiting the symptoms of his ideas, nevertheless—in his choice of profession, in his indifference to women (so well recorded by you, Doctor!), and finally in his preference for the drug under whose influence his true, innermost feelings on the subject are eventually to be revealed."