Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Descent

I
T WAS GOING
to be even tighter than he had imagined. Unless …

He stood absolutely still for a moment, then gave a sudden shake that resembled an exaggerrated shiver. He closed his eyes, wincing with pain … But then it was done. He had successfully dislocated his left shoulder.

Now it was somewhat easier for him to slide through the skylight frame.

When he had squeezed halfway through, he found himself looking out over a gently sloping gable roof that was slippery with a thin coating of icy snow. A cold wind whipped at him and he began to feel his fingers losing all sensation. He craned his neck to check his surroundings. The gable end shelved away some twelve feet to the edge of the roof. Just visible beneath it was a line of leaf-clogged guttering.

It would have been easy to tell himself that this was hopeless. Worse, that it could only end one way. But he wasn’t trying to escape just for himself. Bess’s life also depended upon his actions.

So think, Harry … think!

The safest way to reach the corner of the roof and the drainpipe was by the ridge of the roof itself. He couldn’t trust the guttering to hold his wait, but he
could
trust the ridge to take him that far.

First, though, he had to replace his dislocated shoulder. Carefully bending his left arm at the elbow, he kept it braced tight
against his side, trying as he did to ignore the pain. Slowly he rotated his arm until he could feel the beginning of resistance in his left shoulder socket. He then reached across his chest with his left hand until it touched his opposite shoulder. A moment later the shoulder relocated and, as if by magic, the pain was gone. Only a dull ache remained.

He then stretched his right hand up as high as he could and felt around. After a few moments his fingers closed on the curving ridge tile directly above him. It was like grabbing a chunk of ice, but Houdini willed himself to hold tight and then reached up with his left hand.

When he was satisfied that his grip was secure, he dragged his legs out of the skylight and hauled himself up onto the top part of the two sloping roof planes.

With nothing to blunt it, the wind was stronger up here. It tugged at his torn lapels and the brim of his slouch hat. He shivered and tucked his frozen palms deep into his armpits. Around him the Austrian countryside, seen now from a bird’s-eye view, seemed to go on forever, as did the slate-coloured sky above it.

Realizing he was running out of time, Houdini got to his feet and steadied himself. He was now balanced on the curved ridge tiles much as a tightrope-walker might balance on a length of cable. Swaying a little in the buffeting wind, he held his arms out to either side for balance and looking straight ahead, began to walk slowly toward the gable end.

It seemed to take forever, but he knew this wasn’t the kind of thing you could rush. Snow blew in his face. He kept blinking, trying to keep it out of his slitted eyes. His concentration was total now, it
had
to be. He had nerve and nerve to spare; this he knew, but he had never tested it as he was testing it now. Before, only his life depended on his success. Now he had the extra burden of Bess’s life to consider and that weighed on him like the weight of the world, stretching his nerves almost beyond his endurance.

Step after step after step … and all the time trying not to think of the buffeting wind, or the slippery ice underfoot …

And then, somehow, he was there, at the gable end.

He knelt down, straddled the ridge again and caught his
breath. He was freezing and sweating and shaking all at the same time.

He looked down and saw that he would have to descend one of the two sloping gable ends until he reached the guttering.

He knew the best and safest way was to lower himself on his stomach. He was painfully aware, though, that gravity would have something to say about that, not to mention the snow-covered ice. Should he fall there would be no handholds to grasp or other means of slowing himself once he’d gained momentum.

He needed a ladder.

He peered down at the slates nearest his right foot. Even with the steel-toe-capped shoes he was wearing, these tiles weren’t going to break unless he concentrated his blows on their weak points – the lines of grain. Choosing his spot with care, he kicked at the ice-cold tile immediately beneath his foot. He had to kick twice more before it finally cracked. Another kick and a hole appeared – a hole into which he slid his foot up to the heel.

Lowering himself a little, he repeated the procedure with his left foot. As weathered as they were, the slates did not break easily. But desperation gave him strength.
Keep at it,
he told himself.
Don’t give up.

Without warning the next tile broke and Houdini slipped his left foot into the hole.

Carefully, cautiously, he lowered himself by six, perhaps eight inches. Then he started kicking at another tile. Once he almost lost his precarious hold, but somehow he managed to catch himself at the last second.

Doggedly he kept working his way lower, kicking holes into the tiles until they formed footholds and then, as he climbed lower, each foothold became a handhold. Their edges were sharp; more than once they sliced his hands. Each time this happened he had to wipe the blood from his fingers, knowing it would undermine his grip if he didn’t.

An eternity passed until finally he felt the guttering beneath his feet. Cautiously he set his weight down on it. The guttering sagged under him, but held.

Breathing hard, he turned and peered over the edge. The
snowy ground seemed impossibly far below him; much further away than it really was. He steeled himself and slowly leaned forward, now glimpsing a drain pipe leading down to the ground. Hopefully it would be strong enough to hold his weight.

Trying to imagine that this was just another performance, he lowered himself over the edge of the roof. From there it was reasonably easy to swing down and around so that he was hugging the drainpipe. The pipe glistened with ice that numbed his palms and burned his skin. Fighting the impulse to hurry, he began to lower himself inch by frosty inch down the pipe.

The wind picked up again, this time blowing hard enough that it threatened to dislodge him from the pipe. He clung on desperately, forcing his numb hands to grip the pipe even harder.
Just keep going, Harry. Hand over hand, hand over hand …

Without warning the drainpipe gave a sudden lurch and bits of brick and cement showered on to his head from above. Damn! His weight was proving too much for it. Realizing that any minute it might break away from the wall altogether, he kept going, down, down, down, reminding himself that every foot he descended was a foot less that he would have to fall …

It was a slow, dangerous descent. Little by little he could feel the pipe pulling away from the wall above him and each time it did he was showered with debris. He waited until he was about ten feet from the ground, then deciding not to push his luck any further, he let go of the pipe and jumped.

Catlike, he landed on his feet, stumbled, rolled and came up unharmed.

Terra firma
had never felt so good.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Saved by the Bell

H
E LEANED AGAINST
the wall for a moment, the cold having finally caught up with him. All at once he started shaking almost uncontrollably.

He blew on his fingers, flexing them to get the blood flowing again, then suddenly stopped. He thought he heard the fat man and the girl coming back.

He hurried anxiously through the snow towards the front door. Mercifully the gravel driveway was still empty.

He retraced his steps along the house and stopped at the first sash window he came to. Still shivering and exhaling great white clouds of breath, he took off his overcoat, wrapped it around the hand holding the gun and smashed the glass. In the winter hush the breakage sounded more like an explosion.

He tapped out the jagged edges, quickly put the overcoat back on, tucked the gun into his waistband and reached through. He found the catch, turned it and raised the lower half of the broken window, then climbed inside.

He was in a modest sitting room.. Hardly noticing it, he crossed the room, opened the door and stepped out into the hall. How much longer did he have before the fat man and the girl came back? It might be hours, for all he knew, but equally it might be no more than minutes now. He entered the kitchen, opened the trapdoor and went down the steps.

Bess was still seated in the corner. She looked up, her face
bloodless; her eyes, usually so alert and vital, were now tired and dull. At first Houdini wondered if she even recognized him. Then she said, almost brokenly, ‘Harry.’

He had no memory of crossing the cellar and yet he must have, because suddenly he was holding her close and telling her that everything was all right, that he was going to take her away from this terrible place.

‘What … Harry, how did you get free?’

‘That’s not important right now.’

‘But … look at your hands. You’re bleeding!’

‘There’ll be plenty of time to tend to that later,’ he assured her. ‘For now, just sit down.’

As she did so, he dropped to one knee so that he could examine the shackle that bound her ankle. It was of a fairly basic design and he asked her if their captors had allowed her to keep her hairpins.

She shook her head. She then gave a nervous, eerie little giggle that verged on hysteria. ‘Perhaps they thought I had your skills at picking locks.’

‘Perhaps they did,’ he said distractedly. Rising, he quickly examined the contents of the cluttered shelves for any implement he might be able to use to force the lock.

He found what he was looking for in a set of Allen keys on the top shelf. Choosing the smallest he made short work of forcing the lock. He removed the shackle from Bess’s ankle, leaving a red mark that was sore to the touch, and threw it aside.

‘C’mon, let’s get out of here,’ he said.

That was when a voice behind them said softly, ‘You’re not going
anywhere,
Herr Houdini.’

Houdini recognized the fat man’s voice immediately. He was reaching for the pistol in his waistband when the fat man raised his own handgun and snapped, ‘Don’t! My first bullet will kill your wife!’

Houdini froze.

‘Annalise,’ said the fat man, ‘go and fetch the gun from Herr Houdini.’

The girl descended the steps and came up to Houdini. She
took the gun from his waistband and backed away from him until she reached the foot of the steps.

‘I congratulate you,’ said the fat man. Snow still glistened on their hats and the shoulders of their overcoats. ‘It really
does
seem that no cell can hold you for long.’ He paused, then as if it had just occurred to him added: ‘Where is Wolf?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘For your sake I hope that he has not been harmed.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Houdini said.

‘Give me the key.’

‘What key?’

‘The key to the attic room.’

‘Wolf threw it out the window.’

The fat man eyed him curiously, trying to decide whether Houdini was telling the truth. ‘Evidently that didn’t stop you from escaping. How did you manage it?’

‘How do you
think?
Out the skylight and down the drainpipe.’

‘What a resourceful person you are.’ The fat man turned to Annalise. ‘Take the spare key and make sure Wolf is all right.’

‘Must I?’ she asked. The fat man’s glare was answer enough.

With a shrug, Annalise climbed the steps and left the cellar.

‘I think this is it,’ said Purslane. He stopped Freud’s Daimler at the head of a gravel drive that curved between tall trees until it reached a three-storey house that was just visible in the murky distance.

Holmes leaned forward in the back seat. ‘Excellent. You may drop me here. Then drive on to the nearest property that has a telephone and call the authorities.’

‘Shouldn’t we have called the police before we left Vienna?’

Holmes’s lips tightened. They had been through this earlier. ‘Should the police be seen approaching the house, it would put Houdini and his wife in even greater danger, for the Eders would almost certainly use them as hostages to buy their freedom. If one man calls at the property, though, it might be possible to maintain the element of surprise. Just do as I ask, please,’ Holmes said.

‘I don’t like it, sir. Your brother’s orders were quite specific. I was to keep an eye on you and Dr Watson to ensure—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Purslane, just go and summon the police,’ Watson snapped. ‘When you have known Holmes as long as I have, you will learn that argument – no matter how logical – is useless, once his mind is made up.’ He produced his Webley Mk II and held it up. ‘Here. This will protect us in your absence.’

‘You don’t have to play a hand in this, Watson,’ said Holmes.

Watson smiled. ‘Oh yes I do.’

Holmes, knowing his friend was thinking of Frances Lane, said: ‘Come along, then,’ and climbed out of the car. ‘Get back here at your earliest convenience, Purslane.’

Purslane started to make one final protest, realized he wasn’t going to change Holmes’s mind and kept silent. He waited until Holmes and Watson set off along the gravel drive toward the house, then started the engine again and drove on, hoping that one of the houses in this isolated area would have a telephone.

Silence filled the cellar for a long moment as Houdini and the fat man traded stares, and Houdini tried desperately to find some way to turn the tables on his captor before Annalise returned with Wolf.

‘Have you even looked at the plans I left you?’ the fat man asked suddenly. ‘Or were you just biding your time until the opportunity for escape presented itself?’

‘I looked at them.’

‘And?’

‘It can’t be done.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I can’t make you believe me, but whatever your plan is, I should give it up.’

‘The great Houdini concedes defeat? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘That’s what I’m telling you.’

‘Then give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you both directly.’

‘
I’ll
do it,’ Annalise said, returning. With her was a thoroughly
bruised and battered Wolf. She glared at Houdini, her low, husky voice filled with venom. ‘After what he did to my father it’ll be a pleasure.’

Houdini frowned. ‘And what am I supposed to have done to
him,
whoever he is?’

‘You destroyed him.’

‘I
what?’

‘Oh, maybe not directly,’ the fat man conceded. ‘But you were certainly responsible.’

‘How?’

‘Our father is Nikolaus Eder,’ Annalise said. ‘The King of Clubs.’

Houdini’s eyes narrowed. ‘Eder? You’re
Eder’s
kids?’

‘That’s right.’

Houdini sucked in his breath as it all came back to him. ‘Sure, I correspondended with Eder. He was hoping to perfect the Underwater Box Escape, but it proved harder than either of us thought. I told him not to rush it, that it wasn’t a race. One or the other of us would work it all out in time.’

‘Liar!’

Ignoring her, Houdini looked at the fat man. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘If you’re Florian Eder it does matter.’

The fat man frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that you were the one coercing your brother to perfect the trick.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘Is it? Then why did he tell me that? One of the first things he ever said in his letters was that I shouldn’t take any notice of all the talk of rivalry between us, that it was just an invention of his brother’s, a way to sell more tickets.’

‘Are you trying to say you
weren’t
his rival?’

‘I was too damn’ professional for that and so was he. Neither of us would willingly have risked his life just to get one over on the other. There’s too much at stake – as Nikolaus found out.’

‘And yet you announced it,’ said the fat man. ‘And the minute
you announced it, it became a race, as you must have known it would.’

‘I might have announced that I was
working
on it, but that’s all I did. I didn’t even perform it until earlier this year and then only after I was as sure as I could be that nothing would go wrong.’ He glared at Florian. ‘You dreamed up that rivalry, mister. And you forced your brother to push forward with the escape even though he knew there were still too many things that could go wrong. But when it
did
go wrong, you needed a scapegoat and I guess I fitted the bill.’

Turning to Annalise, he added, ‘Is that what he told you? That your dad would still be here if it wasn’t for Big Bad Houdini?’

‘You’re wasting your breath,’ Annalise said. ‘I don’t believe you and I never will.’

Nearby, Wolf was watching Houdini with a strange expression on his battered face.

‘I’m not so sure …’ he said, coming forward. ‘What if he’s telling the truth?’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ said the fat man.

‘What does it matter, anyway?’ said Annalise. ‘He says there’s no way into the Palace. If you believe him about that, as well, then you have to agree – he is of no further use to us.’ Again she looked up at Florian Eder. ‘Let me kill him,’ she said. ‘For Father.’

The fat man gave no immediate reply. He had known all along it would come to this eventually, no matter how things turned out. Still, murder was not a thing to be taken lightly, especially the murder of such a well-known celebrity. The American woman, Lane, she had brought it upon herself. Her death had not been premeditated, it had just happened. But now, as he looked at Annalise, he realized that something else had happened during their struggle. The girl had developed a taste for the taking of life and it shamed him.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said firmly.

Houdini’s throat tightened. ‘Listen, Eder. Please. I don’t care about myself, but for the love of God spare my wife.’

‘That is impossible, I’m afraid. You know it is.’ He raised the pistol and steeled himself to pull the trigger.

At the foot of the steps Annalise hissed, ‘
Do
it, Uncle. Let them join their pretty Frau Lane in hell.’

Bess looked dismayed. ‘W-What?’

‘Frankie’s gone,’ Houdini said grimly. ‘They killed her.’

‘
I
killed her,’ said Annalise. ‘And I
enjoyed
killing her, the bitch!’

‘I bet you enjoyed dumping her body in the river, too,’ Houdini said angrily.

Beside him, Bess started weeping.

‘She was nothing,’ Annalise said coldly. ‘Nothing more than rubbish to be discarded. But in death she served her purpose. She served to warn you that we were determined.’

Houdini looked at Florian. ‘What have you done to these kids? My God, you’ve twisted their minds out of shape.’

‘Annalise is what
you
made her,’ Florian said.

‘Aw, come off it! You don’t believe that any more than I do.’

‘
Do
it, Uncle,’ Annalise repeated. ‘Shoot him. For Father.’

As the fat man’s finger tightened on the trigger, Houdini heard Bess whisper his name. It galvanized him. Keeping his eyes on the fat man and knowing that his and wife’s escape was all going to come down to timing, Houdini said, ‘I love you, Bess.’

Florian’s pudgy finger continued to squeeze the trigger. Behind his glasses his chocolate-coloured eyes filled with resolve.

‘Goodbye, Houdini,’ he said.

Just then, from the front of the house, came the shrill ring of the doorbell.