Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (16 page)

Purslane narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘The
car,’
Frau Steidl said irritably. ‘It passed right by me. I stood here and watched it go. But it didn’t make a sound.’

‘You mean the motor was turned off?’ asked Watson.

‘No, no. It couldn’t run if the motor was off, now could it?’ she replied. ‘It was silent!’

‘It made no sound whatsoever?’

‘It was as silent as sleep or shadow,’ she confirmed.

‘And it
drove
off? You didn’t see anyone pushing it?’

‘Sir, I am not blind,’ she said petulantly.

Purslane tipped his hat. ‘Thank you again, Frau Steidl. You have been a great help.’

They crossed the road toward Holmes, who had just finished his examination of the road and was waiting for them. ‘What did you discover?’ he asked.

Watson gave him a brief report of the exchange. When he’d finished, Holmes said, ‘So my hypothesis was correct. It was the girl who killed Frances Lane.’ He turned and peered out across the river above the rippling surface.

‘The Steidl woman’s testimony would seem to confirm my own suspicions,’ he continued. ‘When she left the Royal during our meeting with Houdini, Miss Lane was somehow captured by the gang for purposes as yet unknown. I believe it is most likely that they wanted to find out where she had been that evening, since it is doubtful they would feel the need to apply any more pressure on Houdini than he was already under. In any event, she was bundled into their car and, as they were taking her to their base of operations or some secluded spot where they could question her without fear of interruption, she tried to escape.

‘The car came to a halt approximately where the Steidl woman indicated. On the road surface there,’ he pointed, ‘I detected minute traces of what appear to be carbon-enriched rubber, suggestive of automobile tyres coming to an abrupt halt.

‘So – Frances Lane makes a dash for freedom, the second woman goes in pursuit and there is a struggle. The blow intended to quieten Miss Lane only serves instead to make her more desperate to escape. Her captor panics; he grabs her around the throat, perhaps to silence her screams, and caught up in the heat of the moment, applies sufficient force to choke her to death instead.

‘There follows a moment of shock. Then, thinking quickly, one or other of the kidnappers drags the body to the retaining wall there and drops it into the river before deciding to turn the event to their advantage.’

‘How much of this is just speculation?’ asked Purslane.

Holmes gave him a withering glance. ‘Hardly any of it,’ he replied, making a careless gesture back toward the pavement. ‘The last time we saw her, Miss Lane was wearing a sage-green pair of what is popularly known as Astoria shoes. That particular style of shoe has very smooth leather soles, which make them ideal for dancing in. The scuffed heels I noticed when I examined Miss Lane’s body at the morgue told me she had certainly been dragged
somewhere
post-mortem. Had both her companions been involved in the disposal of the body, they would have
carried
her to the retaining wall. And caught in the uneven surface of the bricks which form the wall nearby I have found two strands of some distinctive chequered cotton fibre which would seem to match those of the wrap she was wearing at the time of her death. I imagine these marks indicate the spot where the body was pushed over into the river.’

‘So it wasn’t murder, as such,’ breathed Watson.

‘No. But once it happened, the malefactors were certainly not burdened by conscience.’ He tapped his lip with the edge of the pocket glass. ‘A car that makes no sound …’ he murmured. ‘That would certainly explain how they could have left St Petronius’s so quietly and without alerting me to the fact that they had a car waiting for them in the back alley. But is there such a thing, Purslane? A car that makes no sound?’

‘If there is,’ replied Purslane, ‘I have yet to hear about it. But that’s not to say it doesn’t exist.’

‘Well, if it exists and we haven’t heard about it, there cannot be too many of them. If we find the car, it follows that we may well find our quarry.’

‘I’ll see to it immediately,’ Purslane promised.

‘Good man,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘And while you are thus occupied, Watson and I will go and see this reporter Mycroft has recommended – Herr Lenhard.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Fourth Threat

W
ALTER
L
ENHARD’S APARTMENT
was located in a small, densely packed region near the city centre. Lenhard, a freelance journalist whose work appeared mostly in such papers as the
Czernowitz Allgemeine Zeitung
and
Czernowitzer Tagblatt
, occupied a small flat within the Freihaus, a sprawling tenement complex that had been built two centuries earlier and was now completely at odds with the district’s more opulent palaces.

As Holmes and Watson climbed the echoing stone staircase to the fourth floor, where Lenhard lived, it was hard to imagine that this area, now almost a slum, had once sheltered the likes of Brahms and Strauss the Younger. The block itself was drab, its square, unimaginative lines constructed from cheap, pitted bricks now stained black by decades’ worth of accumulated grime. Orderly rows of small, dark windows had overlooked their arrival in a narrow street where the sun never quite managed to penetrate and here and there on the few small balconies, the occupants had tried to cultivate window boxes in an attempt to soften the harsh reality of their mean existence.

It was difficult to imagine a journalist with such prestigious credentials living in such squalor, but when they introduced themselves to Frau Lenhard, and she led them into a small, chilly living-room, the answer became all too obvious.

Lenhard sat in a wheelchair by the room’s only window, his withered legs covered by a threadbare blanket. He was in his
early forties, but his illness had taken a shocking toll. To Watson, Lenhard’s laboured wheezing as he took each breath, the high colour in his cheeks and the apparently complete paralysis of his left arm all suggested paralytic poliomyelitis. He was badly emaciated, his chin covered in stubble, and his dark eyes – the single most alert thing about him – were couched in fleshy pouches. His hair was fine, brown, uncombed and untrimmed.

His wife looked little better. She was almost as gaunt as her husband. Her face was long and hollow-cheeked, almost bloodless, her deep-set eyes were of the palest blue, her hair wispy and fair. ‘Walter,’ she called ahead as she showed them in, ‘you have visitors. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.’

Lenhard had been staring out the window, tapping his right hand impatiently upon the arm of his chair. Now he turned around, as if disturbed from deep thought, and looked happily surprised to see the newcomers. He nodded, as if comparing them to the images he had seen in
The Strand,
then wheeled himself forward to greet them.

‘Well, we certainly do not get many visitors here, Mr Holmes, and certainly not of
your
calibre.’ He shook hands with them, his grip showing surprising strength. ‘If you have come to see me, it is because your brother has sent you. And if Mycroft has sent you, it is because you need information. Am I correct?’

‘I cannot fault your reasoning,’ Holmes replied. ‘Is this a convenient time for you?’

‘Any time is convenient for me,’ Lenhard said wearily. His English was good, but his voice was just a low, papery memory of what it had once been. ‘As you can see, I seldom leave this apartment, which means that my stories – they are little more than fillers these days – have to find
me.’

‘And yet,’ said Holmes, indicating a writing table in the corner that was covered in papers and open reference books, many of which had slips of paper marking relevant pages, ‘according to my brother, you are the man to seek out if one wishes to know the political landscape of Austria.’

‘Your brother …’ Lenhard smiled. ‘How is Mycroft these days? I have not seen him since … ah, but that would be telling,
and he is a great one for secrets.’

‘He is well,’ Holmes said. ‘And still has an interest in international politics.’

‘More than an interest, I would say,’ Lenhard said with a knowing smile. ‘But you are correct in what you say, Mr Holmes. Before I was struck down by this miserable disease I built an impressive network of, ah … shall we call them “sources”? The word is infinitely preferable to “informants”, which carries all manner of distasteful, even criminal, connotations. And even though I am now but a shade of my former self, I am still reasonably well informed. Furthermore, I owe your brother much. Though he would probably have me killed for saying it – and he
could
do, quite easily, I suspect – he is a kind man with a big heart.’

He gestured with his good hand. ‘Please, gentlemen, be seated. While you tell me what it is that Mycroft – you – wish to know, Margaret here will be pleased to prepare tea and scones – her one concession to the land of her birth.’

‘We have already eaten,’ Watson said quickly. That this couple was already living a hand-to-mouth existence was all too obvious. The last thing he wanted to do was deprive them of the few luxuries they still possessed.

‘Then please, ask away,’ said Lenhard. ‘You may speak freely before Margaret.’

As they made themselves comfortable, Holmes said, ‘We have reason to believe that someone is planning to break into the Imperial Palace. What we should like to know is
why.’

Lenhard absorbed Holmes’s words. Then remarked, ‘Is it an assassination plot, do you think? Aimed at our emperor?’

‘I do not believe so, but neither can I rule it out completely. What we
do
know, however, is that we are dealing with an enemy who has already shown themselves to be quite capable of abduction and murder.’

‘So you are trying to piece together a list of suspects,’ mused Lenhard. ‘Who would wish to enter the Palace, what they plan to do when they gain that entrance, and how they stand to benefit from it.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Then I do not envy you your task, Mr Holmes. For if it is suspects you’re after, I can provide you with four distinct threats straight away.’

‘Then let us begin with the most likely one.’

Lenhard considered the matter for a few moments. His breathing was a painful, liquidy rasp in the cold silence of the cluttered room. ‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand,’ he said softly.

‘Franz Joseph’s son?’

‘His nephew,’ corrected Lenhard. ‘Franz Joseph’s only son, Archduke Rudolph, committed suicide over twenty years ago. And the emperor’s brother, Karl Ludwig, died whilst on a pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.’

‘Was there any suspicion of foul play?’ asked Watson.

Lenhard allowed himself an ironic smile. ‘None, I’m afraid. The poor man drank some infected water; it was as simple as that. As for Franz Joseph’s wife … well, she was assassinated by an Italian anarchist in 1898 … all of which means that Franz Ferdinand is next in line.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Perhaps more interesting than you think, Mr Holmes. You see, there is no love lost between Franz Joseph and his nephew. Indeed, I have it on the highest authority that Franz Joseph will only allow Franz Ferdinand to succeed him at all on condition that his children – that is, the children Franz Ferdinand has had with a woman called Sophie Chotek con Chotkova, of whom Franz Joseph heartily disapproves – will not be allowed to succeed him to the throne.’

‘Could that change if Franz Joseph was somehow … removed from power?’

‘Not easily, and I suspect, certainly not in Franz Ferdinand’s lifetime. He has made too many enemies in the past, powerful ones who would I am sure do everything they could to delay or otherwise obstruct any attempt he made to change the line of succession.’

‘Nevertheless, we cannot afford to discount him,’ Holmes decided. ‘Please, continue.’

But Lenhard began tapping at the arm of his wheelchair
again, his mind wandering as he gazed aimlessly about the room.

‘Herr Lenhard?’ Holmes prompted.

‘Uh, my apologies. My mind was elsewhere.’ He took another bubbling breath and said, ‘Well, you could do worse than consider Count Franz Conrad as another suspect. Conrad controls the army and is known to favour an aggressive foreign policy enforced by military action. At the moment the only thing stopping him from plunging Austria into another crisis is Franz Joseph, who has, in light of our recent troubles, become rather more … diplomatically minded.’

‘I can see that he might be a possibility,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But surely he may come and go as he pleases at the Palace, and therefore has little if any need to find an alternative means of entry. Besides, I feel that there is something else at stake here, something less … obvious.’

‘There is always the Black Hand.’

‘The Black Hand,’ said Watson. ‘We have already had a run-in with those devils.’

‘Then you would do well not to underestimate them. It is known that they have infiltrated Austria. It is known that they are right here, in the capital, and are plotting some sort of terrorist act to destablize our government.’

‘It seems then that we are spoilt for choice,’ Watson said. ‘But forgive me, Herr Lenhard. You mentioned
four
potential threats. What is the fourth?’

‘The most dangerous threat of all, I am afraid. The threat we simply are not yet
aware
of. We know the Russians are fomenting discord throughout the Balkan States. The French? They have no love for our emperor, certainly not since we allied ourselves with Germany in order to limit French interests throughout Europe. And what of Italy? They are already threatening military action, should we send troops into Serbia to quell the growing unrest there. Who can say?’

Holmes nodded. ‘Well, you have been most helpful, Herr Lenhard, and you have certainly given us much food for thought.’ He stood, and drew on his gloves. ‘Incidentally, I believe you are missing your favourite pipe. A cherry and birchwood Ropp?’

Puzzled, Lenhard glanced at his wife then back at Holmes. ‘How on earth did you know that?’

‘Herr Lenhard, when I enter a room and smell the unmistakable aroma of Afrikander Colonial Flake, when I see a pipe-rack with one missing pipe and I see its owner displaying all the classic signs of the habitual pipe-smoker who is not able to indulge his craving, all that leads me to suspect that he has mislaid his favourite pipe. If it were
not
his favourite, he would simply take another from his otherwise well-stocked pipe-rack. Besides, sir, the mouthpiece of your favourite pipe shows ample evidence of its near-constant use.’

‘Remarkable!’ breathed Lenhard. ‘Yes … yes, I have indeed mislaid my favourite pipe. I cannot for the life of me remember where I put it. But how could you describe it so perfectly to me?’

‘It is within my line of sight at this very moment,’ Holmes said. Crossing the room, he picked up the pipe from the carpet behind the journalist’s desk. ‘It must have fallen here without your realizing it.’

‘Sir, you are a life-saver,’ Lenhard said as he eagerly accepted the pipe.

‘Let us hope so,’ Holmes said soberly, ‘for the sake of the people whose lives I am indeed trying to save.’