Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (6 page)

‘He certainly appears to have … opinions,’ said Watson.

Freud sighed and gestured for them to sit. ‘These are worrisome times, gentlemen. You are both men of the world, and as such doubtless keep abreast of current affairs, so you know that.
At present Vienna is like a bomb that threatens to go off at any moment – perhaps quite literally.’

‘Oh?’ said Holmes. ‘How so?’

‘Our War Ministry has recently confirmed rumours that certain … militant factions … have been infiltrating our country with orders to assassinate members of the Habsburg Imperial Family, and feelings have been running high. In some quarters the hot-heads have seen this as an opportunity to stir up discontent, claiming that we are being overrun by foreigners.’

‘It is clearly having an effect,’ said Watson. He watched as Freud’s irate patient entered the park, where a surly-looking crowd was gathered around a bearded man in a dark pea jacket who was making an impassioned speech. ‘Young Painter there … he is a man to watch, I think – and watch carefully.’

Freud smiled sadly and picked up his cigar. ‘I’m afraid he is just misguided, as are so many of them. Hopefully, with maturity – and my help – he will see the error of his present beliefs. He has twice been rejected by the Academy of Fine Arts – which is why I refer to him in my notes as “Painter” – and because of this he feels disaffected. Furthermore, he is an orphan now that he has lost his mother, and lives in a house for poor working men on the Meldemannstrasse. That’s where he hears all the foolishness he later espouses, and why I agreed to take him on as one of my “charity” cases.

‘But does he deserve special attention? I think not. I do not believe we need trouble ourselves overmuch with a misguided young man like Herr Hitler.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Good Samaritan

W
HILE
F
REUD ORDERED
fresh coffee and a selection of tortes and strudel for his guests, Watson told him all about their journey, and their chance meeting with Houdini. Freud’s English was reasonably good, which was not surprising. Though the language had a somewhat higher profile in neighbouring Germany, it was still seen as valuable in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, where many wealthy Austrians deliberately employed British governesses to ensure that their children became fluent in the language.

‘I must say, Herr Doktor, I find your theories on the conscious and unconscious mind fascinating,’ Holmes said after a pause.

Freud puffed absently on his cigar. ‘You mean, of course, in relation to the criminal mind?’

‘Certainly, though by no means exclusively. However, the possibility that our actions can be a consequence not of our conscious desires but rather of our
un
conscious ones could prove revolutionary in the study of criminology.’

‘Perhaps so, Herr Holmes. But we are all at the mercy of our minds. And if you accept that the mind is divided into three distinct divisions – that is, the
id
, the
ego
and the
super-ego
– then it becomes somewhat easier to see why a seemingly inoffensive man who, in the normal course of events would not even harm a fly, can suddenly become the most heinous of killers.’

‘That is the thing I have always had some difficulty with, Herr Doktor,’ said Watson, ‘these so-called
divisions
you speak of.
How do you define them, as such?’

‘The
id
is ruled solely by instinct,’ replied Freud. ‘You feel hunger, so you eat. You feel tired, so you sleep. The
ego
, by contrast, is dictated by order and reality. You feel hunger, but your
ego
tells you that you cannot eat until lunchtime; you feel tired, but it is only one o’clock in the afternoon, and so you accept that sleep must wait until your customary bedtime.

‘Sometimes, however, it is not so easy to dismiss the demands of the
id
. If, say, the
id
tells you that your life would be better if only you could murder your harridan of a wife, or your tyrant of an employer, then that prospect may be impossible to resiSt That is where the
super-ego
plays its part. This stronger but oft-times latent version of yourself may be able to stop you from submitting to the will of the
id
when the
ego
itself cannot resist the impulse.

‘But if the individual has no
super-ego
, or a
super-ego
that is able to be stifled by the
id
… well, he may turn out to be the perfect criminal.’

‘A man without a conscience,’ mused Holmes.

‘Or a man
driven
by conscience,’ said Freud. ‘A man who deliberately allows his conscience to
dictate
his actions, so long as that same conscience also
justifies
them.’

‘Is there any way to identify such people?’ asked Watson, intrigued despite his original scepticism of Freud’s theories. ‘I mean, do they exhibit any symptoms that we may come to recognize?’

Freud hesitated, weighing his response. ‘The
id
is the dark, inaccessible part of our personality,’ he said, blowing cigar smoke into the chilly air. ‘We only know that it exists at all thanks to our research into dreams and the identification of specific neuroses. We can say, however, that it is of a negative character. We approach the
id
with analogies: we call it chaotic, a cauldron full of seething excitations…. It is full of the energy generated by our basest instincts, but it has no organization and produces no collective will. It strives only to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual needs subject to the observance of what I term “the pleasure principle”.’

‘The
id
fails to recognize the difference between good and evil,
and often it seeks to express itself as an instrument of destruction directed against the external world. How can one ever identify such deep-rooted emotions with barely a glance? I am afraid that the only way is and always will be with long-term, in-depth psychoanalysis.

‘But let us remember,’ Freud concluded, ‘that the
id
is not always the villain it is made out to be. Sometimes it can be … beneficial … to dismiss the so-called “voice of reason” that tells us to ignore it. As an example, take my cigar, here. I began smoking cigarettes thirty-odd years ago, and I cannot tell you how much pleasure I have derived from the practice. I am convinced that smoking has helped me focus upon my work and given me greater energy than I would otherwise have enjoyed. But one day a medical doctor of my acquaintance, a certain Wilhelm Fleiss, told me that it would ruin my health if I continued to smoke.

‘As you can imagine, gentlemen, the choice I faced was stark. I could smoke, enjoy the act of smoking, and feel the benefits of it … or I could run the risk of encountering all manner of medical problems in the years to come. The voice of reason told me that I should follow Wilhelm’s advice and give it up, but the
id
, that part of me whose actions are based solely upon the gratification of my urges, suggested an alternative….

‘So I substituted the cigar for the cigarette, and in so doing found a means of smoking that gave me infinitely greater pleasure than it ever did before – without the potential to damage my health.’

Pausing, he studied his cigar as if it were an old and dear friend, then added: ‘Think what I would have missed out on, had I listened to my
ego
, or my
super-ego!
So the
id
can sometimes provide benefits, if one is able to control it and wise enough to heed its less destructive advice. And let us not forget that the act of smoking itself is perhaps the best substitute of all for the one great and harmful habit to which we are all heir.’

‘And what might that be, Herr Doktor?’ asked Watson.

‘Masturbation,’ Freud replied matter-of-factly.

Watson almost choked. Holmes, less easily shocked, immediately leaned forward and slapped him on the back. A moment
later, eyes watering, Watson managed, ‘My … apologies. That last … mouthful of strudel must have … gone down the wrong way.’

He reached for his cup and sipped steaming
Verlängerter
coffee. Then, to change the subject, he said hurriedly, ‘I must say, you have a beautiful city, here, Herr Doktor. But I can’t say as I care much for the look of that group of rabble-rousers over there.’

Freud followed his gaze toward a gap in trees, where a crowd had gathered, and his mouth thinned to a disapproving line. Though they couldn’t hear what the bearded man was telling the crowd, he was clearly using rhetoric to whip his audience into a belligerent frenzy.

Freud looked grim. ‘I fancy that what you are seeing there is a member of a secret society called the Crna Ruka.’

‘The Crna Ruka?’

‘The Black Hand,’ translated Freud. ‘Well, that is the name by which it is best known. More correctly it is called Ujedinjenje ili Smrt … that is, “Unity or Death”. Initially its members sought to create a unified Serbia. More recently it has dedicated itself to freeing those millions of Serbs under the rule of my country. And it is this group to which I alluded earlier – one of those “militant factions” who have been infiltrating our country, our cities and, as you can see, even our very
capital
. They are at work across our empire, practising sabotage and political assassination, propaganda, abduction and, as you see here, rabble-rousing. And yet, though I deplore their methods, I can hardly find it within me to blame them. In our misguided attempts to build an empire, we have mistreated them, seen them and their lands as little more than possessions to be acquired. But I fear that the Black Hand is now attracting the wrong sort to its cause, those disaffected souls – like young Hitler, for example – who join up only for the promise of excitement and violence.’

Watson glanced at Holmes. ‘I was right, then. It appears we
have
come at a time of some intrigue.’

‘I am afraid so,’ Freud sighed. ‘But come, gentlemen, let us speak of happier things.’

Before they could follow his advice, however, a dozen burly
working men appeared from the direction of the Kolingasse and started across the road toward the park. Many of them carried weapons in the shape of wooden battens or empty beer bottles, lead-lined saps or billy clubs.

Concerned by probability of violence, Watson said to Freud, ‘I must confess, Doctor, I don’t care for the looks of
this
, either.’

‘You shouldn’t, my friend. The police are well aware that the city is riddled with these anarchists, but tell me – do you see any policemen in evidence here today? Of course you don’t. That is because the Bundesgendarmerie use paid thugs like those you see over there to come and break up these gatherings.’

Watson was scandalized. ‘Do you know this for a fact, Herr Doktor?’

‘Not for a fact, no. But it makes admirable sense. If the very fabric of your country is being undermined by foreigners, it is far more effective to have – or rather,
appear
to have – “ordinary civilians” defend themselves against such an enemy. These hired thugs can break skulls and arms and legs and then be hailed as patriots. If the police were to do the same thing, Austria would be branded a police state, where so-called freedom of speech could not be practised.’

By now the crowd gathered around the bearded speech-maker was aware that a new faction had entered the park and an ominous quiet descended over them. Then came a few shouted taunts at the newcomers, who aggressively shouted back. Distorted by distance, it was impossible to translate their remarks, but the meaning behind them was clear. The newcomers were issuing a challenge – break up and clear out, or else – and the members of the Black Hand among the bearded speaker’s audience, and even some of the ordinary men they were hoping to convert to their cause, were clearly not prepared to do that.

Then one of the newcomers hurled a bottle at the Black Hand speaker. It missed him but hit someone in the crowd. Immediately, both groups suddenly charged at each other, screaming challenges and obscenities at the tops of their lungs.

In seconds the two groups had absorbed each other. Rivals automatically sought each other out and then began exchanging
kicks and blows. Billy clubs rose and fell; men collapsed and curled themselves into balls.

More bottles rained down on the Black Hand faction, some finding their targets and sending men to their knees, clutching bloodied faces. Enemies continued to clash, trade blows, then stumble on to find new opponents.

Even as Freud, Holmes and Watson watched, one burly man broke away from the throng. Staggering as far as the park gates he then collapsed, holding the back of his head with bloodstained fingers.

Watson, obeying the dictates of his profession, at once started to go and help him, but Holmes quickly grasped his forearm. ‘Best we keep our distance, Watson. This thing is turning uglier by the second.’

It was true. Already the brawlers had broken up into smaller groups, taunting each other, trading punches, and hurling any missiles that came to hand. As the altercation quickly spread beyond the confines of the park, shop windows were smashed and newspaper placards were snatched up and used as makeshift shields or weapons. Worse still, the combatants were slowly coming ever closer to the onlookers outside the cafe.

‘I think it would perhaps be prudent if we were to beat a hasty retreat, gentlemen,’ suggested Freud.

Watson nodded in agreement. He hated violence and had never quite understood how human beings could treat one another with such cruelty and intolerance. Rising, he had to duck to avoid a brick that was thrown his way. It sailed overhead and crashed through the cafe window, shattering glass with a sound like artillery fire.

‘Good grief!’

A third group now came charging around the corner at the other end of the street. Some twenty in number, their military-style uniforms identified them as policemen, finally putting in an appearance now that the dirty work had been done for them. One of the brawlers yelled the alarm and the rival groups quickly scattered in all directions.

Several men came racing toward the cafe, overturning
anything in their path in an effort to hamper their pursuers.

One big fellow with a flattened nose and ugly, cauliflowered ears came barrelling out of the melee. Busy keeping an eye on the police, he failed to notice Watson, who was standing directly in his way. Seeing him come, Watson froze, again acutely aware that he was no longer a young man.

Dimly he heard Holmes yell his name, but he still remained rooted to the spot.

Then the onrushing ruffian saw him. He went to push Watson out of his path, but before he could do so, a newcomer came as if out of nowhere, charging in from Watson’s right. He caught the bigger man with one hunched shoulder and the impact flung the man aside.