Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (12 page)

Watson felt his lip curling. ‘You’ll forgive me if I take that with a grain of salt.’

Before she could reply and possibly melt his anger – anger that was his only defence against the spell she cast over him even now – Watson, ever the gentleman, tipped his hat and walked off.

As he crossed the street, ignoring the angry shouts from the drivers of the various passing vehicles that had to swerve to avoid him, he found it almost impossible to contain his rage. How dare Holmes show mercy to those criminals, when all the time he had assured Watson that they were finished, and would pay for their crimes.

Well, he would certainly have it out with his friend once he got back to the hotel.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Butterfly Bruise

T
HE MINUTE HE
heard the door of Holmes’s suite open and then close again, Watson squared his shoulders and went next door, intending to confront him about Irene and Robert Hastings. He rapped sharply at the door, and a few moments later Holmes answered it.

‘Come in, Watson,’ Holmes said in a subdued voice.

Watson did so, and closed the door behind him. ‘Holmes …’ he began, then broke off as he saw his friend unbutton his waistcoat and remove a folded sheet from around his midriff, which had given ‘Ed Martin’ his additional girth. Holmes had been out in disguise, he realized. But why?

‘Have a seat, old friend,’ Holmes said.

‘I’ll stand,’ Watson replied. ‘There is something about which we need to speak quite urgently.’

‘Indeed there is,’ Holmes answered. He threw the sheet aside and sat before his dressing-table mirror. There he removed his false beard and returned it to the make-up kit he was seldom without. ‘The Houdini business has taken a sinister turn, I am afraid.’

Watson finally realized that the anger he had allowed to build ever since his encounter with Irene Hastings had blinded him to the fact that something was indeed very wrong. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice dropping.

‘Miss Lane,’ said Holmes, turning in his chair. ‘I am sorry,
Watson. She is dead.’

Watson blanched.
‘What?’

Holmes turned back to the mirror. Watching his reflection, Watson said in a hushed voice, ‘No, Holmes, you must be mistaken.’

‘I wish I were.’

‘Was it … an accident?’

‘I do not believe so.’

‘The … the kidnappers, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘But … what could they possibly hope to gain by …’ instinctively he lowered his voice still further, ‘by …
murder
?’

‘I cannot with any certainty say that it
was
murder,’ Holmes replied, using a damp cloth to remove ‘Ed Martin’s tan in a series of brisk swipes.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I have just come from the state mortuary, where I identified the body. Poor Houdini was in no fit state to undertake such a task. Though I was not given the opportunity to examine the body as thoroughly as I would have liked, I certainly asked as many questions as I could without arousing suspicion, in order to get a reasonable picture of how Miss Lane came to meet her demise. Fluid was found in her lungs, the lungs themselves were swollen and froth was found around her mouth when she was dragged from the water.’

‘Then she died from drowning.’

‘That is the view of the authorities, but it is not mine. My expectation is that, should it occur to them to analyze the
algae
found in the water taken from Miss Lane’s lungs – which they probably won’t – and then compare it to similar single-cell samples from elsewhere on her body, they will find that they do not match.’

‘Suggesting that she was dead before she entered the water.’

‘Precisely.’

‘But if it wasn’t murder, and it wasn’t suicide, then what the devil was it?’

Holmes turned away from the mirror and faced his
companion. ‘A
mistake,
Watson. A very unfortunate
mistake
.’

He continued, ‘Having formally identified the body, I then asked if I might be permitted a moment alone to pay my respects.

More out of deference to Houdini than to the member of his entourage I was pretending to be, the mortuary attendant grudgingly agreed. It was then that I examined Miss Lane’s eyes, which were shot through with blood, and found a small, butterfly-shaped bruise upon her right collarbone. I also observed clear signs of
petechiae
in the skin of her face.’

Watson pondered that for a moment. Such distinctive red or purple spots were usually the result of a minor haemorrhage. ‘Signs that would indicate raised blood pressure,’ he muttered thoughtfully.

‘Either that or an indication that a struggle of sorts took place immediately prior to her death.’

‘And the, uh, butterfly bruise…?’

‘In my experience it is indicative of two thumbprints, coming together at their tips, and exerting great force,’ Holmes said. ‘The fact that her lingual bone was broken, midway between the chin and the thyroid cartilage, would seem to bear this out.’

‘It doesn’t sound like much of a mistake to me. It sounds cold, callous and premeditated.’

‘Nevertheless, as you have already pointed out, what did the kidnappers have to gain from murder?’ Having finished removing his make-up, he entered the bathroom, where he ran hot water into the sink. ‘Miss Lane suspected, rightly as it turned out, that she and Houdini were being watched. When she left her hotel last night with the intention of requesting our assistance, she had the feeling that she was being followed and took measures to evade her pursuer. To him – and there is now no doubt that this was the man in the alpaca topcoat – this could only have suggested one thing: that she was going against their demands not to seek outside help. For that alone, the gang we are dealing with may have felt that some sort of response – punishment, if you will – was called for. But murder? I think not. More likely, her death was accidental and the result of a struggle.’

‘Which they were ruthless enough to turn to their advantage.’

‘Quite.’

‘Then I very much look forward to making the acquaintance of the man in the alpaca topcoat again,’ Watson said grimly.

Holmes appeared in the bathroom door. ‘But there’s the rub, Watson, for it was not
he
who killed Miss Lane.’

‘No?’

‘The butterfly bruise was too small. It indicated to me that the person who killed Frances Lane was a woman.’

‘What?’

‘In all probability the same woman who penned a second note, telling Houdini to be outside his hotel at ten this evening.’

‘Good grief …’ Watson was silent for a time before saying: ‘This meeting tonight. Do you think Houdini will be up to it?’

‘I hope so. As I said, he was a broken man when I left him at the theatre this morning. He considers himself more responsible for Miss Lane’s death than the actual perpetrator of the crime. But he is nothing if not a professional. As long as it gives us a chance to discover more about these malefactors and eventually bring them to book, the show
will
go on.’

‘And we will be there for the final act,’ said Watson.

Holmes nodded. ‘You are a man of great and consistent habits, Watson. Even though this trip was meant to be a simple break in the monotony of our lives, I trust you have nevertheless brought your service revolver with you?’

‘Of course. It has been our salvation more than once in the past.’

‘And it may well be so again,’ Holmes answered. ‘For all we know, perhaps this very night.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Memories

A
S WINTER DARKNESS
stole across Vienna, Houdini sat alone in his suite with his head in his hands, his lips moving in prayer.

For the first time that he could remember, he felt that his spirits had hit rock bottom. What had befallen Bess was bad enough, but he consoled himself with the thought that as long as he played fair with the people who had abducted her, they would release her once the ransom was paid.

Then they had murdered Frankie, and now he could only fear the very worst.

He’d never been a man to give in to self-pity. If that had been part of his make-up, he would have abandoned his lofty ambitions to become a stage sensation long ago. He had always held rigidly to self-discipline and determination, self-belief and the unshakeable conviction that whatever he set his mind to do, he could and
would
do.

When his rabbi father lost his tenure at Zion in 1887, the family had moved to New York City, and it was there that Harry had made his stage debut at the age of nine, billing himself in a trapeze act as ‘Ehrich, Prince of the Air’.

And that, he reflected, was all he’d ever wanted to do – amaze people, entertain them, show them what he was capable of.

Bess – it choked him just to speak the pet name of his beloved Wilhelmina Beatrice Rahner – had supported him through those
early, hungry years of his career. The Brooklyn-born daughter of German immigrants was herself filled with dreams of a career in show business and Bess had been working at West Brighton Beach as one half of a song-and-dance act called The Floral Sisters when she met her first Houdini – Harry’s kid brother, Theo. She had liked Theo well enough, but it was Harry she’d fallen in love with. He had fallen for her, too.

Because they’d thought it would garner them a little free publicity, they’d originally put out the story that they’d met in 1894, when Harry, on his way to perform at a birthday party, had accidentally dropped his props, spilt some acid he was carrying and ruined her dress. According to legend, Harry had promptly taken her home to his mother, Cecilia, who made her a replacement.

The truth, of course, was a little more ordinary.

Still, they had married after a whirlwind courtship that lasted just two weeks, despite the fact that Bess’s folks, who were Roman Catholic, disapproved of her relationship with the Jewish Harry. Thereafter, touring the country as magician and assistant, the couple had been inseparable.

It was, he thought now, a marriage made in heaven. They had been blissfully happy together. Bess was everything to him. She was a quiet, practical woman who collected dolls and made all of Harry’s costumes and never, ever complained when he switched from magician to escapologist and repeatedly put his life on the line. The only thing that ever gave them cause for regret was the fact that they had never managed to have children. Still, until Bess was stolen away from him, at least they had had each other.

The silence seemed unnaturally loud when he finished the prayer.

He’d been thinking about Bess, but praying for Frankie.

Frankie …

He still couldn’t believe she was gone, any more than he could believe that she’d committed suicide, as the police had said. As he’d told Holmes, he’d known she was in love with him. It would not have been hard to return the emotion, either. But she had worked with him – with him and Bess together – for years now. She knew how devoted he was to his wife.

Now he knew just how devoted Frankie had been to him.

No, he was absolutely convinced that those … those animals who had kidnapped Bess had also killed Frankie, because she had dared to try to do something about them while he, the great Houdini, had decided to obey their demands for fear of what they might do to Bess if he didn’t.

‘Ah, Frankie …’

Angrily now, he promised himself that something positive would come of her death. The men responsible would pay. They’d pay for killing Frankie and causing Bess the kind of grief and terror he could only imagine.

The telephone jangled shrilly, making him start.

Almost guiltily, he sprang from the chair and snatched the earpiece from the cradle. ‘Yes?’

‘Your brother-in-law is here, Mr Houdini,’ said the desk clerk in heavily accented English. ‘I shall pass him the instrument.’

Houdini frowned, confused. Brother-in-law? What the dickens was John Rahner doing here?

Then, ‘Hello … Harry?’

Houdini knew instantly it was not John. He knew John’s voice as well as his own and he had never heard the accented voice that spoke to him now. Houdini’s stomach knotted unpleasantly and, gripping the earpiece a little tighter, he said, ‘Who are you?’

‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

‘You’re the man who killed Frances Lane.’

There was a pause, then: ‘That is something I regret very much.’

‘You
certainly will
regret it,’ Houdini promised.

‘You’d better get down here quickly … Harry. The man I’m taking you to see doesn’t like being kept waiting.’

Houdini glanced over his shoulder. According to the wall clock it was a little before seven. ‘I thought …’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘Your note said I should be waiting outside at ten o’clock.’

‘We changed our minds.’

Houdini’s own mind was racing. Holmes would be expecting
the kidnappers to arrive at ten, the same as he. He might show up a little early, just in case, but not three whole hours early.

He was on his own, then.

‘Harry?’ said the voice.

‘I’m here.’

‘You’d better get yourself down to the lobby. I’m sure Bess would appreciate it.’

Bess.
The name suddenly focussed Houdini’s thoughts.

All right, he decided. These people had wrong-footed him, and he was on his own. But even by himself he could be a formidable foe. He was
Houdini,
for God’s sake! And he’d damn well do whatever it took to turn the tables on them and rescue his beloved Bess.

Calmly, he said, ‘Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be right there.’

Then he set about preparing himself.