The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

I opened my valise and pulled out false whiskers, false eyebrows, a beret, and a long coat. I transformed myself into Monsieur Vaucluse, a scholar from Bordeaux. Then I went down to the restaurant and ordered a meal, keeping a sharp lookout for the redheaded man known to me only as ‘the orangutan'. When the steamer reached Ouchy, the port of Lausanne, I made sure I was the first passenger off on to the pier, and that I was not seen by either the orangutan or his dog. I struggled up the steep street with my valise and eventually found a hotel in the Rue de la Gare, close by the railroad track of the Swiss Federal Line. This rail line lies about three-quarters of a mile above the port of Ouchy and about a half mile below the town of Lausanne. I signed the register as Monsieur Vaucluse. In my room I changed my costume and became Mr T.J. Clapper, a very old gentleman from Finsbury Park, London. I left the hotel by the side door, carrying with me the King's attaché case and a cloth bundle of disguises. I hastened into a grove of pine trees nearby and hid myself. I watched as the surge of passengers from the steamer slowly rose up the street like the tide. Some passengers were on foot, some in vehicles. I spotted the redheaded man carrying a heavy trunk on his shoulder. Ahead of him his little white poodle zigzagged with its nose to the ground, sniffing furiously this way and that, sometimes losing my scent in his haste and then picking it up again almost immediately. He led his simian master straight to the front door of my hotel. The orangutan lowered his trunk and pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, then tied the dog to the handle of the trunk and went inside the hotel. He emerged about five minutes later, having doubtless extracted from the innkeeper the name of the last guest who had checked in, a Mr Vaucluse from Bordeaux, room 202. The redheaded man untied the dog, hefted the trunk, but did not turn into the street. Instead he walked around the back of the building and looked at the upper stories. Evidently he was trying to locate room 202. He stood for a long while, gazing upward. Then he inspected the black iron drain pipe that ran up the side of the building. Finally he turned away and headed up the road towards Lausanne, swaying side to side with the rolling gait of a sailor. The little dog ran merrily beside him.

I emerged from the grove of pine trees and followed them at a distance, glad I was carrying no more than the King's small case. Lausanne is very steep town. That is why most people use the funicular that runs from the lake to the town centre. The man and dog entered a hotel. When I was sure they intended to remain there, I turned away and descended a few hundred yards in the direction of the lake, and then I wandered eastward until I espied a very pleasant hotel called the Britannia. There I registered under the name T.J. Clapper. My room was large and bright. I hid King George's leather case behind the huge armoire in the corner. After supper I changed back into my ‘Monsieur Vaucluse' get-up and descended in the dark to my hotel in the Rue de la Gare. I did not enter, however. Instead, I stood in the grove of pine trees, growing colder and colder as I watched the back of the hotel. Overhead, the moon blew through clouds like a ship, travelling slowly across the sky. About eleven o'clock I perceived a dark figure emerge from the blotted shadows of the street. It slid along the white building. It stopped at the cast iron drainpipe. The creature gave a little leap and went up the pipe as quickly as a monkey. I was astonished how easily he reached the first floor. He popped open a window and vanished into room 202.

Eventually a dim electric light came on in my room. The orangutan's shadow flickered on walls and panes as he ransacked the place, evidently searching for the attaché case. After half an hour the electric bulb went off. He reappeared in the window. He looked fearsome, lit by the quarter light of the startling moon. In an instant he had slathered down the drain pipe and was hurrying away across the lawn like an ape, knuckles almost dragging on the road. I was very cold by then. I went up to my room and straightened the mess. I slept a few hours until dawn.

The following day I kept careful track of all train traffic along the main line, noting at what hours trains appeared, from what direction, and the interval of time that elapsed between the first moment I could hear a train and the moment it passed me. I also, in the guise of T. J. Clapper, hobbled around Lausanne and noted the habits of the orangutan and his poodle companion. I jotted in my notebook what hour they emerged from their hotel, where they stopped for refreshment, how long they spent criss-crossing the city trying to pick up my track. On many occasions I saw the redheaded man stoop and hold my glove in front of the dog's nose, urging him on. Many times the little creature really did pick up my scent, and then he would set off running merrily, full of joy, earnestly nosing this way and that while the orangutan, far behind him, hurried to catch up. It was a queer feeling, seeing myself followed while I followed the followers. Several times when I saw them coming my direction I took elaborate evasive measures so that the dog would not lock on to my fresh scent and corner me.

On the third day all my information was complete. I could guess when the orangutan and his poodle would be at the café outside their hotel, and I knew precisely how long it would take me to run from the café to the train crossing at the Avenue Juste Olivier. I am not a cruel man, Wilson. On many occasions in the streets of London I have beaten a cabman for beating his horse – one of the many aspects of my eccentric character that Dr Watson tactfully left out of his narratives. But you will remember that I was on a mission to save millions of soldiers and civilians from death and mayhem. To do so I needed to rid myself of this innocent little beast who had tracked me halfway across Europe.

At eight thirty precisely, the redhead sat down – as he had the previous day – at a small table outside his usual café. The perky poodle lay prettily beside him. I strolled by their table at eight thirty-two, dressed in my long coat as Monsieur Vaucluse. The dog sensed me. His head swung around and his ears popped up. He leapt to his feet and began barking. When I saw the dog coming after me, I began to run. I glanced back and saw the orangutan rising from his table, but by then I was far ahead. As I reached the railroad crossing I could hear the train approaching from the east, exactly on schedule. I ran westward, skipping right down the middle of the tracks, hopping along those sleepers like a rabbit, my coat flowing out behind me. I am pretty spry for a man of my age, truth to tell. I had it all timed, carefully calculated. In any country but Switzerland my plan might not have worked, but the Swiss run their trains to the second. I leapt off the tracks at the place I had previously marked. When I looked back I saw the little white poodle running with his nose an inch from the sleepers. He was so furiously fascinated by my scent that he was unaware of the train closing in on him from behind. The redheaded man, meanwhile, was hurrying along beside the tracks, trying to keep up with the dog. He shouted, but the poodle paid no heed. As the train hurtled closer, the orangutan leapt on to the tracks – wonderfully agile – and he leant, scooped up the dog, and for an instant I thought he had saved him . . . but then the orangutan stumbled, fell head first between the rails. An instant later the engine gobbled him up, smeared him along the right of way. I saw his severed leg lying by the side of the track, still gushing blood. The train passed and then I saw his severed right arm lying by itself on the far side of the track. His body was dragged a hundred feet further on. He lay face down on the sleepers. By some miracle the poodle had popped out of danger and had begun running back and forth alongside the tracks, back and forth just as he had done on the deck of the steamship, distraught and confused.

I hurried away to Monsieur Vaucluse's hotel and got my valise. Then I walked to Mr Clapper's hotel and pulled the attaché case from behind the armoire and packed it. I emerged from the hotel as Mr Sherlock Holmes, wearing my grey trousers, white cotton shirt, black silk tie, black frock coat, vest, plus my overcoat of wool and my bowler. I sallied forth a confident man.

The morning had started bright with sunshine but now, as I boarded the train for Freiburg, heavy clouds had begun forming over the lake and mountains. The train slid out of the Lausanne station at a crawl, passing slowly by men working near the tracks with stretchers and baskets, still busily cleaning up body parts. Rumour had flown through the town that someone had been killed on the tracks – a suicide it was said – and many passengers stood up and looked out the windows. Most regretted having done so. I saw several turn away with horrified faces and sit down looking sick, muttering and gasping. I opened my morning paper to read the latest war news. I learnt that the fighting still raged at Ypres, but that so far the British and French line was holding. Later the world would learn that in the battle for Ypres alone the Germans lost about 130,000 soldiers, the British 60,000, the French 60,000. As I travelled towards Frieburg and Bern that morning, no one knew the final count, but even then my newspaper reported enormous casualties. Such staggering numbers made me feel I must get to Cousin Willy as quickly as possible with the documents from Cousin Georgie. Every day, every hour, men were dying in their hundreds. The sooner I delivered the documents the sooner the carnage might cease. At the same time, I became more and more doubtful that this small packet in my care could stop such a holocaust.

At Freiburg the train stopped awhile, and I was again startled and stunned, for when I leaned out the train window I saw Dummkopf Ludwig hopping along the platform on one crutch. His shoulder was bandaged and he had scratches all over his face and head. I regretted not having grabbed my trusty Webley from the Heidelberg corpse in my Paris hotel room. I began to feel I was in a bad dream that would never end. It was Ludwig, all right. His huge bald dome of a head and his walrus moustache were unmistakable. At each train window he lurched upward to look in, and at each lurch his arms flapped a little, as if he were a giant bird. I sat down quickly and hid behind my newspaper. I felt he had not seen me. But I wasn't entirely sure. How could I be?

When the train arrived at Bern I jumped out of my carriage and hurried to the train board almost at a dead run. There I discovered that an express was leaving shortly for Interlaken, another for Basel. I ran for the Basel train but missed it. I then ran for the Interlaken train and barely managed to heft my valise aboard as the carriages started to roll. Again, I could not be sure that Ludwig had not seen me board that train. So although it was late in the afternoon when I arrived in Interlaken, and although I was very tired and very tempted to find a hotel and call it a day – and spend a pleasurable evening consulting
Baedeker
about possible routes into Germany . . . yet I dared not. I waited in a dark corner of the station until the next train from Bern arrived. As I had feared, Ludwig bounded off even before the carriages had come to a stop. He flailed his way through the station, occasionally whacking people with his elbows. He hurried to a newspaper kiosk. There he lingered. He craned his neck and hopped in an agitated manner. Obviously he was looking for someone. Finally he gave up and hurried out into the street. He looked anxiously this way and that, up and down the avenue. All his actions suggested to me that he must have telegraphed ahead from Bern, contacted someone, told them to watch for me and follow me to my hotel. Evidently the spy was then to meet him by the kiosk to inform him of my whereabouts. The fact that no one had yet met Ludwig meant that whoever was watching me was
still
watching – baffled because he could not meet Ludwig without me observing them meeting. I decided to bide my time. Outside the station wall I set down my valise and opened a newspaper and hid behind it. I waited until Ludwig hurried back inside the station. Then I waited a few moments longer, to allow his contact to decide it was safe to leave me for a moment to dart inside and meet Ludwig. Quickly I stepped into the street, waved for a motor-taxi. A moment later I was on my way to the west train station.

At the Ost station I boarded the Oberland Railway train to Lauterbrunnen. A pleasant journey of three-quarters of an hour brought me to that little village. I descended to the platform feeling exhausted but relieved. As I walked away from the train, a young woman with a white toy poodle came towards me. I felt a pang of uncertainty. But the dog paid no attention to me. Neither did the woman. I walked to the pleasant Hotel Staubbach, about eight minutes from the train station, and there I booked a room. Like any sensible fox who has been hunted to exhaustion, I decided to go to ground and not move, and let the pack wear itself out. I hoped the German schweinhunds would give up and go home.

Lauterbrunnen is a pretty, scattered village lying on both banks of the Lütschine, situated in a rocky valley about a half mile wide. Into that valley (as my
Baedeker
warned) the sun's rays do not penetrate before seven a.m. in July or before eleven a.m. in winter. In one direction, rising above the huge rocky precipices of the Schwarze Mönch, are the snowy heights of the Jungfrau. In the other direction soars the Breithorn.

Near my hotel were the well-known Staubbach Falls – the name means ‘spray brook.' After breakfast the first morning I took a five-minute walk and gazed up at this famous falls. Almost a thousand feet above me a meagre stream leapt from a jutting rock. Most of the stream was converted into spray as it fell, and in the morning sun it resembled a silvery veil wafted to and fro by the breeze. I strolled through the rock gallery beneath the falls. A little farther down the path I came upon a prim little man kneeling on the ground beside a walking stick and a case of test tubes. He was very neatly dressed in a brown suit and brown hat. He was collecting samples of water from a spring. He corked the tube in his hand, wrote a number on the label with his pencil, and as he put the labelled specimen into the case he looked up and noticed me. He quickly got to his feet and, giving a little bow, he said, ‘Ah, Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume? How very surprising to meet you here in Switzerland in time of war. I am Professor Zimmerman.'