Philip Farmer - The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Peerless Peer

General Overleigh himself conducted us to the colossal Russian aeroplane. As we approached it, he described certain features in answer to Holmes’ questions.

“So far, the only four-engined heavier-than-air craft in the world has been built by the Russians,” he said. “Much to the shame of the British. The first one was built, and flown, in 1913. This, as you can see, is a biplane, fitted with wheels and a ski undercarriage. It has four 150-horsepower Sunbeam water-cooled Vee-type engines. The Sunbeam, unfortunately, leaves much to be desired.”

“I would rather not have known that,” I murmured. The sudden ashen hue of Holmes’ face indicated that his reactions were similar to mine.

“Its wing span is 97 feet 9½ inches; the craft’s length is 56 feet 1 inch; its height is 15 feet 5 and seven-eighths inches. Its maximum speed is 75 miles per hour; its operational ceiling is 9,843 feet. And its endurance is five hours — under ideal conditions. It carries a crew of five, though it can carry more. The rear fuselage is fitted with compartments for sleeping and eating.”

Overleigh shook hands with us after he had handed us over to a Lieutenant Obrenov. The young officer led us up the steps into the fuselage and to the rear, where he showed us our compartment. Holmes chatted away with him in Russian, of which he had gained a certain mastery during his experience in Odessa with the Trepoff case. Holmes’ insistence on speaking Russian seemed to annoy the officer somewhat, since, like all upper-class people of his country, he preferred to use French. But he was courteous, and after making sure we were comfortable, he bowed himself out. Certainly, we had little to complain about except possibly the size of the cabin. It had been prepared especially for us, had two swing-down beds, a thick rug which Holmes said was a genuine Persian, oil paintings on the walls which Holmes said were genuine Maleviches (I thought they were artistic nonsense), two comfortable chairs bolted to the deck, and a sideboard also bolted to the deck and holding alcoholic beverages. In one corner was a tiny cubicle containing all the furniture and necessities that one finds in a W.C.

Holmes and I lit up the fine Cuban cigars we found in a humidor and poured out some Scotch whisky, Duggan’s Dew of Kirkintilloch, I believe. Suddenly, both of us leaped into the air, spilling our drinks over our cuffs. Seemingly from nowhere, a tall figure had silently appeared. How he had done it, I do not know, since the door had been closed and under observation at all times by one or both of us.

Holmes groaned and said, under his breath, “Not another madman?”

The fellow certainly looked eccentric. He wore the uniform of a colonel of the Imperial Russian Air Service, but he also wore a long black opera cloak and a big black slouch hat. From under its floppy brim burned two of the most magnetic and fear-inspiring eyes I have ever seen. My attention, however, was somewhat diverted from these by the size and the aquilinity of the nose beneath them. It could have belonged to Cyrano de Bergerac. [5] The description of this man certainly fits that of a notable crime fighter operating out of Manhattan in the ’30’s through the ’40’s. If he is who I think he is, then one of his many aliases was Lamont Cranston. Editor.

I found that I had to sit down to catch my breath. The fellow introduced himself, in an Oxford accent, as Colonel Kentov. He had a surprisingly pleasant voice, deep, rich, and shot with authority. It was also heavily laced with Bourbon.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“I think so,” I said. “You gave me quite a start. A cloud seemed to pass over my mind. But I’m fine now, thank you.”

“I must go forward now,” he said, “but I’ve assigned a crew member, a tail gunner now but once a butler, to serve you. Just ring that bell beside you if you need him.”

And he was gone, though this time he opened the door. At least, I think he did.

“I fear, my dear fellow, that we are in for another trying time,” Holmes said.

Actually, the voyage seemed quite pleasant once one got used to the roar of the four motors and the nerve-shaking jack-out-of-the-box appearances of Kentov. The trip was to take approximately twenty-eight hours if all went well. The only time we landed was to refuel. About every four and a half hours, we put down at a hastily constructed landing strip to which petrol and supplies had been rushed by ship, air, or camel some days before. With the Mediterranean Sea on our left and the shores of North Africa below us, we sped toward Cairo at an amazing average speed of 70.3 miles per hour, according to our commander. While we sipped various liquors or liqueurs and smoked Havanas, we read to pass the time. Holmes commented several times that he could use a little cocaine to relieve the tedium, but I believe that he said that just to needle me. Holmes had brought along a work of his own authorship, the privately printed Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, With Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen . He had often urged me to read the results of his experience with his Sussex bees and so I now acceded to his urgings, mainly because all the other books available were in Russian.

I found it more interesting than I had expected, and I told Holmes so. This seemed to please him, though he had affected an air of indifference to my reaction before then.

“The techniques and tricks of apiculture are intriguing and complex enough,” he said. “But I was called away from a project which goes far beyond anything any apiculturist — scientist or not — has attempted. It is my theory that bees have a language and that they communicate such important information as the location of new clover, the approach of enemies, and so forth, by means of symbolic dancing. I was investigating this with a view to turning theory into fact when I got Mycroft’s wire.”

I sat up so suddenly that the ash dropped off my cigar onto my lap, and I was busy for a moment brushing off the coals before they burned a hole in my trousers. “Really, Holmes,” I said, “you are surely pulling my leg! Bees have a language? Next you’ll be telling me they compose sonnets in honour of their queen’s inauguration! Or perhaps epitases when she gets married!”

“Epitases?” he said, regarding me scornfully. “You mean epithalamiums, you blockhead! I suggest you use moderation while drinking the national beverage of Russia. Yes, Watson, bees do communicate, though not in the manner which Homo sapiens uses.” [6] For the first time we learn that Holmes anticipated the discovery of the Austrian scientist, von Frisch, by many decades. Editor.

“Perhaps you’d care to explain just what...” I said, but I was interrupted by that sudden vagueness of mind which signalled the appearance of our commander. I always jumped and my heart beat hard when the cloud dissolved and I realised that Kentov was standing before me. My only consolation was that Holmes was just as startled.

“Confound it, man!” Holmes said, his face red. “Couldn’t you behave like a civilised being for once and knock before entering? Or don’t Americans have such customs?”

This, of course, was sheer sarcasm, since Holmes had been to the States several times.

“We are only two hours from Cairo,” Kentov said, ignoring Holmes’ remarks. “But I have just learned from the wireless station in Cairo that a storm of severe proportions is approaching us from the north. We may be blown somewhat off our course. Also, our spies at Cos, in Turkey, report that a Zeppelin left there yesterday. They believe that it intends to pick up Von Bork. Somehow, he’s slipped out past the cordon and is waiting in the desert for the airship.”