William Seil - The Furt The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Titanic Tragedy

‘And who will tell them that we did it? The two of you will be the first to die. And as to the cause, we have every hope that it will be seen as an accident — an exploding boiler or a collision with an iceberg. We will have to wait and see.’

‘Brandon, I beg of you, give this up now,’ I pleaded. ‘Kill us if you like. There will not be any witnesses. But do not continue with your terrible plan.’

‘Well, Doctor, I am a sporting man. I could kill you both right now. But if the two of you are clever enough, there is a small chance that you could concoct some means of escaping and of warning the captain. As I recall, Mr Futrelle’s Professor Van Dusen was somewhat of an escape artist.’ He pulled a watch from his pocket. ‘It is now just past 4 pm. The charges have been planted and my friends and I must make preparations for our departure. Remember, both charges go off at 1 am... But no more clues. Goodbye, and good luck.’

Chapter Eighteen

THE EVENING OF SATURDAY 13 APRIL 1912

Escape is an art that is distinct from the science of deductive reasoning.

Deductive reasoning involves examining factual evidence and, through analysis, reconstructing past events. It is rather like locating the pieces of a puzzle, and then putting them together.

Escape, on the other hand, requires one other thing — an overpowering will to survive. You must truly believe there is a way out, if only you can find it.

Futrelle and I clearly understood the importance of our challenge. The survival of everyone on board the ship depended on our ability to free ourselves and warn the captain. But despite this awesome responsibility, we found ourselves completely perplexed.

Brandon and Swede had taken the lantern with them, leaving us in total darkness. While other holds on the ship had electric lights, I had seen no evidence of a switch or light fixtures in this small chamber. I sat there, attempting to remember everything I had observed during our conversation with Brandon.

We were encased on all sides, above and below, by solid steel. Futrelle, who had been conscious throughout our ordeal, identified our prison as the forward-most cargo hold on the orlop deck, just in front of the hold where the automobiles were stored.

After Brandon and Swede left, we had heard the sound of chains being looped through the handle of the steel door to the adjoining hold. They had not gagged us, since shouting would do us no good. After the shooting, the captain had forbidden entry to the scene of the crime. Only senior officers were allowed in. Brandon cleverly saw this as an opportunity to conceal his activities.

The forward wall also had a covered opening. It was labelled ‘chain locker’. That offered some hope, since the ship’s huge anchor chain was far too large to occupy only one deck. If we could enter the locker, we might be able to climb to a higher level and escape through an unlocked door. Even if we were unable to leave through the opening, we might be able to attract the attention of people on the other side.

The crates lining the walls around us were not labelled. We had no clue as to their contents, though the lack of refrigeration indicated that they were not perishable.

The floor and ceiling both had large hatchways, through which crates and other cargo could be lowered. Unfortunately, both were covered by huge metal plates. The bottom hatch cover was piled high with crates. I suspected that the cover on the upper hatch might be weighted in a similar manner.

I sat shivering on the stack of burlap sacks, struggling to loosen the ropes that bound my hands and feet. Though I could not see Futrelle in the darkness, I could hear rustling and grunting sounds, as he strained his muscles in a tireless effort to regain his freedom.

‘Futrelle, do you think you might be able to free your arms or legs?’

‘Not a chance. If anything, the ropes seem to be getting tighter. Perhaps it is the dampness. How about you?’

‘No, I have the same problem.’

‘Watson, do you think he is really serious about sinking the ship? I did not see any bomb in here.’

‘It could be in one of the crates, or behind one. For the sake of the people on this ship, I think we must assume that he is telling the truth. We must find a way to alert the captain.’

We sat in silence, considering the alternatives. In addition to being bound, we could not move along the floor. Our captors had looped a rope through a hole at the base of a metal stanchion that ran from the floor to the ceiling. The ends of the rope were tied to our wrists. We had only a few feet of slack.

‘Futrelle?’

‘Yes.’

‘As I recall, did not your story, The Problem of Cell 13 , involve Professor Van Dusen escaping from a prison cell? I cannot remember the details. How did he get out?’

‘Well, he bet some men that he could escape from a prison cell within a week.’

‘I fear that we do not have that long, but please continue.’

‘Let us see... He went into a cell with only the clothes on his back, some toothpaste and twenty-five dollars in cash. He was not allowed any contact with the outside world, and only his captors knew that he was there.’

‘Then what?’

‘To cut a long story short, he unravelled a long thread from his socks and tied one end to a rat he had captured in his cell. He sent the rat through an old drainpipe to a playground just outside the prison wall. The rat carried a ten-dollar bill, and a note asking whatever child found it to give the note to a particular newspaper reporter. When the reporter returned with the boy, he found the drainpipe and attached some stronger string to the thread. Van Dusen then pulled the end of the string into his cell, creating a means for sending small objects through the pipe.’

‘Amazing! What happened then?’

‘He used nitric acid, which he had received through the drainpipe, to cut through the bars of his window. Then he cut through a cable outside the window, placing that side of the prison in perfect darkness. That allowed him to leave through the window.’

‘What about the prison gate?’

‘He walked through, disguised as an electrician.’

I sat for a moment, considering Futrelle’s extraordinary narrative.

‘I regret, Futrelle, that I do not think there is anything in that story that can help us in this particular situation.’

There was silence, then my fellow prisoner spoke in a subdued voice. ‘No, I suppose not... Did you and Mr Holmes ever plan an escape?’

‘We were seldom in such a situation, although a few of our clients had narrow escapes.’

‘Such as...’

‘Well, I recall one case where a young engineer was locked inside a hydraulic press and the ceiling began to come down slowly upon him.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Very little, I fear. Just as he was about to be crushed by the machine, a woman confederate of his captor opened a side door and allowed him to pass through.’

‘He escaped unharmed, then?’

‘Unfortunately, his captor cut off his thumb with a butcher’s cleaver as he made his escape through a window. But other than that, he was fine. But I suppose that does not help us much either. That is, unless one of Brandon’s henchmen decides to take pity on us.’

‘I do not consider that to be a possibility.’

‘Neither do I...’

We stopped speaking for what could have been fifteen minutes, as each of us continued to struggle with our ropes. We tried fraying the rope that bound us together by rubbing it against the supporting post but with no success.

‘Watson, do you suppose there’s a trap door or anything beneath this pile of sacks? I mean, it is a possibility.’