Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“I understand, Vrukonovic, the great danger in which you have been placed. We are all in your debt, and I shall see to it that you have safer quarters immediately, outside of London, I think.”

We left and returned home in the dark. By then it was past ten, and Holmes had said nothing along the way. Sidgwick took his leave with a wave of the hand and we parted.

When we entered our quarters, I saw that Holmes’s face was somber and deeply perturbed. He removed his coat and settled on the couch.

“A most enigmatic clew, this piece of wire. Let me have Mycroft’s day book once again, Watson.”

I handed him the book and watched as he leafed through it.

“Note, Watson, the drawing, a tracing no doubt. Note however that something is added in the drawing: a swiggle of a line that crosses the two parts of the wire. The letters Nil are at one end of the swiggle and at the other end there is the letter R.”

“Surely the letters do not refer to the Nile River?”

“Far fetched, but not impossible. The Khedive is not an obvious target for this group. Let us sleep on it, Watson. Maybe some rest will suggest a solution.”

It must have been around three in the morning when I heard a loud knock at the door. I arose, but before I could put on my robe, I heard Holmes say in a clear voice,

“Watson, Lestrade has just arrived. Vrukonovic has been murdered.”

I went out in my pajamas and greeted Lestrade.

“Quickly, Watson, get your clothes on, we haven’t a moment to lose. I misjudged this badly,” said Holmes.

I dressed in haste, and the three of us without a word hopped into a cab. Holmes gave the man the Bedford Street address. A distraught landlady showed us to the room. Vrukonovic was seated in the chair that he had occupied when we had met. His hands were now tied behind his back and he had been badly beaten and shot through the left eye. The room bore the signs of a great struggle.

“An execution,” said Holmes.

“Indeed,” said I, “within the last two hours is my guess.”

“How did you learn of this, Lestrade?”

“The landlady let someone enter around eleven. He was a large muscular man, and he pushed his way in, and frightened her, but she did nothing. He had been there several times before so she gave his rudeness little thought. She said she thought he was an Austrian named Karl Ritter. At around two, she heard an argument, in German, and a shot. She ran out to find help, and while she was gone, the killer escaped. The bobby who eventually appeared notified Scotland Yard. The bobby said that two gentlemen had appeared earlier. From the description, I judged that it might be Holmes and Watson. Hence, I stopped at Baker Street before coming here.”

As Lestrade spoke, Holmes began his search of the room. So thorough was the search that he did not finish until it was nearly dawn. I saw him take two photographs from the table that had served Vrukonovic as a desk. As he put them in his coat pocket, he snapped his fingers and the trace of a smile went across his face.

“Let us depart, Watson. I have done what can be done. And Lestrade, have the contents of the room packed and sealed until we can give them a thorough scrutiny. They will provide ample evidence for conviction of the gang, if we get that far. And Lestrade, have Gordonov released immediately. We must follow him to his gang. If you have difficulty with the prison authorities, tell them that I shall go to Mr. Gladstone himself, with whom I am on excellent terms. And Lestrade, please have Gordonov followed. If you do not have a good man available, get Shinwell Johnston to do it.”

Holmes remained deep in thought on our way home, but once we reached Baker Street he began to tell me what he had deduced.

“It is obvious, my dear doctor, that Vrukonovic was executed. But by whom? His own gang or some agent from police abroad assigned to wipe out members of the gang? I suspect the latter, though we may never know for sure. The executioner was a large powerful man who was able to subdue Vrukonovic, a well-built man himself. He was known to the dead man, smoked Turkish cigarettes, and drank straight gin, judging from what was left on the table before them. But now we have only one way of locating the gang, and that is by following Gordonov in the hope that he may lead us to them. Let us get a bit of rest, Watson, before Shinwell or Lestrade arrives.”

I remember slipping into my bed just as the first rays of the sun began to come over the roof of the building across the street. I was asleep at once. The next thing I knew was that I was shaken awake by my friend.

“Wake up, Watson, it is almost four in the afternoon. And Shinwell is here with his report.”

Shinwell almost ran in, and spoke in a breathless voice. “From Scotland Yard jail, Gordonov went immediately to the nearest telegraph office where he sent a message to Trieste. A reply came almost immediately. When he left, the telegrapher allowed me to see them. The first one was “Where?” the reply “On schedule, Trieste.” I caught up with him at Victoria where he purchased a ticket for that city. The train leaves in two hours.

“He may not make it to his destination, for Bobby saw the Austrian police agent Ritter buy a ticket for the same train. Ritter is presumably the one who killed Vrukonovic.”

“Watson, pack a valise quickly. We shall be on that train to Trieste. Shinwell, purchase a ticket for yourself as well. You will be accompanying us. Pack your weapons, Watson. We shall be among desperate company.”

Within the hour we were aboard the first of two trains that would take us to Trieste. Holmes was silent, deep in thought. Shinwell made one short visit to us reporting that Gordonov was safely aboard in the next car and that Karl Ritter had also boarded.

It was night and we were about to retire when the door of our compartment opened. A large, tall man in a long black coat entered and sat opposite us. He lit a Turkish cigarette.

“I believe we have met before,” he said, directing his remark toward Holmes with barely concealed animosity. “My name is Karl Ritter.”

“When we last met, your name was Heinrich Kurtz, of the Austrian secret police and the Archduke’s chief body guard and myrmidon.” said Holmes coldly.

“You have a strong memory, Holmes, though your characterization of me is not as complimentary as one could wish. However, let that rest. This time our governments have common interests, interests in stopping Die Tote Stadt and its gang of filthy criminals. But neither of us knows enough—we must combine our efforts. Otherwise we shall fail.”

Kurtz looked at Holmes and said without expression, “I want the piece of wire.”

Ignoring the Austrian’s words, Holmes reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope out of which he took the two photographs that he had taken from Vrukonovic’s room.

“The wire, Herr Kurtz, is concerned with events still in the future. Let us for a moment consider the past. These belonged to the late Vrukonovic, your most recent victim. But he was playing a complicated game. Do you still hunt, Herr Kurtz?”

Kurtz took the photographs as they passed through my hands. They were of a much younger Kurtz and two others, a man and a woman, in what appeared to be a hunting camp. The woman was quite beautiful.

“Ah,” said Kurtz, “Prinzip and his wife, the younger sister of Vrukonovic. So you remember that night.”

“Indeed I do.”

Holmes turned to me. “Another of those horrible events that leads only to even greater disasters. Let me tell you, and recollect for Herr Kurtz the early circumstances that led to our present meeting on this train.

“It was January, 1893. If you recall, Watson, at that precise time I was about to leave India to return to England. I had foiled Anton Furer but he had escaped. As I was about to leave the Nepalese jungle, I received word that the Austrian archduke Ferdinand and his camp were only a few miles away and that the Maharajah wished me to join the party. Reluctantly, I did, arriving by elephant in a few hours at the camp.