Read Online Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs by Steve Hayes - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Hayes
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black felt derby had fallen off in the initial collision; now, as he bent to retrieve it, he said,
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’
He quickly glanced about him. Chaos reigned as the police sought to detain as many of the fleeing fighters as they could, only to discover that none of them intended to go quietly.
‘Ich glaube, wir sollten besser von hier verschwinden – und zwar so schnell wie möglich,’
said the young man.
Watson frowned, cursing his limited knowledge of German. But the fellow’s meaning was clear enough – this area was not the healthiest place to be at the moment.
As if to prove it, another brawler broke away from the group, having seen the unhappy fate of his larger companion. He charged at them like a berserker, yelling obscenities. He was small, dark-skinned and slightly built, and at sixteen years of age seemed shockingly young to be filled with so much hatred.
Seeing him come, Holmes quickly raised his cane and used the handle to hook one of the legs of his chair. He tugged, sending the chair skittering across the cobbles and into the boy’s path. The boy collided with it, stumbled, and went sprawling.
The Good Samaritan, meanwhile, hurriedly gathered Holmes, Watson and Freud together and began to shepherd them toward the Kolingasse. But already the dark-skinned boy was back on his feet and snatching up the chair, raised it above his head and hurled it at them.
Fortunately, the chair missed its mark.
Un
fortunately, the boy, consumed by fury, then grabbed a knife from his belt and charged at Holmes.
Holmes turned to meet him. Dropping into a crouch, he hooked his cane around the boy’s leading ankle and yanked backward. The boy lost his balance and fell heavily to one knee. Before he could recover, Holmes raised his cane again and struck him a single, punishing blow on the temple.
The boy’s dark, malevolent eyes rolled up in his head. Dropping the knife, he collapsed, unconsciousness.
The young man gestured for Holmes and the others to follow him. He then led them into the Kolingasse, where some semblance of calm remained. As they paused to catch their breath, he said,
‘Jetzt müsstet ihr aber in Sicherheit sein.’
‘Thank you,’ Holmes replied in English.
Watson frowned disapprovingly. He knew how well Holmes spoke German and thought the least he could do was thank the man in his own language.
‘Danke schön,’
he said gratefully.
The dark-haired Samaritan smiled and again said,
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’
Then he hurried off.
‘Come,’ said Freud, patting his pockets in search of a freshcigar. ‘I believe you will find the tranquility of my apartments more conducive to discussion.’
Holmes, who was watching the young man vanish into the distance, nodded. ‘Yes,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘I rather suspect we shall.’
CHAPTER NINE
No Laughing Matter
A T THE G RAND that evening they enjoyed an excellent supper of
Eachtlingsuppe
, then followed the thick beef and potato soup with pork pot roast served with grated apple, horseradish and caraway potatoes, and
Salzberger Nockerl
– a sweet soufflé that Watson pronounced as possibly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.
Holmes, as was his custom, ate sparingly. But he seemed more than happy in their surroundings, for the dining room was as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the hotel, and an excellent string quartet played pieces by Mozart, Beethoven and a relatively new composer by the name of Schoenberg of whom Watson had never heard.
Upon their arrival at Bergstrasse 19, Freud had shown himself to be a most convivial hoSt Though he approached his work in a studious manner, the neurologist had inherited a charming sense of humour from his father, who had been a textile dealer in Freiberg, Moravia. Watson had begun to see him in a more favourable light. Freud had made a number of interesting observations about humour and its role in society and had even written a book about it.
‘Earlier
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’
He quickly glanced about him. Chaos reigned as the police sought to detain as many of the fleeing fighters as they could, only to discover that none of them intended to go quietly.
‘Ich glaube, wir sollten besser von hier verschwinden – und zwar so schnell wie möglich,’
said the young man.
Watson frowned, cursing his limited knowledge of German. But the fellow’s meaning was clear enough – this area was not the healthiest place to be at the moment.
As if to prove it, another brawler broke away from the group, having seen the unhappy fate of his larger companion. He charged at them like a berserker, yelling obscenities. He was small, dark-skinned and slightly built, and at sixteen years of age seemed shockingly young to be filled with so much hatred.
Seeing him come, Holmes quickly raised his cane and used the handle to hook one of the legs of his chair. He tugged, sending the chair skittering across the cobbles and into the boy’s path. The boy collided with it, stumbled, and went sprawling.
The Good Samaritan, meanwhile, hurriedly gathered Holmes, Watson and Freud together and began to shepherd them toward the Kolingasse. But already the dark-skinned boy was back on his feet and snatching up the chair, raised it above his head and hurled it at them.
Fortunately, the chair missed its mark.
Un
fortunately, the boy, consumed by fury, then grabbed a knife from his belt and charged at Holmes.
Holmes turned to meet him. Dropping into a crouch, he hooked his cane around the boy’s leading ankle and yanked backward. The boy lost his balance and fell heavily to one knee. Before he could recover, Holmes raised his cane again and struck him a single, punishing blow on the temple.
The boy’s dark, malevolent eyes rolled up in his head. Dropping the knife, he collapsed, unconsciousness.
The young man gestured for Holmes and the others to follow him. He then led them into the Kolingasse, where some semblance of calm remained. As they paused to catch their breath, he said,
‘Jetzt müsstet ihr aber in Sicherheit sein.’
‘Thank you,’ Holmes replied in English.
Watson frowned disapprovingly. He knew how well Holmes spoke German and thought the least he could do was thank the man in his own language.
‘Danke schön,’
he said gratefully.
The dark-haired Samaritan smiled and again said,
‘Bitte erwähnen Sie es nicht.’
Then he hurried off.
‘Come,’ said Freud, patting his pockets in search of a freshcigar. ‘I believe you will find the tranquility of my apartments more conducive to discussion.’
Holmes, who was watching the young man vanish into the distance, nodded. ‘Yes,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘I rather suspect we shall.’
CHAPTER NINE
No Laughing Matter
A T THE G RAND that evening they enjoyed an excellent supper of
Eachtlingsuppe
, then followed the thick beef and potato soup with pork pot roast served with grated apple, horseradish and caraway potatoes, and
Salzberger Nockerl
– a sweet soufflé that Watson pronounced as possibly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.
Holmes, as was his custom, ate sparingly. But he seemed more than happy in their surroundings, for the dining room was as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the hotel, and an excellent string quartet played pieces by Mozart, Beethoven and a relatively new composer by the name of Schoenberg of whom Watson had never heard.
Upon their arrival at Bergstrasse 19, Freud had shown himself to be a most convivial hoSt Though he approached his work in a studious manner, the neurologist had inherited a charming sense of humour from his father, who had been a textile dealer in Freiberg, Moravia. Watson had begun to see him in a more favourable light. Freud had made a number of interesting observations about humour and its role in society and had even written a book about it.
‘Earlier
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