The Holmes-Dracula File

Chapter Eighteen

As my friend and I drove east through the city again, in response to the telegram from Superintendent Marlowe, I asked: "Even if we are right to assume that the man did recently arrive in London by ship, how are we to distinguish his baggage from that of a thousand others?"

Holmes smiled. "I have not told you yet of my interview with the informer, Jones. The peculiar man Jones met in the hostel actually asked him where unclaimed luggage from the East India docks would be taken. Jones could not provide the information, but fortunately we have the means of finding it out."

"Jones told Lestrade of this also?"

"He did."

"But the police have made no effort to follow up this clue?"

"Lestrade only shakes his head, and shares your doubts about the possibility of distinguishing the baggage that is wanted. But—if my hopes are justified—it will be distinguishable because it is unique. What does a vampire need, Watson? What does he need even more than the blood he drains to slake his fearful appetite?"

With my heart sinking, as it did each time evidence of Holmes' unfortunate mental state was forced upon me, I muttered and mumbled something to the effect that I did not know.

"His earth, Watson! Some nest of the snug soil of his homeland, for in nothing else can he find rest. If we do not find a large trunk or box containing earth, then my hopes are not justified, and our quarry is a vampire native of England, merely returning from abroad with commonplace luggage of dirty laundry and spare shoes. Oh, they are human, you know, in many ways. Damnably like us, except…" Holmes' voice trailed off. His hands were both tightly clenched on the grip of a large carpetbag he had brought along from Baker Street, and he looked as grim as I had ever seen him. "But, if we do find a trunk filled with earth, in that moment a great cloud will lift from my mind."

"Then your wish to find it," I put in impulsively, "cannot be stronger than my own."

"Good old Watson! You are speaking sincerely in that much, at least. No, never mind about the rest. In time you will be convinced—I pray that the time is not too late."

Soon we were rolling to a stop at our destination, a Thames-side warehouse much like the one in which we had first met Superintendent Marlowe, and not far distant from it. Inside the building, we found him with two workmen, amid a huge pile of baggage of every description.

Marlowe, electric lamp in hand, was standing before a huge, brown leather trunk. "We have followed your instructions to the letter, Mr. Holmes," he announced by way of greeting. "This is the only thing of its size brought in as unclaimed this past month from the East India docks. It is locked, you see, and we have done nothing in the way of trying to open it."

"Excellent!" Holmes turned over the tag appended to the chest, which had only a light film of dust upon its surface. The tag was marked with the name M. Corday, and showed that the trunk had been shipped within the month from Marseilles to London.

"It's large enough to hold a body, as you said," the superintendent offered, while the eyes of the workmen widened as they listened. "You think, sir, that's what's in it?"

"Our task will be much simpler if it is. Kindly move it over here to the center of the open floor."

As if nerving himself for an ordeal, Holmes now drew from his pocket a small metal pick, and with this he attacked the lock. I saw a fine tremor in his hands, and twice his tool slipped from the narrow keyhole. His face was a mask of great restraint. At last, seeming to master his nerves by a supreme effort of will, he succeeded in working the mechanism.

The faint click of the lock was followed by a long moment in which he did not move at all. Then he stood up and with a violent motion flung back the lid. What precisely he had expected or feared to see within, I did not know, but I saw his shoulders slump with the sudden release of tension. And as I peered over his shoulder I saw to my own amazement that the great leather chest was half-filled with what appeared to be nothing but blackish dirt.

"It is as I hoped, Watson," Holmes breathed, and the great relief in his voice was as evident as it was mysterious to me. "Our killer is not a native of England, for he has brought his nest with him."

Opening the large carpetbag he had brought with him in the cab, my friend, to my astonishment, pulled from it a large stake of some hard wood, two feet long and about two inches thick, with one end sharpened to an almost needle-like point, and charred as if it had been hardened in a fire. With the point of this stake he began to probe down into the earth within the trunk, on the first few attempts hitting nothing resistant before reaching the bottom. On the next try, however, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction, laid aside the stake, rolled up one sleeve, and plunged his sinewy arm into the soil.

He pulled out a snug bundle that, when brushed off and unrolled on the warehouse floor, proved to be a large waterproof, in which had been wrapped two or three complete suits of men's clothing, a collapsible top-hat, soap and towels, a pair of boots, a clothes-brush, and a heavy purse. From this last, when Holmes had opened it, there poured out a substantial amount of bank-notes and coin, the latter predominantly gold.

Each of these items Holmes picked up and studied, briefly but with a feverish eagerness. "There is light in the darkness, Watson," he cried almost joyously. "The danger is far from past, but so far all the signs are hopeful."

Leaving Marlowe and his men to shake their heads in wonder, I, following Holmes' terse orders, saw the trunk and its contents conveyed to Baker Street, and there lodged in a corner of our sitting room. Holmes himself meanwhile hurried away on the errand he had already mentioned, an unexplained visit to our former foe, Von Herder.

By lunch time he was back in Baker Street, where to my complete surprise his first act was to hand me half a dozen cartridges. "These should fit your old service revolver nicely, Watson." I thought that when I weighed the casings in my hand they felt surprisingly light, and the bullets where they protruded from the brass were a strange, dull brown.

Seeing my puzzlement, Holmes nodded. "Yes, Watson, they are wood. They would not do, I fear, for long shots on the pistol range, but they are just what we want to defend ourselves during the task at hand. Kindly load your revolver with them immediately." His manner was now keen and eager as of old, without a trace of that inward agony that had lately given me such concern. I might have been relieved at this change, were it not that he gave no indication of changing his conviction that it was a vampire we were hunting.

On the contrary, Holmes soon summoned Mrs. Hudson, and gave her orders in the strictest terms. "A visitor will sooner or later call, in regard to this most impressive trunk. You are to admit no one—no man, woman, or child, no one at all, regardless of what reasons they may urge—who comes upon such an errand after nightfall. Who applies at night must be told to come back in the morning."

"Very good, sir."

When the landlady had gone, Holmes showed me the advertisement describing the trunk that he had placed in all the papers, and with that we settled down to wait. A day passed, and then another, none without some secret inquiry from the highest levels of government, regarding the threat of plague. Holmes curtly put off all official questions, and spent his time largely smoking, fiddling, or staring out the window.

For my part, I scarcely knew which way to turn. Had it not been for my friend's success in finding the trunkful of earth exactly as he had predicted it would be found, I should probably have decided to confide in Mycroft, and, with his approval, confront the highest authorities with our opinion that Holmes was no longer competent, by reason of an unbalanced mind.

Yet—there sat the trunk, inexplicably half-filled with soil. Had not Sherlock Holmes, even partially unbalanced, intellectual powers far beyond those of any other detective, powers that must be utilized if England were to be saved?

"He must come, Watson, he must come," Holmes muttered to me, over and over, in intervals of impatient pacing. It was night, some days after the trunk had been first advertised. "Though it now seems certain that he must have at least one other earth somewhere in London. Or is it possible that he is dead? We have heard nothing of him for some—"

The bell downstairs rang faintly, and Holmes stopped in mid-stride, finger to his lips. I, just risen from my chair to tend the fire, stayed where I was, listening with might and main. Very faintly I could hear Mrs. Hudson's voice below, and then felt the slight change in the draught that resulted from the closing of the downstairs door. Nothing else, until her familiar tread sounded gently on the stair, and she came in to give us her report. "It was a foreign-sounding gentleman, sir, very polite, asking about the trunk. I did just as you ordered."

Holmes was at one of the window-blinds, making sure that it was drawn shut to the last fraction of an inch. He came back close to our landlady before whispering: "And who is now in the house besides ourselves?"

"Why, just the servant girl, sir."

"Admit no one else tonight—much may depend upon it."

"Very good, sir."

When she had gone, Holmes said to me: "As for you, old fellow, he might well recognize you from Barley's. I must insist that you do not go out tonight."

"Agreed, provided you do not."

"I agree. And now it is time to get some sleep—we will have to be up and about at dawn."

The gray light of sunrise found us in the sitting-room once more. Holmes was heating coffee on his spirit-lamp, and examining his own revolver, when a sudden sharp jangle at the bell set my nerves to vibrating. Following Holmes' silent, urgent motions, I went with him into his room, where we closed the door to the sitting-room and waited, guns drawn and ready, literally holding our breath.

The door to the stair opened, and there was movement in the sitting-room—but the voices coming through to us were those of Peter Moore and Sarah Tarlton. I felt suddenly limp, and I saw Holmes slump, only to bristle again in vexation. Jamming his revolver into a pocket of his dressing-gown, he opened the bedroom door.

Sarah Tarlton turned to him with a glad little cry. "Mr. Holmes, I am glad that you are in at last. For several days we have been trying to see you, and—"

"And you have been told that I was out. Well, you are here now and there is no help for it. Was anyone outside in the street just now when you came in?"

Our visitors both looked puzzled. "Anyone?" Peter Moore replied. "I scarcely noticed."

Holmes shook his head and rubbed his eyes, muttering something that none of us—perhaps fortunately—could hear. "Both of you," he added, "were, like Watson, at Barley's on that night. So now that you are here, here you must stay."

"Stay? I am afraid I do not understand."

"We are in the process of trying to trap—the bell again! Quickly, into my room."

We all four crowded into Holmes' bedroom, where he in a hurried whisper tried to impart to our visitors as much knowledge of the coming confrontation as was practicable under the circumstances. To my relief, he did not mention vampires. Still Miss Tarlton paled a little, I thought, at the sight of our drawn revolvers. Peter Moore offered his help, and Holmes plunged an arm into his carpetbag and brought out the stake, which the young American accepted with a puzzled look but a determined grip, holding it like a club.

"Do you mean," Moore asked, "that this is the man who killed John?"

"I fear not. But perhaps even more dangerous—hist!"

The outer door to our sitting-room was opened, and we heard two people enter, and the voice of Mrs. Hudson, calmly bidding a visitor to be seated. Then she went out and the door closed.

Holmes, as silent as a stalking cat, waited a few seconds and then eased open the bedroom door and stepped through it. I was right behind him, and right after me came Peter Moore. I thought I could recognize the lone occupant of the sitting-room as the tall, lean man from Barley's, though he was garbed now in better clothing, and had his back to us, stooping over the trunk as if to examine it. At the sound of our entry he straightened up and turned, and there was no longer any possible doubt. The likeness to Holmes' face was quite as strong as I remembered it, as was the suggestion of ravaged nobility.

Holmes spoke first. "These weapons, sir, are for our own protection only."

"Indeed? Even with odds of three to one on your side?" It was a deep voice, and that of an educated man who spoke English well; yet it was not an English voice. I should have put the speaker's origin somewhere in Central Europe. Looking at our guns with a smile as of superior amusement, he went on: "And why are you all so timid on this bright morning?"

"We were more timid, still, last night," Holmes answered. Before he could say more, our latest visitor, with a sneer that showed his complete contempt for all of us, had turned his back and was once more bent over the trunk as if to continue his examination of the lock.

Holmes paled at this, and his voice when he went on had a smooth, deadly tone that I have seldom heard in it, and never without grave consequences for the person spoken to. "Let us play games no longer, Count Dracula. I shall be greatly pleased to hear from your own lips the story of how Frau Grafenstein came to her end."

It was evident from the sudden complete stillness of the figure before us that this shot had told. Then he turned to face us once again, straightening deliberately to full height. The newcomer glared now at each of us in turn, as if to make sure which was most worthy of his anger. His face was almost impassive, save for the eyes, but I could see his long, sharp-nailed fingers working slightly, as if their owner imagined them already fastened on our throats. His voice when he spoke was even deeper than before. "Gentlemen, I give you fair warning—do not fire those guns at me."

"I repeat," Holmes snapped, "that they are for our own protection only. And now, if you please, the truth about that killing on the docks."

"I do not tolerate meddling in my affairs, even by the police. They are not your concern."

"I make them my concern, and I tell you that I already know very much about them. That you killed Frau Grafenstein, for example, and that you drank her blood."

The man before us answered clearly: "I was extremely thirsty." In a flash it was borne in upon me what I should never have forgotten. That the question of Holmes' mental state entirely aside, we had already seen ample evidence that the man we now confronted must be utterly and violently mad. There was no reason, as I abruptly realized, that one capable of that horrible killing on the docks might not imagine himself to be a vampire, and even carry matters to the extent of traveling about Europe with a trunk half-filled with earth.

He turned away again, with a fine demonstration of contempt, and bent as if he meant to lift the massive trunk unaided. Nothing in my long association with Sherlock Holmes had prepared me for what happened next. Before I had the least inkling of Holmes' intention, his pistol fired. With a shriek the wounded man spun round on us, clutching his left arm. Far from being cowed, he would, I believe, have hurled himself upon us, were it not that the sight of our weapons still leveled held him back. His face was transfigured into a satanic mask of rage and hatred, while an almost inaudible moan, I think of anger as well as pain, came from his open mouth. I heard a faint outcry from Sarah Tarlton behind me, but I did not turn.

In a matter of only a few seconds, the man who faced us had himself in hand. I had been on the point of stepping forward to do what I could for his wounded arm, from which the blood had at first flowed freely. But his whole pose was unmistakably one of menace rather than defeat, and the blood-flow ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun, so that I judged it wiser, for the moment at least, to hold my place.

But when the terrible figure spoke to Holmes, it was almost as calmly as before. "May I congratulate you on thinking of wooden bullets? I had begun to believe all Englishmen were fools."

Holmes bowed slightly, coolly accepting the compliment. Our antagonist then smiled at us, and in that moment I was very glad of the loaded weapon still in my hand.

Holmes then performed almost formal introductions, as if we were met at some afternoon social function. The Count—I now saw no reason to doubt that Holmes had discovered the killer's correct name—received Holmes' own name with utter blankness, which seemed to have a disproportionate effect upon my friend's already exhausted nerves.

"Watson," he ordered brusquely, "take Mr. Moore and Miss Tarlton outside. There are matters I must discuss in private with this man."

"Holmes," I pleaded, "let me fetch Lestrade, or Gregson."

"Very well," he answered, after a moment. "Only leave us alone, at once. Whatever happens, do not come back until I call."

Indicating to the two young Americans that they should precede me, I obeyed Holmes' order and left the room. In fact I feared to refuse, thinking that if not humored he might commit some excess even greater than deliberately wounding the unarmed man. That Holmes had deliberately shot our suspect—however desperate and potentially dangerous, still an unarmed man with his back to us—was for me the final and convincing proof that my friend's behavior was no longer adequately governed by his great powers of reason.

As soon as the three of us were out on the landing at the top of the stairs, and the door to the sitting-room closed behind us, I took Moore by the arm and whispered to him fiercely that he must commandeer the first cab in sight and take it straight to Scotland Yard. There he was to brook no delay until he had laid hold of Lestrade or Gregson—or, failing those, whatever detective was immediately available—and returned to Baker Street with the police as fast as humanly possible.

"Tell them," I concluded, "that the life and sanity of Sherlock Holmes depend upon their speed!"

He swallowed, nodded, and was gone, almost flying down the stairs.

"And is there nothing I can do?" Sarah Tarlton, a trifle pale but otherwise composed, stood anxiously beside me.

"On the contrary," I whispered urgently. "There is something you must do, while I stay here." I pulled out the scrap of paper Seward had given me and thrust it at her. "Telegraph—or telephone if you can find an instrument—to Dr. Jack Seward at that address. Say: 'Patient much worse, immediate help imperative,' and sign it 'Watson.' "

The girl very coolly repeated my instructions, took the note, and hurried off.

I turned my agonized attention again to the door at the head of the stair. The two voices within were too low for me to be able to distinguish words, but I thought I could hear the deadly strain in both of them. Indeed, there were moments when it sounded like one voice only, murmuring on and on in soft maniacal anxiety.

Not quite daring to re-enter the room against Holmes' orders, yet scarcely daring to refrain, I waited, one hand near the doorknob, the other still holding my revolver.