The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

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