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

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.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

   In stories, any number of imbeciles may be encountered, ready to deliberately insult strangers who are aiming deadly weapons at them. In real life, there are only a few folk so suicidally inclined.

   “So,” I said mildly, when the two men and the lovely young woman had gone out. “You are Sherlock Holmes.” I was of course trying to give the impression of some sort of recognition—better belated than never—before a second wooden bullet should leap superbly aimed from my captor’s gun, this one to splinter its way right through my vitals. His first shot, I observed, had incidentally punctured my fine trunk, as well as spraying it delicately with its owner’s gore. “You must tell me,” I