The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Peerless Peer Read online

  Numbly, I obeyed. A moment later, with an acrobatic skill that I still find incredible, he swung through the door. In one hand he held a Spandau with a rifle stock. A moment later, while I held on to his waist, he had closed the door and shut out the cold shrilling blast of wind.

  “There they are!” he yelled, and he pointed the machine gun at a point just past Holmes, lying on the floor, and sent three short bursts past Holmes’ ear.

  Holmes said, “Really, old fellow...” Wentworth, raving, ran past him and a moment later we heard the chatter of the Spandau again.

  “At least, he’s back in the cockpit,” Holmes said weakly. However, this was one of the times when Holmes was wrong. A moment later the captain was back. He opened the trap-door, poked the barrel of his weapon through, let loose a single burst, said, “Got you, you ****ing son of a *****!” closed the trap-door, and ran back toward the front.

  Forty minutes later, the plane landed on a French military aerodrome outside of Marseilles. Its fuselage and wings were perforated with bullet holes in a hundred places, though fortunately no missiles had struck the petrol tanks. The French commander who inspected the plane pointed out that more of the holes were made by a gun firing from the inside than from guns firing from the outside.

  “Damn right!” Wentworth said. “The cockroaches and their allies, the flying leopards, were crawling all over inside the plane! They almost got these two old men!”

  A few minutes later a British medical officer arrived. Wentworth, after fiercely fighting six men, was subdued and put into a straitjacket and carried off in an ambulance.

  Wentworth was not the only one raving. Holmes, his pale face twisted, his fists clenched, was cursing his brother Mycroft, young Merrivale, and everyone else who could possibly be responsible, excepting, of course, His Majesty.

  We were taken to an office occupied by several French and British officers of very high rank. The highest, General Chatson-Dawes-Overleigh, said, “Yes, my dear Mr. Holmes, we realise that he sometimes has these hallucinatory fits. Becomes quite mad, to be frank. But he is the best pilot and also the best espionage agent we have, even if he is a Colonial, and he has done heroic work for us. He never hallucinates negatively, that is, he never harms his fellows — though he did shoot an Italian once, but the fellow was only a private and he was an Italian and it was an accident — and so we feel that we must permit him to work for us. We can’t permit a word of his condition to get back to the civilian populace, of course, so I must require you to swear silence about the whole affair. Which you would have to do as a matter of course, and, of course, of patriotism. He’ll be given a little rest cure, a drying-out, too, and then returned to duty. Britain sorely needs him.”4 Holmes raved some more, but he always was one to face realities and to govern himself accordingly. Even so, he could not resist making some sarcastic remarks about his life, which was also extremely valuable, being put into the care of a homicidal maniac. At last, cooling down, he said, “And the pilot who will fly us to Egypt? Is he also an irresponsible madman? Will we be in more danger from him than from the enemy?”

  “He is said to be every bit as good a pilot as Wentworth,” the general said. “He is an American...”

  “Great Scott!” Holmes said. He groaned, and he added, “Why can’t we have a pilot of good British stock, tried and true?”

  “Both Wentworth and Kentov are of the best British stock,” Overleigh said stiffly. “They’re descended from some of the oldest and noblest stock of England. They have royal blood in them, as a matter of fact. But they happen to be Colonials. The man who will fly you from here has been working for His Majesty’s cousin, the Tsar of all the Russias, as an espionage agent. The Tsar was kind enough to loan both him and one of the great Sikorski Ilya Mourometz Type V aeroplanes to us. Kentov flew here in it with a full crew, and it is ready to take off.”

  Holmes’ face became even paler, and I felt every minute of my sixty-four years of age. We were not to get a moment’s rest, and yet we had gone through an experience which would have sent many a youth to bed for several days.

  Four

  General Overleigh himself conducted us to the colossal Russian aeroplane. As we approached it, he described certain features in answer to Holmes’ questions.

  “So far, the only four-engined heavier-than-air craft in the world has been built by the Russians,” he said. “Much to the shame of the British. The first one was built, and flown, in 1913. This, as you can see, is a biplane, fitted with wheels and a ski undercarriage. It has four 150-horsepower Sunbeam water-cooled Vee-type engines. The Sunbeam, unfortunately, leaves much to be desired.”

  “I would rather not have known that,” I murmured. The sudden ashen hue of Holmes’ face indicated that his reactions were similar to mine.

  “Its wing span is 97 feet 91/2 inches; the craft’s length is 56 feet 1 inch; its height is 15 feet 5 and seven-eighths inches. Its maximum speed is 75 miles per hour; its operational ceiling is 9,843 feet. And its endurance is five hours — under ideal conditions. It carries a crew of five, though it can carry more. The rear fuselage is fitted with compartments for sleeping and eating.”

  Overleigh shook hands with us after he had handed us over to a Lieutenant Obrenov. The young officer led us up the steps into the fuselage and to the rear, where he showed us our compartment. Holmes chatted away with him in Russian, of which he had gained a certain mastery during his experience in Odessa with the Trepoff case. Holmes’ insistence on speaking Russian seemed to annoy the officer somewhat, since, like all upper-class people of his country, he preferred to use French. But he was courteous, and after making sure we were comfortable, he bowed himself out. Certainly, we had little to complain about except possibly the size of the cabin. It had been prepared especially for us, had two swing-down beds, a thick rug which Holmes said was a genuine Persian, oil paintings on the walls which Holmes said were genuine Maleviches (I thought they were artistic nonsense), two comfortable chairs bolted to the deck, and a sideboard also bolted to the deck and holding alcoholic beverages. In one corner was a tiny cubicle containing all the furniture and necessities that one finds in a W.C.

  Holmes and I lit up the fine Cuban cigars we found in a humidor and poured out some Scotch whisky, Duggan’s Dew of Kirkintilloch, I believe. Suddenly, both of us leaped into the air, spilling our drinks over our cuffs. Seemingly from nowhere, a tall figure had silently appeared. How he had done it, I do not know, since the door had been closed and under observation at all times by one or both of us.

  Holmes groaned and said, under his breath, “Not another madman?”

  The fellow certainly looked eccentric. He wore the uniform of a colonel of the Imperial Russian Air Service, but he also wore a long black opera cloak and a big black slouch hat. From under its floppy brim burned two of the most magnetic and fear-inspiring eyes I have ever seen. My attention, however, was somewhat diverted from these by the size and the aquilinity of the nose beneath them. It could have belonged to Cyrano de Bergerac.5

  I found that I had to sit down to catch my breath. The fellow introduced himself, in an Oxford accent, as Colonel Kentov. He had a surprisingly pleasant voice, deep, rich, and shot with authority. It was also heavily laced with Bourbon.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “I think so,” I said. “You gave me quite a start. A cloud seemed to pass over my mind. But I’m fine now, thank you.”

  “I must go forward now,” he said, “but I’ve assigned a crew member, a tail gunner now but once a butler, to serve you. Just ring that bell beside you if you need him.”

  And he was gone, though this time he opened the door. At least, I think he did.

  “I fear, my dear fellow, that we are in for another trying time,” Holmes said.

  Actually, the voyage seemed quite pleasant once one got used to the roar of the four motors and the nerve-shaking jack-out-of-the-box appearances of Kentov. The trip was to take approximately twenty-eight hours if all went well. The only time w
e landed was to refuel. About every four and a half hours, we put down at a hastily constructed landing strip to which petrol and supplies had been rushed by ship, air, or camel some days before. With the Mediterranean Sea on our left and the shores of North Africa below us, we sped toward Cairo at an amazing average speed of 70.3 miles per hour, according to our commander. While we sipped various liquors or liqueurs and smoked Havanas, we read to pass the time. Holmes commented several times that he could use a little cocaine to relieve the tedium, but I believe that he said that just to needle me. Holmes had brought along a work of his own authorship, the privately printed Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, With Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen. He had often urged me to read the results of his experience with his Sussex bees and so I now acceded to his urgings, mainly because all the other books available were in Russian.

  I found it more interesting than I had expected, and I told Holmes so. This seemed to please him, though he had affected an air of indifference to my reaction before then.

  “The techniques and tricks of apiculture are intriguing and complex enough,” he said. “But I was called away from a project which goes far beyond anything any apiculturist — scientist or not — has attempted. It is my theory that bees have a language and that they communicate such important information as the location of new clover, the approach of enemies, and so forth, by means of symbolic dancing. I was investigating this with a view to turning theory into fact when I got Mycroft’s wire.”

  I sat up so suddenly that the ash dropped off my cigar onto my lap, and I was busy for a moment brushing off the coals before they burned a hole in my trousers. “Really, Holmes,” I said, “you are surely pulling my leg! Bees have a language? Next you’ll be telling me they compose sonnets in honour of their queen’s inauguration! Or perhaps epitases when she gets married!”

  “Epitases?” he said, regarding me scornfully. “You mean epithalamiums, you blockhead! I suggest you use moderation while drinking the national beverage of Russia. Yes, Watson, bees do communicate, though not in the manner which Homo sapiens uses.”6

  “Perhaps you’d care to explain just what...” I said, but I was interrupted by that sudden vagueness of mind which signalled the appearance of our commander. I always jumped and my heart beat hard when the cloud dissolved and I realised that Kentov was standing before me. My only consolation was that Holmes was just as startled.

  “Confound it, man!” Holmes said, his face red. “Couldn’t you behave like a civilised being for once and knock before entering? Or don’t Americans have such customs?”

  This, of course, was sheer sarcasm, since Holmes had been to the States several times.

  “We are only two hours from Cairo,” Kentov said, ignoring Holmes’ remarks. “But I have just learned from the wireless station in Cairo that a storm of severe proportions is approaching us from the north. We may be blown somewhat off our course. Also, our spies at Cos, in Turkey, report that a Zeppelin left there yesterday. They believe that it intends to pick up Von Bork. Somehow, he’s slipped out past the cordon and is waiting in the desert for the airship.”

  Holmes, gasping and sputtering, said, “If this execrable voyage turns out to be for nothing... If I was forced to endure that madman’s dangerous antics only to have...!”

  Suddenly, the colonel was gone. Holmes regained his normal colour and composure, and he said, “Do you know, Watson, I believe I know that man! Or, at least, his parents. I’ve been studying him at every opportunity, and though he is doubtless a master at dissimulation, that nose is false, he has a certain bone structure and a certain trait of walking, of turning his head, which leads me to believe...”

  At that moment the telephone rang. Since I was closest to the instrument, I answered it. Our commander’s voice said, “Batten down all loose objects and tie yourself in to your beds. We are in for a hell of a storm, the worst of this century, if the weather reports are accurate.”

  For once, the meteorologists had not exaggerated. The next three hours were terrible. The giant aeroplane was tossed about as if it were a sheet of writing paper. The electric lamps on the walls flickered again and again and finally went out, leaving us in darkness. Holmes groaned and moaned and finally tried to crawl to the W.C. Unfortunately, the craft was bucking up and down like a wild horse and rolling and yawing like a rowboat caught in a rapids. Holmes managed to get back to his bed without breaking any bones but, I regret to say, proceeded to get rid of all the vodka and brandy (a combination itself not conducive to good digestion, I believe), beef stroganoff, cabbage soup, and black bread on which we had dined earlier. Even more regrettably, he leaned over the edge of the bed to perform this undeniable function, and though I did not get all of it, I did get too much. I did not have the heart to reprimand him. Besides, he would have killed me, or at least attempted to do so, if I had made any reproaches. His mood was not of the best.

  Finally, I heard his voice, weak though it was, saying, “Watson, promise me one thing.”

  “What is that, Holmes?”

  “Swear to me that once we’ve set foot on land you’ll shoot me through the head if ever I show the slightest inclination to board a flying vehicle again. I don’t think there’s much danger of that, but even if His Majesty himself should plead with me to get into an aeroplane, or anything that flies, dirigible, balloon, anything, you will mercifully tender euthanasia of some sort. Promise me.”

  I thought I was safe in promising. For one thing, I felt almost as strongly as he did about it.

  At that moment, the door to our cabin opened, and our attendant, Ivan, appeared with a small electric lamp in his hand. He exchanged some excited words in Russian with Holmes and then left, leaving the lamp behind. Holmes crawled down from the bunk, saying, “We’ve orders to abandon ship, Watson. We’ve been blown far south of Cairo and will be out of petrol in half an hour. We’ll have to jump then, like it or not. Ivan says that the colonel has looked for a safe landing place, but he can’t even see the ground. The air’s filled with sand; visibility is nil; the sand is getting into the bearings of the engines and pitting the windshield. So, my dear old friend, we must don the parachutes.”

  My heart warmed at being addressed so fondly, though my emotion was somewhat tempered in the next few minutes while we were assisting each other in strapping on the equipment. Holmes said, “You have an abominable effluvia about you, Watson,” and I replied, testily, I must admit, “You stink like the W.C. in an East End pub yourself, my dear Holmes. Besides, any odour emanating from me has originated from, or in, you. Surely you are aware of that.”

  Holmes muttered something about the direction upwards, and I was about to ask him to clarify his comment when Ivan appeared again. This time he carried weapons which he distributed among the three of us. I was handed a cavalry sabre, a stiletto, a knout (which I discarded), and a revolver of some unknown make but of .50 calibre. Holmes was given a cutlass, a carbine, a belt full of ammunition, and a coil of rope at one end of which were grappling hooks. Ivan kept for himself another cutlass, two hand grenades dangling by their pins from his belt, and a dagger in his teeth.

  We walked (rolled, rather) to the door, where three others stood, also fully, perhaps even over-, armed. There was a window further forward, and so Holmes and I went to it after a while to observe the storm. We could see little except clouds of dust for a few minutes and then the dust was suddenly gone. A heavy rain succeeded it, though the wind buffeted us as strongly as before. There was also much lightning, some of it exploding loudly close by.

  A moment later Ivan joined us, pulling at Holmes’ arm and shouting something in Russian.

  Holmes answered him and turning to me said, “Kentov has sighted a Zeppelin!”

  “Great Scott!” I cried. “Surely it must be the one sent to pick up Von Bork! It, too, has been caught by the storm!”

  “An elementary deduction,” Holmes said. But he seemed pleased about something. I surmised that he was happy because Von Bork had eit
her missed the airship or, if he was in it, was in as perilous a plight as we. I failed to see any humour in the situation.

  Holmes lost his grin several minutes later when we were informed that we were going to attack the Zeppelin.

  “In this storm?” I said. “Why, the colonel can’t even keep us at the same altitude or attitude from one second to the next.”

  “The man’s a maniac!” Holmes shouted.

  Just how mad, we were shortly to discover. Presently the great airship hove into view, painted silver above and black below to conceal it from search lights, the large designation L97 on its side, the control car in front, its pusher propellor spinning, the propellors on the front and rear of the two midships and one aft engine-gondolas spinning, the whole looking quite monstrous and sinister and yet beautiful.

  The airship was bobbing and rolling and yawing like a toy boat afloat on a Scottish salmon stream. Its crew had to be airsick and they had to have their hands full just to keep from being pitched out of their vessel. This was heartening to some degree, since none of us on the aeroplane, except possibly Kentov, were in any state remotely resembling good health or aggression.

  Ivan mumbled something, and Holmes said, “He says that if the storm keeps up the airship will soon break up. Let us hope it does and so spares us aerial combat.”

  But the Zeppelin, though it did seem to be somewhat out of line, its frame slightly twisted, held together. Meanwhile, our four-engined colossus, so small compared to the airship, swept around to the vessel’s stern. It was a ragged approach what with the constantly buffeting blasts, but the wonder was that it was accomplished at all.

  “What’s the fool doing?” Holmes said, and he spoke again to Ivan. Lightning rolled up the heavens then, and I saw that his face was a ghastly blue-grey.

  “This Yank is madder than the other!” he said. “He’s going to try to land on top of the Zeppelin!”