To my great surprise, shortly after the last man had left, Madame Celeste appeared in the street outside. Her encounter with the front steps was a replay of the same heroic struggle as before, and as she entered the office, she made a grand gesture of wiping her brow as though she had just single-handedly laid down the rails for the transcontinental railway.
“Alors, monsieur, c’est très disagreable!” she grunted, as I motioned her to a seat.
“Thank you so much for returning to see us,” I said.
Holmes stood over by my sergeant’s desk; Pierce had yet to make an appearance.
“Madame Celeste, I would like you to meet my associate, Mr. Altamont.”
“Jean Paul Altamont at your service, madame,” Holmes said, stepping forward.
Madame Celeste looked him up and down with a critical eye. Evidently, however, he met with her approval, and she favored him with a broad smile. Her teeth were brown and even as railroad ties.
“Alors, enchanté, monsieur,” she said, offering him a plump hand. To my surprise, he took it and kissed the large green sapphire ring on her middle finger.
“The honor is mine. Your fame precedes you, madame,” he replied gallantly.
“Vraiment, monsieur?” she said, giggling like a child.
“Oh, yes, most assuredly. Even where I come from they have heard of you.”
“Oh, and where is dat, monsieur?” she asked with a coquettish smile.
“I’m from up north,” Holmes answered vaguely, sitting across from her.
Apparently caught up in his flattery, she did not press him to be more specific.
“So, monsieur, what brings you down here?”
“Some family business, and a chance to visit my colleague here.”
His words warmed me, and I blushed at the idea of being called a “colleague” by the great detective.
“Madame Celeste,” I began, emboldened by the fact that she was obviously so taken with Holmes. “I wonder if we might question you further about your visit yesterday?”
She looked at me and then at Holmes, her face darkening.
“It is a bad business … va!” she added, which in this context meant something like “Shoo!” or “Begone!”
“Yes, indeed. I couldn’t agree with you more,” Holmes responded. “But I fear you have not told Captain Brasseaux the whole story.”
Madame Celeste blinked once and opened her eyes wide.
“Mais certainement, ce n’est-ce pas vrais,” she said, speaking very rapidly and entirely in French. “C’est un couchemare, vraiment.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, a nightmare indeed—especially if this murder you seem to fear takes place. But this information did not come to you in a vision, as you claim.” He leaned in toward her. “Whom are you trying to protect?”
“Dere is no protecting, monsieur,” she replied, drawing herself up indignantly and fanning her face with a lilac-scented handkerchief. “You must understand, when de people come to me, eh, dere is the same confidance as in the confessional—I can never betray my sacred vow!”
“But you did come to warn Captain Brasseaux that his friend was in danger.”
“Yes, yes,” she answered impatiently. “But more I cannot say! It is not allowed.” She turned to me with pleading eyes. “Please understand me, mon capitan, it is not dat I wish your friend ill—but I have a vow I must keep, the sacred oath of voudoun.”
“She means voodoo,” I explained to Holmes. “Voudoun is another word for it.”
“Dis person, I have helped dem before, oui? Perhaps I try to heal sickness, or I weave a little fabric … but den dey ask me to put a gris-gris—a spell—and I say no I will not do that—I do not do le Petro!”
“Petro is black magic,” I said to Holmes, and he nodded as she turned to me.
“So den dey go away and I come to warn you, monsieur—you can save your friend’s life. You and Monsieur Altamont must watch him, no?”
The poor woman was quite agitated now, and she looked back and forth from me to Holmes with a piteous expression. He patted her hand gently.
“I understand, madame—you cannot tell us who came to ask for your services because your sacred oath prevents it.”
“Exactement, monsieur—c’est ça!” She looked greatly relieved.
“Thank you very much for your time, madame—it is much appreciated,” Holmes said, escorting her to the door. “You have been quite helpful.”
“Vraiment, monsieur?”
“Yes, very. Please rest assured that Captain Brasseaux and I will do everything we can to keep his friend safe.”
“Yes, yes—you must. Merci, monsieur, merci.”
“You too must be careful,” Holmes replied. “Please allow me to look in on you tomorrow.”
“D’accord—merci,” she answered, and with a flourish of her scented handkerchief, she was gone.
Holmes watched her negotiate her journey down the stairs, which took her nearly as long as coming up. “Remarkable woman,” he mused. “She was very brave to come here … but I fear she, too, is now in danger.”
I wondered at what evil person or persons could endanger not only Charles but also the famous Madame Celeste.
“Around here voodoo is considered a religion, much the same as Catholicism or any other religion,” I said to Holmes.
“So I gather. She obviously takes her responsibilities very seriously.”
“I personally don’t see that much of a distinction,” I remarked. “Sometimes I think all religion is just an excuse for indulging in socially acceptable superstition.”
“Perhaps so. In any event, we are dealing with a very cunning and versatile adversary,” Holmes observed, as Sergeant Pierce stumbled into the station house, looking as though he had the worst of a bout with a bottle of whiskey last night.
“’Morning,” Pierce said, with a glance at Holmes; then he muttered something about it being Carnival and took a seat at his desk.
“How did you know that she was hiding something from me?” I said, but Holmes was already putting on his coat.
“I’m very sorry, but I have other business to attend to. Perhaps we could meet around noon at your friend’s house? I imagine we would both like to see how he is getting on.”
We agreed to a lunchtime meeting at the Latilles’, and Holmes left. I devoted the rest of the morning to catching up on long-neglected paperwork; then, shortly before noon, I turned to my sergeant.
“Pierce, take over, will you? I’m going out for a while.”
“Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward over his desk.
“Sir, about that gentleman …”
“Yes, Pierce?”
He studied his fingernails. “Well, sir, I was wondering—”
“His name is Altamont, Pierce. He’s from up north.”
“Oh. I see. So he’s—”
“He’s helping me out on one or two little matters.”
“I see, sir. Very good, sir.”
“I’ll see you later, Pierce.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though Holmes seemed to feel Charles was in no immediate danger, I was concerned about my friend and anxious to see him. As I walked along Royal Street, the sound of a guitar floated out of the window of one of the older houses in the Quarter, and I stopped to listen for a moment. The Brasseaux family is rumored to have gypsy blood, and I believe it. When I hear the sound of guitar music, nothing else matters. The strum of a pick over catgut sends me into a trance, much the same way as a gator will go quiet if you stroke his head, right between the eyes. My father played the guitar, as did his father, and as far back as anyone can remember, a Brasseaux has always played the guitar.
When I arrived, Evangeline met me at the door.
“Oh, Lucien, thank heavens you’ve come!” she cried, throwing herself into my arms.
“What is it, Evy?” I said, stroking her black curls.
“I’m so frightened!”
“Is it Charles? Is he all ri
ght?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
I turned to see my friend, standing in the hallway, looking much improved from the day before.
“I’m glad to see you on your feet!” I said, taking him by the shoulders and studying his face. He was a bit pale, but he had regained some of his color, and his voice was much stronger.
“What is it, then?” I said, turning to Evangeline. “What’s happened?”
“Come here and I’ll show you,” Charles answered, starting toward the parlor. Just then the front doorbell rang, and we all turned.
“Oh, that must be Mr. H—Altamont,” I said, hastily covering my error.
Evy went to open the door, and sure enough, it was Holmes, looking a bit winded, as though he had had a busy morning.
“Good afternoon, Miss Latille,” he said, tipping his hat as he entered.
“Hello, Mr. Altamont,” she said shyly, lowering her eyes.
“It is good to see you looking so much better,” Holmes said to Charles.
“Thank you—and thank you for your concern,” Charles replied somewhat distractedly.
Holmes looked at him, then back at me. “What is the matter?”
“Something’s happened,” I said, “but I don’t know what yet.”
“I’m afraid we had a bit of vandalism last night,” Charles told us. “Nothing much, really, probably just a prank—but Evy is rather frightened.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Someone threw a stone through our parlor window!” Evy cried.
“It’s probably just a Mardi Gras prank,” Charles remarked.
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Is that kind of thing common here?”
Charles shrugged. “This time of year anything can happen.”
Evy tugged at his sleeve. “Tell them about the note!”
“What note?” I said.
Charles sighed and took a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to me. “This was attached to the rock with a string. I’m sure it’s just a stupid prank.”
I looked at the paper—a common enough scrap of white paper, but scribbled upon it was a crude drawing of a black hand. I turned pale and handed the paper to Holmes. The Black Hand was a symbol for a violent branch of the Italian Mafia.
“Interesting,” he said, studying it. “Are you aware of what this symbol signifies?”
“Those damned dagoes!” Evy cried. “It’s a warning—they’re out to get Charles!”
I was used to hearing crude remarks around the police station, but I was taken aback to hear my Evy using such language.
“Hmm,” Holmes mused. “Perhaps. Might I see the place where the rock landed?”
“Certainly,” said Charles, with a glance at me.
“Oh, Mr. Altamont is a detective from … up north,” I said hastily.
“Ah, I see. Well, it’s right over here,” Charles said, leading us into the parlor. “I’m afraid it shattered the window rather badly. Evy wanted Esthmé to clean it up, but I thought you might want to have a look. I left the rock there, too.”
A pile of glass lay scattered at the bottom of one of the French windows in the front parlor. Holmes went over to the window and lifted back the curtain, studying the fabric. “This window looks out onto the street, so anyone could have come by, thrown the rock, and run away.”
“Yes,” said Charles. “I didn’t even hear it—I was sleeping—but Evy did. It woke her up, and she came to get me.”
“I was so frightened!” said Evangeline. “I thought someone had broken in.”
Holmes said nothing more, but knelt to study the glass on the floor carefully, examining it under a magnifying glass he pulled from his pocket. I studied the same curtain that seemed to interest him so much, but I could see nothing unusual about it.
“Very well,” Holmes said at last. “I see dark forces are at work here.”
“So you think it is the Black Hand?” Charles said. He was trying to appear unconcerned, but I could tell he was frightened.
“I cannot say at present,” Holmes replied, “though I have Learned some very interesting facts from the crime scene. Thank you for preserving it so well.”
“That’s Lucien’s influence,” Charles answered. “Did you know he used to be a detective until he was promoted to Captain?”
“Uh, yes—Jean Paul and I go way back,” I said.
“Funny,” said Evy. “I’ve never heard you speak of him.”
“Well,” said Holmes, “I have an urgent call to make elsewhere, and I hope you will excuse me. I suggest you keep a low profile,” he said to Charles. “Don’t go into your office tomorrow, if you can avoid it.”
“Very well,” said Charles. “Business is not very good anyway—I doubt if anyone will miss me much. And the Comus ball is tomorrow night, so I’ll just rest up for it. I suppose going to the ball presents no danger?”
“No, that will be all right,” said Holmes, turning to me. “Are you free to accompany me to my next destination?”
I looked at Charles, who nodded. “We’ll be fine—really.”
“All right,” I said. “Send for me if anything else happens.”
“We will,” he said, and followed us to the door.
“Where is that stalwart servant of yours?” Holmes inquired, looking around.
“Oh, Esthmé is out in the garden burying the poor cat,” Charles answered.
“Dear me,” said Holmes. “The same cat that was missing yesterday?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Poor thing just died—out of the blue, really. She hadn’t even been sick, as far as I know.”
“Hmm,” said Holmes. “Was she an old cat?”
“No, quiet young, actually—in fact, I gave her to Evy just a year ago.”
“Poor Pumpkin!” Evy said, and began crying again. “Don’t let’s talk about it—it’s too sad!”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. I knew the cat—a plump orange tabby, very affectionate, and devoted to Evangeline.
“I am, too,” said Holmes. “The death of a pet can be such an upsetting thing.”
“Will you be all right, darling?” I asked Evy, who nodded through tear-streaked eyes.
“You will come for us tomorrow to escort us to the ball?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I answered. “I think we all need some fun in the middle of these unsettling events.”
Holmes and I stepped out onto the street and walked down the avenue to the streetcar stop. When we were far enough away from the house, he turned to me.
“Will you accompany me to Madame Celeste’s?”
“Yes, but—”
“We must act quickly and decisively—I am afraid your friend is in great danger. I also fear for Madame Celeste’s safety.”
I stared at him as we climbed onto the trolley. “But you just said—”
“Never mind what I said!” he interrupted impatiently. “I had my reasons. But the death of the cat, among other things, has convinced me that he is in danger.”
“What’s the cat got to do with it?”
“My dear Captain Brasseaux,” he replied, “don’t you see? The cat was poisoned.”
“Poisoned!”
“I am certain of it—and so was your friend. He was very lucky to escape … my guess is that the poisoner most likely used arsenic oxide. The killer was experimenting on the cat, but a lethal dose for a cat is not quite the same as for a person—fortunately for your friend.”
“But—what’s to stop them from trying again?” I said.
“The rock through the window indicates they are already trying other tactics,” he replied. “Poisoning that fails once can look like food poisoning, but a second incident … well, that would look suspicious.”
“What about the rock, then? What did you find in the curtain that was so interesting?”
“It is what I did not find that interests me,” he said. “But here we are—I only hope we aren’t too late!”
I followed him fr
om the trolley down into the heart of the French Quarter, struggling to keep up with his long strides. I couldn’t help think of my English counterpart, Dr. Watson, as I trailed after Holmes through the crowded streets of the Quarter. I felt a kinship to him, and I felt privileged to be walking in his shoes, as it were, if only for a short time.
When we got to Celeste’s building, the windows on the first floor were all dark. However, Holmes went up to the front door and knocked loudly. Receiving no answer, he tried the door, but it was locked.
“I hope we aren’t too late,” he said as he hurried around to the back entrance. We found the outer door ajar, and a shiver threaded its way up my spine as Holmes pushed lightly on the door and entered. We found ourselves in the kitchen, which was dark and quiet. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and the aroma of sage and rosemary mixed with the smell of andouille sausage coming from a pot of stew cooling on the stove. I followed Holmes down a narrow hallway to a side parlor.
There, lying on a burgundy Oriental rug, her throat slit, was Madame Celeste. The blood around her neck was dried and caked—she had evidently been there for some time. A few fat flies circled lazily around the wound. Her open eyes stared up at a slowly revolving ceiling fan. She wore her usual layer of colorful fabrics, turquoise over sunburst yellow. A soft grey scarf lay at her side—it had not been able to protect her throat from the knife that had sliced cleanly through her jugular vein.
“Oh, no,” I said softly, and bent down to close her sightless eyes.
Holmes stood staring at her silently for some time, then he hit his forehead sharply with a clenched fist and swore under his breath. He turned abruptly and left the room.
I followed after him, perplexed. “Aren’t you going to examine the crime scene?”
“There is no need,” he snapped. “I know perfectly well who killed her.”
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 34
