Moving quickly through several great halls, we came to rest in front of an unusual portrait. The subject was a somewhat eccentric-looking gentleman, dressed in a Bohemian style of eighty years or so ago, with a broad fur collar, a bright red scarf, his white hair in disarray, and a look of devilish, amused intensity on his vivid features. Holmes paused in front of this portrait, apparently taken by it.
I wondered aloud, ‘Who is this strange-looking fellow, Holmes, a friend of yours?’
‘Hardly, the man is long gone. But this painting is a recent acquisition and I have read of it. The subject is the painter Isabey, renowned for his miniatures.’
The slightly odd expression and clothing of the gentleman in the painting struck me. ‘He looks a bit mad!’ I remarked. ‘Or perhaps ready to embark on some shady diversion.’
Holmes turned to me in amusement. ‘Possibly. One never knows with an artist.’
I read the name below the portrait. It had been painted by Horace Vernet – the brother of Holmes’s grandmother! While he spoke little of his upbringing, he had once mentioned this.
‘Ah, your great-uncle is the artist!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is unusual for him, is it not? Wasn’t he more known for historical, and later military and oriental subjects?’ I wondered aloud, proud to demonstrate knowledge in at least one very small corner of the visual arts.
Holmes looked at me in some surprise, and then smiled, returning to his study of the painting.
I had made it a point to familiarize myself with the Vernet family in an effort to understand my friend. Horace Vernet was an odd chap, born in the Louvre itself in June of 1789, while his artist father (Holmes’s great-grandfather), Carle Vernet, hid out there during the violence of the French Revolution.
Carle’s sister, arrested for associating with the nobility, had been dragged screaming to the guillotine. Carle never painted again, but his son Horace went on to become a renowned artist, discarding the trappings of classicism and forging his own path as a renegade painter of a much more natural style whose topics were chiefly soldiers and orientalism.
While the other side of Holmes’s family were English country squires, and therefore probably more conventional (though I could not be sure), I have always felt, after learning of Holmes’s French ancestry, that it explained something of his ‘art in the blood’ theory.
Holmes, the cold reasoning machine, did have a deeply emotional side to him. And some of the leaps of thought which came to him – after amassing the facts, of course – displayed an imagination that could only be termed artistic.
As we strolled out of this gallery and into the next, Holmes leaned in close and whispered, ‘Have you noticed the man who is following us?’
I started and began to turn.
‘Don’t give it away! Continue to walk.’
‘Oh, give me more credit than that, Holmes!’
We drew presently into a room containing some drawings of Ingres. These pen-and-ink studies of women and children might have been pleasing but I could not focus. I glanced behind me. Was there someone who withdrew immediately behind the door to the next gallery? Or was Holmes, in his precarious state, imagining things?
Who would know we were there, or have the slightest reason to follow us? It must be merely another tourist. What was I thinking?
‘The gentleman with the large umbrella is quite skilled at concealment.’ Holmes nodded discreetly in the direction of the gallery from which we had just come.
‘I see nothing, Holmes,’ said I. ‘Most people leave their umbrellas in the cloakroom.’
‘Precisely.’
I glanced around again. I saw no man with an umbrella. A small trickle of worry began to take hold of me, coupled with impatience. ‘May I suggest a coffee?’
‘Follow me, Watson,’ he said, ‘and we shall lose the fellow.’ He took off at a brisk walk.
‘Ridiculous,’ I muttered, hurrying to follow. What could be the point of this mysterious game?
Ten minutes later, and after a breathless trot through a maze of galleries and rooms large and small on a route which seemed to be well known to my companion, Holmes decided we had succeeded in losing our shadow.
‘Good,’ I remarked. ‘Perhaps our follower has joined one of the tour groups of American ladies and will find himself a suitable wife, enabling him to give up a life of crime.’
Holmes ignored me and presently we came to a large, public staircase in front of a remarkable statue. It was the headless form of a woman, striding intemperately forth, wings spread behind her.
‘Behold the Winged Victory of Samothrace, or Nike,’ Holmes announced. ‘One of the finest examples of Hellenistic art in the world, if not the finest.’
But our fictional follower had grabbed hold of my imagination. ‘They are probably charming him now with their astute comments on the art,’ I said. ‘One of them will capture his fancy. Together, they will move to Philadelphia, opening a small umbrella shop where—’
‘I told you, we’ve lost him,’ snapped my companion.
‘He was never there, Holmes!’ I said, exasperated. But he ignored me, lost in contemplation of the statue.
‘Just look, Watson. Isn’t she magnificent? Notice the vivid stance, the spiral structure, the rendering of wet cloth – perhaps as if at the bow of a ship. The style is from the island of Rhodes, and the sculpture probably commemorates an ancient victory at sea. It is said that the Marseilles Nike I mentioned to you in the train bears a resemblance to her – which would make that statue most coveted indeed!’
He stared at it, rapt, entranced by which feature or idea, I could not say. It was lovely, I suppose. It was certainly dramatic, bordering on the histrionic. She was missing her head. Where was the head? I sighed, suddenly tired.
Holmes shot me a withering glance.
‘Is the tea room nearby? Perhaps a French pastry would revive me,’ I said.
‘Watson, don’t be such a Philistine. You are in the presence of one of the finest pieces of art in the Western pantheon—’ He stopped in mid-sentence and pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Ah, it is time! I have an appointment with the Curator of Sculpture to discuss the stolen Nike statue. It appears that a rare photograph is in their possession. Come, we must not be late.’
‘What? I thought you were not interested in this stolen statue.’
‘A favour to my brother; nothing more. And simple curiosity.’
I doubted this. Holmes was purposeful at all times. I tried to control my annoyance. ‘But when did you have time to make this appointment?’
‘I telegraphed from Dover,’ he snapped. ‘Obviously.’
It was typical of Holmes to disguise his agenda, even from me.
‘Holmes, there is only so much art I can imbibe at a time,’ I said, somewhat testily. ‘I am going for a cup of tea. Now.’
Thus I found myself alone in the galleries, scheduled to meet up with Holmes at the Rue de Rivoli entrance in three-quarters of an hour. He admonished me to take care and remain in sight of others.
I thought the warning pointless. No one could be following us in the Louvre. Who would know we were there, other than the art expert he was now seeing? I wondered if the residual effect of the cocaine, aggravated by too much artistic stimulation, had my friend’s imagination working overtime.
I attempted to find my way to the tea room but became lost and wandered for a good fifteen minutes, growing ever more fatigued and annoyed. Finally a sympathetic guard pointed out a short cut to the restaurant through a doorway and down some stairs normally reserved for employees of the museum.
I entered the dark spiral stairwell and began my descent. In retrospect, it was a foolhardy move. But I was yet to understand the extreme danger of our investigation.
As I passed the next landing, the door on the floor above opened behind me with a soft click. Having discounted our mysterious pursuer’s existence, I ignored this for perhaps a second or two. I became aware of the lack of footsteps behind me.
Had someone entered the
stairwell and remained standing, in the doorway above? Strange, I thought, and was turning to look when I was struck a sudden hard blow to the legs by a large figure shrouded in grey and wearing a low hat – and wielding an umbrella! I tumbled down the marble staircase like a child’s toy thrown in a fit of pique.
With a thud I slammed into the rails at the next landing, and lay there, my breath knocked out of me. A sharp pain in the ribs stabbed into my consciousness and I groaned. I heard the door on the landing above click shut. And then I blacked out.
When I regained consciousness I was lying on some sort of couch. The face of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, floated hazily above mine with an expression of fearful concern.
‘Watson! Watson!’ he entreated. His hand patted mine, as he tried to rouse me.
My eyes focused and I took in the scene. Behind Holmes were two security guards. We were in someone’s office. I blinked a few times.
‘I am fine, Holmes,’ I managed to say. ‘It was a small tumble.’
‘You were pushed down a steep flight of stairs,’ he said.
‘Well, yes.’
‘But you did not see your attacker?’
‘It happened too quickly,’ I replied, attempting to sit up. ‘I only glimpsed a hat. And an umbrella.’
Holmes snorted.
‘I suppose I did not believe you,’ I admitted sheepishly.
Holmes brusquely dropped my hand and whirled on the guards.
‘I shall ask you again! Who entered the stairwell?’ demanded Holmes of one of them, whom I now recognized as the guard who had shown me the stairwell.
‘Not a person,’ said the guard, in a defensive whine. ‘I go. I see nothing.’
‘No one?’ Holmes stared at him. ‘Idiot!’ he muttered under his breath, and then turned back to me. ‘Are you well enough to walk, Watson? We must get you to the hotel, and perhaps to a doctor.’
I sat up with a lurch, feeling a wave of nausea and some sharp pains in my legs, rib, and the back of my head. But taking stock, I realized that nothing was broken, and that I was probably no more than badly bruised.
‘I won’t need a doctor,’ I said, ‘but I could use that cup of tea. And perhaps a bit of rest before tonight.’
Holmes smiled with relief. ‘Good man, Watson,’ he said.
CHAPTER 5
Les Oeufs
fter a brief rest at our hotel, my headache abated and I was left with nothing more than sore ribs. We changed into our evening clothes, stopped briefly for something called oeufs mayonnaise and proceeded in a cab towards Montmartre. A light dusting of new snow lit by golden gaslights gave Paris a sparkling mystique.
‘You begin to realize, of course, that this case is more complex than it initially appeared.’
I could read from my friend’s expression that this did not altogether displease him.
‘Who do you suppose pushed me down the stairs?’
‘Ha! Our “imaginary” follower no doubt,’ he said with a smile.
‘Yes, but other than our client, and this expert at the Louvre, who knew we would be in Paris?’
‘From those two, and Mycroft additionally, stretch many possibilities,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But most probably it was the person at Mlle La Victoire’s apartment who was “not Bernice”.’
‘Do you have any theories?’
‘Four. No, five. But I believe my primary suspect will reveal himself tonight.’
I was not unaware of the keen pleasure my companion took in the increased danger of our situation. His eyes burned with the excitement of the chase.
I fingered the revolver, cold and reassuring, in my pocket. Against my better instincts, I found the thrill of adventure rising inside in me like an unwanted fever.
CHAPTER 6
Le Chat Noir
ur cab gradually left the Grands Boulevards as we made our way once again through the increasingly narrow and hilly streets towards Montmartre, home of colourful Bohemians and the centre of the art world in Paris. The ramshackle houses, crowded with trees and vines, gave the area an air of a country village gone mad.
Until relatively recently, this area had been on the very outskirts of Paris. I wondered if the windmills were still in the service of grinding grain.
One surely was not. Le Moulin de la Galette was now a beacon for one of the most famous nightclubs in the world, a scene of wild evenings – where Parisians and visitors from many lands gathered to hear beautiful women in arresting attire sing of love, despair and, through thinly veiled references, more intimate matters.
There, too, strange clowns cavorted in wild acts calculated to disarm and shock, and rows of shapely dancers performed the famous cancan, revealing glimpses of more than propriety would bear. Not that I had ever seen such things.
But I held out hope.
We passed the Moulin de la Galette and I was drawn to the colourful posters, glistening in the cold evening light, harbingers of this rich entertainment. They depicted swirling skirts, bright colours, strings of electric lights.
We were certainly far from London in every respect. I smiled at the thought of Mary at home and what she might think of this colourful locale. It would fall into her ‘I will just enjoy the postcard’ category.
Our cab pulled up outside 68 Boulevard de Clichy. A bold sign announced that we had reached our destination. The building itself looked like a country home, crowded in between two larger buildings, which leaned in like overly solicitous relatives. It was the famous cabaret Le Chat Noir, or ‘the Black Cat’.
I took a deep breath and willed myself to be on the alert. As we stepped down from our cab, I glanced up and down the street, but no one stood out in the milling masses.
Inside, after depositing our capes, hats and sticks with a blonde coquette who flashed me a wink and a smile, I reluctantly felt myself swept forward by the arriving crowd down a narrow hallway and up a steep stairway lined with French political cartoons. While the French sense of humour, I’ll admit, is not my own, I was struck by the bitter undertones, the funereal slant of the subject matter, the scorn and the anger beneath the humorous caricatures.
The contrast between the hostess’s inviting smile and the sarcastic political commentary was as unsettling as the tendency of the remarkably varied crowds to, well, push.
And then I got a glimpse of the main room.
My first impression was of utter chaos – the noise, the smoke, a hodgepodge crowd of Parisians of all classes, jammed in like sardines; the walls covered with paintings, posters, ornate cornices, lanterns, bizarre sculptures. An enormous stuffed aquatic creature hung from the ceiling. A porpoise? A giant catfish? I could not be sure.
The crowd was a milling, laughing mass. The noise was oppressive. In one corner were several Swiss Guards. I later learned Le Chat Noir was a social mecca for these odd mercenaries in their startling blue-and-yellow striped Renaissance clothing and white ruffs. A rowdy burst of laughter came from a cluster of them at a far table.
I’d heard of Le Chat Noir of course, but never imagined it would be a place that I would visit. It seemed a madhouse.
Holmes and I pushed our way through the dense crowd towards a couple of empty seats. A bearded ruffian in corduroy abruptly rammed into me, splashing his glass of wine on my waistcoat.
‘I beg your pardon!’ I said. The man stopped in his tracks and turned penetrating dark eyes to my face.
‘Anglais!’ he literally spat, the viscous wad narrowly missing my polished boots. ‘Va te faire foutre, espèce de salaud! On ne veut pas de toi ici!’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
I shot Holmes a questioning look, and he took my arm, guiding me to our seats. I blotted at the wine with my handkerchief, feeling my face turning red from the insult.
‘Sit,’ said Holmes, as we squeezed into two empty seats at the end of a long banquette against a back wall. ‘I see this is your first encounter with the virulent form of anti-English sentiment which has grown over the past years here.’
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p; ‘Still angry over Agincourt, I suppose,’ I replied, my dignity ruffled.
‘You do not understand the French,’ he said.
‘No one understands the French!’ I replied. Holmes grinned.
But it was true that there was a flavour to the crowd and the place itself that was impenetrable to my sensibilities. Looking around me, I sensed we were at the epicentre of some cultural movement, but I could not grasp its significance … or its meaning. I felt a bit like the stuffed creature hanging above us – an observer – separate, and quite out of place.
My attention was next drawn to a decorative circular frame enclosing a large translucent screen of some sort on the wall behind the stage. Noticing my puzzlement, Holmes explained. ‘That is the screen of the famous Théâtre d’Ombres, the Shadow Theatre,’ he said. ‘Shadow puppets, figures cut out of zinc, are projected there nightly. The writing is quite amusing. Very popular now.’
‘You’ve seen it, then?’ I wondered.
‘Several times. But, aha! There is the man of the hour.’ He indicated with a nod a tall, handsome fellow in a well-cut suit of European style, sporting a jaunty moustache and gliding effortlessly through the crowd. He was French, from his elegant dress and dark good looks. ‘Exactly whom I expected,’ said Holmes.
The gentleman looked our way, and Holmes nodded in greeting. I thought I detected a flash of annoyance from the man but his face then broke into a charming smile. He bowed mockingly in our direction before taking his seat.
‘Old friend?’ I asked.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Holmes. ‘Is he familiar to you, by chance?’
I studied the man, recognizing nothing. ‘Who is he?’
Before Holmes could answer, a server placed before us two carafes of water, and two curved glasses with a strange green liquid nestled in the lower part of each. A perforated kind of knife balanced across each, with a lump of sugar on top. Holmes paid her and turned to me with a smile, indicating I should pour the water over the sugar. ‘We’ll discuss it later. Now, do give this a taste; it is quite unique. But no more than a single sip, Watson; I need you sharp tonight.’
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