Son of Holmes

by John Lescroart

  Forgetting the cat and feeling guilty, I nevertheless crossed to the desk and silently opened the top center drawer. It was filled with well-nibbled pencils, yellowing bits of paper with fading snatches of writing barely visible—in short, exactly what should have been there. Glancing at the books in front of me, I found the titles entirely commensurate with my expectations. Possibly he had a hollow book up there, but suddenly that struck me as highly unlikely. The room just didn’t feel like a hiding place, and I was beginning to feel foolish and slightly embarrassed for having invaded Paul’s privacy.

  He would be returning shortly with his coffee, and I resolved to get back downstairs as quickly as I could, when the kitten whined again, this time from the hole in the ceiling. Somehow it had made it up the stepladder and now was truly frightened. I moved over and looked up while the crying continued.

  “Come here, kitty,” I said, my foot poised on the bottom rung. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not much of a cat person, and my technique in calling was not effective. In fact, the animal disappeared back into the opening. “Come on,” I repeated. “Good kitty, come here.” I climbed the few steps and looked around.

  As my eyes became adjusted to the darkness, I was dumbfounded by what I saw. The attic looked like an arsenal. The walls on both sides under the pitched eaves were covered with rifles and pistols of every size and description. The cat forgotten, I crawled up into the small space and stared. Boxes of ammunition for the various guns sat open on the floor. I noticed a few bullet molds near a low table, what appeared to be a lead smelter, cleaning rags, the usual paraphernalia.

  In my shock, I must have lost track of the time. Paul’s voice echoed faintly from below, and then almost immediately I heard his bounding footsteps on the stairs. I had no time to cover my indiscretion.

  “I’m up here, Paul,” I said feebly, “in the attic.”

  “What the hell . . . ?” he began.

  I looked down at him. “I was trying to rescue a cat.”

  As though on cue, the kitten crawled to the opening and looked over, meowing at the sight of its owner.

  Paul stood on the balls of his feet as though poised for action, the coffee steaming in his right hand. I watched his face carefully and even went so far as to make sure my own pistol was within easy reach. But after a moment of consternation, he seemed to reach some decision and smiled at me, his insouciant air returning.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess you’ve found me out.”

  “I had no idea you had such an interest in guns.”

  He grinned. “Another surprise. First cats, then plants, now guns.”

  “But so many?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a hobby.”

  “You’ll pardon me if I say it’s a strange hobby, especially at this time. Do the police know about it?”

  “I doubt it,” he said, “or they’d have probably arrested me in spite of the fact that Marcel was poisoned.”

  “But what do you do with them?”

  “I save them, shoot them, clean them, make ammo. It relaxes me. Takes my mind off the jungle of literary life. Besides, guns fascinate me, always have.”

  “Aren’t you worried about being discovered?”

  “God! You talk as though I’d done something. No, not at all. I never let the kids up here, of course, and the few friends to whom I’ve shown the place can be trusted. I figure if you can trust me with your beer, the least I can do is reciprocate. No, I’m not worried.”

  “Do you shoot them often?”

  “Sure. In fact, yesterday I packed a few of ’em away and went off shooting. Got a couple of rabbits, though I got the first one with a buffalo gun. If there weren’t so many of the damn pests, I suppose I’d feel unsportsmanlike, but it’s good practice.”

  “Are you a good shot?”

  “In all modesty, Jules, I am a crack shot.”

  “Yet another thing I’d never have guessed.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? And there’s probably a lot more. I’ve got quite a few tricks up my sleeve. You know, I was in Alaska when I was a boy, looking to get rich on gold. Picked up a lot of useful knowledge there, not to mention most of my adult interests. Probably that’s why I like the kids here so much and take the time for them. Lots of old men helped me out up there, and it wasn’t so easy to get by.” He stopped abruptly, remembering, drinking his coffee reflectively, his eyes far away. “But come, Jules, take a look at what I really do.”

  I had to turn my back to him to come down the ladder and I felt a surge of trepidation as I began, but it was quickly over. He led me to the desk and picked up one of the stacks of paper, covered with what was, to me, an illegible scrawl. Americans write in a strange hand.

  “My first retrospective,” he said proudly. “Collected best poems from my other books. They’re even allowing me to pick the material. I’m a little nervous because I’ve decided to include twenty-three new poems. They asked for a collection of published stuff.”

  I picked up the bundle. “Looks like a lot of work, but it’s impressive, Paul. I’m sure they won’t mind the new work.”

  “I don’t really see why they would, but you never know.”

  “You know,” I said, “I’d like to read your work correctly translated someday. I always enjoy it but I’m afraid I miss nuances in English. And the poetry must be very good if they want a collection.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a living. Beats looking for gold.” He sat in the chair behind the desk and stared out the window. “I understand, though, that this will be translated into French, so you may get your chance. I’ll autograph a copy for you.”

  I thanked him and saw an opening for more questioning. “Where do you get your ideas, Paul? What does a poet do on an average day?”

  The subject seemed to interest him. “Yesterday wasn’t my average day, what with the shooting and all, and neither is today, since you’ve come. But generally I get up around dawn and drink coffee, write for two hours, and go after food. When I get back I have lunch, then go up to the studio and work on my hobbies. Usually, the kids come by. I’m kind of the neighborhood character. They all love coming over here, and we go out and fool around, exploring or whatever. One of the boys got a motorcycle not so long ago, and we’ve been doing a lot of fooling with that. Lots of fun. You ever ride one? No? Well, you wouldn’t believe the speed. Then I generally go to town and have dinner with one of my friends, then home, a little more writing, and bed. Doesn’t sound eccentric, does it?”

  “Not to me,” I admitted. I stood up and walked over to the plants. “You know one of Lupa’s fetishes is plants, too?”

  “See?” He came over to where I stood and began plucking dead leaves from some stems. “I never would have figured that.”

  “Mais c’est vrai,” I said. “Have you heard anything new about Marcel’s death?”

  “Have they arrested someone? I’d be happy to see that. It’s a real pain reporting every day to the flics.”

  “No. One of the investigators has been found dead.”

  He went to a chair and sat down.

  “Well, I’m damned! Looks like a bad business.”

  “Very,” I agreed. “He’d just been to see Henri.”

  “The poor bastard! You think he did it?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’m trying to keep out of it as much as I can. Haven’t seen the police yet.”

  “Probably a good idea. In fact, thinking about it, I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea meeting with everyone on Wednesday. Why not put it off a week?”

  “I should give you a reason, but it’s really more of a personal thing with me. We’ve, most of us, been friends for so long that I thought it would be good to get back together, lay any suspicion to rest.”

  “You’re right, I suppose. It would be good to see everyone back to normal.” He stood again with his coffee cup in his hand and clapped me heartily on the back. “Well, Jules, rest assured. I don’t suspect you of anything, except that I instinctively mistrust cat haters.�
�� He laughed.

  “Then can I expect you on Wednesday?”

  “Sure as shootin’.”

  “Comment?”

  “That means, yes, count on it.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “Have a good day. Ciao.”

  Paul showed me out, and I walked back to the car. He had raised many more questions for me than he’d answered. He’d been out yesterday with a rifle. But of course, if he were a crack shot, he wouldn’t have missed. Then again, possibly . . .

  Hell, I thought, possibly anything.

  I got in the car and started off toward the road. I rounded a turn and came upon a group of youths running alongside a boy on a motorbike, heading back toward Paul’s house. It was still a bit chilly, and I’d left my windows up, so that as I passed the boys their voices were muffled and indistinct, though shrill, and blended with the noise of the motor. I had the uneasy feeling that I’d heard those same voices before.

  13

  Jacques Magiot and I had been acquaintances for over forty years, and a mutual antipathy had developed between us over the course of time. When he was beginning his career with the police, I was a gadabout. He was a few years older than I, and before we’d finished secondaire, we’d had many of the same friends. Our fathers, as a matter of fact, had been quite close. After they had retired, they spent most of their afternoons together playing boules. So it was more or less assumed that we would become friends. It never happened. Once he tried to recruit me to the force, and I’d laughed at the notion. From that time, the condescension with which he’d always treated me—friendly condescension, to be sure—turned to subtle derision. I think he always considered me a do-nothing, and it no doubt angered him when I began to increase my father’s already substantial fortune through my own resources. Still, we would meet at parties occasionally and exchange pleasantries. As a policeman, he was competent for routine problems, entirely without imagination, and through some admixture of luck and obstinancy had arrived at the position of police chief of Valence.

  The police headquarters building was a large neoclassic monstrosity in the center of town. Arched and pillared, it might have been made by a blind, one-armed Roman. It was the largest building in town, built sans doute on the theory that if might makes right, big makes beautiful. Tant pis.

  I was ushered down the hall from the front desk to the room of one of the subordinates, a Monsieur Procunier. He was a short, heavy bald man with a large nose and a florid complexion. He sat behind his desk and bade me sit facing him.

  “Nice of you to come,” he began sarcastically. “We’ve been by your house several times. Have you received that message? There have been some murders lately, you realize.”

  I nodded. “My good man, Monsieur Magiot knows where he can find me, and no one said there was any urgency. Indeed, there couldn’t have been, or you’d have stationed someone at the house and brought me here as soon as I appeared. Now I’m here, voluntarily, to answer questions, I presume, and I have little use for sarcasm. Let’s get on with it.” I smiled. “By the way, will Monsieur Magiot be in?”

  “He’s in now. He’s to see you when I’m through taking your report.”

  “Fine. I’m at your disposal.”

  He asked me the same questions they’d asked the previous Wednesday, adding only a reference or two to Chatelet’s death. Did I have any suspicions? Had anything out of the ordinary happened to me since Wednesday? I didn’t know what Fritz might have told them, so I mentioned the episode with the rock and left out yesterday’s shooting incident.

  “You think it was a prank?” he asked.

  “Without any doubt. I heard children’s voices.”

  “Would you like a police escort?”

  “Good God, no! Whatever for?”

  “Protection.”

  So it went. How well did I know the people at the gathering? What was the purpose of the meeting? Did I know that if more than three people met at any time, it could be construed as a subversive gathering and was forbidden?

  “Thank you,” I said. “Is that all?”

  He directed me to Magiot. Jacques was dealing with some of his men when I entered, and I stood quietly by the door while he finished talking with them. After they’d filed out, he reached out his hand.

  “Jules,” he said. “Good to see you. It’s been quite a while. Nasty business, this, eh? I’m awfully sorry about Routier. He was a good friend of yours, I understand. Do sit down. Cigarette?”

  He carried his age very well. Though he was not compelled to by regulations, he preferred to wear his uniform while on duty, and it was well tailored. His dark hair was in a military cut over a disciplined and impassive face. He sat gripping his pipe lightly with both hands over the bowl, his elbows resting on the desk.

  I took the cigarette, and sat. “How are you, Jacques? Your man Procunier is quite a personality.”

  He waved it off. “Oh, sorry about that. I’ve just been so busy lately I’d rather have him take the routine things. You made a statement?”

  “Oui.”

  “Good. To tell the truth, I was a little concerned about the circumstances of the death at your place. Several foreigners, that sort of thing. You know gatherings of that size are forbidden.”

  “To drink beer?”

  “I know, I know. In your case, it’s rather silly. But there are reasons, as I’m sure you’ll understand. There have been rumors that Routier was mixed up in some international matters. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Nothing whatever. We’d been friends for a long time, and he never mentioned anything to me. Also, Jacques, between us, he didn’t really seem the type, did he?”

  He smiled condescendingly. “Yes. Well, I thought I’d ask.” He shifted in his chair and, looking down into the bowl of his pipe, said rather softly, “We think we know who did it.”

  “Really,” I said. “Who?”

  “How well do you know this Auguste Lupa? That was the first time he’d been to your house, wasn’t it?”

  “Not exactly. He’d been there that morning. As to how well I know him—hardly at all. I only met him last Tuesday, and he seemed a nice enough chap. He’s really an excellent chef, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard. That’s one of the reasons we find it strange he was there. He should be working at night. We’ve gone by La Couronne several times and have failed to find him. Why wouldn’t he be there during working hours?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “It does seem suspicious.”

  “Suspicious, ha! Damned suspicious, I’d say.”

  “But, Jacques, you haven’t been able to get in touch with me either in all that time, and there’s nothing suspicious about me, is there?”

  “I hate to bring it up, Jules, but you don’t work like your common man. Your hours are your own to order.”

  I smiled to myself. Probably my wealth would gall him forever. “So you suspect Lupa?”

  “Look at the facts,” he said. “Lupa’s the only new man at the party. He’s a foreigner, from Belgrade or somewhere—”

  “He’s an American citizen,” I interrupted.

  “All right, America. Doesn’t change the fact. Then, Routier’s sitting in Lupa’s seat and even drinking from his glass when he keels over. Lupa hadn’t even taken a sip from that glass. In the confusion of Lavoie’s glass breaking, Lupa dumps cyanide into the glass and arranges it so that Routier goes back to his seat. We don’t know exactly how he did that, but it seems reasonable. We’ve also got some problems with motive, though this international angle might come into play there. Then Lupa can’t be found when we want him, he refuses to cooperate at all, and”—here he paused for effect—“we went to see Vernet, the owner of La Couronne, and got Lupa’s papers, and they’re forged. Cleverly, but definitely. We’re going to pick him up tonight.”

  I sighed. “Well, that’s certainly a relief, Jacques. I’m glad you’ve found him. It does look rather bad for him. Forged, you say?”

  “Without doubt.�
�

  “What about your inspector? Him, too?”

  “We think so. He’s got no alibi. We figure Chatelet—that was his name—was on to something. He questioned Lupa, and Lupa panicked. With his size, he could have strangled him easily, and probably did. He hadn’t reported back to us yet, but his itinerary that morning had him seeing Lupa after the funeral, then the others, and none of the others saw him. He must have seen Lupa first, and been killed before he could see anyone else.”

  “But couldn’t it have happened that when Chatelet saw that Lupa’d missed the funeral, he changed his plans and took off on a new tack? In that case he might have run into someone else altogether.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But why would he change his plans? Did anything strange happen at the funeral? Anything to make you suspicious?”

  “No,” I said truthfully.

  “Well, then.”

  “Just a thought,” I muttered.

  “You just let us handle this, Jules. It’s what we do best.”

  I got up to go. “Well, good luck, Jacques. I hope you get him. And thank you.”

  He shook my hand warmly. “It’s a pleasure to set the mind of an old friend at ease. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll have everything straightened out and back to normal in no time.”

  I walked out into the cool evening. If that was what they did best . . . I smiled grimly to myself. So no one else had seen Chatelet, which of course meant that Henri had lied to the police. Understandable, but certainly neither wise nor wily. I decided to go to Lupa’s, to warn him. He wouldn’t be any good at all from inside a jail trying to convince a man like Magiot of his innocence. Magiot thought I was supercilious. I shuddered to imagine what he’d think of Lupa.