by John Hall
‘By the way,’ said Holmes, ‘speaking of keeping watch, you have not had us followed, have you?’
Lefevre looked puzzled, and shook his head. ‘Not I.’
‘Hmm. We were certainly followed from the bistro, and I thought I spotted someone even earlier, but I may have been mistaken there.’
‘I had the same sensation!’ said I.
‘That is final, then. But it was not the police, you say?’
Lefevre shook his head again.
‘It was most likely Jean-Paul’s doing,’ I said.
‘This last time, perhaps,’ said Holmes. ‘But it was certainly very prescient of the gang to follow us earlier, before they even knew of our existence! There is something odd here – unless both of us were mistaken. As for today,’ he went on, ‘I shall take a walk round the quarter. Watson here has already had the opportunity to acquaint himself with our surroundings, but I fear I have not, and – although this area is not completely unfamiliar to me – I do not know my way round as well as I might wish. I do not know if Watson would care to join me in my gentle stroll?’
‘I had thought of going as far as the Place de l’Etoile,’ said I, ‘and see if I cannot spot our lodgings of the night before last.’
‘Capital!’ said Holmes.
‘In that case,’ said Lefevre, ‘I shall wish you both au revoir and hope that you have good hunting!’ He shook hands with us, and took his leave.
Holmes and I gave Lefevre a few minutes’ grace, so that we did not seem too obviously connected with him, and then made our way downstairs and out into the street.
‘I shall expect you at dinner time,’ said Holmes, and, after tipping his hat to a jaunty angle, he sauntered off like any sightseer.
I set off in the opposite direction to that Holmes had taken. It was a beautiful day, I was not under any obligation to be at a specific place at a specific time – not until such time as I should meet Holmes that evening, anyway – and my ill-gotten gains nestled snugly in my pocket. I believe that I was as much at ease with the world as any man in Paris.
I made my way to the Rue Mouffetard, and there took a cab, asking the driver to take me to the Place de l’Etoile. The Place was crowded, as always, and as I stood on the pavement, irresolute, a sense of the futility of my task came upon me. What a fool I had been, to imagine for one moment that I could retrace a journey made in the dark, in a carriage whose blinds were drawn!
The crowds continued to push past me as I tried valiantly to consider the best thing to do. There are some seven or eight broad avenues leading from the Place – I have never bothered to count them exactly – but perhaps the two best known to the English visitor are the Champs-Elysées, and the Avenue leading to the Bois. The Champs-Elysées looked particularly busy and dusty, as people sought their luncheon. But to my left it seemed quieter, the Bois lay at a distance of less than a mile, and there I could rest in the shade and the greenery. The choice was not a difficult one, after all, and I set off along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne at a leisurely pace, staring about me as I went.
The shade here was pleasant, and there was certainly no shortage of imposing mansions; just the sort of place, thought I, in which Holmes and myself had been more or less uninvited guests. Who could say just what might go on behind these grand façades, these great doors and shuttered windows? Why – but my train of thought was interrupted, as I stumbled and bumped into a young lady. She had evidently been coming from one of those very mansions, perhaps to take luncheon with some fortunate young man; whilst I had been gawping like any day-tripper, instead of looking where I was going.
I hastily drew back, but the young lady had managed to drop her parasol in the confusion. Now, dear reader, I think I might make a guess as to what you are thinking, and if it had been London, or if the circumstances had been different, I cannot say but that your guess might be correct. But it was so palpably an accident; and the young woman was so clearly a lady, and so clearly belonged here, in these august surroundings; and then her expression showed a sort of pretty confusion, but no trace of coarseness, or of invitation; and so without hesitation I picked up her parasol, and handed it to her.
‘A thousand pardons, Madame,’ I told her.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said she, blushing delicately. ‘Mademoiselle Marie Huret.’
EIGHT
Marie! For a moment, I was taken aback, for the name was so much like that of my wonderful, departed wife. And then this young lady was so much like Mary in appearance, blonde, with a most striking face – not at all the conventional ‘beauty’ such as may be seen in the society pages of any illustrated weekly paper, but with a delicacy and refinement which gave promise of a most wondrous character. All this conspired to deprive me of the power of thought for a moment; I stood there blushing and speechless, like any schoolboy at his first dance, until at long last I managed to stammer out, ‘Er – Harris. Harry Harris.’
‘ ’Arry ’Arris?’ said she in English, with a most charming accent. ‘Then you are surely an Englishman? I knew it! I knew it at once, when you bumped into me just now – I could tell by your so charming accent that you were no true Frenchman!’
Damnation, I thought! What would Holmes say? What should he say – what, indeed, could he say, other than most strident and well-deserved words of reproof and objurgation? I could almost hear that cynical voice in my ear now – ‘Watson, Watson! Ever the same old Watson! The merest glimpse of a pretty face, and all our careful work is undone in an instant! You did try to confuse her, of course, by using my alias instead of your own! But then on the debit side, you managed to tell her your middle name – something that took me ten years to discover – in the first two minutes of your acquaintance! Well done, old chap! It is good to have someone who may be relied upon to be remain a fixed point in an ever-changing age!’
Come, come now, Holmes, I told the stern critic seated on my shoulder – it is not quite that bad. True, I may have forgotten for the moment that I am currently passing myself off as Monsieur Henri Vert; and perhaps I also inadvertently omitted to recall that Henri should really be rendered in English as ‘Mr Price.’ But then this cloak-and-dagger business has never been a strong point with me; I know it is the very breath of life to you, Holmes, just as it was with that strange species, the Indian Political Officers, who were forever blacking themselves up and dressing in native costume – aye, and using names that were not their own! I was always more a man of action, one for acting in the open, and by the light of day, rather than concealing my true nature under any disguise. But for all that, this lady does not know my real name – and what matter if she did? How could that affect the outcome of our adventures? Answer me that, Holmes!
I became painfully aware that the young lady was looking intently at me, as if she expected some reply.
‘Ah, yes,’ I managed. ‘That is, you are absolutely right – I am, indeed, English. From – ah, Portsmouth, you know.’
‘I do not know it,’ said she. ‘But doubtless Monsieur also has the opportunity to visit London frequently – with his wife, perhaps?’
‘My wife, alas, is dead,’ said I, ‘some two or three years ago.’
‘Oh! But I am so sorry to hear it! Monsieur, then is obliged to visit London alone; that is so sad! But then it must always cheer him up to see so beautiful, so wonderful a city – I have never been to London, though I have always wanted to go there. It must be such fun to see the boutiques, the grands magasins – and, of course, the famous places. Oxford Street, with its shops; Regent Street; Baker Street. Monsieur will know all these famous places so well, n’est-ce pas?
‘Well, er – that is, I have been there once or twice, of course. As, indeed, most people have. Well, I am sorry to have collided with you in such an uncivil fashion, but it has been a delight talking to you, Mademoiselle. There seems no real harm done, and so – ’
‘Oh’ she cried suddenly, taking hold of my arm, ‘I am so sorry, Monsieur, but I feel a little faint.’
‘It is the shock,’ said I. ‘You had best go and sit down for a moment. Is this your house?’ and I pointed back to the great mansion from which I took it that she had just emerged.
‘Yes. But I am not ill, merely shaken. There is no need to go back home and worry Monsieur Huret – my uncle, of course – he is a very busy man, and has many cares already. Perhaps Monsieur would be so kind as to take me to the café on the corner, there, and sit with me whilst I have a cup of tea?’
‘Of course! Tea would be the finest thing for you! Settle your nerves at once!’
‘I have the English taste, you see!’ she said, smiling at me.
We set off for the little café which stood at no great distance.
‘But tell me,’ said Mademoiselle Huret, ‘Monsieur is surely a doctor, that he diagnoses so quickly what is wrong?’
Watson! Watson! The words rang in my ear, so clearly that I turned round, fully expecting to find Holmes there!
‘No, no. Not at all,’ I mumbled, as we reached the café. ‘Just a lucky guess, that was all.’
‘I think Monsieur is being modest.’
We sat down, and I ordered some tea. ‘Would you care for something to eat?’ I asked. ‘I was just going to have lunch myself, as a matter of fact.’
‘No, thank you. Well, perhaps just a little something, then.’
We ate, and talked. Mademoiselle Huret asked me all manner of questions about myself, about England in general, and London in particular. And I endeavoured to answer as best I could, but always maintaining my role as a provincial visitor.
When the meal was over – all too quickly, as far as I was concerned! – I took Mademoiselle back to her grand house, and left her at the gate. There was no suggestion that I should do otherwise, and I did not expect any. In the hour or so we had spent together, there had been not the slightest hint of any sort of romantic dalliance; Mademoiselle was so much younger than I, for one thing, and so much like my own dear wife. Indeed, were it not too fanciful – or, the cynical reader will perhaps say, too precious – I should have said that Mademoiselle Huret put me in mind of the daughter whom I might have had, if circumstances had been somewhat different. To have presumed in any way upon our acquaintance would have been unthinkable.
As we said goodbye, though, she stood on her toes, and kissed me on the cheek. And then she was gone, with me staring after her like a schoolboy.
The last couple of hours had cheered me up considerably, and I resolved to continue with my search for Constantine’s house. I set off, therefore, towards the Bois, looking left and right as I went. After no more than ten minutes, though, my new-found mood of optimism had evaporated. What on earth was I thinking about, to suppose that I was, in some mysterious fashion, likely to stumble upon one mansion, the right mansion, amongst so many? Why, I was not even sure that I was heading in the right direction, much less that I was in the right thoroughfare!
Then I thought again of Mademoiselle Huret, and I could not be too angry with myself. Instead, I laughed aloud at my foolishness, thereby startling a tall, distinguished and well-dressed gentleman who happened to be passing. He was in the company of a very young and very flamboyant lady, who was not, I think, his wife; and I rather suspect that he thought that I was passing some comment on his conduct. I mumbled ‘Pardon,’ but I do not think it helped.
I walked on, and then, struck by something about the appearance of the couple I had just bumped into, I turned to look back. There was no sign of them, which was odd, as there was no side road. They must, of course, have gone into one of the great houses that lined the road, I told myself. For all that, there was something odd – something familiar, I should have said – about the man’s appearance. Where had I seen him before? I thought for a moment, then gave it up and went on my way.
I may have been more cheerful, but I was no more optimistic than I had been a moment or two before. To approach the job of finding Constantine’s house as if it were a job that I could reasonably hope to do, a goal that might be achieved, was clearly preposterous – if Fate wanted me to find the place, then she would lead me there!
Rather than waste more time, then, on a fruitless task, I did as I had originally intended, and went as far as the Bois, where I spent the next two or three hours in quiet contemplation. So quiet and so contemplative was I, in fact, that I woke with a start to find, after consulting my watch, that I would have to hurry if I wanted to get back and meet Holmes in time for dinner.
Holmes had already returned to the pension when I arrived, and I could see at once that he looked somewhat on edge.
‘Not late, am I?’ I asked.
‘Not at all, Doctor.’
‘Good!’ said I, with a sigh of relief. ‘What a glorious day, Holmes! I have really enjoyed myself today!’
He leaned over, and took from my lapel – a single, blonde hair! ‘So I observe,’ said he.
‘Nonsense, Holmes! Nothing of that sort, I assure you!’
‘I am delighted to hear it.’
Wishing to change the subject, I asked him, ‘I trust you have had an enjoyable stroll – although I rather suspect otherwise.’
Holmes laughed. ‘I never was very good at concealing my impatience,’ said he. ‘But it is not your lateness that makes me restless, nor yet an unseemly eagerness for my dinner. It is the fact that we must wait until tomorrow for a chance at the gang – and even then, we may be told merely that we are not wanted for work today, for all the world like some poor longshoreman at the dock gates.’
‘Oh, it may not be so bad – we did promise ourselves a week or so before we tried another approach, did we not?’
‘You are right, of course,’ said he.
‘Well, then – how did you pass your day?’ I enquired.
‘Pretty much as I had intended – I have been sauntering round the immediate environs, both to fix the geography in my mind and to gauge, so far as might be possible, the disposition of the local inhabitants.’
‘And did you succeed?’
‘I did with the former. The latter – well, it is a curious thing, Watson, but – tell me, how would you describe our surroundings?’
‘Squalid,’ said I bluntly. ‘Doubtless it was once a patrician neighbourhood, but the centuries have not been as kind as they might.’
‘Exactly! It is run-down, dirty. Very much like the East End of London, in fact, but with little of the camaraderie and good humour – even if of a rough, gallows type – that exists among our cockneys.’
‘That is pretty much my own conclusion,’ said I, puzzled to know what he was driving at.
‘That being the case, you would expect a good deal of petty lawlessness, would you not? And yet on my ramble I saw no great evidence of anything untoward. It is true that I had one or two offers from such of the ladies of the town as had managed to be up and about relatively early, but there were no brawls in the markets, no cries of “Stop thief!” in the streets and alleys. Old ladies held their purses out in plain view, unafraid of pickpockets. What say you to that?’
‘Well, that is surely no bad thing!’ said I with a laugh. ‘Say, though – are you suggesting that there was no petty crime because all the local criminals have been recruited into this gang, and are waiting for bigger things?’
Holmes nodded. ‘That is precisely what I am saying.’
‘I see! Of course, from the point of view of the old ladies, and what have you, it is no detriment.’
‘Of course not.’
‘But standing back to look at the whole canvas – ’
‘Ah, that is a different picture, is it not?’
‘It is indeed,’ said I. ‘For it implies that some larger villainy is in prospect.’
‘My conclusion exactly.’
‘It is rather a pity that we cannot predict exactly what it might be, Holmes!’
‘Now, that is true to some extent. We cannot, as you say, predict just when the next attempt on a bank or a post office will be, let us say. But we can perhaps look
beyond that, and see what Jean-Paul’s mysterious “chief” may have in mind for the longer term.’
‘I scarcely follow you there, I fear.’
‘Well, you heard Jean-Paul say that “the chief” was angry that the President had been assassinated.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ I hesitated. ‘And – ?’
Holmes sighed. ‘And why should Bill Sykes, a common crook, mind who sits in the Presidential Palace? One head of state is surely much like another, to the average blackguard.’
‘I see! Yes, Jean-Paul did say that some silly so-and-so had “jumped the gun”, or something to that effect, did he not? And he drew parallels between this “chief” and Napoleon, which I rather suspected were somewhat exaggerated. But now it looks as if he may have read the situation quite correctly. In a sense, then, the assassination of the President – tragedy though it is, heinous though it is – may have prevented a yet greater tragedy.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘But, Holmes! That makes no sense! You heard Jean-Paul – even if he were not exaggerating, and this “chief” really does plan some kind of coup d’état – the whole apparatus which would have enabled him to take power was not in readiness.’
‘True. But you do not imagine that would stop a determined man?’
‘But my point is that it did stop him! There has been no coup, Holmes!’
‘Ah, not this time.’
‘But – ’ I stopped, and stared at him. ‘Do you mean that once the apparatus is in place – ’
Holmes nodded calmly.
‘Then,’ said I, my head spinning, ‘the next President is – will be – ’
‘Very far from safe. Just so, Doctor. Hence my impatience, for I have no doubt that this “chief” will be accelerating his plans now.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because the assassination will have provoked some hard thinking amongst the forces of law and order no less than amongst the forces of evil. It may well be that the next President will not make quite so many public appearances. Or that the presidential bodyguard will be increased in numbers. Or that there will be a general round-up of anarchists and known or suspected criminals – as I told you, Dubuque and Lefevre were planning to move against “our” anarchist ring before ever you and I came to Paris. The man we seek will have worked all that out; he will want to move quickly, before all these measures can be put into force and make his task more difficult, if not downright impossible.’
