Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin

by John Hall

  ‘I see! You are right, of course. I understand your impatience, now.’

  ‘Let us hope that we make some progress soon,’ said Holmes. He stood up. ‘If you are ready to dine, Doctor, so am I.’

  I fear that my appetite was not as hearty that evening as is my wont; while Holmes ate practically nothing. I did not, as I have on so many occasions, remonstrate with him over this fact, for I knew that he was thinking, trying to produce a plan of campaign which did not depend on mere blind Fate.

  And for all that it was Fate which moved our investigation along, as you shall see. I was a long time getting off to sleep that night, for I was thinking over what Holmes had said, and trying in my own small way to see whether I might provide any suggestions which might contribute something to his eventual strategy.

  I woke to find Holmes dressed and shaved. ‘Are you ready for breakfast?’ he asked me. ‘I confess I am somewhat sharp-set, as the falconers say.’

  ‘Your own fault, Holmes!’ I told him, getting out of bed. ‘You should have eaten properly last night.’

  ‘Ah, but I was thinking,’ said he.

  ‘And have you reached any conclusion?’

  ‘Only that I shall have a decent breakfast!’ he answered. ‘And then we shall see if we are needed today. If not, then we shall try to find another scent, and work that independently of Jean-Paul and his little band. What say you to that, Doctor?’

  ‘Capital! The thought of inaction is anathema to me.’ And, that now being settled, I made every bit as hearty a breakfast as did Holmes.

  We walked to the little bistro as we had been ordered, arriving there at ten minutes before nine. The back room was already crowded, there being perhaps twice as many people in there as we had seen the day before, and this time there were women among them. My first thought was that Holmes’s deductions were proved appallingly correct, and that there was some grand enterprise planned for that very day. In the event I was wrong; and I subsequently concluded that on the previous day we had arrived there somewhat later than nine o’clock, with the result that some of the gang had already left on their various enterprises.

  We got some curious looks from those who had not seen us the previous day, and one or two of them came forward rather shyly to introduce themselves. There was ‘Maurice the Knife,’ I recall, a likeable enough fellow with a Northern accent you could cut with what I assume was his favourite weapon; and ‘Denis the Dip,’ and ‘Fifi the Hell-cat,’ and one or two others I cannot bring to mind. These civilities were interrupted by the arrival of Jean-Paul, who gave out his orders with the minimum of formality. Some were told to go to a certain place, or to report to a certain person; some were told merely, ‘As previously agreed,’ and these would nod and leave; and finally, some poor souls were told, ‘Nothing for you today.’ These latter seemed genuinely upset that they had not been deemed worthy, and I could almost find it in me to feel sorry for them.

  Holmes and I were left until the very last, so that it was only when the room was empty apart from the three of us that Jean-Paul finally said, with a touch of wonder in his voice, ‘Well, my lads! Ready for something a little special, are you?’

  ‘Indeed, yes!’ said I, while Holmes nodded.

  ‘That’s good! And it’s a great compliment, I can tell you, to be selected so soon in your careers for something this big! Now then, someone wants a word with you.’ Jean-Paul went over to a door in the far corner of the room, and tapped on it.

  The door opened, and out came our old friend, Monsieur Constantine. He bowed to us. ‘I hoped that we should perhaps meet again,’ he told us.

  ‘You have a job for us?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Perhaps.’ From under his cloak, Constantine took a magazine.

  My heart sank! I recognized the front cover of the Strand, indeed the very volume which contained my very first short story about Holmes, “A Scandal in Bohemia”. How often had I glanced proudly at that magazine, or left it lying casually about where my friends might notice it! I silently cursed the fact that I was unarmed. True, my revolver was in my pocket – but I had foolishly omitted to load it!

  ‘You have, perhaps, seen this before?’ Constantine was asking us, waving the magazine.

  With an effort, I told him, ‘No, not I.’

  Holmes shook his head. ‘Nor I.’

  Constantine spread the magazine on the table, and flicked over its pages. ‘Ah, yes.’

  I saw to my horror that he had turned to my own story of the King of Bohemia and Miss Irene Adler!

  ‘What say you to that?’ asked Constantine.

  Holmes looked over his shoulder. ‘I can make out only a few words of English,’ said he, ‘but it seems to me to be singularly wanting in literary skill.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said I. ‘Why, even if one knows no English at all, one must admire the simple, strong, short sentences, and the elegant way in which the paragraphs – ’

  ‘This is not a literary circle, mes amis!’ cried Constantine. ‘It is that upon which I want your opinion!’ and he stabbed with a finger at the page.

  I looked where he indicated, and if my heart had sunk earlier, it positively missed a beat – or two – now. Constantine’s finger was tapping against one of the illustrations. An illustration which showed me sitting at my ease in an armchair before the fire at 221B, Baker Street; while Mr Sherlock Holmes stood leaning against the mantelpiece talking to me!

  NINE

  ‘Well? And what of it?’ said Holmes in the most off-hand manner you could imagine.

  ‘This fellow standing warming his backside at the fire,’ said Constantine. ‘Do you not think he resembles you, more or less?’

  Holmes picked up the Strand, and made a great show of studying the illustration. ‘I can see no similarity, to speak plainly,’ he said, with as much indifference as before, tossing the magazine back to Constantine.

  ‘And you, Monsieur Vert?’ Constantine handed the magazine across to me.

  I glanced at it. ‘Not the slightest resemblance,’ said I, and meant it.

  I could see that Constantine was puzzled by my stout denial. As I read it, Constantine had seen the Strand illustration – heaven knows how, unless perhaps one of his men had drawn his attention to it – and he entertained some suspicions of Holmes. But he was not absolutely sure of the identification, and meant to test Holmes and myself, to see what our reaction might be. According to that reaction, Constantine would judge us guilty or innocent.

  Now, Holmes can always be relied upon to give nothing away unless he really wants to; he possesses the most immobile countenance of any man I have met, when he chooses. And then my own rejection of Constantine’s suggestion sounded authentic, for the simple reason that it was authentic – there was, in very truth, not the least resemblance between Holmes and the supposed representation of him as shown in the Strand illustration, and for an excellent reason, which may already be known to some of my readers.

  When the owners of the Strand saw fit to publish my own efforts, they sought to commission Walter Paget, a rising young artist, to provide the illustrations. Now, Walter had a brother, Sidney, who was also an artist, and by some curious mischance, the Strand owners asked Sidney, and not Walter, to provide the drawings. Sidney had never met Holmes, he had merely read my own descriptions, imperfect though these may have been; and Sidney therefore chose his brother Walter as the model for the drawings!

  Fear not, dear reader; there is a point, a moral almost, to this somewhat lengthy tale, for Walter was a man of striking good looks. He might have made a living on the stage as a juvenile lead with no difficulty; and this showed in Sidney’s illustrations. By contrast, Holmes – though possessed of no end of sterling qualities – was totally devoid of any favourable traits of physiognomy. His face was striking, indeed; but his best friends and staunchest admirers could never in this world call him handsome.

  For my part, I had nothing to fear. Sidney had drawn me as something of a foppish man about town, although he had perhap
s not taken quite so many liberties with my appearance as he had with Holmes’s – indeed, I like to think that there was less need for flattery in my case – and thus any resemblance between me and Sidney’s representation of me in the Strand, particularly as I had put on a few pounds in weight over the last four or five years, was of the flimsiest.

  Constantine, as I say, was clearly at something of a loss. He had perhaps expected Holmes and me to bluster, or to run, or to admit the deception – at any event, to do something that would prove his suspicions correct; and so Holmes’s calm indifference and my blunt denial threw him somewhat. He handed the Strand to Jean-Paul. ‘Let us have your opinion.’

  Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘This Englishman in the magazine is an aristo, that’s clear enough. Good-looking, too! While Pierre here – well, no offence, mon vieux, but – no, not the least alike. Both tall, of course,’ he added, as if trying to salvage something for Constantine.

  ‘Very well, then. And now, if you will, your opinion on this, Messieurs.’ Constantine took a small photograph from his pocket, and laid it carefully down before us.

  I have said that I had recovered my wits by now, and it was just as well, for the photograph was of Holmes himself, wearing a frock coat and top hat, outside the door of 221B, Baker Street! Fortunately, I myself did not appear in the picture, or I cannot say what I might have said or done.

  ‘Well?’ Constantine asked me.

  ‘Well – perhaps in this instance – yes, one might possibly think that there is some passing resemblance to this fellow,’ was the best that I could manage – I could not in all conscience try to deny it, for the likeness was plain to see, despite the fact that the photograph had evidently been taken hastily and by an amateur.

  ‘Jean-Paul?’

  ‘This one is closer than the magazine picture, to be sure.’ He regarded Holmes critically. ‘If you would turn your head, Pierre – so! Well, when the light falls thus – yes! He might pass for the man in the photograph.’

  Holmes took the photograph, and pretended to study it. ‘He is not so tall,’ he pointed out. ‘Nor by any means as good-looking!’

  ‘Yes, but could you impersonate him?’ asked Constantine.

  Holmes strolled over to a blotchy mirror, on which a scantily clad lady advertised the supposed virtues of a once-popular brand of absinthe. He held his head on one side, and studied the photograph again. ‘The clothes, the hat – what of them?’

  ‘Well, but there are tailors, hatters, what you will!’ said Constantine.

  ‘You would really wish me to impersonate this fellow?’

  ‘It would be of the greatest help to us.’

  ‘In that case – I will do it!’

  ‘Very well.’ Constantine took the photograph from Holmes and looked at it again. ‘You had best go to the tailor’s right away. Jean-Paul here will provide you with the necessary funds for a new outfit.’

  ‘And what is it you wish me to do, may one ask?’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Constantine. ‘Be ready by noon today.’

  ‘It – whatever it may be – is planned for today, then?’

  Constantine nodded. ‘This afternoon! Jean-Paul will explain nearer the time; and I shall see you when the task is completed.’ He bowed, and was gone almost before we had realized it.

  ‘You’ve certainly made an impression!’ said Jean-Paul admiringly. He unlocked a cupboard and produced a small cash box, from which he took a sheaf of notes. ‘If there’s any change, so much the better!’ he told Holmes. ‘And – change or no change – I want receipts for everything you buy, or it’ll come out of your cut!’

  Holmes and I set off down the alley. ‘A pity we were not told the details!’ said I. ‘Or we might have informed Dubuque.’

  ‘I am certain the omission was intentional. These fellows take no chances, even with those whom they believe can be trusted. We are, as you have no doubt noticed, being followed now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Holmes. ‘Yes, there are two of them – one this side, twenty feet behind us, and one on the other side of the road.’

  ‘Suspicious dogs! Well, that rules out our telling Dubuque anything – even if we actually knew anything!’

  ‘In any event,’ said Holmes, ‘I am not sure I should have informed Dubuque after all – we may be better advised to play a lone hand, and see how things turn out.’

  ‘When was that photograph taken, think you?’

  ‘I wondered that myself. Probably after your marriage, I should think, for you were not in the photograph. Were I pressed for an answer, I should say that it was late in the ’eighties, when I began the Moriarty investigation in earn-est. I have no recollection of being asked to smile for the camera, so I take it that it was concealed – one of these vest pocket devices, hidden in a cigarette case or a watch, at a guess. It is perhaps as well, for a better photograph would have given the game away at once!’

  ‘Perhaps it was taken by one of Moriarty’s agents, Holmes?’

  ‘Almost certainly it was taken by one of his agents, Watson. Moriarty left nothing to chance.’

  ‘And now Moriarty returns, as it were, to haunt you!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It is certainly ironic that they should ask you to impersonate yourself!’

  Holmes looked thoughtful. ‘I trust it is merely one of life’s little ironies, Watson, and not something more sinister. I confess that it took all the self-control of which I was capable, back there.’

  ‘Lord, yes! I was never more frightened in my life! I thought we were discovered, and expected to feel a knife in my ribs at any moment!’

  ‘You handled it very well, I must say. Your stubborn refusal to see what was in front of you – ’

  ‘A trait honed by years of practice, according to you, Holmes!’

  ‘Well, if I have slighted you once or twice in the past in that respect, then at any rate I give you my unstinting praise now, Doctor! Your persistence bought me time to arrange my own scattered thoughts.’ He lapsed into silence for a moment. ‘For all that it seems to have passed off rather well, I cannot pretend that I am entirely happy. We may perhaps not have been completely unmasked, but, once the resemblance has been noticed – ’ and he shook his head. ‘I really think, Watson, that I shall have to forbid any further publication of my adventures, for the time being at least. This publicity is not merely inconvenient, it is becoming positively dangerous! When once I am retired, of course – ’

  ‘We can perhaps discuss that later, Holmes,’ said I. Keen to change the subject, I went on, ‘Did you not tell me back in London that this mysterious head of the gang, the “chief” of whom Jean-Paul spoke, did you not say that he himself had impersonated you on an earlier occasion?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Then why,’ I wanted to know, ‘does he not do so now?’

  Holmes laughed. ‘That, at least, is explicable,’ said he. ‘On that first occasion, there was nobody else who looked like me. He was obliged, therefore, to take the very considerable risk of appearing in person. But now – well, one does not keep a dog and bark oneself ! If he can achieve the same result, but let me – or Pierre Leblanc, rather – take all the risks, so much the better, from his point of view.’

  ‘This development might be of the greatest use to us, Holmes?’

  ‘Just so, Doctor.’ He grew serious. ‘But nevertheless, we must go carefully here, Watson – we must go very carefully indeed!’

  There was insufficient time to visit a tailor’s and get anything made to measure, so we settled for a men’s outfitters in the middle range, where Holmes was soon provided with a respectable enough morning coat and a top hat. ‘You look quite your old self!’ I told him, as he regarded himself critically in the shopman’s glass.

  ‘That is what bothers me!’ he answered, and repeated, ‘We must go very carefully now!’

  We set off back, and I fancied that I saw one at least of the men who were following
us; but the second had evidently left us, unless he were very well hidden. At the bistro, Jean-Paul regarded Holmes with some approval. ‘Quite the gent, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘Now, a spot of luncheon – nothing to drink, mind! We need clear heads for the afternoon’s work.’ He led the way to what I might term the legitimate section of the bistro, and ordered something or the other for all three of us.

  I confess that I did not even notice what was on the plate before me, much less did I eat any of it – not because it was in any way unappetizing, but the thought of what was to come blunted any appetite I might otherwise have had. I noticed that Holmes, too, merely picked at his food.

  Jean-Paul seemed to find our reluctance to eat amusing. ‘Nerves, is it?’ he asked, in his blunt fashion. ‘Well, that may be all to the good – keep you alert, and so forth.’ He himself did not seem to be at all dissuaded from eating, and in fact he selected a few choicer items from my plate, and Holmes’s too. When he had done, he looked at us with some concern. ‘Not too nervous, are you? I mean, if it bothers you, we can call it off – ?’

  ‘Not at all!’ said Holmes, adding carelessly, ‘I never eat before a big job – ask Henri here if you doubt it.’

  ‘True enough,’ said I. ‘I have often protested about it, but to no avail. Although I must admit that my own appetite is not usually so poor. Excitement at being selected so early in our career, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘It’s quite an honour, I can tell you! The other lads will be jealous as hell!’

  ‘We do not yet know the full details of your plan,’ said Holmes.

  ‘No.’ Jean-Paul, who had been speaking in his usual tones, evidently feeling safe enough in these familiar surroundings, now looked round and lowered his voice. ‘Diamonds!’