The Dark Lady

by Irene Adler

  Sherlock narrowed his eyes and said, “Well, I . . .”

  And I said, “I just mean to say . . .”

  There followed other embarrassing attempts to explain ourselves, made up of unfinished sentences that I won’t bother to share.

  Luckily Lupin arrived shortly after to break it up. “Big news!” he cried. I’d never been so happy to see the third member of our small club of amateur detectives.

  We went and sat on the broken, old furniture on the old porch of Ashcroft Manor. In front of us was the sea. Behind us, the wind whistled through the empty rooms of the house. We shared a bag of little breadsticks called grissini that Papa had brought back from Paris for me.

  “Perhaps we were wrong to ignore what we heard about the Rooftop Thief,” said Lupin. “Apparently he struck again last night.”

  “Someone else is dead?” I asked, startled.

  “Hold your horses,” he said. “It was a burglary!”

  “Oh. What kind of burglary?” I asked.

  “A diamond necklace was stolen from Lady Martigny,” said Lupin. “It was very valuable, too, according to Chief Inspector Flebourg! You should have seen him, he was hopping all over the place!”

  “How did you know?” asked Sherlock.

  “I heard about it secondhand,” said Lupin, his face nearly buried in the bag of breadsticks. “This morning the chief inspector visited my father at work.” At this point, Lupin gave me a long look that made me feel uncomfortable. “For a consultation.”

  I gulped. “What sort of consultation?”

  “An acrobatic consultation,” Lupin said with a chuckle. “To get into Lady Martigny’s house, the Rooftop Thief climbed down off the roof, but it was steep and dangerous. And he must have been very good at his job, since he didn’t leave a trace behind — not on the walls, the other roofs, or even on the window.”

  “And was the window open?” Sherlock asked.

  “It seems it was, yes,” Lupin said.

  “And what did your father say?” I asked.

  “To the chief inspector, you mean?” Lupin shrugged. “He told him that to get through that window, the thief must have been a real professional and there’s probably no chance of catching someone like that. But later, after the inspector was gone, my father said that he couldn’t have done a better job himself!”

  We all laughed. At that time, none of us — not even Lupin — knew what his father’s real job was. We all thought he was a master juggler, a martial arts expert, or a circus performer. We were soon to discover that there was much more to him than all that. And Lupin would eventually follow in his father’s footsteps . . . and become much better than even he was.

  “But do you think there’s some connection between the theft of the diamond necklace and the dead man on the beach?” I asked. I broke a breadstick into three pieces and gave one to each of us.

  “A thief isn’t a murderer,” said Lupin. “But it’s still odd that in a small town like Saint-Malo that two things like this would happen in such a short space of time.”

  “Certainly, the burglary makes things more complicated,” said Sherlock. “The chief inspector not only has to find out what happened to the man on the beach, but now he has to solve the theft of a diamond necklace. Do you know this Lady Martigny?”

  Lupin shook his head. Sherlock pulled the little red book he’d stolen from the hotel nightstand out of his pocket and opened it.

  “Have you discovered something?” Lupin asked him.

  “Yes,” he answered. “The note that we found in his pocket wasn’t written by him.” He thumbed through the book and showed us some words written in the margin of a page. It was strikingly different than the handwriting on the note.

  “This complicates things,” said Lupin, sounding more intrigued than annoyed.

  “Well, it certainly makes the suicide hypothesis less likely,” Sherlock said. “But why would a man be carrying what looks like a suicide note in his pocket that he obviously didn’t write himself?”

  I couldn’t help but think that there was indeed some connection with the Rooftop Thief, but kept that thought to myself. “So?” I asked anxiously. “What do we do?”

  “First of all, we’ve got to take the book back to where it belongs,” Lupin said, taking the book from Sherlock. “And then we’ve got to go to the other hotel where he had a room: the Hotel des Artistes.”

  “Was there anything else interesting in the book?” I asked.

  “A playing card that he used as a bookmark,” Sherlock said, showing the card. It was the Queen of Spades. He quickly put it back in his pocket. “An obvious reference to Lady Martigny.”

  “Obvious?” I repeated in surprise. “How so?”

  “People call her the Lady in Black,” explained Sherlock, “because she always dresses in black as if she were in mourning.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” Lupin said. “And I’ve also heard that she’s married to a rich man who prefers his business to her, so he’s often away.” I bit my lip, thinking of my own family.

  We stayed there, sitting outside Ashcroft Manor for a little while longer as we came up with a thousand different hypotheses about the recent events. We got along very well together. We were three peas in a pod, excited by the sounds of our own voices. And none of us questioned whether our friendship was right or wrong.

  The time we spent together on that porch flashed by, all three of us overwhelmed by our unending curiosity. We were happy, restless, and fearless. We were playing with the lives of other people with utter recklessness. Perhaps it was because life hadn’t yet begun to play with us.

  Chapter 13

  HOTEL DES ARTISTES

  We decided to head to the Hotel des Artistes next. Despite its name, there was absolutely nothing artistic about the hotel. It was an old, gloomy, and soulless building near the harbor. Although it was an establishment of some prestige, there was something seedy about it.

  And as you approached the reception desk, it almost felt as though people were hiding among paintings while spying on you.

  The desk clerk was tall and hunched over. He stared at us through thick glasses and seemed to jerk like a puppet whenever he moved. He didn’t seem to care about why we were so interested in Lambert and told us a story that was very similar to the one we’d heard at the Hotel de la Paix. Mr. Jacques Lambert constantly came and went, staying in his room for no more than two or three days at a time.

  “Did he ever meet anyone here?” asked Sherlock. “Did he receive a lot of correspondence?”

  The man with the glasses sucked through his missing teeth before answering. “Let me think. Did he meet anyone? No. He mostly stayed in his room. As far as correspondence goes, my little, pushy friends, perhaps you should ask the gentleman over there. Isn’t that right, Octave?” He said the name rather loudly to make sure the nearby man heard him.

  Behind us, Octave lowered the newspaper he’d been reading with a rustle. “My, look who’s here,” he muttered staring at us with a bored expression. “Am I wrong, or are you Mr. Holmes?”

  Sherlock turned. “Sir,” he said, very politely.

  “Yes, yes, it is you,” Octave said. “How are things at home? Are things a little calmer now?”

  I saw Sherlock grow agitated as he did whenever anyone mentioned his family. “Everything is . . . quite calm now, thank you, sir,” he replied flatly.

  “I’m happy to hear it,” said Octave.

  Just then I recognized him. I’d seen him the day before at the post office with Mr. Nelson. As I discovered later, he ran the post office. “What are you looking for, children?”

  The man at the desk answered for us: “They’re asking about Mr. Lambert’s correspondence.”

  “Mr. Lambert’s correspondence?” the postmaster said. “Why on Earth would you be interested in such a thing?”

 
“No real reason,” answered Sherlock. We didn’t know if anyone else yet knew about the dead man’s double identity and we didn’t want to be the ones to reveal it to the world.

  “We’re playing Catch-a-Thief,” Lupin suddenly announced, trying to sound younger than he was. “We heard about the diamond necklace getting stolen and wanted to help find it.”

  The postmaster chuckled. “And you think you’ll find it in a hotel?”

  The desk clerk drummed his fingers on the desk. He had long, curved fingernails that reminded me of some tropical seashells I’d once seen in a museum in Paris.

  “Well, it must be somewhere, right?” Lupin said calmly.

  “And you suspect Mr. Lambert?” the postmaster asked. “Well, as police go, you’re not too bad. However, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. You see, Mr. Lambert is —”

  “Dead, we know,” I blurted out. The postmaster and the desk clerk exchanged a long look, which made me feel terribly uncomfortable. Sherlock and Lupin suddenly went stiff as well. Perhaps we’d been naive to ask for information so openly.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet,” said the postmaster.

  “Irene Adler,” I said. “I’m on vacation in Saint-Malo.”

  “And you arrived at the wrong time, it seems,” the postmaster said. “On behalf of my town, I can only apologize for this unpleasant situation. A suicide on the beach and a major theft — and only a few days apart!”

  “It’s just what those filthy journalists thrive on!” the desk clerk declared.

  “It’s strange you should say that,” said Lupin. “Because Lambert was apparently a news correspondent for a paper in Le Havre or Brest. Which is why we’re interested in his correspondence.”

  The desk clerk seemed genuinely surprised by this information. Lupin’s completely false piece of information made the postmaster sit up in his seat.

  “A newspaper correspondent?” the postmaster asked. “Really?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said the man at the reception desk. “But that would explain his constant comings and goings.”

  “I could check the postal records,” muttered the postmaster, who was obviously growing more and more intrigued. “But that’s strictly between us, of course!”

  “Of course!” we all answered in unison, smiling at him like the good little children he likely expected us to be.

  We stayed there a few minutes longer chatting to the two men, but didn’t discover any really useful information apart from the various rumors and opinions they’d heard around town. Nothing we didn’t already know. But listening to those two blather on did give us a good idea of what the people of Saint-Malo thought about the recent happenings. Most people were indifferent, and bordering on annoyed, over the suicide of Poussin (also known as Lambert). And conversely, most people were delighted over the thief who’d made a fool of Lady Martigny.

  “Those diamonds were quite happy under the ground before they went and dug them up and made them into a necklace!” the postmaster said with a wicked grin. “You’re only asking for trouble if you show them off to the world like that.”

  “By the way, have you ever heard of the Rooftop Thief?” asked Lupin. The question seemed to echo among the statues of the dark, dusty lobby before it got an answer. I heard a door slam followed by the sound of someone scurrying away.

  “He’s one of the many legends of this town,” said the desk clerk after a while. “I’ve heard stories about him since I was a child.”

  The postmaster shrugged. “Whenever anything a little strange happens around here, you can be sure that someone will start talking about the Rooftop Thief.”

  * * *

  “A newspaper correspondent?” Sherlock asked Lupin as soon as we were far enough away that we could laugh about it. “Le Havre! Brest? How on Earth did you come up with all that?”

  Lupin chuckled. “I don’t know! It just popped out.”

  “You were great,” I said. “And now that lovely postmaster will help us with our investigations!”

  “Well done,” Sherlock agreed. “But we have to be careful. We’re not the police. People might get suspicious.”

  “Suspicious?” I repeated. “Of what? We’re just three children asking a few questions.”

  “Yes, but there are still too many unknowns about this whole thing for us to let down our guard,” he insisted. “Even forgetting about the Rooftop Thief, who is apparently nothing more than a myth anyway, there’s still the hooded man who saw us on the beach. There’s also the person who stole Lady Martigny’s necklace. And, of course, another person who murdered Poussin, a.k.a. Lambert, a.k.a. the dead guy on the beach.”

  “Assuming that they’re not all the same person!” added Lupin.

  “Do you have another stroke of brilliance to share, Lupin?” I asked with a playful smile.

  “Perhaps I’m having a good day,” he said. “Let’s make the best of it!” He threw his head back in laughter. In that moment, Sherlock looked quite admirable with his fine features, and eyes so bright they looked like gems.

  We walked at the pace set by Sherlock’s long, rhythmic strides. Like always, he was two steps ahead of us. In the warm sun with the cool breeze coming in off the sea, it seemed that nothing could stop the three of us. While I was with those two, I felt ready to take on anything. But once we’d passed the last houses and reached the harbor walls, our sense of invulnerability suddenly vanished.

  A shabby-looking boy stood haloed in the light that flooded the street. He made a movement that made me realize he was waiting for us. Sherlock suddenly stopped. Lupin stared at the boy and then at me.

  I saw two more figures appear from nowhere. “What’s going on?” I asked in alarm.

  What was going on was that we were trapped.

  Chapter 14

  AN EVENTFUL DAY

  “Hey, hey, hey!” yelled the boy who’d appeared in front of us. “Look who we’ve got here. The three little detectives.”

  We stopped in our tracks. Sherlock stood in front of me, Lupin two steps to my side.

  “Stay calm,” muttered Lupin. But the way they were both standing around me as if guarding me from harm, I felt anything but calm. We’d been ambushed by thieves who loitered around the harbor. You could tell by the clothes they wore, how they shuffled their feet, and simply by the way they moved. I counted them, trying not to look at them. There were five of them at first, but soon two more appeared from another alley.

  “Just three little busybodies,” the boy said with a nasty grin, “who don’t know their place.” He spat on the ground and came toward us, stopping about three paces away.

  “And who might you be?” asked Sherlock.

  “Who might I be?” the bully said. “Did you hear that! He asked me who I might be!” The bully’s eyes seemed to shine with a malicious light, feeding off his companions’ laughter. “You really want to know who I might be?”

  “No,” Sherlock said coldly. “Not particularly. But I would like to know what you’re doing here.”

  “What I’m doing here? This is my town,” said the boy, sticking his chin out. “Not yours.”

  “If you say so,” Sherlock said.

  “That’s exactly what I say. And I’ll also say that I’ve been hearing a few rumors around town recently.”

  “I’m not really interested in gossip, but if you insist on sharing,” answered Sherlock, still unruffled.

  “They say that for a few days now, some snotty-nosed kids have been asking too many questions. They’ve also been seen snooping around on beaches.”

  I looked up suddenly. The hooded man I saw on the beach! I thought. Could it just have been one of these fools?!

  “You must really be stupid to go around trying to dig up trouble like that!” continued the boy, who was apparently the ga
ng’s leader. His comment prompted more laughter.

  “You think we’re stupid, do you?” said Sherlock. “Well, it’s obviously not us you’re looking for then. Goodbye.” Sherlock started walking, but the second he did, the boy jumped like a spring and blocked his path.

  “Not so fast!” he said. “There’s no rush.”

  The rest of the gang immediately came up close and surrounded us. I felt Lupin’s back against mine. “Stay calm,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. Don’t look at them.”

  “Who do you think you are, beanpole?” the leader asked Sherlock, two steps ahead of me.

  “I’m not a particularly interesting person, I can assure you,” Sherlock answered coolly.

  “But you do interest me!” said the bully, coming even closer. “You interest me and my friends!”

  “I warn you,” said Sherlock with his teeth clenched, “you’re making a big mistake if you don’t let us go.”

  “It seems to me that you’re the ones making the big mistake, beanpole!” growled the other. “We saw you. We know what you did.”

  My heart stopped beating. What was he talking about? The dead man on the beach two days ago?

  Sherlock just shrugged.

  “We know that you’ve been sniffing about the Hotel des Artistes,” the leader said.

  “Really?” Lupin said loudly, speaking for the first time. “Who told you so? Was it Spirou, the kitchen boy?” The smallest of the bullies stood straight up, obviously surprised that Lupin knew his name. “I didn’t even know he knew how to talk,” said Lupin with a laugh. “I thought he could only grunt. Sherlock, did you know Spirou could talk?”

  “Someone told me he could, but I didn’t believe it,” Sherlock answered.

  Two of the bullies chuckled in spite of themselves, while Spirou stuck out his chest, trying to look as aggressive as possible. But the leader gestured to them and everything in the alley went quiet. Seagulls squawked in the distance.