“I would be most surprised if the murderer chose to carry two weapons when one would be more than sufficient,” Holmes replied. “A kitchen knife of the type which Watson described is a formidable weapon indeed.”
“What exactly are you insinuating, M. Holmes?” Durand asked.
Holmes smiled. “At the moment, nothing. I shouldn’t wish to color your investigation more than I already have. The hour, I’m afraid, grows late, and it has been an incredibly trying day for both the Doctor and myself. First thing on the morrow, however, I must make an examination of the murder scene. That can be arranged, Inspector?”
“Oui, M. Holmes.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock Holmes replied, turning sharply on his heel. “Then, Dr. Watson and I shall bid you farewell. Or, perhaps, au revoir.”
We parted ways with the inspector in the street. Our carriage conveyed us back to our hotel where we silently made our way to our rooms. Once inside, Holmes divested himself of his coat and took up his briar pipe as he settled in before the fire.
“You are not retiring for the night?” I asked.
“No,” my friend replied. “The cogs of my brain have been set into motion and I would be doing myself a disservice should I try to halt their natural processes this night. But I am sure that you are exhausted, my dear fellow, so you needn’t wait up for me.”
I began to undo my tie as I moved towards my room. I looked forward to a good night’s sleep more than anything but, as I neared the open door, I stopped and turned around to address Holmes.
“You have begun to develop some theory, haven’t you?”
Holmes blew out a ring of smoke which encircled his head. “I have,” he replied. “If it is correct, I fear that this case may only grow ever darker.”
* * *
I roused myself early the following morning, only to find that Holmes was already awake. To my satisfaction, I saw that he was breaking his fast and, for a moment, I considered cajoling Mrs. Hudson into preparing French pastries at Baker Street if it meant that Holmes would take some sustenance more often. I joined him at the breakfast table and we exchanged pleasantries. I informed him that I had slept well, even after the grisly circumstances of the day, and was much relieved to hear that he too had made it to bed - albeit in the early hours of the morning. Holmes also informed me that he had sent an early morning telegram to rendezvous with Inspector Durand, who would convey us to the home of the late Andre Dupont.
After we had finished, we gathered our things and made our way into the hotel lobby, where we found the inspector standing at the ready for us. We exchanged a few words before we moved outside and into the awaiting cab. Though the rain had let up, the day was cloudy and foreboding. It did little to diminish the beauty of the city which, under the cover of darkness the night before, I had failed to truly appreciate. I have only been to Paris a handful of times in my life, but each time I have come away impressed by the splendor of such a lovely place.
Our carriage came to a stop on a picturesque road in the Sixth Arrondissement of the city. As we climbed out, I cast a glance up the street and saw the great tower of the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés peering over the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Inspector Durand led us through a small garden, the vegetation of which did go some way towards tucking the house away from the street. He withdrew a key from his inner pocket and inserted it into the lock of the front door. He eased it open and we stepped through.
“I have done the utmost to keep the space just as it was when the bodies were discovered, M. Holmes.”
“Your consideration is much appreciated, Inspector,” Holmes replied. “Your willingness to do so has already placed you above many of the inspectors at Scotland Yard. Now, can you show us to where the bodies were discovered?”
Durand led us through the foyer and into a well-appointed siting room. The room was small, surely not as grand as the room in which Dupont had entertained us in London, but a comfortable space nonetheless which clearly spoke to Dupont’s obvious wealth. A set of French windows opened onto a small stone veranda, though I perceived that the glass had been shattered and the drapes undulated in the light breeze which circulated through the room.
“M. Dupont was found there,” Durand indicated, pointing to a spot on the floor before the window. “His wife was found there by the settee. I have come to believe that the murderer forced his way in through the French windows and attacked M. Dupont. Madame Dupont was powerless to stop the murderer, as she was trapped in the room.”
Holmes stepped further into the room and I watched as he swiveled his head around like a great bird of prey peering through the underbrush. His piercing grey eyes scanned each opulent surface. He turned quickly and, kneeling before the window, inspected the broken pane of glass. Holmes murmured inaudibly beneath his breath as he stood and then moved to the settee on the other side of the room. I watched him consider the space - the cogs in his brain almost visible through his eyes.
“You said that the valet, Alexandre, had discovered the bodies?”
“Oui. They were discovered late in the evening. M. Dupont, according to the valet, was in the habit of taking a nightcap and, calling on his master, he found the door to the sitting room locked. When M. Dupont did not respond to his knock, the valet forced the door open.”
“And you said that there was no one else in the house at the time of the murder?”
“There was a maid, Jeanette.”
“Did she have anything to add to Alexandre’s story?”
“None whatsoever, M. Holmes,” Durand replied. “She said that she was in the kitchen at the time of the murder and heard nothing.”
Holmes tapped his lips once more in contemplation. “I’d like to see the kitchen if you don’t mind, Inspector.” He started out of the room before the officer had a chance to refuse. Durand exchanged looks with me and I shrugged my shoulders. Holmes had seemed to have lost interest entirely in the room in which the murder had taken place.
Durand drew our attention to a door at the head of a narrow staircase. Then he led us down the set of steps and into the kitchen which was furnished by an extensive series of counters.
“M. Dupont had apparently given his staff leave when he departed for London,” Durand explained. “His unanticipated return meant that the number of the household staff was greatly diminished. As I understand it, the valet and the maid were the only ones in attendance, having accompanied their master to London and back again.”
Holmes took a turn around the kitchen and, after he had performed what I could only imagine was the most cursory of examinations, turned to us and declared, “I should very much like to examine the veranda behind the house.”
“There is a second set of stairs on the opposite end of the kitchen,” Durand said, indicating the spiral staircase which sat tucked in the corner.
“Excellent,” Holmes cried. “Oh, I have forgotten my hat and stick upstairs. You gentlemen need not follow me back up. I shall return presently.”
Holmes climbed the steps and I heard him move about upstairs. He rejoined us a moment later and, insisting that we use the servant’s stairs, we made our way to the ground floor of the house and, from there, out of the house and onto the small veranda.
Holmes took a turn around the veranda and stopped before the French windows. He examined a few shards of glass and then, standing, smiled as he clapped his arms behind his back and rocked ever so slightly from his heel to his toes.
“You seem quite pleased with yourself, M. Holmes,” the inspector said.
“That is because I think that things are fitting together rather nicely,” the detective replied. “However, I think the time has finally come for us to devote attention to Monsieur Jacques Bonnaire. I would very much appreciate it, Inspector, if you did a little digging. Find out all you can about the man.”
“I shall s
tart at once.”
“Excellent,” Holmes beamed. “As for myself, I shall take a walk. Paris is a city with which I am not too intimate and I think that a perambulation will do me some good.”
“Would you like me to accompany you, Holmes?” I asked.
“You needn’t bother, Watson,” Holmes replied. “You will find me silent company for the next few hours. Treat yourself, my dear fellow, to some of this city’s more sumptuous delicacies. I know that le petit dejeuner we had this morning will hardly be enough to satisfy your needs. Let us meet again in three hours’ time at police headquarters. Shall be that sufficient for you, Inspector?”
Durand assured Holmes that it would be and we set off in separate directions. I figured that if Holmes was willing to lose himself in the city, then I should try to do the same. I walked aimlessly for some time until I came across a pleasant café. I stopped and enjoyed a cup of café au lait and a baguette which was quite to my liking. Wandering a bit farther afield, I soon decided that it was time for me to return to more familiar environs and, flagging down a cab, was conveyed back to our hotel.
As I sat alone in the carriage, I cast my mind back to the scene of the murder. Obviously Holmes had seen far more than either the inspector or myself, but I could in no way put my finger on what it was. What, I wondered, had he seen that helped him divine some more specific connection with the mysterious Jacques Bonnaire, whose name hung over this case like the grisly shadow of death? As usual, Holmes would not explain, and I wished that he would have shared with me his theory. He clearly saw some dark circumstances surrounding this already morose affair.
Deposited at the hotel, I spent the remainder of the afternoon in quiet contemplation and, I do confess, that I dozed off. I managed to rouse myself with time to spare and caught another carriage to the Place Louis Lèpine, home of the Paris Police Prefecture. The impressive grey stone building stared down at me as I made my way inside and, after asking for Inspector Durand, was told that I could find his office on the second floor. I ascended the staircase and walked down a corridor until I came to the inspector’s small office and found him seated behind a cluttered desk; Sherlock Holmes seated across from him in the process of lighting a cigarette.
“Good of you to join us, Watson,” Holmes said as I took a seat next to him. “Inspector Durand was just about to tell us what he has unearthed on Jacques Bonnaire.”
I took a seat next to Holmes as the inspector opened a file which sat on his desk. “To begin,” Durand said, “Bonnaire was the same age as Dupont. While Dupont was a self-made man, Bonnaire was born into his wealth. They would seem, then, to be at odds from the beginning, but from all accounts, the two were close friends.
“Bonnaire married a woman one year after Dupont married his wife. Bonnaire had two children - two girls - before the death of his wife, after only a few years of marriage. Bonnaire’s children were only six and eight years old respectively at the time of his contretemps with Andre Dupont, nearly a decade ago.
“It appears as though the details of the incident as imparted to you, M. Holmes, by Dupont were accurate. Michelle Dupont did indeed contact the police at her husband’s behest. The officer who answered the call, a man called August, has since left the force, but his report was easy enough to dig up. He says that when he arrived, Jacques Bonnaire lay on the floor of the master bedroom in a pool of blood. He clutched at his chest where he had sustained a bullet wound, his other arm at his side, minus a hand. Bonnaire was conducted immediately to a hospital. He was released after nearly two weeks and, since then, he has disappeared off of the face of the earth.”
“No contact of any kind you say? None made with his solicitors or bankers?”
“Non, M. Holmes.”
“What of his children?”
The inspector turned a page in his file. “The elder daughter severed all ties with the family and has gone to ground. I could find nothing on her whatsoever. The younger daughter - as we understand it - works at a cabaret, a well-known spot in the city called Le Chat Noir.”
Holmes leaned forward and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray perched on the edge of the inspector’s desk. “She would make a most interesting study, Inspector.”
“You wish to speak to Bonnaire’s daughter?”
“Of course,” Holmes replied rising. “The sooner the better.”
“We shall go tonight then, if it is your wish.”
Holmes beamed. “Capitol, Inspector!” My friend clicked open his watch. “Ah, how the time has flown. I confess I find myself rather taken with your Parisian cuisine - and judging from the crumbs which Dr. Watson has yet to remove from his lapels, I should imagine that he is too. I think you should dine with us, Inspector. We shall think no more of M. Bonnaire for the time being. I like to think that I am well-up on Continental crime, but I cannot pass up an opportunity to discuss it with someone first-hand. I leave the choice of restaurant to you.”
True to his words, Holmes refused to speak about the case for some time. Instead, we soon found ourselves seated before a sumptuous multi-course feast at an expensive Parisian restaurant. Holmes and the inspector discussed aspects of various cases which, I do confess, left me completely lost. I wondered if Holmes was purposefully distracting himself from the matter at hand. Perhaps, I reasoned as I drained a glass of fine wine, he knew all too well the trials which lay ahead of us in the unraveling of this case. This matter had already taken a toll on my friend. In his mind, he had failed his responsibility and now he was doing all in his power to bring the criminal to book, no matter how arduous the task might prove to be. I wondered just how close to the truth he actually was.
Night had descended when we quit the restaurant. The rain had continued to hold off and, still deep in conversation, Holmes insisted that we walk the rest of the way. Our perambulation was not a long way and we drew up outside of a very inauspicious-looking building. Stepping inside, I was at once struck by the loudness of the music and the cheers from the crowd. The room was wide and open, a stage situated at the furthermost end. Men and woman of all shapes, sizes, and apparent statuses were distributed at tables throughout the room, from which they looked at the stage, currently occupied by a group of women performing a dance which, I would imagine in London, would have raised a decent number of eyebrows. Holmes, of course, took no notice and pressed on further into the room.
We took an empty table which was tucked away in the back of the barroom. The inspector and I followed Holmes’s example as he sat, and in short order we were approached by a waiter. The detective ordered us a bottle of wine in perfect French.
“Well, Holmes,” I said trying to be heard in the loud room, “what exactly do you intend to do?”
Holmes smiled mischievously and put a long finger to his lips as the waiter returned to our table.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” Holmes asked the waiter.
Our man nodded politely. “Oui, monsieur,” he replied.
“Excellent,” Holmes said. He stood and drew up a chair from a nearby unoccupied table. “Then I invite you to join us for a glass of this most excellent wine.”
A confused look crossed the waiter’s face and I am sure he was about to protest. However, Holmes all but forced the young man into the chair and had poured him a glass. Once the waiter had tentatively lifted the glass to his lips, the detective sat back in his chair.
“What is your name?”
“Henri, monsieur,” the waiter replied. “Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?”
“I rather think that there is,” Holmes replied. “My friends and I would like to speak with someone - one of the dancers, I believe. She would be about sixteen, I should imagine. Her surname is Bonnaire. Does she sound familiar?”
Before the waiter had an opportunity to answer, a big man, dressed in a garish waistcoat, sauntered up to the table. He was middle-aged, with a hea
d of orange hair peeping out from under the brim of a battered billycock hat. He held in between his large fingers a chewed-upon cigar. He addressed the waiter sternly in French before turning to us, cocking an eyebrow.
“I am the manager of this club, messieurs. Henri tells me that you want some kind of information?”
“We’re looking for a young woman named Bonnaire,” Holmes replied. “If you could help us find her, it would be much appreciated.”
Holmes coyly removed a coin from his inner pocket and slid it along the table. The glint caught the man’s eye immediately and he picked it up, stowing it away as though he feared immediate robbery.
“I know precisely of whom you speak,” the manager replied.
“We would like to speak with her at once,” Holmes said. “It is imperative that we do so this evening.”
“I shall take you to her,” the manager replied, standing.
Holmes cast the inspector and I a beaming grin as the manager led us through the labyrinth of tables and chairs. Moving past the patrons of the club, we made our way to a small door which communicated with the backstage. The dimly-lit, private portions of the theater was alive with energy as dancers rushed hither and thither, and stagehands worked to lift and lower curtains and drops. I caught sight of Holmes casting a glance over the theatrical mechanisms before we were urged along by our guide.
“The mademoiselle you seek has not used the name Bonnaire in some time,” the manager said, “but there are few girls working here who are quite so young.”
I felt a sudden feeling of reprehension for the man. Having seen the risqué nature of some of the routines performed in this place, I couldn’t imagine a mere adolescent being involved.
We came to a door which, I concluded, led into the ladies’ dressing room. The manager addressed one of the dancers about to enter and, after she disappeared, he informed us that she would fetch the young lady we sought. The dancer was true to her word and emerged from the dressing room a moment later with a petite girl in tow. She was young - Holmes’s estimation of about sixteen or seventeen seemed most accurate - but she had quite a pretty countenance which, enhanced with the elaborate makeup utilized in the cabaret, did give the girl something of a salacious appearance. She looked at the three of us and arched an eyebrow. Holmes asked if the girl spoke English, to which she nodded.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 17
