“Mademoiselle,” Holmes began, “my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is friend and associate Dr. John Watson, and this is Inspector Erique Durand of the Paris Police Prefecture. You are the daughter of Jacques Bonnaire, are you not?”
The girl drew in a deep breath. “That is not a name I have heard in almost a decade, sir.”
“Mademoiselle,” Holmes continued, “we have reason to believe that your father is very much alive and responsible for the murder of Andre Dupont and his wife. It is most important that we speak to you at once.”
Her eyes darted around the crowded backstage area. “Allow me a few moments, gentlemen,” she said softly. She darted back into the dressing room and emerged again a moment later, a cloak draped about her shoulders. She then led us out of the building and into a narrow alleyway behind the theater.
“I apologize for the quality of the space,” she said, “but we can speak privately here. I come here to think and, I do confess, my father is often in my thoughts.”
“Naturally,” I said, laying a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What is your name?”
“Emma,” the girl replied. “Though, most of the girls around here just call me Em. No one has called me Mademoiselle Bonnaire in quite some time. You say that my father is implicated in the murder of M. Dupont?”
“That is correct, Mademoiselle,” Durand said. “You have not heard from your father recently, have you?”
“Non,” Emma Bonnaire replied. “I do not think that I would want to after what happened.”
“Perhaps,” Holmes said, “you ought to explain.”
“My father and my sister were the only things in my world after my mother died,” Emma said. “We were a close-knit family. My father was kind, decent man. However, he - like so many - took to drink as a way to cope with the death of his wife. He soon could only take solace in the bottom of a bottle and, in his fits, he was quite uncontrollable. He was a big man, gentleman. And strong. Once, I found him seated alone in our sitting room, clutching an empty bottle. He saw me and flew into a rage and grabbed me by the arm. He very nearly pulled my arm from its socket.
“I was too young to notice it, but I suppose my father was rather keen on Madame Dupont. She was a handsome lady, I will admit and, in one of his drunken rages, I can only imagine what went through his mind, but I cannot defend what M. Dupont did, gentlemen. It was wrong and... savage. I never thought that a man could stoop so low. It was not simply enough to shoot my father, but he went and cut off his hand too.”
Emma Bonnaire held back a choked sob. I proffered my handkerchief, which she accepted as she dabbed at her eyes. “Merci, monsieur le Docteur.
“I can recall visiting my father in the hospital with my sister,” she continued after a moment. “He was barely conscious and in a great deal of pain. I could read the look of disgust on my sister’s face. She felt not pity for the prostrate figure laid out before her, but anger - an anger that he would attempt to seduce another man’s wife and get caught in circumstances such as these.
“I suppose it came as little surprise to me then that she ran away shortly thereafter. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to experience in my short life. It was made all the worse when, after I learned that my father had been released from the hospital, he did nothing to reclaim me. I was subsequently entrusted into the care of an orphanage, where I remained for some considerable time. I would often lie awake at night, simply contemplating my loneliness, gentlemen. That was until I decided to strike out on my own and join this cabaret. It has served as a home for me. Hardly an ideal one, but a shelter - and a family - nonetheless.”
My heart simply broke for young Emma Bonnaire, and I laid another reassuring hand on her shoulder. She cast a glance up at me and her eyes looked like shattered mirrors. She pressed the handkerchief back into my hand and drew in another deep breath.
“Mademoiselle Bonnaire,” Holmes said at length, “while you may not have heard from your sister or your father, can you think of anything unusual happening to you within the past few weeks?”
“I can think of nothing,” she replied, “aside from, perhaps, the man who loiters outside the theater. But I cannot imagine how that could have any connection to this.”
“Humor me if you please, mademoiselle,” Holmes continued. “Who is this man?”
“I have never seen him clearly,” Emma Bonnaire replied, “but he has become something of a legend amongst the girls. One of my friends, another dancer named Suzette, said that one night after a show she was exiting the theater through this very door and was making her up the alleyway when she heard someone moving about behind her. She turned and saw the outline of a man standing just over there.”
Emma Bonnaire pointed to a spot beyond Holmes and the inspector at the foot of a small set of steps, leading down into the alleyway.
“Suzette said that she could not quite make out his face, but he appeared to be an old man. He was hunched over and seemed to have some difficulty in breathing. It was quiet night, Suzette said, and she heard his raspy breath as he leaned on the staircase railing. Suzette was about to go and ask him if he needed help, but she said that fear overtook her. You gentlemen have certainly heard tales of defenseless women in alleyways in the early hours of the morning. With that nightmare scenario running through her head, Suzette turned sharply and ran out of the alleyway.
“The next day, she told us about him and cautioned us to be on our guard. We heard and saw nothing of the mysterious man in the days which followed. However, one Friday evening a few weeks ago, a few of the girls and I decided to celebrate the end of the week. We all left together and were making our way of the theater when we caught sight of him, standing at the head of the alleyway. He was a tall, gangly-looking man dressed in a shabby, oversized coat. His hair was long and tumbled about his shoulders. And his beard was lengthy and dirty-looking as well. So shocked were we by his sudden materialization at the end of the alley that we all turned and raced back inside the theater.
“Since that day, gentlemen, we have heard nothing from the man. We have taken him to simply be one of the less fortunate who is forced to seek refuge on the streets. I very much fear that our minds ran away with ourselves and made a demon out of him.”
The faintest ghost of a smile seemed to play upon Holmes’s usually cruel, thin lips. “Mademoiselle Bonnaire,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough for your invaluable assistance.”
From his pocket, the detective withdrew a few francs and pressed them into the girl’s hand. “If these can be of any help to you, mademoiselle, please take them.”
Then turning to us, he added, “Come gentlemen, I very much suspect that - despite the lateness of the hour - the night is still young for us.”
We bade Emma Bonnaire farewell and walked to the end of the alleyway and into the street.
“Well, M. Holmes,” Inspector Durand said, “what do you intend to do next?”
“Part ways for the time being. I should very much like it if you could supply me with a city map, Inspector. If you could annotate it, as well, showing any spots in the city where you know there to be a large population without home or shelter, I would find it of great assistance. Let us all meet then once more at our hotel in an hours’ time?”
Extending his arm, Holmes hailed a cab and I clambered inside after him, leaving Inspector Durand on the street with a look of stupefaction etched on his face.
Once we were within the cab, Holmes turned to me, and solemnly asked: “You did remember to bring your service revolver?”
“Of that you can certain,” I replied.
“Excellent. I very much suspect that we shall be in need of it tonight.”
* * *
True to his word, Inspector Durand met with us again at our hotel. He produced a valise, in which he carried a map of Paris. He spread out on the dining t
able.
“In an attempt to answer your question, M. Holmes,” Durand said, “I consulted with a few of my fellow officers. They all agreed that here is the place where most of the city’s poor some to congregate.”
He pointed to a spot on the map along the River Seine. “The place is something of a colony,” Durand replied. “They live along the river and under bridges.”
“Excellent,” Holmes said. “Then that is where we are headed now.”
Holmes moved to the door and pulled on his hat and coat. “It has begun to rain, so take proper precautions. Now, come along.”
Silently we made our way outside and into a tumultuous deluge. It was quite a feat in tracking down a cab, and I fear that I was soaked to the skin by the time that we three sat ensconced in the relative warmth and comfort of a carriage.
Chilled from the wet, as well as the anticipation and suspense in which I was being kept, I very nearly exploded once we found ourselves rattling through the deluge.
“What are we doing, Holmes? I am used to your characteristically dramatic behavior, but this is beginning to be a bit much.”
Holmes replied in his usual, cool tone. “We are going to confront Jacques Bonnaire.”
A shiver ran up and down my spine - a chill which I cannot fully attribute to the rain which had seeped into my clothing.
In short order, our carriage eased to a halt. Holmes gestured for Inspector Durand to lead the way and, alighting, we rushed out of the carriage, seeking shelter beneath the inspector’s umbrella. We stood on a bridge overlooking both the River Seine, as well as a stone walkway below which ran parallel to the river. Durand informed us that the most likely place for us to find the homeless community was directly under the bridge. Locating a set of stone steps, Holmes pressed on undeterred.
In the darkness and rain which lashed at me, I lost sight of Holmes. I followed close at the inspector’s heels, but it felt as if we were headed into some black void. The waters of the Seine looking indistinguishable from the inky darkness which surrounded us. Standing, disoriented and shivering in the pouring rain, it was something of a godsend when I felt myself bump into my friend. He pressed a finger to his lips and, from the folds of his coat, withdrew a bulls-eye lantern. I sheltered my friend’s hands from the rain as he struck a match, letting the single point of yellow light pierce through the night.
“Now, follow me, gentlemen,” Holmes whispered, “and, pray, keep silent. If he thinks that we are searching for him, then I’m afraid that the bird shall fly the coop.”
We turned together as a small herd under the bridge and into the darkness, the pinpoint of light acting as our guide. I perceived, even in the dark, what appeared to be outlines of people shuffling in the night. Just as we had suspected, we were soon surrounded by an assortment of the city’s beggars and vagabonds. I have witnessed much strife in my lifetime, but I felt additional pity to see such a concentration of sorrowful beings.
As we moved on, passing knots of people sprawled out on the cold stone, sleeping huddled under makeshift blankets or wrapped in their tattered coats, Holmes stopped suddenly and shone the lamplight on a tall, rail-thin specimen who lay before us. Even in the dark, I could make out something familiar about the man. Though I had never clapped eyes on him, I knew at once that this must be the mysterious apparition who seemed to haunt Le Chat Noir.
The creature was some kind of nightmarish vision. He was a tall, gangly-looking man, almost to the point of emaciation. His gaunt face was shrouded, however, by an unruly, unkempt beard, and a mangy, tousled head of long hair cascaded about his face. He was clad in a shapeless brown overcoat, done over in patches and stitched back together as though someone had tried to save it from the precipice of death itself.
Holmes whispered two, haunting words: “Jacques Bonnaire.”
Movement came to the man’s limbs and he opened one, bloodshot eye, wincing in the light.
“Qui tu es?” I heard the man rasp against the wind and rain. Despite my limited knowledge of the French language, I knew that the man was asking us who we were.
“My name will mean nothing to you,” Holmes replied, “but this is Inspector Durand of the Paris Police Prefecture, and we have come to arrest you for the murder of M. Andre Dupont and his wife.”
It is beyond my skills as a writer to attempt to describe the look of savagery which crossed the man’s face at these words. In an instant, the pity for the poor soul who lay before us melted away as he transformed into some uncontrollable beast. I watched, helpless with horror, as he dug into his inner pocket and withdrew a long knife. I caught a glimpse of his shirtsleeve dangling about where his one hand once resided. With what I can only imagine was all of the man’s limited strength, he hauled himself up from the ground and attempted an escape. So startled were we by the sudden convulsion which had overcome Bonnaire that Holmes, the inspector, and I completely failed to stop him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl before Holmes cried out, “Quickly! Cut him off on the other side!”
I took to my heels and returned the way we had come, soon finding myself sprinting along the stone causeway which ran along the river. The rain had made the stones into something as slippery as ice, and I almost lost my footing on several occasions. I could barely make out the scene which transpired beneath the bridge, but with little else place to go, I stood my ground and pulled the hammer back on my revolver. I aimed, not hesitating to shoot at whatever leapt out at from the darkness.
I heard the sound of Holmes’s voice calling through the night, and I momentarily lowered my gun for fear that I might strike my friend on accident. No sooner had I done so then the figure of Jacques Bonnaire flew out at me from the void. His face contorted into some satanic visage, he screamed like a banshee as the knife flashed in the air, and I let out a gasp as its point caught my coat sleeve. I felt the cold steel against my flesh, followed by a moment of intense, searing pain, as though I’d been struck by a red hot poker. I dropped my gun and pressed a hand to my wound. The man seemed to have lost interest in me entirely, however, for he turned and started to run along the way I just come. I saw him raise the knife high over his head once again, in search of either Holmes or Durand.
In one swift movement, I had gathered up the gun from the ground and squeezed the trigger. The explosion sounded tremendous in the relative quiet of the early morning. The bullet met its mark in the back of Jacques Bonnaire, and I watched as he tumbled to the ground, his weapon falling from his hand.
A second later, I felt a hand on my shoulder and, looking up, I found myself staring at Holmes.
“Tell me that you are not hurt, Watson!” he cried.
He shined the light over me. I caught sight of a gash running along my forearm, but I was numb to the pain. The terror which had surged through my body had let to go of me.
“Jacques Bonnaire,” I said breathlessly, “is dead.”
That was the last I recall before total darkness overwhelmed me.
* * *
When I came to, I was seated upright in my bed in the hotel. Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Durand sat on two chairs at the foot, keeping vigil. I smiled as I came to and made to reach for my watch, only to find that my arm had been wrapped in a sling.
“It’s barely five in the morning, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said.
“I haven’t felt this bad since the war,” I joked. My jest drew a smile from both men.
“Your wound was a superficial one,” Durand said. “M. Holmes insisted that we get it dressed, and our physician at the prefecture concurred that we have it attended to... as you can see.”
“A bloodletting was worth it, I should think,” I said, “if we were able to stop Jacques Bonnaire and bring an end to this business.”
“I rather think not,” Holmes replied darkly.
At these words, the inspector and I both turned to face Holmes, our mouths
agape.
“M. Holmes, what are you talking about? Jacques Bonnaire attacked both you and Dr. Watson in his attempt to flee from the police. He was carrying a knife which, I am told, matched the type which was used to sever the hands of M. Dupont and his wife. Are you insinuating that he was innocent all along?”
“Nothing of the kind, Inspector,” Holmes replied, crossing one leg over the other. “In fact, it was Jacques Bonnaire who did sever the hands of the deceased. But it was not Bonnaire who killed M. Dupont and his wife.”
“Well then, who is guilty?” I sputtered.
“Bonnaire’s elder daughter,” Holmes replied. “You, Inspector, will know her better as Jeanette the maid.”
“Mon Dieu,” Durand said. “M. Holmes, I think you ought to explain yourself.”
“Gladly,” the detective said, as he lit a cigarette. “From the outset of this business, I thought that there was more to the case. M. Dupont showed me two letters which were making threats against his life. The second of these was postmarked London, which meant that whoever sent it had to have been in the city and returned just as quickly when Dupont and his wife decided to flee. Now, ask yourself one question, Inspector: Would Jacques Bonnaire - a man who is minus one hand and who has been inflicted with a near fatal bullet wound - be capable of crossing the channel as quickly as he did in his condition? What’s more, you and I both saw how destitute he was. The man was living on the streets, and would surely have been unable to pay the fare for two consecutive trips, let alone one.
“Knowing that there was a conspirator involved in this affair was only made all the more plausible when I was struck by the presence of two different knife wounds upon the bodies. You yourself asked the question, Inspector: Why should the murderer carry two different knives when one would be more than efficient? The simplest answer is that there was more than one murderer involved. And, this became even more likely after an examination of the scene. You will doubtlessly recall that I took a moment to analyze a few shards of glass which I found on the veranda. You assumed that that glass was left after the murderer gained forceful entry into the house. If that had been the case, Inspector, the glass would have been found on the inside of the room and not outside. That window was broken after the murders were committed.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 18
