by Hayes, Steve
‘Holmes is the epitome of discretion, sir, I assure you.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Verne said, uncomfortable now, ‘I would prefer it if he were to leave this matter be. Do you think you could persuade him to do this for me?’
‘It is for you that he is investigating at all, sir.’
‘And do you think he has grounds for his suspicions?’
‘There you have me, M’sieur Verne. You and I may spend a week, a month or a year looking directly at a thing and not detect within it the things Holmes will detect in a trice. I cannot claim to understand his convictions in this matter, but I have no doubt that they are true.’
‘Even though he has been … unwell?’
Watson sat a little straighter. ‘I am not sure what you are implying, sir.’
‘Please, Docteur. We are friends, and I mean no disrespect. But facts are facts. Holmes has been ill. You yourself told us over dinner that the purpose of this trip was to help him convalesce. Is it not possible that he has convinced himself that there is some dark conspiracy at work here, where in fact there is nothing more than an unfortunate family argument which has been blown out of all proportion?’
Watson frowned. ‘It is possible, of course,’ he allowed. And he cursed himself for not having realized as much himself. But after so many weeks spent cloistered in his room, the central player in a drug-fuelled haze, Holmes had finally come back to life. And he, Watson, had been so delighted to see it that he had not even thought to question whether or not the conspiracy to which Holmes had referred only existed within his own overheated imagination.
‘We can only await developments,’ he said at last. ‘But please, m’sieur, set your mind at rest upon one thing. Neither Holmes nor I shall do anything to besmirch your family name.’
Verne stared into the fire and muttered cryptically: ‘It may already be too late for that.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jailhouse Ruck
Sergeant Bessette went off duty at four o’clock and spent the next hour or so drinking cognac at the café opposite the post and telegraph office on Rue Gambetta. It worried him that he had made such a foolish mistake that morning. He should have insisted on seeing identification before he allowed the fictitious Lucien Menard to see Gaston Verne. What worried him even more was that he knew he was in the employ of men who seldom tolerated mistakes.
At first he had feared that punishment would be swift, that the dossier they had compiled on him, listing all the bribes he had taken over the years, all the evidence he had fabricated on behalf of others to ensure that their rivals were discredited and removed from the scene, would be delivered immediately to the Ministère de la Justice.
He had spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to concentrate on paperwork, snapping irritable orders at the gendarmes around him like the condemned man he believed himself to be. But with every minute that passed, his misgivings eased. Perhaps they were going to give him another chance. If they did, he would not fail them again. He daren’t.
Finally he wandered over to the post office and asked if anything had come in for Emile Devereaux, an alias his secret employers had bestowed upon him when he first went to work for them. Non, m’sieur, he was told. Nothing yet.
He went back to the café and drank more cognac. He was drinking more and more of it lately. Around him, men and women, the girls from the school just along the road all went about their business, blissfully unaware that they had never truly been much more than puppets. Their fates, and the fate of every Frenchman, had nearly always been directed, to one degree or another, behind the scenes.
Bessette had realized this early on. And in a country where there were but two groups, the rulers and the ruled, Gabriel Bessette would side with the rulers every time.
He checked his pocket watch and sighed. He had just spent the slowest half-hour of his entire life. He got up and went back over to the post office. Was there anything for Emile Devereaux yet?
This time the clerk said yes.
He handed over the telegram and went back to work. Bessette went outside, tore open the flimsy envelope and read the artfully coded message within.
The news was both good and bad.
On the one hand, he had been given another chance to prove himself.
On the other, he had to kill a man.
He had to kill Gaston Verne.
He folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket. Later, at his little appartement in one of the city’s least-underprivileged banlieues, he would burn it and dispose of the ashes just as he had been instructed.
Now, as he fought the urge to have one more drink and instead forced himself to walk slowly away from the café, he thought about his orders; firstly whether or not he could actually carry them out, then when he would carry them out, and finally … how he would carry them out.
It was almost midnight when Bessette unlocked the access door set into one of the double wooden gates that led into the central police station’s back yard. The city was silent, in darkness. The night was cold, and he saw his breath steaming in the faint moonlight.
He closed the door behind him and paused for a moment to listen to his surroundings. He could smell the stables, off to his left. A horse shifted, snorted and fell quiet again. To his right loomed the silhouettes of two parked wagonettes and three coaches. From where he stood, moonlight made the cobbled yard shine as if damp.
At length he moved again, this time ghosting across the yard, keeping his weight on the outer edges of his feet to minimize any sound. He reached the door in the station’s rear wall and gently inserted another key from the chain attached to his belt.
With the softest of clicks, the door swung open.
He stepped into a darkened, brown-painted corridor. Around him the station was more like a mortuary. Sergeant Lepage would be manning the desk tonight. Close to retirement, he was old and fat and dozed a lot. There might be one or two gendarmes in the staff room, but everyone else would be out patrolling the streets.
There was a door in the facing wall. He went to it and carefully turned the dented brass-ball handle. The hinges squeaked softly and he winced, but the noise did not betray him. He peered through the crack between door and frame. A large, desk-filled room lay beyond. And yes, there was Lepage seated in a chair at the counter, his back to him, his double chin resting on his chest, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically.
Bessette smiled grimly.
He let himself into the room, closed the door behind him and turned quickly to the right. He went through another door, descended a flight of cold stone steps and found himself in the basement cellblock. Still everything was quiet.
His heartbeat accelerating now, he hurried quietly along the corridor until he reached the cell he wanted.
This was going to rely on speed, if he was to get away with it. He could give the prisoner no chance to cry out. He had to be silenced quickly, permanently, and then Bessette had to hope he would have similar luck in leaving the station undetected.
He drew a breath. This was murder, plain and simple. But he knew also that it was kill or be killed. For if he failed the organization again….
He fumbled with his key ring. Suddenly his hands were trembling, his fingers stubborn and unresponsive. His breath sounded loud in his ears. His pulse raced. He’d never exactly been an angel, but neither had he ever committed murder before.
He stopped, closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. Calm down, he told himself. Calm down! After a moment, he did.
He unlocked the door, entered and closed it behind him.
The prisoner was huddled beneath his single grey blanket, snoring softly. Bessette’s shadow fell across him. It took something from one pocket – something long, slim and deadly; a knife – and then drew back his arm to deliver a single killing blow.
The figure beneath the blanket seemed to explode.
The blanket flew back like a departing spirit and the man beneath it sat up fast. Bessette caught a bewildering
flicker of movement, and then something cold poked him hard in the sternum, keeping him at bay.
It was the brass ferrule of a cane.
‘Give it up, m’sieur!’ snapped a voice that did not belong to Gaston Verne.
Bessette cursed himself for being a fool. No wonder it had been so easy to get in; the whole thing was a trap – and he had walked right into it!
Desperation boiled up in him and he lashed out, knocking the cane aside. At the same time he whirled around and lunged for the door. His intended target, the man he had believed to be Gaston Verne, sprang up from the cot and brought the cane down on his forearm as he reached for the door. Pain sawed through him. He yelped, turned and threw himself at his opponent.
For an indeterminate time they grappled, each struggling to get the upper hand. Bessette’s knife was knocked from his fingers and fell clattering on the stone floor. Cursing, he punched wildly at his opponent’s head and missed. His opponent pushed him away. Bessette slammed against the opposite wall. Breath knocked out of him, he lunged forward again in a desperate charge.
The other man came to meet him. Just before they collided, he half-turned so that he led with his shoulder. Then, crouching slightly, he deftly thrust his shoulder into Bessette’s armpit and twisted quickly at the waist.
Bessette went over the other man’s shoulder and crashed heavily to the floor. All the air was knocked out of him and stars popped in the darkness before his eyes.
Gasping, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. The other man crouched over him. Regaining his wind, Bessette was about to launch himself back into the fray when the cell door flew open. He froze, suddenly illuminated by the gaslight that brightened the corridor outside.
Inspector Mathes barked: ‘Bessette! Don’t move, man, or I’ll shoot!’
Bessette, seeing the 12mm single-action Galand revolver in Mathes’s hand, grudgingly obeyed.
The inspector glanced across at Bessette’s opponent, the man who had posed as Gaston Verne, and said: ‘Good work, M’sieur Holmes. It seems I was right to trust your judgement in this matter, after all.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Orange Blossom, Lavender and Honeysuckle
The darkly handsome police inspector flopped into the chair behind his messy desk and heaved a heartfelt sigh. It had been a long night, but not necessarily a profitable one. He looked at Holmes, who was seated in the visitor’s chair across from him, and said: ‘There can be no doubt about it; there is indeed more to this affair than seemed obvious at the outset. But Bessette – Bessette, of all people, the very last man I would have expected to double as an assassin! – isn’t going to talk any time soon. He has made that all too clear.’
Mathes had been understandably sceptical when Holmes had first intercepted him as he left the police station at dusk. Anxious to keep their meeting secret, Holmes had asked if they might speak in private. When the puzzled policeman agreed, he had taken him to Amiens Cathedral, the most public and yet at the same time private place he could think of.
The cathedral was one of the city’s most imposing sights, and certainly the tallest in all of France. Construction had started in 1220, following a fire that destroyed its predecessor at the same location, and now, in addition to being a place of worship, it also contained works of art and decoration that had been accumulated over the seventy years it had taken to build.
At that time of the early evening, the church was largely deserted. Holmes looked around to make sure no one was watching them, then led Mathes into the Chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury. They sat beside each other on a pew facing the impressive altar, and it was here that Holmes confided his suspicions.
‘I have great respect for you and your methods, m’sieur,’ Mathes replied softly once Holmes had finished, ‘but this time I think you may be mistaken, for the very simple reason that Gaston Verne himself has at last confessed his motive … well, after a fashion, at least.’
Holmes was immediately attentive. ‘What did he say?’
Mathes hesitated. ‘I can rely upon your discretion?’
‘Of course.’
‘He blamed “family affairs of such sensitivity that I am unable to divulge them”. His exact words.’
‘And that was all he said?’
‘He would be drawn no further, m’sieur.’
‘Nevertheless, I must ask you to indulge me, Inspector. It is my conviction that Gaston Verne was somehow “primed” by person or persons unknown to make the attempt upon his uncle’s life. Those same perpetrators might make another attempt, not only upon Jules Verne but also his nephew.’
‘Why the nephew?’
‘Because Gaston is a link to them, and may even be privy to their true motive. He has already given me what may or may not be a vital clue, and since he is mentally unstable, they cannot guarantee that he will not, sooner or later, tell all.’
Mathes frowned for a moment, his mind racing. Then he said: ‘I should find it most embarrassing to be made a fool of, m’sieur. But equally, I should find it most embarrassing to lose a prisoner in my care.’
‘Then you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt?’
Mathes nodded grimly. ‘Where do you suggest we begin?’
‘Firstly, we must exercise extreme discretion. We do not know yet who else is involved, or where they are, or what they will do next. May I rely upon your discretion?’
‘Of course.’
‘I thought as much. Inspector, this is what I have in mind.’
So it was that Mathes, acting entirely alone and without official sanction, had removed Gaston Verne from one cell and placed him in the one next door. And so it was that he smuggled Holmes into the building shortly thereafter and allowed him to take Gaston’s place. After that there was nothing to do but watch and wait.
‘But Bessette, of all people,’ Mathes said, taking a cigarette from a packet on his cluttered desk. ‘I never much cared for the man, but I never thought him capable of murder.’
‘That, I fear, is one of the problems,’ Holmes said. ‘There is no way to tell just whom we may trust. If the people behind the attempt on Verne’s life are as powerful as I suspect, they probably have agents everywhere.’
‘At least now we have two leads to them – Gaston and Bessette.’
‘Yes. But as you rightly said just now, Bessette is not about to betray them.’
At first, as they handcuffed him, the brawny sergeant had tried to protest his innocence. He claimed to have returned to the station simply to check on the prisoner. But the dropped knife, together with Holmes’s testimony to the contrary, was damning; and when Bessette realized it, he refused to make any further comment, other than to demand a lawyer.
‘I’m not getting anyone out of bed at this time of night for your benefit,’ Mathes replied harshly. He gestured for the two gendarmes who had witnessed the interrogation to take their sergeant away. ‘You can see your lawyer in the morning.’
‘There is just one other thing,’ Holmes had added.
Bessette gave him a surly glare.
‘What do the letters VDC stand for?’
Bessette’s bloodshot eyes betrayed his surprise, but only for an instant. Then he replied in a low growl: ‘I have no idea.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Holmes now continued to Mathes, ‘he will talk sooner or later. The prospect of a meeting with Madame la Guillotine can be a powerful persuader.’
Mathes blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘And if nothing else, at least we have confirmed your suspicion that there is more to this business than first appeared.’
Holmes stood and gathered his hat and cane. ‘Well, I fear we will accomplish little more tonight, Inspector.’
‘Non. But I will have another crack at Bessette in the morning, and let you know the minute I learn anything.’
‘Thank you.’ They shook hands. ‘Good night.’
Holmes left the building the same way Bessette had entered it; by way of the back yard. The night was still quiet but for the dist
ant yapping of a prowling dog. Holmes knew he’d be lucky to find a cab at this late hour, and resigned himself to the long walk back to the Hotel Couronne. As soon as he stepped out onto Rue de la Republique, however, he thought he glimpsed a movement in the mouth of an alleyway across the road – a figure, startled by his sudden appearance, hurriedly backing into the shadows there.
Holmes stopped and peered closer, but saw nothing and decided he had been mistaken.
And yet….
And yet his instincts told him beyond all doubt that he was being watched.
On impulse he crossed the road and headed directly towards the alleyway, the tip of his cane tapping briskly against the cobbles.
He was halfway there when whoever was lurking in the shadows made a run for it. Holmes recognized the unmistakable sound of high heels and realized for the first time that his watcher was a woman.
He broke into a run, knowing that she might well be nothing more than a lady of the night, afraid of arrest, but knowing also that he could not take the chance in case she was actually something much more.
He entered the alleyway just as she reached its farthest end and vanished around the corner. In that instant he saw a woman in – it was difficult to be sure in the uncertain yellow glow of the streetlamps, but he thought it was a purple outfit. He went after her. But he had only taken a few steps when suddenly the whole world began to undulate and melt around him.
The part of his mind that still worked told him that the effects of opiate withdrawal were once again coursing through him. He cursed his luck even as he broke stride and slumped hard against a cold stone wall. He closed his eyes, hugged himself, set his teeth. He was wracked by shivers even though he burned inside. After a few more seconds the sensation reached such a pitch that he almost forgot who and where he was –
