Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin (3 page)

‘And the name of this French lieutenant?’ I asked.

Holmes frowned. ‘That is one thing that I did not manage to find out. I imagine he has a dozen aliases. Certainly he is a master of disguise and an accomplished actor, for it was he who had the deuced nerve to impersonate me in that Bank of France affair! And the doorman of the Bank – the prospective hero of your sensational narrative, my dear Watson, and the man who prevented the immediate arrest of Moriarty – this doorman swore that he was the very image of me!’

‘Well, it seems to me that the resemblance is significant,’ said I. ‘At least we know that he resembles you in a general sense, height, weight, and what have you, be his face raddled never so heavily.’

‘Watson, Watson! Have I myself not demonstrated to you on more than one occasion that a man may take a foot off his height without so very much trouble? It is inconvenient, to be sure, even painful; but it can be done. And to add a few inches is less trouble still, for a thick-soled boot, a top hat, will do much to fool the casual observer.’

‘But his weight? His build?’

‘I will allow you that.’

I sat up. ‘You may have to allow me more, Holmes. Does it not seem to you that Moriarty may perhaps have chosen his representative simply because of the resemblance to you? That the professor had planned to use him as a decoy in some villainy of the very sort which you foiled?’

Holmes stared at me. ‘You are positively incandescent, Watson. And it is a pretty compliment you pay me. But I fear that I must disclaim any responsibility. One may perhaps think that a lofty brow, a distinguished profile, be-token great mental powers, and that a man who looks like me must necessarily think like me; but I imagine that a mere passing resemblance would not go very far with Moriarty. No, his closest associates were chosen on the basis of their intellect, not their good looks!’

‘Hmm.’ I was reluctant to give up my theory entirely. ‘And yet, were there two men with the same intellect, might appearance – the resemblance to you – not have been a deciding factor?’

Holmes laughed. ‘I can go along with you there,’ said he. ‘Whatever his testimonials, Moriarty’s agent did his work well. As long as Moriarty was alive, of course, the agent was merely a second in command – although you must remember that even Moriarty could not be in two places at once, and he was usually in London, so that his agent in France had pretty much of a free hand. He was – and still is – a clever man, Watson. Clever, bold, and ruthless. Once Moriarty had met his untimely end, then of course the agent took over the Continental operation.’

‘As a going concern? Had you not spoiled their sport to a large extent, Holmes?’

He frowned. ‘I had hopes that I had frustrated Moriarty’s attempts to move his activities across the Channel; but my own small efforts were naturally concentrated on the English side. And even then – for reasons which I had best not dwell upon – the police action left many of the highly placed members of the gang at liberty.’

I nodded. ‘I well remember your annoyance on learning of their escape!’

‘A justifiable annoyance, I think, under the circumstances. There was devilry in that escape, Watson. A stench of corruption in high places. And – one day – there will have to be a reckoning. But you were asking me about France. Even though I did not dare to contact you, I had my channels of communication, and news kept reaching me on my travels of the doings of Moriarty’s erstwhile agent. To me, who had studied Moriarty’s own methods for so very long, and so intently, the pattern was clear. This latest outrage – ’ and he indicated the great pile of newspapers – ‘is but the latest, the most audacious, of his crimes.’

I waved one of the newspapers at him. ‘But it says here that the assassin was an anarchist! He is known to the police!’

Holmes lifted an eyebrow wearily. ‘A motley throng gathers round the red-and-black banner,’ said he. ‘I have no doubt that some of them are honest enough by their own lights, that they are motivated by what they see as a genuine desire to change the political system. But on the other hand, I know as a fact that many of them are not, that they are merely cynical opportunists with an eye to their own gain. Those with an authentic zeal for change are easily manipulated by the rogues, and I have no doubt that such is the case in this instance. What does it matter that the actual assassin was taken? It was ever thus with the professor. The apparent criminal might be caught by the police, or torn apart by the mob; he might be tried, flogged, imprisoned, or even hanged. But the true criminal, the planner, the man behind the crime, the spider at the heart of the web, he would never be taken. The mark of Moriarty, my boy! Why, you might almost use that phrase as the title of one of your sensational novels! “The Mark of Moriarty!” I recognize the brushwork, Watson. If this is not a genuine Moriarty, then at least it is of his school. And a master pupil at that.’ He sat upright. ‘Would you be so good as to pass me the Bradshaw, Watson?’

‘The boat-train to France?’

Holmes nodded.

‘There are obvious difficulties,’ I told him. ‘For one thing, it is clear that this man of whom you speak knows exactly what you look like – he could hardly impersonate you so successfully were it not so.’

Holmes shrugged a shoulder. ‘After all, our quarry is not the only man to have some experience in acting or disguise.’

‘“Our” quarry, Holmes?’

‘Well, I thought that perhaps – if you have nothing better to do – ?’

‘Not I.’

‘It will be dangerous, Watson.’

‘So much the better! I cleaned my old revolver just this morning.’

‘And it will require some degree of cunning, for we have not the first idea of where to begin our search.’

‘After all, Holmes, our quarry is not the only man to have some experience in duplicity, nor yet in thinking fast under fire.’

Holmes laughed. ‘Can you be packed and ready in half an hour?’

‘I am ready now. But one thing I must insist upon, Holmes.’

‘And what may that be?’

‘I will not – under any circumstances – wear a false beard.’

THREE

Holmes and I landed in France at Dieppe, having caught the overnight boat from Newhaven. Not the most direct of routes, and one that probably would not have occurred to me; but Holmes said that he thought it safer, although he admitted that the chances of our being watched or followed were slim.

The casual observer would possibly not have recognized either Holmes or myself when we stepped on to French soil. Before we left 221B, Holmes had used his skills to disguise us both as far as possible. He did not bother with dyes, or with that false beard which I had abjured – indeed, he rather sneered at these things as smacking of the amateur. ‘Dyes and glues must be constantly renewed,’ said he, ‘and even then they may be depended upon only to the extent that they will inevitably let you down at a critical moment. Subtlety, Watson, that is the thing.’

My moustache had been rather in need of trimming anyway and, with a few deft snips of the scissors and the judicious application of a little wax, Holmes had produced a distinctly Continental jauntiness on the upper lip; a suit which I hardly dared to wear in London, a larger and more flamboyantly coloured cravat than I would habitually have affected, together with a glittering fake-diamond pin, bought for ninepence in the Bazaar on the corner, and Holmes could regard me with almost an approving eye. ‘One last touch, I think, Watson.’

He rummaged in my wardrobe, and produced a Coke hat, in a style which had gone out of fashion some ten years before, and which had been gathering dust and fighting a losing battle with moths ever since. ‘There! An excellent example of the Middle European popinjay,’ said he, as he perched the thing squarely on my head. ‘Just remember to be rude to the servants, sneer at your betters – and that, for your information, means just about everyone you will meet – and always count your change. Twice.’

I must say that if I looked somewhat disreputable, Holmes looked considerably worse. Clad in a shiny black suit, a dirty collar on a dirtier shirt, two-tone shoes with grubby lavender spats, and a gimcrack gilt monocle on a frayed cord, he looked every inch the unsuccessful commercial traveller who has escaped from his wife for a day or so – and who intends to take full advantage of the fact. The crowning glory was a brown felt hat, which spoke of extensive acquaintance with Newmarket Heath, and none at all with good taste.

‘For heaven’s sake do not go anywhere near Lincoln’s Inn,’ I advised him, ‘or the lawyers will take you for a professional co-respondent looking for work! Whilst if you linger too long near Tattersalls, they will undoubtedly have you warned off the turf as a tout!’

‘A second career is always a useful thing,’ said he. ‘Our disguises are not perhaps the most elaborate, but that is all to the good, as they will not need that constant repair work to which I referred just now. In any event, I have hopes that news of my return to the land of the living may not yet have reached the Continent. But the sooner we assume our new personae the better.’

On the platform at Dieppe, Holmes looked round carefully. ‘We have not, I think, been followed,’ said he, ‘nor are we being watched. But for all that, we must go carefully from this point on, Watson, for we are now very definitely in the enemy’s territory.’

We shared our carriage with the usual motley throng, a mixture of French and English travellers. Holmes managed to curl himself up in a corner seat with a bundle of French newspapers, and responded only monosyllabically, and in French or broken English, to such conventional polite remarks as were made to him by the other passengers. I, meantime, settled down with my eyes half-closed, as if dozing after the tedious sea-crossing, and listened as intently as I might to the conversations of my neighbours. As could be expected, the assassination of the President of the Republic loomed large in the various discussions. The speech of the French passengers was indicative of a mixture of anger and disbelief, whilst the English tended to express the pious hope that the event, sad though it undoubtedly was, would not make life too tiresome during their own pleasure-seeking sojourns in the capital.

Having arrived at St-Lazare, Holmes once again studied our fellow passengers as they streamed towards the customs examination. ‘All seems in order,’ said he. We passed the
octroi
, where Holmes was obliged to pay a hefty impost on account of the vast quantity of tobacco that was found amongst his luggage, and then sought out lodgings in an hotel of middle size and middle class in the Rue d’Amsterdam, at no very great distance from the station. ‘Large enough,’ said Holmes, after we had signed the register in the names of Mr Harris and Mr Price, aliases which we had used before, ‘and cosmopolitan enough that we shall attract no particular attention, and yet small enough for us to keep a wary eye open for possible danger. Moreover, being so near the railway station, they will be perfectly accustomed to guests arriving and leaving at odd hours, so that it is in every way suitable for our plans.’

‘Which are?’

‘A bath, and a belated lunch, I think, might be indicated. And then we must visit Dubuque, to see if he can point us in the right direction. I have pretty well lost touch with things over here in the last three or four years; such trails as I might once have followed have largely gone cold, so that all we have to go on is this assassination, and the anarchist undertones to it. I have hopes that Dubuque and his fellows may know something more than has appeared in the newspapers.’

After that lunch Holmes had mentioned, we made our way to the prefecture of police, and sought out Dubuque, who was, we were told, in his office. Holmes was about to take out a card, but then thought better of it. ‘Would you tell Monsieur Dubuque,’ said he to the uniformed
gendarme
, ‘that it is in connection with the Affair of the Second Stain?’

The policeman looked puzzled at so odd a request from so shabby a petitioner, but – perhaps taking us for criminals who wished to inform on their colleagues – went into Dubuque’s office. A moment later, the door burst open, and Dubuque himself came out to greet us. ‘Monsieur – ’ but before he could say more, Holmes held up a warning finger. ‘Ah,’ said Dubuque, tapping the side of his nose significantly, ‘I comprehend! You are here on business, no doubt? Come in, come in!’

He stood aside to let us into his office, and after telling the still puzzled
gendarme
to bring some coffee, Dubuque closed the door, waved us to chairs, and passed over a box of cigars. ‘The policeman, he mentions an Affair of the Second Stain. For a moment I wonder, has he gone mad? But then at once I recollect; I understand that Monsieur Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are here to see their old friend. But I am still puzzled – why have they left it so long?’

Holmes laughed, and quickly gave Dubuque a somewhat condensed account of the last three years. Whilst he did this, I was at liberty to study the famous Parisian detective and his surroundings. I myself had first made Dubuque’s acquaintance at the end of that case of ‘The Second Stain’, mention of which had proved to be our passport to Dubuque’s office – although I believe that Holmes and Dubuque had worked together earlier, without me. The case I have mentioned had international political ramifications, and Dubuque had been most interested in Holmes’s explanations, and most generous in his praise of my friend’s work.

At the time of which I am now writing, Dubuque had risen to be one of the most respected of the detectives in the Paris police. He was some forty years of age, with an ornate moustache which put my own in the shade. He was dressed soberly enough, but yet in the height of the fashion, while his waist, slightly thicker than it had been when last I saw him, bore testimony to his love of good food and fine wine.

Dubuque listened spellbound, an unlit cigar between his fingers, whilst Holmes told his tale. At the finish, Dubuque threw the cigar down and clapped his hands. ‘Magnificent!’ said he. ‘You have lived a lifetime – two lifetimes – in the last few years!’ And then his brow clouded. ‘But now, one has no doubt, you have come to France because of this most dreadful, this intolerable crime?’

Holmes nodded. ‘I discern the hand of an old enemy,’ said he. ‘One whom we pursued together, some four years ago.’

‘But the assassin was an anarchist!’ cried Dubuque.

‘Pshaw! A mere blind!’

Dubuque gave an expressive shrug of the shoulders, and looked at me. ‘Monsieur Holmes, he has his own ideas,
n’est
-
ce
pas
? But we have seen his ideas proved right often enough, have we not? And so I say, lead on where you will,
mon
vieux
, and you shall see that Dubuque follows close behind.’

Holmes shook the Parisian detective’s hand. ‘I am delighted to hear you say so. Now, the only clue we have in this affair is this dreadful assassination, and the clear association with the anarchists. I know you of old, Monsieur Dubuque, and so I ask you this – have you, or your colleagues, any spies in the anarchist camp?’

Dubuque looked at Holmes for a long moment before answering, then he stood up abruptly. ‘
Bien
. You know our methods, Monsieur Holmes. We have maintained a watch on these rogues, and for one or two of them we have a
dossier
. But only for one or two, because they are so cunning. To find out anything significant, it is difficult – dangerous.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And yes, I have a man in the society, on the inside. He is trusted, so he can introduce you. But you will understand, once you have gained admittance, you will be on your own, you and the good Doctor Watson.’

Holmes nodded briefly. ‘That is understood. When may we meet this man of yours?’

‘It will be safer for him to meet you, in his own good time. Where are you staying at the moment?’

Holmes told him the name of our hotel. Dubuque jotted it down, then stood up and held out a hand. ‘His name is Lefevre,’ he told us. ‘Or at any rate, that is the name he uses for the moment. But, just as a small precaution, I shall instruct him to mention your own London address,’ and he tapped the side of his nose, and gave us a conspiratorial wink.

‘By the by,’ said Holmes, ‘I am Mr Harris, and Watson here is Mr Price.’

‘I understand perfectly.’

Holmes and I made our way back to the hotel, there to await the arrival of Lefevre. Holmes paced impatiently up and down the sitting-room, smoking his pipe, the whole afternoon. Rather than do the same, I determined that I would read as many of the French newspapers and magazines that I could lay my hands on, to saturate myself, as it were, in the atmosphere of the capital, and perhaps obtain some information that would prove to be of some assistance in our investigations.

At around seven o’clock, Holmes pulled out his watch for the fiftieth time since we returned to the hotel, and said, ‘Dubuque’s fellow is evidently in no hurry. I suggest we go to our dinner, Watson.’

‘Gladly,’ said I, and meant it, for Holmes can be indifferent to food when he is fairly on a case, and all too often he is deaf to my protestations – a circumstance which has led to my acquiring a totally undeserved reputation for gluttony, when in reality I merely try to prevent Holmes’s collapsing from hunger, and taking me along with him.

Holmes led the way to the street, and we set off in search of a decent restaurant. We had gone about a hundred yards and were passing a gloomy side alley when a man emerged from the shade and approached us. ‘Mr ’Arris, I think?’ said he in the most appalling English.

Holmes stopped. ‘I am Mr Harris,’ said he.

The man held out a grimy hand. ‘My name is Marcel Lefevre,’ he told us. ‘And this, I understand, is Mr Price?’

He insisted on shaking my hand, and I was acutely aware of an odour of
absinthe
, garlic, and the cheap, dark tobacco smoked by the French workman. Lefevre’s appearance was very far from prepossessing. He had clearly not shaved for three or four days, and I rather suspected he had not washed in that time either. His clothes were greasy, his boots shabby, and the hand which he held out to me shook, as if with delirium. A moment’s thought, however, reminded me that neither Holmes nor I looked particularly like an oil-painting. Lefevre’s disguise, for such I now realized it to be, could certainly not be faulted, and accordingly I shook his hand heartily – and was obliged to wipe my fingers on my coat tails afterwards.

‘The ’otel, it is nice, yes?’ said Lefevre, in a curious sort of broken English which made him sound for all the world as if he were touting for a rival place of business.

‘It is adequate,’ said Holmes.

‘But perhaps I can tell you a better place to stay,’ said Lefevre. ‘It is a
pension
, you understand, owned by a good friend of mine. I stay there myself, in point of fact. I think it would be better for you, more –
commode
– what do you say? – yes, convenient. Although,’ he added in a lower voice, ‘it cannot, of course, compare with a suite of rooms at 221B, Baker Street.’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes in French. ‘You advise us to move there?’

‘Tomorrow morning will be soon enough,’ said Lefevre. ‘Ask at the hotel for your account to be made up, ready for the morning. You will leave as if you were taking a train, you understand? Now, you know the Collège de France, on the Left Bank?’

Holmes nodded.

‘Take a cab. Be outside the Collège at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Wait there as if you were tourists, seeing the sights. I shall meet you there.’ And he nodded briefly, and disappeared back into the shadows.