Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin (4 page)

Holmes and I ate our dinner pretty much in silence, for he refused to answer any of the questions I put to him, saying only that we must be prepared for any eventuality – useful advice enough, to be sure, but hardly constructive, and not even particularly original, as I felt obliged to point out.

On the following morning, we paid our bill and set off as if for the railway station. I may add that our luggage consisted of nothing more than a single bag apiece, so there was no difficulty about carrying that. Once at the station we wandered about a little, then left by the main entrance as if we had just arrived by train. We hired a cab, and were soon crossing the river.

Holmes instructed the driver to halt at the Sorbonne, and we walked the very short way to the Collège de France, where we joined a little knot of sightseers, mostly English, and stared with them at the buildings and the surroundings.

Ten o’clock came and went. The sightseers left, and were replaced by another group. Holmes consulted his watch. ‘I trust nothing has happened – ah! There he is,’ and he nodded to the shadows, from whence Lefevre had emerged in his mysterious fashion.

Lefevre nodded a quick greeting, then led the way at a good pace, going south along the Rue St-Jacques. We passed the Law School, and the Panthéon – I reflected that it was odd to see these places, which I had known so well under such different circumstances – and set off down the Rue Mouffetard, with its curious relics of the old Paris known to Rabelais and his drinking companions. Lefevre did not allow us time to gaze about us, though, but plunged into a maze of narrow and rather sordid alleys, finally halting before a door, very much weatherbeaten and the worse for wear, in a tall, shabby, old building.

‘Here we are,’ said Lefevre. Then, evidently noticing my doubtful expression, he added, ‘Cheer up, Mr Price! Its appearance is unfortunate, I know, but you will soon come to like it.’

Lefevre led us inside, and summoned the manager or proprietor – I was not sure just what he might be – from a dark back room. He was a short, stout man of greasy appearance, who did not seem particularly interested in us, though he was keen – nay, eager – enough to take a week’s rent in advance. We were not asked our names, or required to produce any form of identification, which was rather in defiance of the French police regulations, I fancy.

We did not have a great deal of luggage, and that was soon stowed away. Lefevre, who lodged across the hall, had shown us to our room, and stayed whilst we settled in. ‘You had best think of some new names for yourselves,’ said he when we were done.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. ‘I shall be Pierre Leblanc,’ said he, ‘and Price here can be Henri Vert.’

‘Mr Green and Mr White?’ said I. ‘A touch obvious, Hol – ah, Harris.’

Lefevre grinned. ‘But these anarchists,’ said he, ‘they expect the alias, the nickname. Why, one of my best friends in the society is “The Cat,” and we have also “Ugly Jean,” and so forth. They will naturally assume your names are false, but they would do that in any event.’

So, Henri Vert I became, for the time being. Holmes suggested that I take a stroll round our immediate environs, to familiarize myself as much as possible with the locality. Meantime, he and Lefevre settled in a disreputable bar, and were soon deep in discussion.

I did as Holmes suggested, and wandered around the maze of grimy streets and alleys, marking, with a view to dinner, such restaurants as did not seem too obviously offensive. Along the way I was offered contraband cigarettes, some dubious ‘tobacco’ apparently grown in Morocco, and several interesting propositions which were mostly of a business nature, although several of the local ladies offered me a range of services, none of which – delightful though they promised to be – seemed entirely appropriate to the task which had brought Holmes and me here.

I soon realized that a couple of hours was insufficient to gain more than a very rudimentary knowledge of the area, which resembled in some ways the East End of London. But I flatter myself that I have a good grasp of basic geography, and had soon fixed the main thoroughfares, such as they were, in my mind, although a lifetime would scarcely be enough to get to know all the little courts and alleyways.

I returned to the bar where I had left the others, to find Holmes sitting on his own, a glass of
absinthe
before him.

‘Dreadful stuff, that,’ said I, nodding to the glass. ‘Rots your boots, as the drill-sergeant at Netley used to say.’

‘But it is not without its merits as an
aperitif
,’ said Holmes. ‘You would not care for a glass?’

‘Indeed not! But speaking of
aperitifs
, I have noted a couple of relatively clean places where we might dine, were you so inclined.’

Holmes did not, as he had on so many other occasions, dismiss the mention of food out of hand. Instead he nodded slowly. ‘It might be as well to take some refreshment,’ said he, ‘for we have work ahead of us, and in the not too distant future. This fellow Lefevre proposes to introduce us at the next meeting of his society.’

‘Quick work! And when may that next meeting be?’

‘This evening,’ replied Holmes. ‘At half past nine.’

FOUR

‘We are scarcely dressed for the Diogenes Club,’ said I ruefully, looking at my reflection in the flyblown glass.

Holmes laughed. ‘Perhaps not, but then the company is likely to prove somewhat more lively than one would expect to find at that eminent institution. Indeed,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘I am not sure but that it might prove a touch too animated for comfort. You know, Watson, I have serious doubts as to the advisability of taking you along this evening. There are certain to be some spirited exchanges, to put it mildly.’

‘Try to stop me!’ I told him.

Holmes slapped me on the back. ‘Well said, Watson! By the by, have you your revolver with you?’

I took the pistol from my pocket to show him.

‘Is it loaded?’

‘It is not much use otherwise, Holmes!’

‘Then you will please unload it, and leave the cartridges behind.’

‘But Holmes – !’

‘If you would, Doctor,’ said he firmly.

I unloaded the pistol as he asked, not without some muttered protest, and returned it – now useless – to my pocket. But I noticed that Holmes slipped three cartridges into his own revolver before he tucked it out of sight.

‘You mentioned some sprightly exchanges, Holmes,’ said I, as casually as I could manage. ‘Your tone suggested that you do more than just expect some excitement.’

‘You absolutely scintillate, Watson. Yes, my boy, I flatter myself that I have arranged one or two surprises. You see,’ he went on, lighting one of the rank French cigarettes, ‘we need to work fast, and for two main reasons. Firstly, our true identity might be discovered – my enemies, as you are well aware, know me by sight – and these gentry do not play by the rules of cricket. Secondly, the assassination of the President may well indicate that their plans are almost come to fruition – for why should they play so desperate a game otherwise? That being the case, we cannot afford to wait, to ingratiate ourselves with these individuals, as we might have done. We need our own spectacular
coup
, something to bring ourselves to the attention of the ruling council as quickly as possible. That is the only way we might be able to reach the top man, and thus smash the entire gang.’

‘And we shall do that this evening?’

Holmes nodded. ‘God willing, we shall. There will be some excitement, some confusion. Stay calm, and take your lead from me.’

‘But my revolver? If there is trouble, we may have to contend with – with “The Mouse”, or “Ugly Johnny”, and the rest of the poisonous crew! May I not at least load a couple of chambers?’

‘Certainly not! I do not wish anyone to be shot!’

‘Not even the anarchists?’

‘Particularly not the anarchists! They – misguided, even dangerous, though they are – are not our quarry. They are merely our passport to the real brains behind the various criminal activities which bedevil the country. Criminal activities which already include the murder of the President of the Republic! And which – and which may yet lead to worse things,’ he added, half to himself.

‘Worse?’ said I, but Holmes would not say any more, and I turned back to the glass, which reassured me that I looked as great a miscreant as any in the Newgate Calendar.

‘All done?’ said Holmes, consulting his watch.

‘I am ready,’ said I, and followed him down the stairs and along the street to the little bar.

On the way, I had the uneasy feeling that we were being followed. I glanced behind me more than once, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. The events of the day – and, perhaps more to the point, the prospect of what the evening might bring – had conspired, I told myself, to make me more nervous than is customary with me.

Lefevre emerged from the doorway as we approached. He still betrayed not the least indication of familiarity with soap and water, but he had enlivened his shabby costume with a rose in his buttonhole – a red rose, appropriately enough. I wondered if it might be some secret signal to his fellow anarchists, and whether Holmes and I should not visit the florist’s. Before I could put my thoughts into words, Lefevre glanced up and down the road before giving his habitual nod of greeting, then set off without a word, with us at his heels.

I had flattered myself that I had gained some general knowledge of the area that afternoon, but Lefevre led us through streets and alleys of whose existence I was in complete ignorance. In the growing dusk we passed little, ill-lit bars, gambling dens, and yet more dubious establishments, until Lefevre at last took us into a tiny court, and pulled up abruptly before a door slightly more battered than its fellows.

‘All ready?’ asked Lefevre.

‘Ready,’ said Holmes.

I nodded.

Lefevre told us, ‘If we are separated – and, Lord knows, that is likely this evening – ask for “Marcel” at the
pension
, and you will find me.
En
avant
!’ He straightened himself, as if to prepare himself for whatever might befall, then pushed open the door. We followed him inside, past an open door which showed us a glimpse of tables and chairs, with some half-dozen men and women sitting around talking. To this day I cannot say if it was a restaurant, or a drinking club of sorts, or just what it might have been. But by the door stood a man in a greasy apron, a waiter, or the owner, perhaps, and he gave a piercing look at Holmes and myself before exchanging a nod with Lefevre.

Lefevre continued down a narrow, dirty passage, and up a flight of stairs which had not the slightest vestige of carpet or paint. We stopped on a little landing, which at first seemed deserted, but then a large, rough-looking man emerged, and planted himself firmly in our path. I wondered if this was Ugly John – his face certainly qualified him for the sobriquet.

‘Comrades from Corsica,’ said Lefevre, nodding at Holmes and myself.

The large man scrutinized the two of us with some care, then at last gave a grunt of approbation – I think it was Holmes’s two-toned shoes which finally tipped the scales – and stood to one side to let us pass.

Lefevre pushed open a door and led the way inside. The room in which we found ourselves was bigger than one might have expected from the premises downstairs – ‘deceptively spacious’, as the house-agents might well have said – but, large as it was, it was crowded. We were evidently the last to arrive, and there seemed no empty places left, but Lefevre begged a couple of chairs from a man who was acting in some sort as an usher, or steward, and we settled ourselves next to the door. The large man who had inspected us on our arrival came in, closed the door behind him, and sat down near us, and I assumed that the business of the evening was about to begin.

The steward, a fussy, self-important little individual, made his way to the front of the room – for there was no pretence at any sort of platform or stage – to announce the first speaker, ‘The comrade from Lyons.’

There were three or four of these speakers, all much alike in appearance – which was sordid; and alike also in style – of which more in a moment. None of them was given his real name. ‘The comrade from Lyons’ was followed by ‘The comrade from St-Germain,’ and ‘The comrade from Marseilles.’ If these styles were geographical descriptions, and not mere
nommes
de
guerre
, then the anarchist movement was widespread indeed, thought I.

And indeed the meeting as a whole seemed to have an air of importance about it. Partly, perhaps, that may have been because the speakers were from such diverse locations, but there was more to it than that. They were attended to with an air almost of expectancy – an air which was most definitely not justified by the content of their speeches, which were alike in being pretty well incoherent.

Such as was intelligible was pretty malignant stuff, most of it. We were exhorted to ‘trample the oppressors underfoot,’ and to ‘tear down the bloodstained banner of slavery,’ and God alone knows what else. There were naturally a good many references to the assassination of President Sadi Carnot, especially from the comrade from Lyons, where the crime had taken place. These men did not consider it a crime, of course, and the atrocity was discussed in a sort of hideous gloating tone, the ‘Yah-boo!’ style of oratory which should be thrashed out of a boy at ten or eleven years old. The sole consolation was that these speeches did not last much longer than five minutes. For me, even this was five minutes too long, and I fear that I began to grow restive, and glanced at my watch.

Holmes dug me in the ribs, and at first I assumed that he meant it for a reproach, that he was warning me to try to look more like a committed anarchist, but then he gave a little nod towards the front of the room, where another speaker was taking the floor.

This fellow was a different kettle of fish from the poor flounders who had harangued us up to then. For one thing he was introduced differently, not called ‘The comrade from somewhere or other,’ but referred to only as ‘our main speaker.’ Then his appearance was altogether more prepossessing than that of his predecessors. He was tall, cleaner than the bulk of the room’s occupants, and well enough dressed, though without any pretence to fashion, or to show – he gave me the impression that he would ordinarily have been very well dressed, but had tailored his coat to suit his company that evening. And, above all, he could speak. There was none of the ranting note of badly stifled anger here, but instead a kind of calm reason which was the worse for the hatred which lurked unseen behind it.

He began by giving us a kind of introduction to the anarchist manifesto, an exposition of the ‘ideals’ – if that is the right word – of the organization. And I have to admit that it was devilish convincing. He pictured an ordinary man, poorly educated and worse paid, whose gnawing sense of discontent mirrored his constant, gnawing hunger, until discontent turned to anger, anger for his own state and that of his starving children, until the point at which the only possible response was to lash out in a kind of blind, unreasoning fury. Listening to him, I almost felt ashamed of the contempt I had felt for the earlier speakers. After all, I thought, those ‘comrades’ had not been to a good school, they did not have three, sometimes four, square meals a day, or any of the other advantages which I and my kind took as if of right.

I have said that I almost felt like that. But not totally. It was not, you are to understand clearly, that I had any sympathy at bottom for anything he said. There was nothing like that about my reaction to his words. But his style of delivery was so good, so damnably persuasive, that you felt as if you were listening to a very clever speaker in your club; it was not that you agreed in the slightest degree with what he said, but that you thought it deserved a proper, a reasoned response – if you had but the wit to think of one. And yet he was not at all out of place in those squalid surroundings, or amongst those villains who – if they were taken at their own account – would have no compunction about committing murder! I remember that I thought that this man would have given the great Mesmer a run for his money.

I listened, pretty well spellbound, for what seemed an eternity – I learned later it was no more than twenty minutes – to that soothing, so reasonable voice, when suddenly he broke off in mid-sentence, as there was the unmistakable sound of a police whistle being blown.

I sat frozen to my chair, but Holmes was on his feet at once, and so too was the large man who had guarded the door. The large man moved towards the door, looking all the while at Holmes with naked suspicion in his eyes.

Holmes gestured towards the speaker, who stood irresolute. ‘Quickly!’ said Holmes to the large man, ‘we must get our comrade away to safety, at all costs!’

The large man paused a fraction of a second, then nodded briefly.

‘Keep the crowd away from the door,’ said Holmes, ‘and we shall attend to our comrade.’

The large man moved away from the door, and into the room. ‘One moment, comrades!’ he told the crowd, which was now on its feet and inclined to be restive. ‘Everything will be taken care of. Quickly, comrade!’ he added, looking at the speaker, who had still not moved.

Holmes opened the door, and glanced out. ‘Quick, for the love of heaven!’ said he.

The speaker moved to the door, and Holmes led the way out on to the little landing. We crossed to the head of the stairs, and Holmes glanced down, then let out an oath which surprised even me.

I looked over his shoulder, and saw Dubuque, of all men, halfway up the stairs with a dozen stout
gendarmes
hard on his heels! In some surprise, I turned to Holmes, but before I could say anything, Holmes had produced his revolver, and fired – once, twice, thrice, and then there was a click as the hammer fell on an empty cylinder.

Dubuque and two of his fellows lay on the stairs, in grotesque attitudes. The rest of the
gendarmes
had fallen back slightly as Holmes fired, but when once they realized that he had no more ammunition they began to press upwards again, but were impeded by the three bodies.

Holmes turned to us, a look of desperation on his face. ‘It is useless!’ he cried. ‘The stairs are blocked!’

The erstwhile speaker did not hesitate. ‘This way!’ he told us, and pushed open one of the other doors which led off the landing.

All this had happened quickly – much more quickly than it takes to write, or to read, my account – and I confess that I had not the slightest notion of what to do next. Left to my own devices, I should probably have stood at the head of the stairs until the police reached me, but Holmes grabbed my arm and fairly dragged me after him.