Son of Holmes (26 page)

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Authors: John Lescroart

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BOOK: Son of Holmes
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“Well, I don’t understand why you didn’t leave a note with Danielle. We were both very much concerned.”
“But, Jules,” she said, “I did leave a note. Out on the coffee table outside where she always serves me breakfast.” She smiled and patted my hand. “I know all about it. When we returned and discovered the house locked up, I went to your place and found Danielle, and she told me the whole story. It had been chilly yesterday morning, and she thought I’d rather take my coffee inside, so she never went out to the table. Come,” she said, standing, “the others are waiting. What’s the surprise?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “If I tell you, it won’t be.”
Fritz had me seated to the left of Lupa’s desk, facing the others. Tania sat opposite me, and next to her, Paul, then Henri and Georges, with Henri on my far right. Fritz exited. No one spoke. In another moment, the door opened again, and Fritz asked me to help him bring in the cases of beer. I went back out to the apartment, and he closed the door behind me.
Lupa came out from down the hall and motioned me quiet with his finger to his lips. “The table?” he whispered.
“Only that small depression—looks like a spiderweb.”
He smiled. “Yes, I thought I remembered that. Satisfactory. It closes the circle. I’ll be right in.”
Fritz and I took the beer inside and set it behind the desk. I sat again and Fritz walked out, leaving the door ajar.
“What’s the surprise, Jules?” asked Paul. “The tension is killing me.”
“Tension rarely kills,” said Lupa, appearing in the doorway. “People kill.” He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked into place.
They were all on their feet. Lupa ignored the commotion, crossed to his desk, and sat. As he reached for a beer, the noise died down.
“What’s the meaning of this, Jules?” asked Georges, but they all shared the sentiment.
“Please, please,” Lupa admonished, opening his beer and pouring, “let us be civilized. I’ve arranged it, through Monsieur Giraud, that all of you would be here tonight. Last week, one of your friends was killed in our presence. The police have witlessly concluded that I am the guilty party, and this is not the case. The purpose of this little meeting will be to expose the killer, which is one of you.”
“But you’re the killer,” Henri exploded.
“No, sir,” Lupa replied. “I am not. Most assuredly.”
“I won’t stay,” said Paul.
“Oh, but you will. The door is locked. Besides, what have you to fear? If you are innocent, no harm will come to you. If not, well . . .”
“I’ll tell you what we have to fear,” said Georges. “We have
you
to fear. Last week you killed Marcel and that inspector. Tonight you might kill any one, or all, of us.”
“Oh, tut, sir.” He looked around. “Please, all of you, relax. Would any of you care for more beer? I nearly forgot to have it brought in.”
There were no takers.
He leaned back. “Now, then, where to begin? We may as well get at the facts.” He sighed, then drank, then began.
“The rumors you have heard about this case being an international affair are perfectly true. Since I will be long gone, and certainly in no danger from any of you, I can afford to tell you this. I am an Allied spy.”
He paused for the words to sink in. “Now, then. I was sent here just after the war broke out to try and learn the identity of one of Europe’s most dangerous minds and, having done so, to stop him.
“I’d been having no luck until last Wednesday, when Monsieur Giraud fortuitously invited me to your weekly gathering. The person I sought undoubtedly knew me, since I’d chased him through Eastern Europe for several months preceding my move here to Valence. He kept eluding me precisely because he knew who I was, though I changed my identity and papers in every location. Finally, when I learned that he’d come to Valence, I decided to come here as a worker, find a job, and stay hidden and anonymous until he acted or made a mistake. However, nothing happened for so long that I began to fear he’d left.
“In desperation, I accepted Monsieur Giraud’s offer to be seen in public. My luck was extraordinary. The man I was trailing was at that first gathering. Of course, not knowing him put me at a distinct disadvantage, which he decided to capitalize on immediately. He tried to kill me.”
He paused to look at the assemblage. “Of course, you’re probably wondering why he chose that drastic method when, in the past, he’d simply run.”
“I was wondering that,” said Paul, dryly.
“The answer is, as my father would say, elementary. He had to remain in Valence until some other job was completed. Last week I learned and yesterday it was verified that that job was the destruction of the St. Etienne Arsenal. So he had to stay, and he had to elude me. When, by mistake, he killed Monsieur Routier, he put me hot on his trail again, for the first time in nine months.
“I resolved not to lose him again, and I haven’t. Killing Routier was an act of panic, provoked by seeing me. If he’d kept calm and done nothing, he would have succeeded in his mission at no danger to himself. Monsieur Routier, by the way, since he is dead and the knowledge can do no harm, was himself an agent of the French government, seeking this same man.”
A murmur ran like a current through my friends—“What? Marcel?
C’est impossible!
”
Lupa continued, oblivious to their reactions. “I surmise that at the time of his death, Routier’s cover was still intact, which means that his espionage connections were still unknown, even to his murderer. That much by way of prologue. Are you sure none of you will have more beer?”
I looked at the faces of my friends. The men all were wary, and Tania was furious.
“I’d like another beer,” said Henri.
“What about Monsieur Giraud, here?” Tania said. “Why is he helping you? Is he a spy, too?”
Lupa looked at me. “Him? Don’t be silly.”
“Then why are you helping him?” Paul asked me.
“Marcel was my best friend,” I answered. “After he was killed last week, Monsieur Lupa took me into his confidence, and I believe him. I want to see Marcel’s killer punished, even if it is one of you.”
“It is,” interjected Lupa. “What you don’t seem to realize is that any of you could have sat in the seat I vacated last week. Whoever sat in that seat would have been poisoned.”
They eyed one another, a hint of suspicion finally creeping into an expression or two. Henri sipped his beer and wiped sweat from his brow; Paul leaned with his elbows on his knees; and Georges stiffly crossed one leg over the other. Tania was still angry.
“All right,” Lupa went on, “so my first problem was who to suspect, and at first that, too, seemed simple. Suspect Monsieur Lavoie, since he’s the only one who was not in Valence during the time I was chasing someone in the East. I saw the flaw in that almost immediately and cursed myself thoroughly, I assure you. The murderer, assassin—call him what you will—rarely did his own work. I hadn’t been chasing him all that time, but rather his agents. I checked with another of my contacts on that point, and he agreed. So I had two scores to settle with this man: he’d tried to kill me, and he’d made me look a fool.”
“Then how did he recognize you right away?” asked Paul again.
“Photographs.” He drank some beer. “You’re listening carefully. That’s a good sign.”
“You still look a fool to me,” said Henri.
Lupa nodded. “Perhaps, but let’s go on. I was left suspecting everyone, so I had to eliminate. Madame Chessal.” He looked at Tania and she met his gaze. “I’m sorry I suspected you for so long, but it began when I entered Monsieur Giraud’s house last week. I’m sure you didn’t realize it—indeed, you couldn’t have—but you, in your close observation of me, changed your position as I did all evening, even after the murder. If I crossed my legs, you crossed your legs, and so on. And so you gave away your interest in me. At the time, I had no idea what could cause that interest, except of course the obvious.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled from it the photograph I had delivered earlier. “Only yesterday did I learn that I closely resemble your eldest son.”
“Damn,” I said, “he does.” Tania’s son had a mustache and was much smaller than Lupa, but the face was very similar.
“Where did you get that picture? Jules”—she turned to me, her mouth taut—“did you have anything to do with this?”
Lupa butted in before I could speak. “Monsieur Giraud is more your friend than you know, madame. The point is, do I or do I not remind you of your son?”
Tania, still fuming, lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said coldly. “I saw it then.”
“Precisely. And you’ve been piqued at me ever since because your son is in the war, at the front, and I’m not.” He leaned slightly toward her. “Be assured, madame, that I too am fighting this war.” He continued. “Later, when you came to question me about missing the funeral, I was on my guard and so was perhaps unnecessarily abrupt. I now apologize. And I thank you for your help with Anna’s wounds.”
The others looked quizzically at us.
“Last Sunday,” Lupa went on, “another attempt was made on my life, this time wounding a woman I was with and barely missing an associate. I have been extremely fortunate, I admit. At the time, I thought it possible that my pursuer had hired an assassin and wanted to be sure he’d done his work. Shortly afterward, I realized that that was folly. A hired assassin would have killed me. No, my man was terrified, and was acting as his own agent. In the past, he’d avoided being the center of suspicion because he’d avoided direct action. Now, once he’d acted, the inexorable pull of events would lead to his downfall.
“So I finally rejected you as a suspect, and happily. Monsieur Giraud was most unwilling to believe you guilty.”
“Thank you for that,” she said to me.
“Monsieur Pulis,” he said, turning his gaze full upon Henri. “I’m surprised the police haven’t arrested you, since you’ve acted the most like a guilty man. When the police discovered cyanide in your house, you panicked, and have been on edge since that time. Monsieur Pulis’s son is a photographer,” he explained to the others, “and cyanide—Prussic acid—is used in the developing process.” He wagged a finger at Henri. “You should have immediately offered yourself for thorough investigation, but instead you were terrified that the police would arrest you because you are not French, and you tried to hide, distorting some facts, lying about others. You should never have lied about seeing Inspector Chatelet, for example. That made me suspicious of you, and it had nothing to do with your nationality. Last Wednesday, you were blatantly unhappy to see me. Actually, that worked in your favor, since the man I sought would never have shown himself so openly. I finally discounted you when I couldn’t see any possible way that you could bring destruction to St. Etienne, despite your deliveries there. Though it wasn’t crucial, I also found it difficult to believe that the man I sought had a high-strung wife and six children to support.
“That leaves the bachelors. To be fair, let’s start with Monsieur Giraud. He convinced me of his innocence by his actions late the night of the murder, and if that wasn’t enough, Routier’s recommendation was.”
This last, of course, was nonsense, but I kept my silence.
Lupa half turned in his seat and reached for another beer. After opening it, he stared at the two men sitting directly opposite him. Paul shifted nervously in his chair. Georges lit a cigarette.
“Mr. Anser. I was loath to suspect you originally because you share my country of citizenship. But consider these facts: you were sitting next to me last week, and were in the best position of anyone else in the room to simply switch glasses with me during the commotion over Monsieur Lavoie’s hand. You are an amateur geologist and as such have access to, or have had access to, cyanide. You are a crack shot, by your own admission. You are not French and you live in St. Etienne. The circumstantial evidence against you is, therefore, impressive. On the other hand, last week I sent one of my own men to try and ‘cross over’ with your help. He was most persuasive and most subtle, and came away convinced that you had no idea what he was hinting at.” Lupa turned to me. “That, Jules, was the mysterious man you saw with Mr. Anser when you went to St. Etienne.” He went on. “Still, that you refused my man by no means completely cleared you. You might have recognized my ploy and acted accordingly. No, it wasn’t until I discovered that Monsieur Lavoie was the man whom I sought, and that wasn’t until yesterday afternoon, that I listed those circumstantial facts concerning you as coincidental.”
All eyes were on Georges. He sat calmly, smoking.
“I take it,” he said to Lupa, “that you are accusing me?”
“Yes.”
Georges chuckled mirthlessly. “This is rather tedious, you know.”
Lupa shared the grim humor. “I don’t really find it so, but perhaps you would like another beer. It may be your last for a long time. Still no? Well. It was admirable the way you arranged to be out of town during most of this week. It did serve to divert attention from you for a time—long enough for you to go about your special tasks.
“Let’s begin with last Wednesday. By the way, consenting to be a regular guest was an admirable choice of covers. Whether it had begun by design or by coincidence, you wasted no time in recognizing the value of this particular group to your ends. They were a singularly respectable, though eccentric, group of citizens. Your presence among them established your bona fides in an especially effective manner. To the rest of the community, your status as newcomer—and hence a natural object of rumor and suspicion—was substantially mitigated. Then, too, among a group with so many foreign connections, you stand out as passably French. It was a fine decision on your part.”

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