Holmes and I went through the vast lobby of the Maison d’Or hotel with its comfortable leather furniture and giant potted ferns lavishly leafing, and stopped before the front desk to fetch our key. A large wall clock showed that the time was six thirty. The black-suited attendant set an old-fashioned key and an envelope on the marble counter.
“Une lettre pour vous, Monsieur Holmes.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
I took the key, while Holmes examined the envelope, frowning slightly. He opened it and removed the folded paper. His gray eyes peered intently, even as his brows scrunched together. A smile flickered across his lips. “Better and better,” he murmured.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Have a look.”
It was brief and to the point:
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as one of your most fervent admirers, I was delighted to hear that you are taking on the case of the long lost treasure of the Needle! A little competition is always good, is it not? Nothing better than a contest to sharpen one’s wits and stir the blood! I wonder which of us will find the treasure first? If it were anyone else but yourself, I would give considerable odds on my being the victor, but with Sherlock Holmes, I would say the chances are fifty–fifty. Forward then, and as you English say, may the best man win!
Cordially,
Arsène Lupin, gentleman-cambrioleur
I shook my head. “You were certainly right that everyone in Paris seems to know you are here looking for the treasure. Interesting that he calls himself a gentleman-cambrioleur and not a gentilhomme-cambrioleur. Granted the French have adopted the English word into their language, but the English variant does seem a trifle pretentious.”
“A forceful handwriting this, and his English is quite good. Of course, he may have had a friend write it for him.” Holmes folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “I think we shall stop at the Sûreté headquarters tomorrow and see if we can speak with Inspector Ganimard. I am most curious about this Lupin, especially now that he has so forcefully thrust himself into our business. But come, Henry, I think we have more than earned a before-dinner drink. Normally I might have a whiskey and soda, but in Paris, one must emulate the natives—only a Cognac or Armagnac will do.”
We started toward the adjoining restaurant. A young man in a big leather chair was watching us, and he leaped up and bounded forward to cross our path before we reached the doorway. He was of medium height, with a slight stoop, the typical bad posture one sees in the young. His hair was a nondescript light brown, cut very short, and his brownish suit of coarse wool was ill-cut, obviously cheap. Behind the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles, his dark amber eyes were opened very wide, which gave him a perpetually startled or apprehensive look. He seemed to stiffen, his face contorting briefly.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” His tenor voice had a kind of awkward quaver.
“Yes?”
“You do not know me. That is to say, I do not think you know me, but perhaps, perhaps by some chance, you have indeed heard of me—I hope you have!—although if it was through the baron…” He gave his head a quick shake. “In that case, it is doubtful you have heard the truth. Who knows what calumnies he may be spreading! I beg you to let me defend myself.” He spoke a very proper, formal French.
Holmes and I stared at him, but Holmes spoke first. “Your name, monsieur?”
“Beautrelet. Isidore Beautrelet.”
Holmes smiled. “Of course.”
Beautrelet raised his hands, his fingers spread wide apart. “You have no idea what a great honor it is to see you—to speak with you—to be under the same roof with you. I have followed your career with such interest, and I have tried, with my feeble efforts, to emulate your work! And to actually meet Dr. Vernier as well! That, too, is an honor.”
I stared at him incredulously. Always, I was mistaken for Watson, and to have someone actually acknowledge me! “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, I have done my research, I assure you! As soon as I heard that Sherlock Holmes was coming, I made certain inquiries. John Watson craves the spotlight, but you are obviously a much more modest man.”
I shook my head, smiling. “You certainly know how to flatter a person, Monsieur Beautrelet.”
He was staring at Holmes. “I have only one desire, monsieur: to work with you, the master. Together, our forces united, it should be child’s play to find the treasure of the Needle!”
“Your zeal is admirable, Monsieur Beautrelet, but I believe the Baron of Creuse decided to dispense with your services.”
Beautrelet stiffened slightly, his upper lip curling. “What do I care for his approval or disapproval? He is the worst sort of aristocratic snob! Nor do I care for his dirty money! My only wish is to work with Sherlock Holmes—and I shall gladly do it gratis. I have made some discoveries which I wish to share. Together, what might we not accomplish!”
Holmes sighed softly. “I’m afraid it is quite out of the question, Monsieur Beautrelet. I always work alone.”
He glanced at me. “But is not Dr. Vernier your frequent companion and collaborator?”
“Yes, but Henry—”
“Why not two companions instead of one!”
Holmes shook his head. “Again, I’m afraid that is not possible, but—” he gestured toward the doorway “—why don’t you join us for an aperitif, Monsieur Beautrelet?”
A broad smile transformed the young man’s face. “Gladly, gladly! But you should know, I never give up. I can help you—I promise I can help you.”
We went into the dining area, which was mostly empty as the French didn’t generally sup for another two hours or so; closer to nine than seven. The waiter in his black suit and black vest nodded and told us to seat ourselves. Holmes went to a small table in the corner with a view of the entire room and the bar. He sat, then glanced at Beautrelet. “What will you have?”
Beautrelet looked briefly puzzled. “Whatever you and the good doctor are drinking.”
The waiter had arrived at our table. Holmes raised the fingers of his right hand. “Trois Armagnacs, s’il vous plaît.”
“Bien sûr, monsieur.”
Beautrelet was sprawled in the chair, hands clasped before him, a certain lunatic grin on his face. “I cannot believe I am actually sitting here with Sherlock Holmes himself! It is something I have dreamed of, in certain idle moments, but I never imagined my wish could really come true. Let me explain to you, Monsieur Holmes, why you should accept my assistance. I have been working on the case for nearly a month and have uncovered a great deal. I suppose the baron gave you a copy of his predecessor’s letter?”
Holmes stared closely at him, but did not reply.
Beautrelet shrugged. “That, of course, is a given, and I’ll wager you have the plans for the château as well. However, while digging about ancient tomes in various libraries, I came across reference to a certain brochure written during the reign of Louis the Fourteenth. The author printed one hundred copies which were immediately seized by the king and destroyed, and the writer was imprisoned and forced to wear—” he paused, his eyes opening wider even as a twitch of a smile appeared “—a mask of iron! The booklets were all thrown onto a bonfire, but the head of the king’s guard was an enterprising fellow, and he swiped one, which was passed down in his family. He used it, apparently, to find the treasure and snitch a few jewels, but he was set upon by robbers and died under mysterious circumstances. I could not find the actual copy, but I discovered a pamphlet published early in this century discussing the contents. The author was a royalist during the time of Napoleon who longed for the return of a Bourbon king. Once we have an agreement, I shall be happy to share it with you.”
I could see that Holmes was tempted. “And are you certain it is genuine?”
“Yes, I had it looked at by an expert, and he said the paper, the binding, and the ink were consistent with those of the empire.”
The waiter arrived with a small circular tray and set the three glasses before us. Each had a short stubby stem and a wide bowl. The Armagnac was a warm reddish-brown color, different from the paler amber of most Cognacs.
Beautrelet eagerly seized his glass, took a big swallow, gasped, coughed several times even as he clapped his hand over his chest. He gave his head a shake. “I’m afraid I am not used to strong drink.”
“It is meant to be sipped.” Holmes gave a brief demonstration, then set down his glass. “It is very good, as one might expect of a hotel of this quality. It has a certain age.”
I had a swallow. It was more pungent than Cognac and burned slightly on the way down, but delicious all the same. “Excellent indeed.”
Beautrelet took a very small sip. “Yes, it’s better this way, rather than gulping.” He set down the glass, curved the fingers of his right hand lightly about the bowl. “And what reason did the baron give you for my dismissal?”
Holmes shook his head. “I really do not feel I can discuss a private conversation with you.”
Beautrelet scowled. “It was about Angelique, wasn’t it?” Holmes’s face remained strictly neutral, but I had less self-control than him. “Oh, you don’t need to tell me. I am certain enough about it.” His lips formed a seething angry smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? He has only been a baron for three years, and that, because he was lucky enough to have his uncle die with no male heir, and already he puts on airs and considers those not of noble blood unworthy of his precious niece! Shouldn’t it be up to Angelique, I ask you? Shouldn’t she be allowed to choose her own husband, rather than have some blue-blooded nitwit forced upon her?” Holmes remained impassive, so Beautrelet turned to me. “And what do you think, Dr. Vernier? I know your wife is a physician, and I can only imagine what trials she must have undergone to become one. Surely she would argue that a woman should be allowed to choose her own husband!”
I could not restrain a laugh. “She certainly would!”
“And you would agree with her, I know! I can see it in your face.”
“Yes, I suppose I would.”
“Then you can understand why I would not kowtow and submit to outrageous commands from a pompous nobleman with an inflated sense of self-worth. No, no—if Angelique wishes to reject me, I shall submit—with a heavy heart, yes—but she and she alone has the power to command me! I am no slave that the baron can order about, or rather, I am a slave only to Angelique! Her wish is truly my command. Were she to ask it, I would gladly hurl myself from a parapet and dash out my brains.”
The corners of Holmes’s mouth had risen. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”
“No, indeed. I think now you understand my position, Monsieur Holmes. I could not accede to the baron’s demands. I simply could not. I was not dismissed because of incompetence, most assuredly not. Indeed, if the baron had sent me to the Château de l’Aiguille—which you will, no doubt, soon be visiting—I am certain that I could soon find the key to the treasure. As for st. s. 138.” He smiled. “A tantalizing mystery, that! But I have some ideas—I’ve always been good at puzzles. And with two of us in pursuit… I’ll wager we have it figured out within twenty-four hours of our arrival!”
Holmes swirled the liquid in his glass, then took a sip. “I admire your enthusiasm, Monsieur Beautrelet.”
“It is settled, then—we shall go together!”
“I’m afraid not. If it were up to me, I might take you along, but—”
“Then do so!”
“I must honor the wishes of my employer.”
Beautrelet slouched in his chair, folding his arms. “I don’t see why. I warn you: do not trust him. He is not an honorable man. I make it a rule to find out whatever I can about the people I work for. He has a terrible reputation in his nautical company and is known for his towering rages. Also, there is something you should really ask yourself, Monsieur Holmes.”
“What might that be?”
“What do you think he will do if he finds the treasure?”
Holmes stroked his chin lightly. “He told me what he plans to do.”
“Yes—supposedly, he will turn over the treasure to the Republic. And you believed him?”
Holmes merely shrugged.
“You have good reason to be skeptical! He is a greedy, miserly sort of man. I’ve heard that said of him, universally, and have seen it first-hand. There are rumors that he has squandered the wealth of the barony. If he finds that treasure, he will never willingly hand it over to anyone—certainly not to the Republic! These aristocrats are all the same. They despise the Republic. They want to bring back one king or another. The baron thinks he has the blood of the Bourbons, so he must have been rooting for Henri, the Duke of Bordeaux, but now that Henri is dead, he has probably switched his allegiance to the Orléans candidate.”
Holmes nodded. “Very impressive, young man. Keeping up with all the various contenders for the French monarchy is a complicated affair. All the same…”
“Yes, yes—forgive me, I digress. The point is that, should we find it, he would definitely keep the treasure for himself. In fact, I would not be surprised if he packed up and fled the country with it.”
Holmes sipped his brandy. “Attacking the baron is not going to make me change my mind.”
“What then? What will change your mind?”
“Nothing. I’m afraid I take my professional obligations seriously. And if the baron were to hear that you were accompanying me…”
Beautrelet jerked upright, smiling broadly. “I have it all figured out! I shall come along as your valet! And I shall be disguised. A false mustache, some spectacles, perhaps a wig… They should do the trick!”
Holmes smiled. “Your zeal is most commendable. I wish I could oblige you, but again, it is simply not possible.”
Beautrelet grew quite stern. “I shall not take no for answer. Promise me—promise me you will at least think it over.”
Holmes shrugged. “As you wish, but I shall not change my mind. However, there is another topic I should like to discuss with you: Arsène Lupin.”
Beautrelet scowled. “Ah, the villain—the great villain!”
“I hear you and he have crossed swords on more than one occasion.”
Beautrelet nodded. “We have indeed. I am one of the few people to have actually seen him.”
“Have you now? And what did he look like?”
“Oh, he is of medium height, with thick black hair and a black mustache, and a little scar over his right cheek. Just here.” Beautrelet touched his face. “He must be about thirty. He seems to take his role as a gentleman very seriously. He is immaculately groomed, and his tailor is first-rate, no off-the-rack clothing for him! He sometimes sports a monocle. He has a shrewd gaze, and his usual mien is rather ironical. And of course, he is known for writing long florid letters to the police, the newspapers, and his victims, a rather silly occupation, if you ask me.”
Holmes sipped his Armagnac thoughtfully. “Interesting. I had not heard about that. He must enjoy his notoriety and wishes to cultivate it.”
“Without a doubt!” Beautrelet took a sip, then coughed twice.
“I must admit I have received one of his missives. I suppose it would not hurt…” He took out the envelope, withdrew the paper, unfolded it, and gave it to Beautrelet.
The young man scanned it, then shook his head. “Yes, very typical. All the same—if there were two of us working against him to find the treasure… we could not possibly fail! That would greatly increase the odds he speaks of in your favor! And at the risk of being immodest, I have already bested him on two occasions.”
“Tell me about that, monsieur.”
Beautrelet again sat back in the chair, folding his arms. “Well, I had some small success as an informal detective after finishing my education, but it was the case of the Count de Perron, which was written up in the newspapers, that made my reputation.
“In a typical fashion, Lupin sent the count a letter telling him how much he admired his two excellent Rubens paintings and warning that he would be taking them the following Friday night. The count, of course, took precautions. Not content with the local police, he hired special guards whom he locked in the sitting room where the paintings were hung. He used two special combination padlocks to secure the doors. That Friday evening, he settled in with the two guardians for the night, and the house was completely surrounded by other men whom he had employed. The last thing he remembers is drinking some coffee with the guards to keep them all vigilant. When he awoke early the next morning in a sort of stupor, the two paintings were gone, the doors still locked. The three of them had drunk drugged coffee and the dozen men outside the château swore that no one could have entered or departed on their watch.
“I read of the theft in the afternoon papers and rushed there at once, suspecting that the paintings—and Lupin himself—might still be nearby. That was when I first met Inspector Ganimard of the Sûreté. I pretended to be a newspaper reporter, and he allowed me to see the scene of the crime. In searching the sitting room, I discovered something suspicious amongst the painted portraits. The eye of a certain ancestor looked strange, and when we took down the painting, spyholes in the canvas and in the wall were revealed. I knew there must be a secret passage to get back there. It took me an hour or two, but I finally found the lever behind a thick volume in one of the bookshelves.
“A section below the wainscoting swung open, and Ganimard and I were soon following a narrow passageway. The exit was near the garden in back, and we found one of the Rubens, but not the other. Lupin had made off with it and probably hoped to return for the second one during the night. We laid a trap for him, but he never reappeared.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “So the matter ended in a draw.”
“Exactly!”
“And the next encounter?”
Beautrelet frowned sternly. “I know you can be trusted to keep a secret, Monsieur Holmes. You must promise never to reveal what I am about to tell you.” Holmes nodded, and when Beautrelet looked at me, I did the same.
“Very well. The newspaper said I had miraculously retrieved the diamond necklace of Madame Dussolier from Lupin, but that in the process, he had given me something of a beating. The last part is certainly true! I’m afraid I sported a black eye for a week or two after our encounter. I am, regrettably perhaps, more a man of brain than brawn.” He smiled weakly. “I am very bad at fisticuffs. Anyway, what really happened was rather complicated. It involved Madame Dussolier and some compromising letters, as well as her maid Mademoiselle Chaudin.”
He leaned forward to touch Holmes lightly on the wrist. “Lupin does have a weakness, one real weakness—his fondness for the ladies. As part of his scheme, Lupin began by ingratiating himself with the maid. Most likely this began as a game for him, but over time, he became genuinely fond of her. She was, after all, a very beautiful young woman with black hair and black eyes. The poor girl had no idea who her suitor really was, or what he was up to, but he was laying the groundwork for a theft. However—” Beautrelet grinned broadly “—someone else beat him to the necklace!
“A former suitor of the Madame Dussolier, a genuine blackguard, had incriminating letters, and he threatened to show them to her husband, a wealthy financier, unless she were to leave two doors unlocked on a particular night. She did so, and he entered and absconded with the necklace. Suspicion immediately fell upon the maid, who vehemently protested her innocence.
“I read about this in the paper, and my intuition told me that Lupin was involved. I watched the house in disguise as a peddler, and one day, when Mademoiselle Chaudin left, I followed her. She met in a café with a dark-haired gentleman with a mustache whom I described earlier.” He peered intently at Holmes. “I cannot explain it, really, but a thrill shot through me, shaking me to my very core—somehow, I knew this was Arsène Lupin!
“I waited until they were finished, then I followed the man back to an old apartment building. After he had gone inside, I told the concierge I believed my old friend Valmont had just gone inside and could she give me his room number so I could talk with him. She told me I was mistaken, this was Monsieur Punil.” He grinned triumphantly. “That, of course, clinched it!”
Holmes gave an appreciative nod, but I stared at Beautrelet. “How so?”
Holmes turned to me. “A rather obvious anagram of Lupin, the letters only slightly rearranged.”
“I followed Lupin whenever he went out. On the second day, in the afternoon, he went to a house in one of the seedier parts of Paris. He was inside a long while, then came out with a packet under his arm. I was about to follow him when a shot rang out from inside. Lupin hustled away. I was torn, but in the end I went to the house and hammered upon the door. No one answered, but it was unlocked. I went inside, and in the hallway I discovered an ashen-faced valet. His master Monsieur Malroux had just shot himself in the head and lay dead in his study.
“I rushed back outside and started back in the direction of Lupin’s dwelling, and sure enough, I managed to catch up to him halfway there. I closed in on him near a small park, when suddenly, he whirled around. ‘Good day, Monsieur Beautrelet,’ he said. ‘I have something for you.’ I was rather uneasy, but he moved very swiftly and struck me in the face, knocking me down. ‘That is for following me for the last few days!’ he said. Then he helped me up.
“He gave me the packet and explained that it contained both the diamond necklace and the compromising letters. Malroux had been both bankrupt and ill. Lupin had found out about him from the maid, and he had threatened to turn him over to the police. Using both persuasion and threats, Lupin forced him to give up both the necklace and the letters. Shortly thereafter, in despair, Malroux had killed himself. Lupin did not want Mademoiselle Chaudin to be arrested for a crime she did not commit, nor did he want the countess to suffer from a blackmailer. Hence, he told me I could tell Ganimard and the press that, he, Lupin was the thief. He would take the blame to ensure that the two women were troubled no more. And I could take the credit for recovering the necklace.”
Holmes’s sardonic smile appeared. “Ah, a gentleman burglar indeed!”
Beautrelet scowled. “That’s easy for you to say—he didn’t hit you in the face! I think it was more vanity than chivalry. Anyway, I also did not want the women to suffer, so I did as he said. I told Ganimard I had reclaimed the necklace after a struggle with Lupin at his apartment. I said nothing of the compromising letters.”
“You are another gentleman,” I said.
Beautrelet frowned ever so slightly. “I certainly hope so. But you must not give Lupin too much credit, Monsieur Holmes. I still think he is the very devil, and it is most troubling to think he may be involved in this case. Again, you must have my assistance! I can recognize him. I can help you. I have battled with him twice now, rather successfully both times.”
Holmes shrugged. “I’m not so sure about the second time. He simply handed over the necklace.”
“There was nothing simple about it—the villain might have blinded me with that blow! And he warned me that if we were to meet a third time, he might just put a bullet through my brain.”
Holmes swished the small amount of liquid left in his glass, then took a swallow. “This has been quite interesting, Monsieur Beautrelet.”
“So you will let me help you, then? Again, you need pay me nothing. I only want to work with Sherlock Holmes more than anything in the world.” He spoke with a fervent intensity.
Holmes eased out his breath and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Beautrelet’s face was an open book, his dismay manifest in his eyes and mouth. He touched Holmes on the wrist with long wiry hand. “Please… Promise me you’ll consider it! And as a sign of my good faith…” He took a large brown envelope out of an inside jacket pocket and set it before Holmes. “Here is the brochure I told you about. It is yours to examine.” He took a final swallow of his drink, grimacing, and coughing once, then stood. “And then we shall talk again!”
Holmes and I also stood.
“Do not give yourself false hopes, monsieur,” Holmes said.
“They cannot be false. They cannot.” He shook both our hands, smiled awkwardly, and then strode out of the restaurant.
Holmes glanced at me, and then we both sat back down. “A rather remarkable young man,” Holmes said.
“I think he could be helpful to us. But of course I understand why you must refuse him. All the same, he strikes me as somehow more trustworthy than the baron.”
Holmes frowned, but he did not speak.
* * *
Holmes spent much of the evening examining Beautrelet’s pamphlet. The paper was brownish and blotchy. On the front was printed the title, Le Vrai Histoire du Grand Trésor de France, le Trésor Royal de l’Aiguille, along with an elaborate depiction of angels and hounds gathered round a shield with fleur-de-lis on it.
It had been a long day, and I went to bed early. The next morning I was up first and went down to the restaurant for my classic French petit-déjeuner. The Maison d’Or was the sort of grand hotel which would prepare a traditional substantial English breakfast if that was what you wanted, but when in Rome… Hence the waiter set before me a small cup of coffee and a pain au chocolat. I took a bite from the golden-brown crust of this puffy creation, tasting the chocolate within, and reflected that the English just couldn’t make anything close to proper French patisserie.
I had polished it off and was considering another when Holmes appeared in his black frock coat, his thin face freshly shaven, and his black hair combed neatly back. He sat down and ordered a similar breakfast from the waiter, even as I asked for more coffee and a pain aux raisins, by way of variety.
“Well,” I said, “did you discover any great hidden secrets in the pamphlet about the treasure?”
“No, I’m afraid not. It was all very fanciful and convinced me, more than ever, that we are most likely dealing with fiction rather than fact. What a hodgepodge! All the high points of French history are there: the ancient Gauls, Julius Caesar, Count Rollo, William the Conqueror, Joan of Arc, and all the Bourbon Loui. Those printed booklets which Louis the Fourteenth had burned are mentioned, along with the Man in the Iron Mask. Supposedly, the single booklet that escaped the fire was the source of much of the author’s information. He also claims that Louis the Fourteenth and Louis the Fifteenth borrowed heavily from the treasure, squandering many gold louis to finance their various wars and building projects. Louis the Sixteenth supposedly sent information about its secret hiding place to Marie Antoinette before he went to the guillotine, but she was imprisoned and was executed only a few months after her husband.”
The waiter set a small plate before each of us. “Thank you,” Holmes said, and smiled at me. “A well-made croissant is truly a work of art, is it not?”
“Yes, indeed.” I took a bite of my own pastry. “It is hard for me to choose between the pain au chocolat and the pain aux raisin. The ideal solution is one of each.”
Holmes chewed thoughtfully, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “The pamphlet did make me think we are unlikely to find the treasure at the Château de l’Aiguille. For one thing, the document suggests the château was built by Louis the Fourteenth as a kind of decoy, a false Needle. The true Needle may be something else altogether, something that has existed all through the long history of France.”
“A needle? What could that possibly be?”
“I have… some ideas. We must have a good look around the château. Even if we cannot find the treasure, we may discover some sort of key which will guide us to the true hiding place. We have a busy day ahead of us! There is Mademoiselle Chamerac at eleven, but first we shall stop at the Sûreté headquarters to see if Inspector Ganimard has time to meet with us.”
Once we had finished, we left the hotel. The gray wintery dampness of the prior day was gone, and one felt that spring and April were drawing near. Our umbrellas were left behind, but Holmes’s gloved hand held the silver knob of his long ebony stick. A cool fresh breeze and the warm rays of the sun, which had just broken through the clouds, caressed our faces.
Ahead of us at the end of the narrow street was the busy Rue de Rivoli, where a carriage and a heavily laden cart drawn by massive horses rumbled by, and further still, were the tall plane trees lining the Jardin des Tuileries. We started in that direction. Since the day was so fine, we thought we would take the half-hour or so stroll to the Île de la Cité, the small central island home to both Notre-Dame and the headquarters of the Paris police.
Ahead of us, a well-dressed couple came around the corner, a black-bearded man in a navy suit and bowler hat, the lady at his arm in a mauve silk dress with a flamboyant hat of the same color. Something about the set of her lips reminded me of Michelle.
I smiled faintly, even as something orange and green flashed briefly before me, and then came a deafening crash, which sprayed us with debris. My eyes jerked shut for an instant. Simultaneously someone cried “Attention!” in French, and the woman in purple screamed even as Holmes seized my arm with a fierce grip and pulled us both back and against the brick wall of the hotel building.
I gazed down dumbly at shattered, brownish-orange fragments of terracotta, black dirt, and crumpled green leaves and vegetation scattered on the sidewalk—sad remnants of a potted plant! “My God,” I murmured as I realized what a narrow miss it had been.
Holmes’s stern gray eyes below the brim of his top hat, were before me. “Are you all right, Henry?”
“Yes, I think so.” I was aware that my hands felt very cold, and a shiver went up my spine.
“Stay where you are.” Holmes looked about, then darted across the street. He spoke with a portly man who had shouted the warning, and both of them gazed up at the building behind me, our hotel, the man pointing.
Just then, something white caught my vision, something floating and fluttering slowly downward—a sheet of paper. It landed on the sidewalk before me, and I stared warily down at the white rectangle, then bent over to pick it up.
The other man, the one with the black beard and bowler hat, had come forward, making a wide detour into the street well away from the shattered pot, while the woman remained safely distant. He grasped my arm: “Vous êtes blessé, monsieur?”
“No, no. Tout va bien.”
He shook his head. “Quel accident affreux! Je suis soulagé.” He let go, nodded, then went back to his companion, again going well round the broken fragments. He spoke briefly with the woman, then they turned and went back in the opposite direction.
“That cannot have been an accident,” I murmured. “You cannot accidentally drop a huge potted fern from the window!”
“No, you cannot.” Holmes had come back across the street and joined me. I held up the sheet of paper where we could both see the writing: This is your only warning, Sherlock Holmes. Go back to London and leave the treasures of France to the French.
Holmes took the paper from me and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Come along, Henry.” He started back toward the hotel entrance at a rapid pace.
I was hard pressed to keep up with him. “Where are you going?”
“The fourth floor, one of the rooms near the end.” We went through the lobby, and Holmes took the stairs at a gallop, then strode down the hallway. He stopped before the last door to our right, seized the crystal and brass doorknob, hesitated, then turned it. The door swung open, and he went inside.
The big bed was neatly made, the heavy red and gold spread without a wrinkle, but the sash window was pushed up, a cool breeze stirring gauzy white drapes. Holmes went to the sill and looked down at the street below. “Yes, obvious enough.” He pointed at the gap of wooden floor between the carpet and the wall. “You can see, too, where some of the dirt spilled out.”
He went past me back into the hall, and I followed. He stopped, and his raised right hand formed a fist. “Damnation,” he muttered. “This is pointless, but all the same…”
“Did the man you spoke to on the street see anything?” I asked.
“He noticed the window was open, and he saw a person appear with a potted plant, which he set on upon the sill.”
“Did he notice his face?”
“No, the person was wearing a black hood which, of course, was suspicious. And he could hardly believe that someone would deliberately drop something onto people below. He pointed out, rightly so, that we might have been killed, but of course, the note indicates it was meant to scare us, not to actually harm us.”
I felt faintly dizzy, my vision somehow hyper-clear. “It was not so bad while it was happening, but when I think what might have been…”
“What makes me angriest is that you could have been hurt, Henry! I know the risks I run and expect danger, but for someone to have put your life at risk… That I cannot forgive. But come, I am sure it will be a waste of time, but we might ask some of the guests at this end of the hotel if they heard or saw anything unusual.”
Only two people were in their rooms, and they could tell us nothing. I did notice on peering past one gentleman, that a large potted fern on a stand was a common feature of the decor, and I realized that there was one in our sitting room. They had always seemed harmless and innocuous, but now I fully realized their lethal potential from an upper floor.
When we had finished, Holmes looked carefully at me. “You are still rather pale, Henry.”
“I am not used to so much excitement this early in the morning.”
“Come along, back to our room. Unlike some of the French who consume white wine first thing in the morning, I do not normally drink so early, but this is a special case.”
When we reached the sitting room of our suite, he went to the decanter of brandy on the mahogany sideboard and poured a small amount of Cognac into two glasses, gave me one, then raised his own. “To your good health—and may the rest of our stay in France be less exciting!”
We clinked glasses, then each drank some brandy. My nerves were still awry, but it did help calm me. After we had finished, we went down to the front desk, and Holmes explained what had happened to the hotel manager. He was horrified and very apologetic, and he insisted that it must have been a rogue guest and not any of his employees. All the same, Holmes told him to tell the staff that he would give a two-hundred-franc reward to anyone who could provide information.
Nearly an hour later, we started back down the narrow street before the hotel, but this time we walked on the other side, well away from the building!