When Holmes and I walked into the small café around ten forty-five, only two of the round wooden tables had occupants as it was the slack time between breakfast and lunch. A bald man with a black mustache stood behind the long gray counter of the zinc bar. He wore what was a quintessential Parisian uniform: long-sleeved white shirt, black vest and trousers, and a white apron tied around his waist.
Holmes ordered two coffees, then we went to a corner table. Soon the man came our way with a small tray and placed two coffees in fat white china cups on matching saucers before us. Next came two glasses of water. I took a sip of coffee, then scowled.
Holmes’s dark eyebrows rose. “Is something the matter?”
“I’m not sure how well Cognac and coffee mix. I have something of a sour stomach.”
“Perhaps with a touch of milk?”
I added some from a white pitcher and took another sip. “That is better.” I sighed. “What a morning! I wonder who arranged for that vivid warning with the plant.”
“I too am wondering about that, Henry. Arsène Lupin would be one candidate, but he seemed to be looking forward to a contest of wits between us.”
“At least…” My voice faded away.
“At least what?” Holmes asked.
“Well, it is bad luck to say it…” I rapped twice on the wooden surface with my knuckles. “At least no one has been murdered yet. Somehow the bodies always seem to stack up when we are working on a case together.”
Holmes gave a brusque dry laugh. “Well, there is that to be thankful for!”
I was looking out of the huge plate-glass windows fronting the sidewalk, when Angelique Chamerac went by. The door swung open, she stepped inside, glanced about, then gave us a radiant smile and headed our way. The men at the other two tables were watching her. She wore a vibrant purple silk dress with a jacket of black velvet and a hat matching the dress. She removed the hat revealing bound-up blond hair, gave her head a shake, and pulled off her white leather gloves, one by one. Her hands were small, white, and perfectly shaped.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Holmes and I had risen, and we spoke in unison.
“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Monsieur Holmes.” A bald man had appeared near our table and was giving her a certain male gaze. “Bonjour, monsieur. Un café, s’il vous plaît.”
He nodded. “Certainement.”
We all sat down. Angelique smiled rather awkwardly. “The weather is so much better today, is it not? Perhaps spring will arrive after all.”
Holmes nodded, his gray eyes inquisitive. “Why did you want to see me, Mademoiselle Chamerac?”
Her shoulders rose ever so slightly. “Well, it is this business with Isidore, monsieur. You have not met him, but…”
Holmes hesitated only an instant. “Ah, but I have met him.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“He stopped by yesterday evening at the hotel. He wants to work with me.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful—a thing he has dreamed of!—but my uncle would never allow it.”
“That was what I told Monsieur Beautrelet.”
“Well, so much the better, then, that you have met him. It is true he is hardly more than a boy…” Again, I reflected that this seemed to be the kettle calling the pot black. “All the same, he has a certain charm, and we have become… friends, and I feel very bad that I have ruined things between him and my uncle. He is quite clever—I know that much—and I think he might have been able to find the treasure, but now my uncle wants nothing to do with him.” She shook her head. “It is all my fault.”
Holmes watched her carefully. “So your uncle does not consider him a worthy suitor?”
“No. Definitely not.” She was staring down at the table, where her right hand rested, palm down.
“And why is that?”
She raised her pale blue eyes. “Isn’t obvious? He thinks he is unworthy because he is not of noble blood.” Her lips formed a brief, bitter smile. “I will say it. My uncle is a frightful snob. He wants me to marry a count or a marquis.”
“But this lack of noble blood doesn’t matter to you?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not in the least. After all, my father was hardly wealthy—the Legion pays only a pittance. I certainly was not showered with luxuries when I was growing up—to the contrary, we were quite poor at times, and after my father died it was very hard. And then my mother…” Her gaze was somehow stern rather than sorrowful, and I suspected she was a much stronger young woman than she first appeared.
“Why are you telling me this, mademoiselle?” Holmes asked.
“Because I do not wish to go back to that life—never, not again! You are a detective. Can a man make a decent living as a detective?”
Holmes smiled, then laughed. “A very practical sort of question.”
“You are mocking me!”
“Not really. A decent living? Yes, I suppose so, after one is established. It is an occupation of feast and famine, especially at the beginning, and some clients certainly pay better than others.”
“Isidore does admire you, Monsieur Holmes. He takes you as his model, and he hopes to become the greatest detective on the continent.”
I hesitated. “Does money mean so much to you, mademoiselle?”
Her eyes went icy. “Have you ever lived in real squalor, Dr. Vernier? Do you know what it is like to lie in bed at night, crammed in a room with others, and to hear the sounds of roaches and rats scuttling about? I assure you, they each make their own distinctive sound.”
I shook my head. “I have not. I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t mean to imply… I have visited enough patients in the slums of London to know that it is wretched to live in poverty. No one chooses it deliberately. And no one deserves it.”
“Then you do understand.” She took a quick sip of her coffee, then drew in her breath slowly and eased it out in a sigh. “I wish… I wish life were not always so complicated. The day will come, I fear, when I must choose between my uncle’s wishes and my regard for another—but how I dread it! If only I could please them both.”
I could not restrain myself. “The choice seems obvious enough. You would not want to stay forever with your uncle.”
The corners of her full lips rose, something ironical briefly showing. “No, I suppose not.”
Holmes smiled. “You must not mind Henry. He is a hopeless romantic.”
I shrugged. “I suppose that’s true.”
Angelique briefly touched Holmes on the wrist, making his brow furrow. “If only you could let Isidore work with you. As I said, it would be the dream of a lifetime come true for him. Even though it meant his dismissal, he was delighted to hear that my uncle wanted to hire you in his stead.”
“As I said, mademoiselle, I am certain your uncle would forbid it.”
“That, too, is true enough,” she said sadly. “All the same, if he did assist you… Perhaps, then, you could help me decide.”
Holmes’s sardonic smile reappeared. “I doubt I would be in a position to act as your advisor—nor would I ever presume to do so. I am a consulting detective, not a matrimonial guide for young ladies.”
She smiled back. “Now you are indeed mocking me! But I suppose I deserve it.” She set her hand lightly on my wrist. “And you, Dr. Vernier, would you give me your counsel?”
I shrugged. “I’m afraid I lack my cousin’s discretion. I am only too willing to give advice.”
“Excellent! Then I shall know whom to ask.”
“However, I certainly do not have enough to go on, at this point. One brief meeting is not enough to allow for a character evaluation in so grave a matter.” I saw that she understood that I was being ironical.
“That was why I hoped Isidore might work with Mr. Holmes. It would give you both the chance to know him better. All the same, I can certainly understand your reluctance to let him assist you.” Her face grew rather grave. “I know my uncle well enough. I have seen his rages firsthand, although luckily I have never been the recipient. But my poor Isidore…!” She shook her head sadly and swallowed the last of her coffee. “But I have taken enough of your time, gentlemen.”
We all stood. “Thank you for meeting with me, messieurs.”
Holmes made a slight bow. “It was my pleasure, mademoiselle.”
“And mine also,” I said.
Her smile to me was playful. She hesitated, then said, “Should I decide to elope with Isidore and live in an unheated Parisian garret, I shall know whom to turn to for approbation.”
“And I shall gladly give it.”
She had pulled on her gloves, and she picked up her hat. “Good day.”
She walked toward the door, nodding toward the server behind the counter. The vibrant purple silk of her skirts stood out in the dimly lighted room. Again, all the men present seemed to be watching her.
Holmes and I sat back down, and I shook my head. “There is something disconcerting about that sort of beauty in a woman.”
Holmes stroked his jaw lightly. “Yes, there is. However, in my case, it always puts me on my guard.”
“Why is that?”
“In the Platonic realm of philosophy and the abstract, great beauty and great virtue may be united, but in our hard practical world, they often go their separate ways.”
“Not in her case, I hope.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps not, but I have not known the young lady long enough to judge. I still do not understand exactly why she wanted to see me.”
“That seems obvious enough. She is interested in young Beautrelet and wants to know whether we think she should obey her uncle’s strictures or pursue her romantic inclinations.”
Holmes was smiling at me. “Henry, Henry.”
“What?”
“On one level, that is certainly true, but her motivation—her true state of mind—that is the mystery.”
* * *
Given our narrow escape that morning (and the generous check the baron had given him), Holmes decided we deserved a true Parisian lunch at a first-class restaurant. He had coq au vin and I gigot d’agneau, accompanied by an excellent Bordeaux, and for dessert, we finished the meal with delicious baba au rhum swimming in sweet syrup.
After that, we strolled about the center of Paris, making a brief stop at Notre-Dame to take in the splendor of the old cathedral, but by three we arrived at the Parisian police headquarters by the Seine, the French equivalent of Scotland Yard. We stopped at the front counter where we had inquired earlier that morning about Inspector Ganimard’s availability, then took the stairs to the second floor and went down the corridor with its gray and white marble-covered floor. Holmes rapped at a door with the large number 23 in bronze and a smaller plate with M. JUSTIN GANIMARD, INSPECTEUR.
“Entrez.”
We stepped inside. A small man sat behind a big desk cluttered with papers and a huge ashtray filled with butts. He sprang up and raised both his hands in a greeting. His thick old-fashioned mutton-chop sideburns and bushy graying mustache contrasted with the few strands of dark hair crossing his balding pate. His smile made creases at the outside of his dark eyes, and he strode around the desk. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat rather than a regular suit, the fabric a very odd olive-greenish hue.
“Ah, Monsieur Sherlock Holmes, at last! What a great honor, what a great honor.” He took Holmes’s hand, then clasped it round with his other hand, and shook both enthusiastically. “I recognize you from your pictures.” I suspected he was referring to Sidney Paget’s drawings, which I knew Holmes disliked.
He turned to me. “And this must be, Dr. Watson.”
I was certainly accustomed to this, and it had been quite amazing that Beautrelet knew who I was. “No, the name is Vernier. Dr. Henry Vernier.” We shook hands.
“Henry is my cousin, inspecteur.”
“A pleasure, Docteur.” Ganimard bustled about, pulling two stout oaken chairs with substantial armrests over to his desk. “Asseyez-vous, messieurs. Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît.”
We both sat down, and Ganimard stepped back around his desk. He also sat, then opened a silver cigarette case and took out a cigarette. “What brings you to Paris, Monsieur Holmes? Some spectacular case, no doubt.” He lit his cigarette, drew in and released a quick puff. “Ah, forgive me!” He struck his head with his free hand, then took the case and pushed it toward us, offering its contents. “Would you care for a smoke, messieurs?”
Holmes had removed his top hat, and I saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Thank you, but I have my own.” His face did not really give him away, but I knew that Ganimard’s cigarettes must be of inferior quality, nothing so fine as the baron’s. Holmes withdrew his own cigarette case.
Ganimard shoved first a box of matches, then a second big crystal ashtray toward us. “Now then, Monsieur Holmes, I was asking what brings you to Paris.”
“I am investigating a certain matter for the Baron de Chamerac.”
Ganimard’s brow furrowed. “The Baron de Chamerac. Now where have I heard that name? He lives in Paris, does he not? And close by.”
“Yes. On Île Saint-Louis.”
“Oh yes, of course.” He was still frowning, but then he smiled. “Ah, is this perhaps the same case that young Beautrelet told me about? Something to do with a mysterious treasure?”
Holmes hesitated, then smiled wryly. “Yes, it is.”
“Ah, then you will be working with Beautrelet?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“What? Can the baron have dismissed him?”
Holmes hesitated again. “I suppose it is not exactly a secret, especially as he has employed me in his stead.”
Ganimard shook his head, then flicked some ash into his ashtray. “A pity. Beautrelet is a very enterprising young man, and I must admit, very shrewd, very intelligent. I took him at first for one of these annoying busybodies, these would-be detectives, who think they know more than the police. They have read some detective stories, and so—” He gave a sharp explosive laugh. “Often, they have read of your adventures, Monsieur Holmes!”
Holmes grimaced ever so slightly.
“For them, our years in the force and experience with multiple actual cases count for nothing. Amateurs, rank amateurs all of them! Except for Beautrelet. He is the genuine article. He has the makings of a real detective. Of course, he cannot match me with all my years of experience, but he is naturally gifted. Have you met him, monsieur?”
“Yes. We have had that pleasure.”
“He is unprepossessing, to say the least. At first glance, he seems only a gawky yokel.” He used the words maladroit plouc, which can be translated as “clumsy yokel” or “bumpkin.” “Did he tell you about the case with the Count de Perron and his stolen Rubens?”
“Yes.”
Ganimard drew in his cigarette. “He may wear spectacles, but with them he has the eyes of an eagle! That is one way in which youth has the advantage. He spotted the flaw in the portrait—my men and I had missed the spyhole entirely, but once we found it, we were certain of a secret passage behind the wall, and in fairness, it was also Beautrelet who discovered the hidden lever. He is very thorough that one, meticulous in the extreme. Yes, he has the makings of a first-class detective, but I fear he will not consider the police.” Ganimard shook his head sadly. “Those stories of Watson are very bad for our profession! These young men all dream of being consulting detectives, not inspectors or commissaires!”
Holmes fiercely squashed his cigarette into the ashtray. “I cannot be responsible for Watson’s feeble literary efforts.”
Ganimard regarded him thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not.”
Holmes drew in his breath slowly. “Clearly Monsieur Beautrelet has impressed you. I gather he has your highest recommendation?”
Ganimard nodded. “He does indeed. The very highest.”
“I shall keep that in mind. I also wanted to inquire about Arsène Lupin.”
“Ah!” Now it was Ganimard’s turn to savagely extinguish the remnant of his cigarette. “That clever devil! One of these days I shall land him in my net, I promise you—you will see.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, first and foremost, he is… he is like some annoying insect—like a mosquito buzzing about your ears when you are trying to fall asleep!” Holmes and I smiled at the comparison. “He is always writing letters—letters to me, to his victims, to the newspapers. If he does retire from thievery, I am certain he could have a career as an author.”
“And when did this all begin?”
Ganimard drew in on a fresh cigarette, shook the match to put out the flame, then inhaled. “The first letter I received was about three years ago. I have collected them all. In fact…” He turned to a stack of brownish folders on his desk, ran his forefinger down along the edges, and pulled one out. It was the sort that fastened shut by way of a piece of string wrapped round a small paper circle, and he opened it and took out a sheaf of papers. A pair of spectacles was hidden behind another stack, and he put them on, letting them rest low on his long thin nose, then scanned a sheet. “He was nice enough to date them. This brief one was first he sent me, almost exactly three years ago.”
Ganimard read aloud: “‘Cher Monsieur l’Inspecteur Justin Ganimard, let me present myself. I am Arsène Lupin, a gentleman-cambrioleur, and I am, so to speak, about to set up shop here in Paris. I hope you are not currently terribly busy, because I intend to provide you and your fellow policemen with several new crimes for your consideration. These will involve the thefts of valuable jewels, paintings, and even the occasional exquisite piece of period furniture or sculpture, whatever captures my fancy! However, I can assure you of one thing: I do not kill, so you need not worry about any homicides on my part. However, I shall try to commit the most daring and ostentatious crimes, so as to keep us both well employed and well entertained. Please excuse any inconvenience this may cause you, and accept my sentiments of respectful admiration. Your humble servant, Arsène Lupin.’”
Holmes looked amused. “I cannot recall a thief equally flamboyant and literate.”
“Nor can I, Monsieur Holmes. Nor can I. Lupin is definitely sui generis. I have also clippings here of his letters to the newspapers.”
“That, too, is unique. As is his referring to himself as a gentleman. Gentleman and burglar are generally considered mutually exclusive. It is interesting, too, that he says he does not kill.” He gave me a brief sideways glance, then looked again at Ganimard. “I don’t suppose, then, that he has ever dropped a heavy potted fern upon someone’s head?”
Ganimard gave him a curious look. “No. Definitely not. Why do you ask?”
“Henry and I had a narrow miss this morning with such a pot. And have you ever actually met Lupin?”
Ganimard removed his spectacles, then sat back in his chair and drummed at a bare patch of desk with his small fingers. “I am not certain. If so, I think he was disguised. There have been witnesses to some of his crimes, but the description of the actual thief is never the same. Either he has a gang working for him, or he successfully changes his appearance.”
“Beautrelet said he had seen him.”
“Ah, yes! He is the only one to have had a good look at the man. He gave us the description we distributed to the police force: dark hair and mustache, brown eyes, a scar on the right cheek, medium height, perhaps a monocle, very well dressed and groomed.”
Holmes sat back in his chair and placed the fingertips of his hands together. “At this point, I must admit that I am finding it difficult to take Lupin seriously. His behavior is so theatrical, so audacious, so buffoonish.”
Ganimard leaned forward. “Take him seriously, monsieur—I beg you, take him seriously. I felt the same way when I received this absurd letter, but grand theft is no laughing matter, and that crime he has committed, again and again. He acknowledges some of his offenses, but there have been other mysterious cases where we have no clues, almost perfect crimes, in which I sense Lupin’s touch. He may act the clown, but he is no joke, I promise you!”
Holmes nodded. “That is well worth knowing. I shall indeed take him seriously. It is troublesome that he has thrust himself into this affair with the baron.” His eyes shifted to Ganimard’s folder. “I do not suppose you could briefly part with those letters of his? I should like to have a look through them.”
Ganimard’s cigarette drooped from the side of his mouth as he shook his head. I noticed that the fingertips of his right hand had a brownish-yellow tint, no doubt tobacco stains. “I’m afraid not. They are official police documents. However, if you want to take a few moments to examine them here in the building, there is a small study room nearby.”
“Excellent! I shall gladly do so. Given the thickness of that folder… It may take me an hour or two.” He turned to me. “You need not stay, Henry, unless you are really curious.”
I shook my head. “Thus far Monsieur Lupin’s boastful style does not much appeal to me.”
“Then why don’t you walk about the neighborhood, and meet me…” He withdrew his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “You could meet me at six in front of Notre-Dame.”
“Very good. I can stroll about and see if the booksellers on the Left Bank have any interesting offerings.”
We stood, and Ganimard came round his desk and shook hands with us. Holmes and I were both over half a foot taller than him, but he had a formidable grip. A few freckles spotted the skin up over his forehead, between thin strands of black hair.
“Again, Monsieur Holmes, this has been a great honor.”
“It has been my pleasure, Monsieur Ganimard. I may call upon you again to discuss Lupin.”
“Any time you wish. And now, let me show you to that study room.” He picked up the folder with the letters and handed it to Holmes.
I went down the corridor, passing two French policemen in their distinctive blue uniforms with the short capes and the distinctive kepi hats with the narrow brim in front and cleanly truncated cylinder over the head. By the front desk a stout man was arguing with two more policemen, but I went round them and stepped outside.
The sun had come out through the clouds and warmed my face. It felt wonderful, and I cautiously crossed the street and went to the concrete embankment overlooking the Seine. One of the big pleasure boats, a bateau-mouche, was just passing by, the stack belching smoke as it churned through gray-blue waters. The open upper deck was packed with people, both tourists and ordinary Parisians who used it as a cheap form of transportation. Unlike London, Paris still had no underground trains. A woman and a small boy waved at me, and I waved back. The boat soon passed under one of the arches of the nearby Pont Saint-Michel.
I drew in my breath deeply and smiled. Especially after what had happened that morning, I felt content just to be alive—and with my skull intact. The only thing missing was Michelle at my side. Unlike some men who were only too happy to go off alone on expeditions for weeks at a time, I did not like being apart from Michelle. I started missing her almost immediately—especially at night, when her nearby presence in our bed was always a comfort.
I strolled along the promenade overlooking the Seine, heading for the far end of the Île de la Cité. I passed two more bridges on my right, and soon the spire and towers of Notre-Dame were to my left. Finally, I took the last bridge, the Pont de l’Archevêché, over to the Left Bank, then turned almost immediately to the left, again following the Seine in a southeast direction.
There along the sidewalk off the Quai de la Tournelle were the stands of the bouquinistes or booksellers. Stacks of old volumes were piled up on tables and stands, along with magazines, newspapers, and drawings. There was something for every taste. Many of the vendors were bearded old men in rough woolens and cloth caps, who sat on their stool or chair, pipes in hand. Many of the stacked books gave off a faint musty smell which mingled with the fresh spring air.
At last I withdrew my watch, saw the time, and realized I would need to rush to make it back to Notre-Dame by six. I set off at a good clip, retracing my earlier path to return to the island. In the square before the cathedral, I saw a tall slender figure in a black frock coat and top hat, one hand held behind his back, the other tracing some pattern in the concrete with the brass tip of his stick. As I approached him, he looked up, smiled, and started forward.
I had done enough walking that when Holmes suggested we take a cab back to the hotel, I was tempted, but in the end, it seemed a shame to waste such a splendid evening inside a cab. We strolled slowly back, following the Rue de Rivoli once we had crossed the Seine to the north. As we turned at last onto the street of our hotel, we saw two men talking to each other by the entrance. One wore elaborate formal dress, the other a dark suit. As we drew nearer, the formal one noticed us, set his hand on the other man’s shoulder, and they turned toward us.
Both appeared about thirty and were of medium height, but one looked ready to depart for the opera or some grand ball. His clothes were very well cut and expensive-looking. The silk of his top hat gleamed faintly from the streetlight, and his bow tie, shirt, and waistcoat were an immaculate white. He also wore white gloves, and he rested his ebony stick on his shoulder, his right hand grasping the shaft just above the silver handle. His coat with its satin lapels was a contrasting black, but a long black formal cape hid most of it. The cape had a certain sheen and fell below his knees. He had a thin black mustache and wore a monocle over his right eye. He smiled at us we drew nearer. On his cheek was a reddish line—a scar—and I knew who this must be.
“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Vernier—what a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
His companion nodded eagerly. “Indeed, indeed.”
Holmes smiled ever so faintly. “The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Lupin.”
Lupin had a certain rakish grin, the corners of his mouth rising into the mustache. “Very good, Monsieur Holmes—although I suppose it’s obvious enough. Young Beautrelet and Inspector Ganimard must have given you my description.” His voice was a resonant baritone, so much so that I wondered if he had ever trained as an actor.
Holmes was staring very closely at him, and turned his head as if to examine him better.
“This is my friend Maurice, Maurice Leblanc.”
Leblanc wore a black bowler hat, and his face was dominated by an enormous reddish-brown sprouting sort of mustache, which completely hid his mouth and curled up to stick out on either side of his face. He eagerly shook hands with Holmes and me. “I have heard so much about you both. What a great privilege to meet you!”
Lupin had brought down his stick, and both his gloved hands were set on the silver handle, the shaft set before him, the tip resting between his two glossy black evening shoes. “Could you spare a few minutes of your time, Monsieur Holmes?”
“Gladly.”
“Perhaps you could join us for an aperitif? There is a cozy bar nearby, Le Dragon Vert, less than five minutes away.”
“Lead the way.”
I glanced closely at Holmes. “Is that a good idea?” I murmured. Lupin may have written I do not kill, but I still wondered if he had dropped that plant before us as a warning.
“I am sure we can count on Monsieur Lupin’s genteel hospitality.”
“Certainly, messieurs. Certainly!”
The streets off the Rue de Rivoli were all of a piece: very narrow, lined with shops and an occasional restaurant or bar. Lupin was whistling softly. We went down a block, then over two more, and before us a small bar took up the corner, big plate-glass windows forming an L and opening out on either side. The weather was still fairly decent, and a few hardy souls sat at the outdoor tables.
Lupin went inside and walked up to the long zinc countertop. The bartender had thinning hair, but a mustache which rivaled Leblanc’s. “Ah, Monsieur Punil! Bonsoir! How good to see you.”
“Bonsoir, Andre. Maurice and I will have the usual.” He turned to Holmes. “They have an excellent absinthe here, messieurs, the best in Paris.”
The bartender smiled. “You are too kind.”
Holmes nodded. “I shall be happy to sample it.”
Although the metaphorical juxtaposition may seem ridiculous, absinthe is not my cup of tea! I do not like licorice flavor, whether it is candies, liquors, or anything else. And of course, besides the taste, there is its extreme potency to worry about. The alcohol content of undiluted absinthe varies between fifty and seventy-five percent. “I would prefer a Cognac.”
“As you wish. Seat yourselves, messieurs.”
The vast main room of the bar was so large it would have been difficult to fill, and there were still many empty tables. Lupin headed straight for one in the corner. We sat down and Holmes and I pulled off our gloves and removed our hats; Lupin left his on. He did unfasten his cape and remove it, letting it flop back over the chair. He had let his monocle drop while we were walking, but now he grasped the lens and placed it again over his right eye. A thin black ribbon provided a cord, which was looped around his neck. He gazed about the room, smiling broadly.
“Yes, this is perhaps my favorite bar in all of Paris. I have often imagined what it would be like to have Sherlock Holmes as my guest here! I had not planned on meeting you so soon, but after this morning’s sinister events, I decided it could not wait.”
Holmes stared at him. “The potted fern, you mean?”
“Exactly. What a crash that made! I wanted to personally assure you that I had absolutely nothing to do with the deed. You may think it an exaggeration, an affectation, for me to call myself a gentleman-cambrioleur, but I take the ‘gentleman’ part very seriously, and you have my word of honor that I was not involved. In fact, I wanted to ask if you know of anyone else besides myself and young Beautrelet who is aware you have come to France to work for the baron and seek the treasure of the Needle?”
Holmes shook his head. “No one.”
“Blast it—that means there is another, unknown, player in the game. Ah well, as I said in my note, a little competition can be most stimulating.”
The bartender came to our table with a huge tray. On it were four glasses and a tall metal stand with an ornate glass bowl up top and four small spouts, a so-called absinthe fountain. There was also a small cup with sugar cubes in it and three silver utensils. The smallest glass had a curved bowl and contained an amber-brown fluid. That was my Cognac, which the bartender set before me. The other three glasses were larger and more ornate, and each had an inch or two of greenish-yellow liquid in them. The man distributed these glasses, along with the utensils—so-called absinthe spoons. They had a long flat part with a leafy pattern of holes, their shape more like a pie server than a spoon.
Lupin picked up the fountain which was full of ice water and set it before Holmes. “After you, monsieur.”
“Thank you.” Holmes put the “spoon” on top of his glass, set a sugar cube on the spoon, then slowly opened the handle to the spout, letting cold water trickle out onto the sugar. The cube gradually dissolved, even as the glass filled with the water. The greenish liquid changed color, clouding up, becoming whitish and more opaque. When the glass was nearly full, Holmes turned off the spout, then put the spoon in the liquid and stirred, blending the sugar, water, and absinthe together.
Lupin took the fountain and handed it over to Leblanc. When Leblanc was done, Lupin finally prepared his own drink. When the elaborate absinthe ritual was finished, Lupin raised his glass and we all followed suit. “To your very good health, gentlemen—and to no further accidents with potted plants!” We all clinked glasses, then sipped our drinks.
Holmes turned to Leblanc. “We know something about Monsieur Lupin and his enterprises, but nothing of you, monsieur. Are you, so to speak, an accomplice, or only a friend?”
Leblanc smiled. “The latter! I haven’t the stomach for crime. If a policeman even glances at me, I break into a cold sweat. No, it is not the life for me.”
I nodded. “I understand your sentiments, Monsieur Leblanc. What is your profession, then?”
“I am a journalist and a writer. I hope to have a novel published within a year or two.”
Lupin looked amused. “I think he also wishes to emulate Watson and become my chronicler.”
Holmes scowled in a comic and exaggerated manner. “For heaven’s sake, forbid it! You will be sorry if he does so.”
“I shall keep that in mind, Monsieur Holmes. I wonder, would it be too much to ask you to share your impressions of the baron and young Beautrelet?”
Holmes regarded him silently.
“Of course, if you do not wish to…”
Holmes shrugged. “I do not exactly trust the baron.”
Lupin took a quick sip of absinthe. “Ah! That is wise. And why not?”
“Let us just say there are… discrepancies, some of which I shall not discuss. However, he told me he does not plan to keep the treasure, but would give it to the Republic. That I find very difficult to believe.”
I was surprised. “Why is that?”
“First of all, he is an aristocrat, and in general they have no use for the Republic, they want a king or emperor back, but more than that, is simple greed or avarice. He does not strike me as the kind of man who could have a huge treasure set before him, and then willingly turn it over to anyone else.”
Lupin clapped his hands gently together. “Bravo, Monsieur Holmes—bravo. I concur with you completely. And Monsieur Beautrelet?”
Holmes’s smile was ironic. “What can I say? He is certainly a zealous lad. He wants to work with me. I am still considering it.”
I stared at him. “But you told him you that wouldn’t be possible—and Mademoiselle Chamerac said the baron would never stand for it.”
Holmes sighed wearily, shaking his head in dismay, while Lupin smiled. “So you have met the fair Angelique, messieurs? A vision of loveliness, is she not? Rare and hard-hearted indeed would be the red-blooded man who did not fall at her feet to worship such divine beauty! Who can blame young Beautrelet for being smitten?”
I bit my lower lip. “Forgive me,” I said to Holmes. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Lupin shook his head. “Don’t trouble yourself, Dr. Vernier. You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
Holmes was smiling at Lupin. “Beautrelet said something about you which I suspect must be true.”
“He did? And what was that?”
“That you had one weakness—a weakness for the ladies.”
Lupin’s rakish grin returned. “A clever and observant lad, young Beautrelet. I must admit that is my one foible. While I have a rather cynical and suspicious attitude toward men, with the fair sex I am far too trusting. I never seem to have quite outgrown the awkward infatuations of adolescence.”
Holmes glanced at me, his lips flickering upward at the corners. “You remind me of someone else I know.”
I shrugged faintly. “I am far too trustful of women, granted, but of men, also. I do not like to think the worst of people.”
Holmes gave my wrist a squeeze. “And I respect you for it, Henry.”
“Ah, but if one expects the worst of people, one is never disappointed!” Lupin smiled at Holmes. “Isn’t that true, monsieur?”
“Indeed it is.”
Lupin sat back in his chair, his gloved hand holding the stem of his glass lightly. “Do you think you will find a treasure at the Château de l’Aiguille?”
Holmes shrugged. “I doubt it. I hope to find the secret of its real location.”
Lupin nodded. “Very good! We are of like minds, you and I. And st. s. 138—what do you think it signifies?”
“I have a few ideas, but nothing worth mentioning. I hope to find the answer somewhere in the castle.”
“Again, we are of one mind, Monsieur Holmes. Well, it will be most interesting to see who finds the treasure first. As I said in my note, I think the odds are about fifty–fifty, and it is a great compliment, I assure you, for me to acknowledge as much.”
Holmes smiled. “Now it is my turn to be honored.”
Lupin swished the liquid in his glass. “I know you consider me only a thief, but some day, when I have sufficient funds… I don’t plan on spending the rest of my life as a gentleman-cambrioleur.”
“No?” Holmes asked.
“No. Someday, I too, would like to be a detective. Someone must give you and Beautrelet some real competition.” He pulled a gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “Ah, but I must be running along. They should be here momentarily, and I don’t wish to demonstrate my physical prowess with my stick.” He put back the watch and swallowed the last of his drink.
“Give my regards to young Beautrelet and the police.” He stood up and glanced at Leblanc. “You needn’t be in a rush, Maurice. Keep Monsieur Holmes and Dr. Vernier company.” He bowed very formally from the waist. “À bientôt, messieurs! I hope to see you at Creuse. And be careful: I may not kill, but most thieves do not share my scruples, as you have already discovered.” He strolled idly toward the door, nodding to the bartender on the way out.
Holmes sipped his drink. “Rather impressive, I must confess.” He turned to Leblanc. “I suppose such sangfroid is typical.”
“Oh yes. We may be the best of friends, but we are opposites in nearly every way. However, his predictions are never wrong, and I do not wish to remain here and answer questions from the police, so I too shall be on my way. Au revoir. Finish your drinks at your leisure.”
He downed his absinthe, then pulled on his gloves as he stood. He also acknowledged the bartender on his way out. Holmes and I stared at one another. Our drinks were only half-finished.
“I think we should eat somewhere else tonight, Henry. The restaurant at the hotel is excellent, but I have a craving for a plate of choucroute in the Alsatian style. I know of a place near the baron’s hotel on the Île Saint-Louis.”
I shrugged. “As you wish. Sauerkraut, sausages, and potatoes is certainly more German than French, but it does sound agreeable.” I frowned. “I wonder…?”
“Oh, without a doubt, Monsieur Lupin knows what he is talking about.”
And sure enough, the front doors were abruptly flung open, and the police in their blue uniforms with short capes and their distinctive hats swarmed in. With them was Beautrelet, looking rather distraught. He came directly to our table. “Monsieur Holmes, are you all right?” He had grasped his bowler in both hands, and he peered down at us through the thick lenses of his spectacles.
Holmes took a quick sip of absinthe. “Never better.”
“When I saw you go off with Lupin, I feared the worst! Did he threaten you?”
“No, he was quite the gentlemen.”
A burly policeman who wore the insignia of a brigadier came up to us. “Where is he, messieurs? Where is Lupin?”
“I’m afraid you missed him, gentlemen. He left a few minutes ago. He can’t have gone far if you wish to search the area.”
The policeman gave a quick nod. “Venez, venez!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door, and they all rushed out as quickly as they had come in.
Holmes was smiling faintly, and he gestured at an empty chair. “Have a seat, Monsieur Beautrelet.”
The young man ran his fingers back through his short hair, then set the bowler on the table. “So I shall.” He sank down into the chair. “I am greatly relieved. I… I feared the worst.”
Holmes was staring at him. “So you were near the hotel, and you saw us leave with Lupin?”
“Yes. I followed you here, and then I summoned the police.”
“Most enterprising. You know, Monsieur Beautrelet, I think I have changed my mind. Your zeal has impressed me. Perhaps it would be useful to have you accompany us to the château. We shall take the early train for Creuse in the morning. Meet us at the hotel lobby promptly at 6:30 A.M., and we can leave for the Gare d’Austerlitz together.”
Beautrelet sprang eagerly to his feet. “You will not regret it, Monsieur Holmes—I promise you will not regret it! I shall repay your kindness, I swear it.” He smiled at us, then seized his hat. “I must go—I must pack—I must… I shall see you tomorrow morning, at six thirty promptly! Au revoir!” He went out at almost a gallop.
I gave Holmes a puzzled look, my forehead creased. “Are you certain about this, Sherlock?”
His smile faded. “Yes, I am.”
“But the baron…”
“Leave the baron to me.”