Chapter 10
Lupin seemed a little less bewildered than when we had met him in his hotel room, but certainly not less concerned about his father’s fate. So, while my friend was quenching his thirst, gulping down cups of tea one after another, I felt the need to find some words that could give him a little hope.
“Do you know what, Lupin?” I started out. “I think it’s encouraging to notice that we have already discovered some leads that might help reveal the truth about what happened.”
“Leads?” Sherlock repeated, puzzled.
“Of course,” I said, without any hesitation. “Love, for example.”
“Love?” Sherlock said, his eyes wide.
“A witch must have turned you into a parrot, Sherlock Holmes,” I said. I was overwhelmed at that point, sick and tired of his skepticism. “Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
“No, look . . . it’s just . . .” he mumbled, taken aback.
“So let me continue,” I said. “I am referring to the love between Mr. Santi and Miss Merridew. The laundress at the Albion told us about their romance. The great Ophelia has captured many hearts in her time. How do we know that some jealous suitor did not want to get rid of her new love interest?”
Sherlock looked like he was about to make one of his usual objections, but my recent outburst must have convinced him to remain silent. He simply shrugged in response.
“Or can we exclude the possibility that behind the murder of Santi there is his young French rival, Duvel?” Lupin said. “He will likely become the next assistant of the great Barzini . . . he had everything to gain from Santi’s death!”
“No one can exclude him at the moment. But no one will accuse him either,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair.
Lupin, however, smiled and looked into my eyes with great sweetness. It was his way of thanking me for my support, I think. Then he took a last sip of tea and cleared his throat. “There is another suspect in this awful thing,” he revealed.
Both my eyes and Sherlock’s darted over to him.
“A Spaniard,” our friend whispered gravely.
Foolishly, I was startled. I suppose I was not expecting the appearance of a mysterious stranger in this story.
“Nisbett told me, actually, many things,” Lupin began. “Taking Nisbett’s advice, my father admitted some of his faults. He confessed that during the night of the murder he was really . . . working.”
At that point, Lupin looked down at the ground and took a deep breath before continuing. “But that night he wasn’t working on his own, like usual. This time, the theft had been commissioned by a mysterious man with Spanish accent. The man had approached him the night before in Brighton after our circus show.” He paused.
“And according to my father,” Lupin said, “this Spaniard seemed to understand very well what he was doing. He had a very detailed plan in mind. In fact, he even mentioned a specific window at the Hotel Albion, and he explained to my father that that room was where a very cruel man was staying. A man against whom he wanted revenge.”
“Such as killing him, maybe,” Sherlock muttered quietly.
“No,” Lupin replied stiffly. “The Spaniard’s plan wouldn’t have included any bloodshed — if it had, my father would never have agreed to carry it out for him!”
“We know, Lupin.” I nodded. I gave Sherlock a diapproving look before turning back to Lupin. “Now tell us what this mysterious Spaniard had in mind.”
“A simple but devastating theft,” Lupin said. “He asked my father to steal a statue of jade while the room was empty. The statue was a good-luck charm that Alfred Santi never let out of his sight. The Spaniard said that his enemy was so superstitious, and so obsessed with that statue, that stealing it would have Santi at his mercy.”
“Sounds like a fictional story,” Sherlock said. “I do not understand how Mr. Théophraste —”
“Are you unable to believe this?” Lupin asked. “It’s simple, Sherlock. The man was serious about his intentions. He paid my father a deposit of two hundred guineas, with a promise to pay the same amount after the job was completed.”
Sherlock let out a loud whistle, which made all the customers in the café turn to look. It was, indeed, a considerable sum of money, and it explained perfectly why Théophraste Lupin was convinced that the matter was serious.
“Did he tell you, by chance, where they met up afterward?” I asked.
“This I do not know,” Lupin admitted. “But I’ll ask the lawyer tomorrow.”
“All right. But now — part of the story is missing. The part where things go wrong. Terribly wrong,” Sherlock said, taking his chin in his hands.
“That’s right,” Lupin agreed. “Here’s what happened . . . my father left our room around one in the morning, convinced that I was sleeping. He went onto the roof, as always, but this time he never came back. He got to the Hotel Albion, climbed a drainpipe — the one next to the door in the back — and entered Santi’s room. Father told Nisbett that he immediately was suspicious because the window was ajar.”
Lupin took a breath and then continued. “Soon after he entered the room, he saw a lifeless body lying on the ground. At that point, he followed his instinct, grabbed the jade statue, and fled, going out the window through which he had just entered. However, there were already policemen waiting outside. They must have been informed by the real murderer, who was pretending to be a civilian.”
“A trap,” Sherlock said.
“Yes,” Lupin confirmed angrily, pounding his fist on the armrest of his chair. “The villain who came up with it did everything perfectly! And now if we cannot prove my father’s innocence, and prove it quickly . . .” He trailed off.
At that comment, I felt a pang of anxiety. I turned suddenly to Sherlock, who nodded gravely.
“What is it?” I asked, guessing that the two boys had exchanged information that they considered not suitable for the ears of a young girl.
“As Lawyer Nisbett says, my father is at risk of receiving the scarf of Tyburn,” Lupin said in a faint voice.
“What’s that?” I asked, alarmed.
“Hanging,” Sherlock Holmes replied, frowning.