Chapter 12
The next day, Sherlock and I waited at the Shackleton Coffee House for Lupin to arrive. We had already ordered our usual hot cocoa when he entered the café.
Lupin had changed his clothes and put on a suit and tie. He was wearing well-polished shoes that made him look like a man — not like the boy I knew him to be. He had combed his normally disobedient hair back off his forehead, showing off his dark, sparkling eyes.
Two young ladies turned to watch him as he made his way to our table and sat down without greeting us.
“It can’t be him,” Lupin said.
“Have you talked to Nisbett?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes,” Lupin confirmed. Then he looked at me.
“What is the news?” I asked. I felt overwhelmed by a wave of energy, by the need to keep talking.
“From what it seems, my father was in a mess of a situation,” Lupin said. “He keeps sharing pieces of information about what happened that night with Nisbett. I haven’t been given the permission to meet him yet, but I will make it happen.”
His hot cocoa arrived just then. He blew on it and sipped it slowly.
“And why do you say that it could not be Duvel?” asked Sherlock.
“Because it seems the Spaniard was quite tall —”
“While Duvel is short and skinny,” I observed.
“Exactly.” He paused. “After the crime had been carried out, they met in London at a pub on Baker Street,” Lupin said.
“Which one?” Sherlock asked.
Lupin shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But let’s go check. It’s not far from here.”
We sipped our beverages slowly and tried to calm ourselves again before heading out.
I joked with Lupin about a smudge that was on his nose, and I analyzed the events of the day with Sherlock.
Suddenly, I saw Sherlock stiffen. He stretched his neck, straightened his shoulders, and assumed his characteristic expression of a hawk, ready to prey upon any detail he could find.
What could be going on in that mind of his? I wondered.
“Listen! Outside,” he told us.
I tried to listen beyond the noises of the coffee house, the clinking of silverware and the boisterous conversations . . . and I was able to hear noises from the street. The wheels of carriages on the pavement, horse hooves clomping, the brass horns directing traffic at intersections and . . . the voice of a paperboy on Fleet Street, the street where all the newspapers were sold.
“Special edition! Special edition! The famous singer disappeared! All the details for only fifteen cents! All the details!”
The paperboy continued shouting. “Special edition! Merridew does not go to Buckingham Palace! The disappearance of the singer! A new mystery shocks the opera world. All the details for only fifteen cents! All the details!”
Lupin punched the armrest of his chair in frustration. “I hope they won’t think this is also my father’s doing!”
Sherlock and I looked at each other.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked in a low voice.
“That we do not have fifteen cents?” Sherlock Holmes replied.
* * *
The headline on the disappearance of Ophelia Merridew was more than the news itself.
The details were few and far between. The singer attended tea in the afternoon, but then she did not show up at the court. And she wasn’t in her hotel room.
“She left while we were there,” I whispered.
“Did she leave?” Lupin asked me. “How do we know that she left and that they don’t have her?”
“Has she been murdered?” I asked.
I was hoping to hear Sherlock’s opinion, but he was deep in thought.
It was as if he was inside a safe. He kept twisting the teaspoon for his hot cocoa between his fingers absent-mindedly.
“Do you remember how Duvel looked yesterday evening?” I persisted. “The man seemed crazy.”
“As far as we know, Duvel had nothing to do with Merridew,” Lupin answered. “On the other hand, Santi was the one who dated her, and who, of Barzini’s two assistants, was the most —” He hesitated, and finally finished, “in love with her.”
I may be the only one who noticed his hesitation when he said those last words. Or maybe — and this is more probable — I wanted to believe he said them like that to imagine that there was something between us, which wasn’t the case.
It was inevitable that I would analyze these things Lupin said, because back then, and even later on, it wasn’t easy for me to understand his real emotions. Sometimes they were so intense that they could be seen on his face, and sometimes they were so distant I couldn’t read them at all.
I tried to help him. “The situation is as follows,” I began. “In my opinion, there are three persons involved: Ophelia and the two assistants — Santi and Duvel. And maybe, when we discover what happened among those three, we can find out about the role that this mysterious Spaniard played in everything.”
“But what about Barzini?” Lupin asked. “The three people you just mentioned worked for him, after all.”
I shook my head. “Barzini is a man with a good reputation. And he does not need the other three as they need him.”
“Not even Merridew?” Lupin answered. “She’s more famous than Barzini. Look at the headlines. That poor Santi has been immediately forgotten, while she . . .” He trailed off.
I had to agree with him. The fact that a famous lady had not made it to Buckingham Palace seemed much more interesting to the public than the murder of the humble assistant of Maestro Barzini, Alfred Santi.
“Sherlock?” I asked at that point. “Are you still with us?”
Our friend looked at us distantly, then he gave his body a shake and exclaimed, “Follow me!” And off he went, leaving the café without any explanation.