Chapter 20
Thrown on top of the chair were a long black cloak, a red scarf, and a hat with a wide brim. Sherlock, Lupin, and I looked at each other, stunned.
“But — but then . . .” I stammered.
“The Spaniard is him! It’s Barzini!” Sherlock exclaimed.
“Curse him!” Lupin mumbled between his teeth, his face flushing. “CURSE HIM!” he shouted. He sprinted out of the room like an angry beast. Neither Sherlock nor I managed to restrain him in time. He ran down the corridor that led to the stage. We could not do anything but follow our friend and his distressed cries that echoed through the corridors like those of a wounded animal.
When we caught up with him, Lupin had just spotted Barzini behind the scenes of the stage, and was staring at him from afar with eyes full of anger.
The Maestro stood at a porcelain basin with his back to us, washing his bloody fingers.
Lupin stepped forward.
Hearing his steps, the Maestro whipped his head around, surprised. “Who the hell are you?”
“Does the name Théophraste Lupin mean anything to you?” Lupin roared.
Barzini turned completely and wrapped his hand in a handkerchief. “Should it?” he asked.
“He is the man that got put in prison instead of you! Charged with your murder of Santi!”
“I do not know what you’re talking about, young man. And above all . . . what are you still doing in the theater at this hour? The workers should all be out already!”
“What workers?! I am the son of Théophraste Lupin! And I have exposed you!” Lupin shouted.
Barzini laughed, wiping his hands. “You have exposed me? I insist — I do not understand what you mean!”
“You are the Spaniard who framed my father!“ Lupin shouted.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll have you know that I am Italian,” Barzini muttered scornfully. “And now, if you do not mind — get out of here, before I am forced to call the Scotland Yard.”
“Actually, that is exactly what we would like to do!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, who was alongside Lupin at that point.
I saw Giuseppe Barzini hesitate and take a step back. “May I know what’s going on?” he muttered when I approached my friends. The theater was dimly lit, but it is likely that as he looked at us, Barzini began to suspect that we were the same people who he had surprised in Bethnal Green.
“It so happens that we figured out your plan, Maestro Barzini,” Sherlock Holmes said calmly. “We know that you hired Théophraste Lupin to carry out a theft, but that it was actually a trap to blame him for something far worse — for the murder of Alfred Santi. We know that you tried to kill Ophelia Merridew, and now you want to know where she is hiding — to shut her up when she recovers!”
“Enough of this nonsense!” the Maestro snapped. “You are only three stupid children with your heads full of fantasies!”
“Three stupid children who have exposed your crimes!” I said.
“Anyway, your charade is over, Maestro!” Sherlock yelled. “The evening papers have just reported the news . . . Ophelia has woken up. And when she can talk, she will reveal you as the killer — as you well know!”
Those words seemed to hit Barzini like a stab in the chest. The musician’s eyes widened. He looked lost and, groping behind him, leaned against the basin. His reaction in that moment revealed his guilt more than any confession in words could.
The musician put a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a gold watch. After consulting it with a feverish look, he burst out laughing — a crazy laugh that echoed in the wings of the theater, making my skin crawl.
“You are smart, boy,” Barzini said to Sherlock. “But the news you are talking about was not in the newspapers as of four o’clock, and now it’s five-thirty. The second edition will be released in only half an hour,” he concluded, revealing Sherlock’s bluff.
But the musician already knew we had exposed his guilt. Still laughing in that horrible manner, Barzini turned abruptly, and with surprising agility for his age, he disappeared between the pieces of scenery.
We heard his voice resound through the theater: “You really think you can bring down the great Barzini? How much arrogance you young people have! Arrogance! Just like Santi, that ungrateful fool! Instead of being honored to work beside me . . . pah!”
Lupin ran between the objects and the shadows of the stage, trying to spot Barzini so he could try to catch him. Sherlock and I did the same, staying a few steps behind our friend.
Meanwhile, furious noises began to echo in the theater, as if Barzini was knocking down any object that happened to come within his range.
Actually, he was looking for something. We figured that out, when, after a few moments of silence, the musician reappeared in front of Sherlock, holding a sword in his good hand.
Sherlock, caught off guard, took a step back and tripped on a rope, tumbling onto the stage.
I saw Barzini raise the weapon, ready to strike.
“NO!” I cried. And without even knowing what I was doing, I grabbed the object nearest to me — a chair — and threw it at him with all my strength.
I missed by a small margin, but I still forced him to dodge it, and that gave Sherlock time to stand and pick up a wooden board.
“Back! Stand back, Irene!” Sherlock yelled at me.
Barzini plunged forward with the sword, but Sherlock was able to deflect and then attack with some lunges. Sherlock moved nimbly, dodging Barzini’s blows as he weaved in and out of the scenery.
I stood watching my friend defend himself, and with every assault from Barzini, I felt my heart beating furiously. I was wondering, exasperated, where on Earth Lupin was, when I found myself face to face with a little man who looked at me with tiny, pleading eyes.
“Duvel?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes seemed possessed, and his face ashen. He looked like he was about to faint. “I’ve heard everything . . .” he whispered.
“So help us, Duvel!” I said, irritated by his cowardice. “Go call Scotland Yard — and hurry!”
“Come with me, young lady! Please!” he begged.
“Run and call Scotland Yard! Now!” I hissed.
Then I pushed him away and went back to watch what was happening with Sherlock and Barzini. In between deflecting one blow after another from Barzini’s sword, Sherlock kept throwing quick glances toward the ceiling. Looking up to see why, I spotted Lupin perched on a beam above the stage — he was guiding Sherlock’s movements.
Barzini was now plunging his strikes with more fury. “You’re finished!” he cried when he managed to hit Sherlock in the shoulder, tearing his jacket and shirt and scratching his skin, which spurted a little gush of blood.
Sherlock felt the wound, lowering the weapon and backing away as fast as he could. In a matter of seconds, Barzini was lunging at Sherlock trying to land a decisive blow. My friend slipped out of the way just in time and rolled behind a large column.
The musician screamed. “Where are you going? Now I come to get —”
But he could not finish the sentence. Lupin, clinging to a rope, hovered over Barzini, surprising him from behind. Barzini fell onto the floor in fright, releasing his grip on the sword, which flew a few feet in front of him. I ran over, grabbed the weapon, and threw it into the orchestra pit.
Lupin then pounced on Barzini, pushed him onto his back, pinned him down on the ground, and tied his scarf around his wrists. At that point, Sherlock emerged from behind the column holding a heavy cloth torn from a piece of the set. He gave it to Lupin who used it to bind Barzini’s legs, while the Maestro shouted words in Italian that did not sound at all polite.
“Good timing, Lupin . . .” I muttered.
Sherlock Holmes ran to grab the rope that had tripped him and handed it to Lupin, who used it to tie Barzini’s ankles together, who was squirming like he was being bit by a tarantula.
“So. Now what?” Sherlock asked then, the calmness in his voice displaying his usual hint of irony.
“Someone will have to go and call Scotland Yard,” Lupin muttered.
“Duvel!” I replied. “He went there.”
My friends looked at me, astonished. “Duvel? And where does Duvel fit in?”
I had no time to explain it. We heard noises coming from outside and from behind the stage. We turned in circles looking for the source of the noise, but nobody was there.
Then we heard a distant door open, and an inspector from the Scotland Yard yelled into the theater. “Hold it!”
“Apparently they are already here!” I exclaimed.
All three of us looked at the strange, kicking bundle that Barzini had become. He would not be going anywhere except straight into the arms of the police.
The three of us, on the other hand, could move just fine. And we did not lose a moment to do so.
We ran at breathless speed toward the back door, praying that the police had not already surrounded the entire building. Sherlock pushed the door open with his shoulder, and the three of us found ourselves outside in the dense mist that now surrounded the city.