Chapter Nine

When I came down the next morning, I found the unmistakable signs that Holmes had already breakfasted and departed. The morning papers were littered around his chair. It is one of his less endearing habits to read them and then cast them aside to fall where they may, whereas civilised human beings who share accommodation with other civilised human beings will have the common courtesy to fold a newspaper, so that someone else is able to read it.

There is one advantage, however, to Holmes’s lack of tidiness. It is always obvious what has caught his interest. This morning it was clearly the full page article in the Telegraph about Pierre Pascal’s Fête Gastronomique.

And, if further evidence were needed, he had left one of his Index volumes lying open at the entry on PASCAL.

Guillaume, Pierre’s father, it appeared, had been head chef at the court of Napoleon III under whose patronage he had. founded the world famous restaurant, Chez Pascal, which his only son, Pierre Aristide had subsequently inherited. Pierre had opened branches in London, Brussels and Berlin. The entry gave lists of the many awards for haute cuisine that both men had won as well as several of their famous recipes, ending with the son’s celebrated Surprise Pierre.

Assuming that the chef were not our murderer, what surprise, I wondered, did somebody out there have in mind for Pierre, Monsieur Glutonnerie?

Set into the piece were photographs of both men. Pierre, I noticed, boasted a luxuriant moustache which dominated the lower half of his face, making it next to impossible to distinguish his features. You might hide three murderers behind such a moustache, I thought, as I stroked my own more modest effort.

When I had picked the day’s news out of the papers as best I could and satisfied the inner man rather more satisfactorily, I decided to take a stroll. The day was fine and some of the heat that even London experiences in August seemed to have held off.

Without being conscious of having made a decision, I found my footsteps taking me north in the direction of Regent’s Park and before long I found myself walking along a stretch of road that contained several minor embassies and consulates.

The houses were all substantial Regency residences, many of them recently converted to this diplomatic purpose. In each case, along this particular street, they were set back from the road at the end of a walled garden, the wall containing a substantial entrance gate.

Suddenly my eye was caught by a brass name plate that looked newer than its neighbours. It bore an all too familiar design and I stopped in my tracks. There were the entwined serpents poised to strike and beneath then the legend—

CONSULATE OF ZAKHISTAN

A gruff young voice behind me said—

“Tell Mr. ’Olmes they’re all in there.”

I turned, to be confronted by one of the untidiest young urchins one could ever hope to meet and yet, for some reason, I took fresh heart from the sight of that begrimed and freckled face and the sound of that croaking voice, hovering between childhood and adolescence.

“Wiggins!” I cried, “Well met! What are you going here?”

It was the unofficial leader of the group of youngsters Holmes had recruited to watch and follow in places where he—or any other adult—would only attract unwanted attention. Holmes declared the Baker Street Irregulars to be as ‘sharp as needles’ and paid them each a shilling a day when they were on a ‘case’, with a guinea going to the lad who found the object of their search. “There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars,” he would often say, “than out of a dozen of the force.”

“Keepin’ an eye peeled on this ’ere place.” His eyes flickered momentarily at the consulate. Tell Mr. ’Olmes Wiggins will give ’im a full report in due course but right now the green lady’s in there, sure enough, and she don’t look too ’appy about it. Keeps coming to the winder, until the little brown feller who’s ’er assistant or something comes up to ’er and then she moves away again. I’d tell ’im what for, if I was ’er. Well, they’re all brown folks in there—except one chap. I’ve seen ’er arguing with ’im and he stays pretty well away from the winders, as though he oughtn’t to be there in the first place.

“’Ere, Doctor, it’d be best if you was to give me a tanner—no, better make it a bob—just in case anybody’s watchin’ us. That way they’ll just think I’m begging, as usual.”

Good old Wiggins, I thought to myself, inventive as ever. If there is any justice—which I am increasingly coming to doubt—you’ll end up as Governor of the Bank of England or at least Lord Mayor.

I did as he suggested, deciding a shilling was the safer option. He gave his forelock a desultory tug and was off. I continued my own stroll, for he had made a good point. We did not want to telegraph our own interest in the place. But now we knew where our birds came back to roost.

When I returned to Baker Street, I passed Mycroft on the stairs and heard him say—“If it becomes absolutely necessary, you have my reluctant consent.”

Then, passing me, he raised his hat and said—“I fear that in the past I have used the phrase ‘For my sins’ too lightly. I now intend to remove it from my vocabulary entirely. Good day, Doctor.”

In the sitting room I found Holmes in conclave with Lestrade.

“Ah, Watson, thought we’d lost you. Lestrade, tell Doctor Watson what you were just telling me, if you would be so good.”

The Inspector looked a trifle put out.

“I really can’t be dealing with these ’ere foreigners, Doctor. I don’t know why they can’t stay in their own countries, where they belong, instead of coming over ‘ere and getting under my feet.

“It’s this Pascal feller, or whatever he calls ’imself. I went to see him myself and told ’im we felt he might be in physical danger but not to worry, as we intended to put a guard on ’im night and day while he was in the country. Well, you’d think I’d insulted the honour of la belle France! Wouldn’t ’ear a word of it. Told me he was a foreign subject and we were lucky to get ’im over here to show us what proper food was all about. Then he went off into some foreign lingo …”

“Probably French,” Holmes suggested mildly.

“Very probably,” Lestrade concurred, totally missing the irony.

“So there we are, Watson. It looks as though we shall just have to take our chances with cher Pierre. Incidentally, Lestrade was saying that Pascal keeps a flat above the restaurant for his visits to this country. We shall just have to do our best to keep an eye on the whole building, particularly while the Fête Gastronomique is going on.”

“Oh, I’ve got my lads doing that already,” said Lestrade, but then a sudden disquieting thought struck him. “But there’ll be up to a hundred total strangers milling about the place this evening.”

“Nothing, I feel sure, the yeomen of the Yard can’t handle,” Holmes replied. In the light of recent events I found his confidence strangely unsettling.

Sensing my reaction, he continued—

“We have many options still open to us, old fellow—or, rather, our murderer does and we cannot yet afford to concentrate all our forces on any one of them. Since Pascal seems to be well protected or observed—whichever turns out to be the case—I suggest that you and Lestrade attend this evening’s event, while Mycroft and I pursue an alternative course of action.”

Although I was uneasy about what my friend proposed, I knew better than to argue with him. Anything he did was likely to be but one part of some grand plan and he was never happy to reveal that until he considered the moment right.

Consequently, I agreed to meet Lestrade at Chez Pascal a quarter of an hour before the event was due to begin and he departed to inspect his troops.

I then told Holmes of my encounter with Wiggins outside the consulate. What I had to say seemed to please him and his only question was—

“Did you happen to observe, Watson—were there trees in the garden and, if so, how tall were they?”

I told him that, as far as I could recall, all of the houses in that particular row had mature gardens with oak trees of approximately twenty feet in height. Had I known that he was an arborist, I added sarcastically, I would have been sure to take my tape measure along. Not a word of concern about Uma! Sometimes I wonder about the man’s priorities.

All of which was apparently lost on him, for all he said was—“Capital, Watson. Well done!” And then he picked up his violin and began to play a cheerful little composition of his own.

Chez Pascal occupied one of those beautiful late 18th century buildings you still find tucked away in a Soho square. As my cab dropped me on the far corner and I crossed the square, a steady stream of people were already making their way towards it.

Pascal was determined to show that he was in town, for he had taken over the whole square for the occasion. A banner proclaiming the FETE GASTRONOMIQUE was suspended from the trees and small booths had been set up in what was normally the communal garden. There Pascal’s aproned assistants were handing out samples of various dishes to the passers by. Threading through the crowd were two or three of those violinists and accordion players one never seems able to avoid in Parisian restaurants. I had to admit that it was quite a festive occasion and most—un-English.

With my trained investigator’s eye I examined the location. What had Holmes taught me? Try and take in the whole scene objectively, then see if any detail catches your eye and strikes you as discordant in any way.

Virtually impossible to do that here. This was an out of the ordinary occasion, so it was impossible to tell what the square was like on an ordinary day. Here and there among the crowd I thought I could detect Lestrade’s men in plain clothes—although to me they seemed to stand out like so many sore thumbs and fingers.

Now I could see what Holmes meant. There was a pattern to the ebb and flow. For the time being the doors to the main restaurant remained closed to the public and only the uniformed waiters and assistants were allowed in and out. This was what the police were monitoring.

I took a casual stroll through the street behind the restaurant and here the security was even tighter. The restaurant’s back doors had been locked and two uniformed officers stood visibly on guard. None shall pass there in a hurry, I thought, and returned to the square somewhat reassured.

Now Pascal’s own officials had opened the doors and the crowds were leaving the square and beginning to file inside. There was a cheerful buzz in the air, as they did so. There is nothing an English crowed likes more than something for nothing and to be fed into the bargain.

I was determined to be one of the last to enter, so that I would be able to stand at the back and survey the room. Just as I was making my way to the door, my elbow was taken and Lestrade was at my side.

“Everything’s tickety-boo, Doctor. A mouse couldn’t get in or out of ’ere without me knowing.”

An unfortunate image in the context of a culinary establishment, it occurred to me, but I kept my counsel.

And then, as we entered the restaurant, I saw them. It was the flash of bright green among the relative drabness of the rest of the people in that room that caught my eye.

There was Uma with—what was the fellow’s name?—Khali? Was it my fancy or was she looking more tired and under stress than when I had seen her last? Then, as people often do when they are the object of scrutiny, she saw me, too, and her remarkable eyes flashed a greeting and a warning at the same time.

Just as on the occasion I had first seen her in Scotland, she stood out like a beacon and it was only later that one took in her context, so on this occasion it was only her expression that made me look to the other side of her.

There, sure enough, was the third man from that momentous encounter at the inn. I felt sure that it was only because he was speaking softly into her ear that he failed to notice her instinctive reaction to my presence in the room.

‘Mr. Smith’ seemed distinctly pleased with himself and what he had to impart but, whatever it was, it made the lady’s eyes widen with horror. Her evident distress clearly only increased his pleasure and, when she turned and spoke rapidly and passionately to Khali, the man looked positively smug.

Now he began to survey the crowded restaurant and I quickly averted my gaze and engaged Lestrade in apparently earnest conversation over the menu we had each been given on entering.

“Sandy haired fellow on the left of the woman in green. ‘Mr. Smith.’”

“Got ’im, Doctor.”

Before we could discuss the situation further, the restaurant’s mâitre d’ was calling the mesdames et messieurs for their attention. He trusted we had enjoyed the hors d’oeuvres the staff had prepared for our earlier delectation. And now—in honour of this famous establishment’s fiftieth anniversaire—he had the honour … almost, if one were to permit him the little jest, the légion d’honneur … to present le grand mâitre, the son of the founder of Chez Pascal—Monsieur Pierre Pascal …

As he spoke, I found myself drawn back to ‘Mr. Smith’ and what I saw frightened me, for the man could hardly contain his excitement. And somehow I knew this was not due to the anticipation of the Surprise Pierre.

I was looking at the face of murder—or, at least, one of his faces.

And then his expression was wiped clean, as if a damp cloth had been pulled across a blackboard. For through the swing doors behind the mâitre d’ swept two minions carrying various culinary implements and in their wake—the moustachioed figure of Pierre Pascal.

Smith’s face was now a ghostly white and a vein was throbbing so visibly on his forehead that I could see it distinctly from where I was standing. I nudged Lestrade and nodded my head slightly to direct his attention.

For a moment I though Smith was about to faint. He looked wildly around him, then obviously concluded that he was hemmed in where he stood near to the demonstration table at which Pascal and his retinue had taken their places and would attract too much attention by trying to leave.

Now the great chef went to work. In total silence, like some professional conjuror, he summoned an ingredient from an assistant here, an implement there. His hands were a blur over the large bowl that dominated the table.

The crowd, which had been a buzz of conversation when he entered, had fallen totally silent, too, mesmerised by the man’s skill.

Then, with a final flourish, Pascal stepped back from the working surface and spoke for the first time.

“Voilà. Surprise Pierre!”

There was a spontaneous outburst of applause from the people in the room.

Now the mâitre d’ stepped forward once more and raised his hand.

“Monsieur Pascal has requested that one member of the audience should be his—how do you call it?—his cochon d’Inde, his ‘guinea pig’ this evening and approve his concoction before we invite all of you to sample some he has made earlier.

“What about you, sir?” And he made unerringly for Smith and pulled him out of the crowd.

Now Smith and Pascal were next to one another and, again I thought the wretched man would collapse.

And then Pascal did the strangest thing. He beckoned to the màitre d’ to take Smith’s right hand and hold it towards him, palm uppermost. Then, taking a device that lay next to the bowl on the table, he proceeded to ‘pipe’ the confection on to the man’s outstretched hand.

At which point Smith almost did collapse. By stretching up on tiptoe I could see what the chef had done that caused Smith’s reaction.

On the palm of his hand was a swirl of cream in the shape of the letter ‘G’.

The crowd had largely dispersed, puzzled but amused by the incident we had just witnessed. Outside in the square Pascal’s handmaidens were serving portions of the famous dessert, which rapidly became the centre of attention.

Within a few minutes Lestrade and I were left alone, wondering what to do next. Then the double doors at the rear opened and Pascal appeared. He stood looking at us and twirling the ends of that magnificent moustache.

And then he spoke.

“Come Watson—Lestrade, aren’t you going to congratulate me on my performance?”

It was the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes!

Seeing our consternation, he gave one of those sharp barking laughs of his.

“Walk this way, messieurs, and all will be revealed.”

He led the way through the doors and up a flight of stairs.

Now I could see how he had managed the transformation. As he had often explained, there is usually one main feature that characterises a person. Capture that and few people will look for anything else. In Pascal’s case he was his moustache; little else of his face was discernible.

He said nothing more but opened a door, indicating that we should enter the room beyond. When we did, I felt just as Alice must have done when she passed through into the Looking-Glass world. For there, sitting on a simple hard-backed chair, with an assistant in close attendance, was another Pierre Pascal!

“Monsieur Pascal, may I present my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard?”

Pascal half rose shakily from his chair and shook our hands. Looking at him more closely, I could see that he was badly shaken by some recent experience. Nonetheless, he appeared determined to tell his story.

“Gentlemen, it is to your friend here that I owe my very life. I was here in my private quarters while my staff were preparing for la Fête. I myself had determined to make a small rehearsal for my grand dessert, because I had not prepared it for some time. Surprise Pierre is not for the amateur, my friends …”

I looked at Holmes, who shrugged with what for him passes for modesty.

“You must excuse me, but my Oxford English has been—how do you say ‘polluted’?—by my native tongue. So—I was absorbed in what I was doing, when the door opened and one of my assistants entered. Or so I thought. I had given strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed but I did not recognise the fellow, although he was wearing our uniform. On these occasions it is necessary to take on extra staff and one cannot remember every face.

“I began to remonstrate with the man, but he closed the door and stood with his back to it. And then he said to me something that really held my attention.

“He said—‘You don’t remember me, do you, you old sinner?’ I looked at him and, in truth, I did not. It was the kind of face that can be any face, you know.

“Then he said—‘Just as a matter of interest, dear boy, I don’t suppose you have that old book you chaps used to pore over in the old days?’ He could clearly see from my reaction that I had not the faintest idea of what he was talking about.

“‘I thought, not, old sport. You don’t mind my asking, I hope? Ah, well, c’est la vie, as you Frogs like to say. Or, in your case, mon vieux, I very much fear it will be a case of la mort’.

“It was then that I noticed he had his hands behind his back. Mine were occupied with my implements, as you may imagine. Suddenly he sprang at me and I saw that he was carrying a length of cord. Before I knew what was happening, he had me bound fast to this chair and my mouth gagged, so that I could not cry out.

“He now appeared very excited and his eyes were shining. ‘Are you a religious man, Pierre?’ he said. ‘I do hope so. In this country there is a proverb—‘The greater the sinner, the greater the saint.’ You should all thank me for making you great saints before your time. My only regret is that none of you will ever understand the greatest irony of all. By dispatching you who once dispatched me, I shall be the Greatest Sinner of you all. But no one will know it.’

“Then he became most angry. ‘You ruined my life. My generation discarded me. I carried the mark of failure with me. I made a few little mistakes, perhaps …’ And now his eyes were mad. ‘… but the business in Calcutta was not my fault and they blamed me for Amsterdam but there were others involved. It was a conspiracy—and it all began with you and your stupid Sinners …’

“At that moment he seemed to fight to control himself. ‘But all that is in the past now. Now I am the winner. I follow my destiny, make my destiny.’ And he laughed a most horrible laugh that I shall remember to the day I die.

“And then …”

He stopped and breathed in heavily, as if he were in some pain at the recollection.

“Pray continue, Monsieur Pascal,” Holmes urged gently, “your ordeal is almost over.”

“Then,” the Frenchman continued, “the devil began to feed me my own concoction, my Surprise Pierre. He pulled aside the gag and spooned it into my mouth, spoon after spoon. I could do nothing to prevent it and soon I felt myself choking.

“‘The Glutton dies from his own food. I think we might call that his just dessert, don’t you, old sport? Don’t bother to answer. In this country we are always taught not to speak with one’s mouth full.’

“And then a desperate idea came to me,” Pascal continued. “I pretended that he had succeeded. I made as loud a noise as I could and slumped forward in my chair against the bonds. He seemed satisfied and just at that moment we heard someone in the next room. He slipped out of the door and just before he closed it, he said—‘Bon appetit, Pierre.’ And then I really did lose consciousness …”

He sat back exhausted and his attendant handed him a glass of water.

Holmes moved to his side and put a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder.

“It was not I who saved your life but your own ingenuity.”

Then he looked over to where Lestrade and I were standing.

“It seemed to me inevitable that our killer would not be able to ignore such a visible opportunity to add this particular Sinner to his haul …”

“But I thought …” I interjected.

“That Monsieur Pascal might be our murderer?”

The Frenchman choked over his glass of water.

“Oh, no, my dear fellow, that was never a possibility from the moment we saw the photograph. The ear, Watson—the ear. The imperforate lobe. It was always clear that Staunton was our man and the conversation which our friend here has just recounted confirms the man’s twisted rationale. A man who is a congenital failure in life—and a potential sociopath into the bargain—has to find someone to blame for that failure. By definition, it cannot be his fault.

“Over the years Staunton has decided that everything that has gone wrong can be traced back to that Oxford rejection—which, in itself, was almost certainly not the first he had experienced. The more he heard of the success of his contemporaries, the greater his resentment grew, until the Book of Kor crossed his twisted path and gave him, in his mind, the perfect excuse. I have no doubt that all of his victims have heard some such rambling diatribe before …”

Then, seeing Pascal’s obvious distress, he changed his tack.

“I determined that the best way to protect this particular Sinner was to be inside the tent looking out. Consequently, I became one of Monsieur Pascal’s supernumerary waiters for the evening—unpaid, I hasten to add—so that I could mingle freely with the crowds.

“This I duly did, until I saw your lady friend arrive, Watson, with her usual retinue. Then I knew I was on the right track. But then—blind beetle that I was—I lost sight of ‘Mr. Smith’ or Staunton, as we might as well now call him.

“Once I had assured myself that he was not among those present, I realised that, although Lestrade here had the outer perimeter guarded, the inner defences were perilously thin. If I could wander at will, so could our murderer.

“I hastened back stage, as it were, and had my worst fears confirmed. Discarded on the upstairs landing was a waiter’s white jacket identical to the one I myself was wearing. Staunton had devised the same strategy as had I.

“Luckily, I heard a noise from this room and arrived to find Pascal here in extremis. Fortunately, old fellow, I have picked up a smattering of medical knowledge from you over the years and, having torn off the gag, I was able—by employing what I believe is called the Heimlich Manoeuvre—to, shall we say, ease the situation. In doing so, I made one other vital discovery …”

“Which was?”

“I discovered that his magnificent facial accompaniment was not, in fact, his. May I …?”

And with that he reached across to Pascal and carefully removed the moustache from his upper lip. Now Holmes was the only Pascal in the room, if you follow me.

The clean shaven Pascal gave a shy smile.

“I suppose when I was a Sinner, I should have taken ‘V’ for Vanity, if there had been such a thing. I was still a young man when I inherited the company from my most distinguished father. It seemed to me that a moustache would add to my gravitas—you say ‘gravitas’? And since I was impatient, I could not wait to grow one. So …”

“It was Pascal’s little affectation that gave me the idea,” Holmes added, “an idea that may prove to be the turning point in this little affair.

“I had no doubt that Staunton would wait to see the outcome of his actions. Suppose he were to see a dead man come to life? Would that not cause him to question what he had hitherto seen as his success? And might the fact that he had, in his terms, failed yet again cause him to lose his nerve and give us the initiative? It is, as Shakespeare says, ‘a resolution devoutly to be wished’ and I fancy we have just gained it, gentlemen.”

“There’s one thing that still puzzles me,” Lestrade interrupted. “’Ow did you manage to make that Surprise stuff—begging your pardon, Mr. Pascal?”

“Why, I read Monsieur Pascal’s recipe, of course, which was elegant in its simplicity. Too many of our native cooks, I regret to say, are inclined to present their work as something out of the black arts.”

“Black, as in burnt,” I sniffed in support.

“And so,” Holmes concluded, “armed with Monsieur Pascal’s recipe, spare moustache and moral support, I sallied forth to make my debut as a Mâitre de Cuisine—with the result you saw a few minutes ago.

“Incidentally, I would not recommend you to try Surprise Sherlock. I have to admit that there appears to be a certain je ne sais quoi that eludes the recipe.

“And now, Watson, after all this haute cuisine, I think perhaps we might take ourselves off to partake of Mrs. Hudson’s rather plainer English fare. Lestrade, if you would care to join us …?”

An hour later we were doing just that.