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Thus I found myself alone in the galleries, scheduled to meet up with Holmes at the Rue de Rivoli entrance in three-quarters of an hour. He admonished me to take care and remain in sight of others.
I thought the warning pointless. No one could be following us in the Louvre. Who would know we were there, other than the art expert he was now seeing? I wondered if the residual effect of the cocaine, aggravated by too much artistic stimulation, had my friend’s imagination working overtime.
I attempted to find my way to the tea room but became lost and wandered for a good fifteen minutes, growing ever more fatigued and annoyed. Finally a sympathetic guard pointed out a short cut to the restaurant through a doorway and down some stairs normally reserved for employees of the museum.
I entered the dark spiral stairwell and began my descent. In retrospect, it was a foolhardy move. But I was yet to understand the extreme danger of our investigation.
As I passed the next landing, the door on the floor above opened behind me with a soft click. Having discounted our mysterious pursuer’s existence, I ignored this for perhaps a second or two. I became aware of the lack of footsteps behind me.
Had someone entered the stairwell and remained standing, in the doorway above? Strange, I thought, and was turning to look when I was struck a sudden hard blow to the legs by a large figure shrouded in grey and wearing a low hat – and wielding an umbrella! I tumbled down the marble staircase like a child’s toy thrown in a fit of pique.
With a thud I slammed into the rails at the next landing, and lay there, my breath knocked out of me. A sharp pain in the ribs stabbed into my consciousness and I groaned. I heard the door on the landing above click shut. And then I blacked out.
When I regained consciousness I was lying on some sort of couch. The face of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, floated hazily above mine with an expression of fearful concern.
‘Watson! Watson!’ he entreated. His hand patted mine, as he tried to rouse me.
My eyes focused and I took in the scene. Behind Holmes were two security guards. We were in someone’s office. I blinked a few times.
‘I am fine, Holmes,’ I managed to say. ‘It was a small tumble.’
‘You were pushed down a steep flight of stairs,’ he said.
‘Well, yes.’
‘But you did not see your attacker?’
‘It happened too quickly,’ I replied, attempting to sit up. ‘I only glimpsed a hat. And an umbrella.’
Holmes snorted.
‘I suppose I did not believe you,’ I admitted sheepishly.
Holmes brusquely dropped my hand and whirled on the guards.
‘I shall ask you again! Who entered the stairwell?’ demanded Holmes of one of them, whom I now recognized as the guard who had shown me the stairwell.
‘Not a person,’ said the guard, in a defensive whine. ‘I go. I see nothing.’
‘No one?’ Holmes stared at him. ‘Idiot!’ he muttered under his breath, and then turned back to me. ‘Are you well enough to walk, Watson? We must get you to the hotel, and perhaps to a doctor.’
I sat up with a lurch, feeling a wave of nausea and some sharp pains in my legs, rib, and the back of my head. But taking stock, I realized that nothing was broken, and that I was probably no more than badly bruised.
‘I won’t need a doctor,’ I said, ‘but I could use that cup of tea. And perhaps a bit of rest before tonight.’
Holmes smiled with relief. ‘Good man, Watson,’ he said.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_e994d540-9064-5e8d-a654-564f8d9bd7ee)
Les Oeufs (#ulink_e994d540-9064-5e8d-a654-564f8d9bd7ee)
fter a brief rest at our hotel, my headache abated and I was left with nothing more than sore ribs. We changed into our evening clothes, stopped briefly for something called oeufs mayonnaise and proceeded in a cab towards Montmartre. A light dusting of new snow lit by golden gaslights gave Paris a sparkling mystique.
‘You begin to realize, of course, that this case is more complex than it initially appeared.’
I could read from my friend’s expression that this did not altogether displease him.
‘Who do you suppose pushed me down the stairs?’
‘Ha! Our “imaginary” follower no doubt,’ he said with a smile.
‘Yes, but other than our client, and this expert at the Louvre, who knew we would be in Paris?’
‘From those two, and Mycroft additionally, stretch many possibilities,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But most probably it was the person at Mlle La Victoire’s apartment who was “not Bernice”.’
‘Do you have any theories?’
‘Four. No, five. But I believe my primary suspect will reveal himself tonight.’
I was not unaware of the keen pleasure my companion took in the increased danger of our situation. His eyes burned with the excitement of the chase.
I fingered the revolver, cold and reassuring, in my pocket. Against my better instincts, I found the thrill of adventure rising inside in me like an unwanted fever.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_21e8b93b-9d5d-5549-916c-32a3fd01cf5e)
Le Chat Noir (#ulink_21e8b93b-9d5d-5549-916c-32a3fd01cf5e)
ur cab gradually left the Grands Boulevards as we made our way once again through the increasingly narrow and hilly streets towards Montmartre, home of colourful Bohemians and the centre of the art world in Paris. The ramshackle houses, crowded with trees and vines, gave the area an air of a country village gone mad.
Until relatively recently, this area had been on the very outskirts of Paris. I wondered if the windmills were still in the service of grinding grain.
One surely was not. Le Moulin de la Galette was now a beacon for one of the most famous nightclubs in the world, a scene of wild evenings – where Parisians and visitors from many lands gathered to hear beautiful women in arresting attire sing of love, despair and, through thinly veiled references, more intimate matters.
There, too, strange clowns cavorted in wild acts calculated to disarm and shock, and rows of shapely dancers performed the famous cancan, revealing glimpses of more than propriety would bear. Not that I had ever seen such things.
But I held out hope.
We passed the Moulin de la Galette and I was drawn to the colourful posters, glistening in the cold evening light, harbingers of this rich entertainment. They depicted swirling skirts, bright colours, strings of electric lights.
We were certainly far from London in every respect. I smiled at the thought of Mary at home and what she might think of this colourful locale. It would fall into her ‘I will just enjoy the postcard’ category.
Our cab pulled up outside 68 Boulevard de Clichy. A bold sign announced that we had reached our destination. The building itself looked like a country home, crowded in between two larger buildings, which leaned in like overly solicitous relatives. It was the famous cabaret Le Chat Noir, or ‘the Black Cat’.
I took a deep breath and willed myself to be on the alert. As we stepped down from our cab, I glanced up and down the street, but no one stood out in the milling masses.
Inside, after depositing our capes, hats and sticks with a blonde coquette who flashed me a wink and a smile, I reluctantly felt myself swept forward by the arriving crowd down a narrow hallway and up a steep stairway lined with French political cartoons. While the French sense of humour, I’ll admit, is not my own, I was struck by the bitter undertones, the funereal slant of the subject matter, the scorn and the anger beneath the humorous caricatures.
The contrast between the hostess’s inviting smile and the sarcastic political commentary was as unsettling as the tendency of the remarkably varied crowds to, well, push.
And then I got a glimpse of the main room.
My first impression was of utter chaos – the noise, the smoke, a hodgepodge crowd of Parisians of all classes, jammed in like sardines; the walls covered with paintings, posters, ornate cornices, lanterns, bizarre sculptures. An enormous stuffed aquatic creature hung from the ceiling. A porpoise? A giant catfish? I could not be sure.
The crowd was a milling, laughing mass. The noise was oppressive. In one corner were several Swiss Guards. I later learned Le Chat Noir was a social mecca for these odd mercenaries in their startling blue-and-yellow striped Renaissance clothing and white ruffs. A rowdy burst of laughter came from a cluster of them at a far table.
I’d heard of Le Chat Noir of course, but never imagined it would be a place that I would visit. It seemed a madhouse.
Holmes and I pushed our way through the dense crowd towards a couple of empty seats. A bearded ruffian in corduroy abruptly rammed into me, splashing his glass of wine on my waistcoat.
‘I beg your pardon!’ I said. The man stopped in his tracks and turned penetrating dark eyes to my face.
‘Anglais!’ he literally spat, the viscous wad narrowly missing my polished boots. ‘Va te faire foutre, espèce de salaud! On ne veut pas de toi ici!’He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
I shot Holmes a questioning look, and he took my arm, guiding me to our seats. I blotted at the wine with my handkerchief, feeling my face turning red from the insult.
‘Sit,’ said Holmes, as we squeezed into two empty seats at the end of a long banquette against a back wall. ‘I see this is your first encounter with the virulent form of anti-English sentiment which has grown over the past years here.’
‘Still angry over Agincourt, I suppose,’ I replied, my dignity ruffled.
‘You do not understand the French,’ he said.
‘No one understands the French!’ I replied. Holmes grinned.
But it was true that there was a flavour to the crowd and the place itself that was impenetrable to my sensibilities. Looking around me, I sensed we were at the epicentre of some cultural movement, but I could not grasp its significance … or its meaning. I felt a bit like the stuffed creature hanging above us – an observer – separate, and quite out of place.
My attention was next drawn to a decorative circular frame enclosing a large translucent screen of some sort on the wall behind the stage. Noticing my puzzlement, Holmes explained. ‘That is the screen of the famous Théâtre d’Ombres, the Shadow Theatre,’ he said. ‘Shadow puppets, figures cut out of zinc, are projected there nightly. The writing is quite amusing. Very popular now.’
‘You’ve seen it, then?’ I wondered.
‘Several times. But, aha! There is the man of the hour.’ He indicated with a nod a tall, handsome fellow in a well-cut suit of European style, sporting a jaunty moustache and gliding effortlessly through the crowd. He was French, from his elegant dress and dark good looks. ‘Exactly whom I expected,’ said Holmes.
The gentleman looked our way, and Holmes nodded in greeting. I thought I detected a flash of annoyance from the man but his face then broke into a charming smile. He bowed mockingly in our direction before taking his seat.
‘Old friend?’ I asked.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Holmes. ‘Is he familiar to you, by chance?’
I studied the man, recognizing nothing. ‘Who is he?’
Before Holmes could answer, a server placed before us two carafes of water, and two curved glasses with a strange green liquid nestled in the lower part of each. A perforated kind of knife balanced across each, with a lump of sugar on top. Holmes paid her and turned to me with a smile, indicating I should pour the water over the sugar. ‘We’ll discuss it later. Now, do give this a taste; it is quite unique. But no more than a single sip, Watson; I need you sharp tonight.’
Absinthe! Was he mad? I watched Holmes add water, and with a stir, the liquid took on an eerie glow. It looked like something one might imagine oozing from under the sea in a Jules Verne novel. Of course I had read of the stuff. The famed concoction was an extreme depressant renowned for its hallucinogenic effects.
‘No thank you, Holmes.’ I pushed my glass away.
He took one sip and did the same. ‘Wise choice,’ he said. ‘I once spent an afternoon at a nearby establishment, working off an absinthe-induced reverie.’ He shrugged. ‘It is worth trying once – in the name of science, of course.’
My attention returned to Holmes’s ‘old friend’. He was seated near the door, engrossed in conversation with a young couple, the girl staring at him in frank admiration. I could see from his gestures and her enraptured expression that he possessed that very particular Gallic charm which was easy to spot and impossible to emulate. What was Holmes’s interest in this man?
I noticed another small group, off to the side, also regarding the Frenchman. There were four men, three very tall and muscular, and a smaller, almost delicate man. There was something quite odd about them. In addition to being clad entirely in black, almost like a group of clerics, they somehow conveyed an air of menace. While the crowds around them laughed and gestured, they remained preternaturally still, their drinks untouched. The smallest man, whose manner subtly commanded the others, made me think of a cat, coiled and waiting at a mouse hole.
I started to point them out to Holmes, but he’d risen and, taking our drinks, crossed the room towards the bar. I observed that the Frenchman kept a careful eye on Holmes while remaining in conversation. His regard caused the group of four to follow his gaze to Holmes. I did not like the look that passed over the small man’s face. It seemed to be recognition, and something more. A chill came over me in the crowded, warm room.
Holmes returned with a carafe of red wine and two fresh glasses.
‘Holmes,’ I began. ‘There are four men over there who seemed very interested to find you here.’
‘The Americans. Yes, I noticed.’
This should not have startled me, but it did.
‘You are referring to the oddly dressed gentlemen in black?’ he smiled. ‘Not exactly your Grand Tour types. They are more interested in our French friend, not me.’
‘And yet they seemed to recognize you,’ I pointed out. ‘Or the small one did.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ said Holmes. ‘It may change our plans slightly.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If there is any trouble, or if I so signal you, escort our client safely away from here and to some place other than her home. Do you understand me?’
‘Of course I understand you,’ I replied peevishly. ‘What is it that you expect to happen?’
But before he could answer, we were drowned out by a loud musical flourish from the small band.
There was an audible murmur of anticipation as our client took the stage.
PART THREE (#ulink_5ba48014-a7ec-5484-817c-c16a61145857)
THE LINES ARE DRAWN (#ulink_5ba48014-a7ec-5484-817c-c16a61145857)
‘Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.’
G. K. Chesterton
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_e9938437-be34-528e-97c2-ca6b5d4993c6)
Attack! (#ulink_e9938437-be34-528e-97c2-ca6b5d4993c6)
f she was beautiful this afternoon, she was now transformed into a goddess! Dressed entirely in red, Mademoiselle La Victoire as Cherie Cerise positively glowed, her tumbling curls of flaming red hair tied up loosely in the topknot so stylish here, her exquisite pale bosom promising a passionate heart just below. She moved across the stage as if floating on air, her mischievous smile tempting the imagination. All traces of her dire situation were concealed by the consummate performer that she was.
‘You are gaping, Watson,’ Holmes whispered. Perhaps I was. But save for Holmes, so was everyone else.
A unanimous shout, ‘Cherie!’ rose up from the room. Our client, Mlle Emmeline La Victoire, was unquestionably a star.
In retrospect, I realized that what I had anticipated was a bawdy, music-hall-style performance with half-shouted melody and swishing skirts. But as the music started up and she began to sing, what came from the lovely creature was the voice of an angel, soaring and clear. She conveyed a sweet melancholy that ripped at one’s heart.
For nearly an hour I sat transported.
As she finished a song about a rare tropical bird which flew many leagues to be with its lover (or perhaps it was a dog, I cannot be sure), I turned to my friend – only to discover that the space where Holmes had been sitting a moment ago was now filled by a rude-looking peasant, red nose aglow with drink.
Where the devil had he gone? Scanning the room, I observed that the Frenchman he had pointed out earlier was missing and the black-clad men as well. I grew uneasy and stood up. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Damn his secrecy!
