The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (43 page)

The more I read, the worse I felt. Holmes had faced many challenges in his illustrious career, but never before had he faced a criminal without a face. Huret was no street Apache roaming the back alleys of Paris. The assassin was a gentleman rogue who mocked the police over their inability to stop him.

Though he was responsible for nearly a dozen murders, Huret remained a complete enigma to the Sûreté. He could be anyone, a fact gleefully picked up by the newspapers who dubbed Huret “The Boulevard Assassin”. As the journalists had it, the murderer could be the gentleman walking the boulevard at your side. He could be your neighbor or your best friend. He could be anyone.

In one instance, Huret disguised himself as an Earl’s footman. Having killed the real servant, Huret took his place, and several days later, murdered the nobleman on the way to the opera. Clearly, Huret’s disguise had been so masterful that he completely fooled the Earl, a man who had employed the footman for twenty years.

Perhaps worse, on another occasion, Huret assumed the identity of a chef in one of Paris’ leading clubs. In a private room, an elderly Viscount and his three sons were dining. Huret cooked an elaborate dinner – red mullet with Cardinal sauce, turtle soup, oyster pâtés, fish, sweetbreads, stewed beef, fruit, chocolate creams: ten full courses in all. Huret was seen by the owner of the club and the servants who waited on the diners; all were convinced that Huret was the chef they’d known for the past sixteen years. By the time the servants left the kitchen with the desserts and sherry, Huret was long gone. But the sherry killed all four men.

The only fact known about Huret was that he was a man of tremendous vanity. He delighted in baiting the police. After each crime, he sent a letter to the leading newspapers claiming responsibility for the assassination. According to his statements, he wanted no innocent bystander blamed for his deed. Oftentimes, Huret mentioned sharing a drink with his victim shortly before their death. In his closing, the assassin never failed to state that after posting his letter he would raise a glass of champagne, paid by his ill-gotten gains, in a farewell toast to his victim, then down it with a dish of currant pudding.

That audacious act of knavery elucidated Holmes’s only remark on the crimes during our entire trip. We were in a cab speeding to the house Girac had arranged for our use while in Paris. “You noticed, Watson, that Huret in each of his letters never once fails to describe his farewell toast,” said Holmes, breaking long hours of silence.

“He might be a gentleman in station, Holmes,” I replied, “but he is a rogue at heart. The insufferable gall of the man, Holmes!”

“Actually, I thought his posts were quite clever,” said Holmes, who then proceeded not to say another word.

Girac met us personally at the house located only a short distance from the Chamber of Deputies. That he came alone was yet another indication of his mistrust of those in his own office.

“I have done exactly as you requested, Mr Holmes,” said Girac as soon as we were alone. “I informed several members of the Chamber of Deputies that the President, at my urging, has agreed to take a much-needed vacation in the country. They accepted my story that this constant bickering over the Dreyfus affair has him weary of Paris. Though I refused to reveal the exact location of his hideaway, I did mention a secure villa in the south of France, guarded round the clock by my most trusted assistants.”

“Good work,” said Holmes. “The trap is set.”

Girac grimaced. “You suspect one of the ministers is involved in the plot? Or several?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Holmes mysteriously. “However. I feel confident that news of Casimir-Perier’s trip will soon reach Huret. Aware of his limitations, he will try to strike before the scheduled journey.”

Holmes made no mention of what those limitations might be, and as Girac said nothing, I felt it best to remain silent. Lighting his pipe, Holmes deeply inhaled the smoke. “You have the President’s itinerary for the next few days with you?”

“Of course,” said Girac. “He is scheduled for a full round of meetings tomorrow. In the evening, he travels to his club for an informal dinner with the Belgian ambassador. Afterwards, he plans to attend a reception for a few close friends at their embassy. The next day, he consults with the Minister of Finance. That night, he is scheduled to attend the opera. The following morning, his supposed vacation begins.”

“The opera,” I declared, “that is where Huret will strike. What better location for the rogue. A huge crowd, plenty of noise. A meeting place for the Boulevard set. The perfect place for an assassination attempt.”

“You have the mind of a policeman, Watson,” said Holmes, drawing in another puff of smoke.

He nodded to Girac. “I’m sure the Doctor would enjoy dinner at the President’s club, Girac. Why not arrange for him to accompany you while you keep watch tomorrow evening?”

“But what of you, Holmes?” I asked.

“I shall be nearby, Watson,” replied Holmes, the smoke curling about his head like a mask.

Upon rising the next morning, I discovered Holmes was already gone – on errands, according to Girac – but that he would meet us in the evening. Though he rarely discussed his far travels after his final duel with Professor Moriarity, I knew that Holmes had spent considerable time in Paris. Much of that period was spent investigating the curious affair of the Opera Ghost. My friend knew every twist and turn of the fabled Paris Opera House. I felt certain he was visiting old haunts and making preparations to deal with a new phantom.

I spent most of the day with Girac, reviewing his plans for protecting the President. The Inspector’s greatest challenge was to make sure that his men always remained in the background, not noticeable. News of a plot to assassinate Casimir-Perier could be almost as damaging to the state of the nation as the act itself. The President was surrounded by police, but all in disguise, and all at a distance. It was a difficult assignment, but Girac handled it with a cool head and keen mind. I could find no fault in his preparations.

Dinner was at nine, and Girac and I arrived by carriage shortly before it was scheduled to begin. There was no sign of Holmes and I was beginning to worry. Huret had killed a dozen men. Holmes was quite capable of defending himself in a brawl, but what chance did he have against a professional assassin?

The dining room of the club was a small, intimate chamber, with no more than a dozen tables. The rich and powerful of France took supper here and Girac delighted in pointing out those politicians he distrusted, whose number encompassed nearly everyone in the room. In the background, a string quartet played soft music.

The food was excellent, though not the hearty English fare I preferred. Wine flowed freely and after long hours of worry, I relaxed. A half-dozen of Girac’s best men, dressed as gentlemen of leisure, were scattered throughout the dining room. Another three inspectors assisted the waiters.

We were just starting our quail when one of Girac’s men approached the table. Bending over, he consulted for a moment in low tones with the Inspector. The color drained from Girac’s face.

“Please, excuse me for a moment, Doctor Watson,” said Girac, getting to his feet. “There has been a disturbance outside. Some sort of scuffle involving the coachman. I will return in an instant. Please pay close attention to our … clients.”

I nodded, feeling perfectly safe in the dining room with the President surrounded by nearly a dozen police officers. Still, I worried where Holmes might be.

Girac had been gone for less than a minute when, without warning, a series of extremely loud pistol shots rang out in the courtyard fronting the club. Instantly, all through the room, men leapt to their feet and quickly converged on the President and his guest. The other patrons of the club, not knowing what was happening and seeing the stampede, started shouting. For a few seconds, panic reigned unchecked.

“Quickly,” said one of the officers, his authoritative voice rising over the pandemonium, “guard the entrance. Allow no one other than Inspector Girac. I will escort the President through the kitchen to safety.”

“That, sir, I regret to inform you,” said the violinist, stepping apart from the Chamber Quartet and placing a hand on the policeman’s right arm, “will not be possible.”

Angrily, the officer tried to shake himself free. But the musician refused to let go. “Who the devil do you think you are, giving orders to a member of the Sûreté?” the officer demanded, his voice shrill.

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” said the violinist. “And you sir, despite your protests to the contrary, are not a police officer. Instead, I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Huret, the notorious Boulevard Assassin.”

3

“You are insane,” declared the officer, shaking himself free of Holmes’s grip. “You are jeopardizing the life of the President with your mad accusations.”

Inspector Girac returned to the dining room and stared at the officer, as if trying to determine who he was. He shook his head, puzzled. “You look like Edward Ronet, but …”

The officer laughed. He was tall and handsome, with soft brown eyes, smooth brows, and a delicate mouth. His hair was a spray of blond curls peeking from beneath his officer’s cap. “I
am
Edward Ronet. I’ve been in your employ, sir, for most of my life, as was my father before me.”

Holmes removed his own cap, then peeled off a wig of long dark curls. “You are not the only master of disguise in this room,” he said, with a slight smile. “Accept your fate, Huret. Your bluff is undone.”

My friend glanced at the Inspector. “Any problems with the street Apaches outside.”

“They were nothing,” said Girac, shrugging. “Just a minor disturbance.”

“As I thought,” said Holmes. “Such working class hoodlums posed no threat to the safety of Monsieur Casimir-Perier. They’re after nothing but a rowdy good time. A small but important part of Huret’s scheme.”

Inspector Girac stared at the false officer. “An excellent disguise, but not good enough. Ronet has a small scar beneath his left eye. You, sir, do not.”

Girac gestured to his men. “Escort the President and the Ambassador to their carriage. They are overdue at the Embassy. Keep close watch, though I suspect there is nothing more to fear.”

Girac returend his gaze to Huret. “Take this one to the prison. Lock him in solitary, and guard him well. I’ve waited a long time to meet Monsieur Huret. We have a great deal to discuss. I am sure our conversations will be most interesting. But, before we speak, I personally want to inform the newspapers that he will no longer be writing them letters.”

“Brag all you like,” snarled Huret, as the police dragged him off. “It doesn’t matter. You have no evidence, no proof. I have powerful friends. You will never see me stand trial.”

Holmes’ features were grim as the officers dragged Huret from the dining room. “He’s a very dangerous man, Girac. To many people.”

“I will make sure he is guarded day and night, Mr Holmes,” declared the Inspector. The room had emptied and we stood alone in its center. “The President, I am sure, will want to thank you personally for saving his life. A brilliant piece of detection.”

Holmes waved a hand in the air, as if dismissing the compliment. “Elementary, Girac. Huret’s letters to the newspapers aroused my immediate suspicion. No truly professional criminal brags of his crimes without reason. Best to keep their misdeeds secret. Since Huret never failed to write about each murder, I sensed that the communications served some purpose. The common thread in all of them was his mention of a champagne toast to his victim. I therefore reasoned that Huret was trying to establish his status as a gentleman of leisure.”

“The papers dubbed him the Boulevard Assassin, Holmes,” I declared. “So he succeeded in convincing them of his stature.”

“Exactly, Watson. And what gentleman would ever stoop so low as to associate with the working class? Definitely not a Boulevardier.”

“So our assassin assumed the identities of common laborers to commit his crimes?” asked Girac.

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “Along with his champagne toast, he always mentioned a bit of currant pudding in his letters. What gentleman eats pudding, Inspector? That is a meal for the poor.”

“But surely, Holmes,” I said, “why would Huret give himself away, while at the same time, pushing his image as a Boulevardier?”

Holmes reached into his violin case for his pipe. “You gave me that answer, Watson, when you remarked that Huret killed to prove his mental superiority over his peers. And I told you that such vanity would be Huret’s downfall. Some of us have no need to play such games. Huret simply wasn’t smart enough.”

“The scoundrel!” exclaimed Girac. “To think he could pull this off, pretending to be one of my men – ”

“A rogue, as Doctor Watson described him,” said Holmes, “but nonetheless a clever one. Who better to commit a crime than an assassin disguised as a police officer? They can go where others cannot, are ignored by the general public, and are considered above suspicion. And, except to a perceptive few, one policeman looks like every other.”

“An assassin who disguised himself as a member of the police force,” I declared, amazed. “What audacity.”

“Tonight?” asked Girac.

“With no guarantee when the President would return to Paris, Huret had to strike before Casimir-Periot left. His employers, whomever they may be, I am sure wanted immediate results. Thus, he was forced to choose between the opera or the club.

“The crowds of people at the opera, I suspect, would have made it impossible for him to reach the President. Besides, with the police thinking him a gentleman, they would naturally assume he would prefer to act in such surroundings. That belief was, of course, mistaken. Huret’s success relied on deceit and disguise. In the confines of a private club, his chance of success was much greater. I planned a trap, using the President as bait, and Huret stepped into my web.

“His plan was simple and effective. An attack by street thugs on the President’s carriage draws you, Girac, away from the dining room. Then, the same thugs fire their pistols into the air, creating a disturbance inside the club. In the ensuing confusion, Huret enters from the kitchen, in police uniform. By sheer force of will, he commands your men to guard the front door – from a menace that does not exist – while he escorts the President to safety. Once out of sight, he stabs the President and walks away, mentally composing his letter to the newspapers.”