Son of Holmes

11

“We’re fools,” Lupa said. “What else could we have done?”

“Yes. I’m trying to determine that now.”

“There must be a dozen look-alike cars on the road.”

“Jules,” he explained, “I know the answers as well as you do. We must be asking the wrong questions.”

We continued in frustrating and desultory conversation until, in the end, he asked if I would drop him off at La Couronne on my way back home.

“Aren’t you curious about Anna?” I asked.

“I am many things in relation to her,” he answered, “but almost never am I curious. No, I am sure she has gone back to be ministered to by Madame Chessal. She was fine, Jules, as fine as I am now. I did make sure before I joined with you.”

The drive continued in silence. Occasionally I would glance over at my companion. He sat, motionless, eyes closed, pursing his lips in and out. Finally, he spoke:

“Where was Madame Chessal when you heard the shots?”

“With me. Well, she’d gone off into the bushes for a moment.”

“So she was not with you.”

“Auguste, don’t be absurd. She didn’t even know we’d be here. She was nowhere near where the shots came from.”

He looked at me in exasperation. “There is such a thing as a paid assassin. She wouldn’t have to be where the shots came from.”

I thought he was stretching the point beyond credibility and told him so.

“Jules,” he said, “there are two kinds of women: simple women, accounting for ninety percent of the race, and dangerous women.”

If he was brooding, I’d let him brood. I was convinced that his line of reasoning led nowhere, and nothing he said was going to shake that conviction. He seemed to come to the same conclusion, for suddenly he sat up straight in his seat.

“I apologize about the way I spoke of Madame Chessal. I still can’t help but feel a great deal of mistrust, but with no evidence, I’m a fool to speak rashly. Forgive me.” He sighed, back to business. “I’ve decided something rather crucial.”

“What’s that?”

“What did you see, exactly, when you heard the shots today?”

“Actually, I saw nothing. Just at the moment I heard the shots, I was tipping my head back to drink some beer. I saw nothing at all. Just before that, I saw Anna crossing back to the table and you and Watkins-no, just you-seated, presumably waiting for her.”

“Correct. Does that lead you to note any similarity between this latest incident and the successful attempt on Routier?”

I couldn’t see what he was getting at.

“Let me describe to you what happened today. Exactly. Anna had been at the fire getting our food and had turned back to the table. Watkins stood on the far side of the table, having just returned also from the fire. When the shot came, we were all precisely in a line from the direction of the report. Anna was grazed while leaning over to place the food on the table, and the same bullet passed through the bottom of Watkins’s coat. I heard the whistle of the thing as it passed my ear. There! What does that tell you?”

“Nothing,” I said truthfully. “Except perhaps that they’re both very lucky.”

“How about if they were both extremely unlucky? What if the bullet hadn’t been meant for either of them?”

I smiled. “What if you are getting upset and nervous and losing your judgment?”

Ignoring that response, he continued. “The most salient point of these two attempts, last week’s and today’s, is that both attempts were on my own life. Of course, there is a possibility that this was not the case last Wednesday but only the barest possibility. You see-and I don’t know whether you noticed this at the time-Routier, after the incident with Lavoie’s bottle exploding, went back to the seat I’d been occupying and drank from my already poured glass. The poison had obviously been put there for me; only the chance realignment of our positions saved me and resulted in your friend’s death.

“Again today,” he went on, “today we were all in a line, and the shot chanced to miss me. You heard the other two? After the first we all dropped immediately to the ground. The second shot landed somewhere far off, but the last hit the ground not one meter from where I lay, which was far from the other two. No, whoever the killer may be, the intended victim is beyond dispute. It is myself. And whatever else the killer may be, we may be certain that he’s getting desperate.”

“All right,” I said, after a moment, “it might be true. And if it is, what are you going to do?” I negotiated back onto the cobblestones. In contrast to our earlier passage en ville, no one seemed to be about.

“I’d like you to go and find out where Pulis was today. Then go to the police station, find where Lavoie is supposed to be, and wire him. As I said, it’s possible that there’s a hired assassin involved, even though further reflection renders that rather dubious. A hired assassin wouldn’t have missed me, and if our man was so concerned about covering up, he certainly wouldn’t have done anything at your house the other night. No, I believe he’s acting alone on this. I believe he’s scared, and a scared man makes mistakes.”

“What about Paul?”

“Anser? You’re going to see him tomorrow, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well… question him. Find out what you can. Watkins, remember, will be working in St. Etienne.”

“All right, but you?”

“I’m going back to La Couronne. I don’t intend to leave my rooms until this is cleared up. A scared man, as I said, makes mistakes. I can’t be wondering about my own safety if I’m to be effective. My cooking, too, is suffering. As you see, I should be there now. Charles is no chef, but he’s taking over when he can. I try to show him a style, but how do you teach a flair, eh? Monsieur Vernet, La Couronne ’s owner, is very patient. We are, in fact, distantly related. He is a good man, but he is also a businessman, a restaurateur. He needs a quality chef to survive. Much as I need a quality operative.” He glanced sideways at me. “Would you object to filling that role?”

I could not. It was flattering-but more, necessary. If Lupa was right, then he, not I, was in danger.

“Jules, stop the car!” he said suddenly.

We were passing the fountain in the center of town, from which side streets spread like spokes from a wheel. I pulled over to the curbside and brought the car to a halt.

“What is it?”

“Come with me.”

Lupa was already out of the car, his hand inside his coat near his pistol. He disappeared down one of the alleys. Moving as quickly as I could, I followed. The run through the woods, the horse ride, my stumbling, the excitement of the chase-all of that was catching up with me. In the leisurely pace of the drive back to Valence, I had stiffened up considerably. But I was not about to let myself forget that I’d kept up with a man not yet half my age. I thought confidently that Lupa could pick a worse operative than myself.

Rounding the corner, I saw what had drawn Lupa’s attention. A green automobile of corrugated iron was pulled up under an overhanging gutter. The driver’s window was open, and Lupa had already entered the car by the time I arrived.

“Anything?”

He straightened up in the seat, smiling crookedly. Opening his hand, he displayed one spent rifle shell. “Nothing important,” he said. “Perhaps you ought to file a report on a stolen car. I’m sure the owner of this machine is wondering where it might be.”

He got out of the car. “I might as well walk from here, Jules. Thank you for your help.” He nodded and began down the alley. Then he stopped, turning. “I suppose for form’s sake I should ask Watkins to question the residents of this block. They may have seen…”

Then, abruptly, his shoulders slumped. “This is terrible. My mind isn’t functioning. The police will not be able to discover who stole this car. No one will have seen it arrive here… Our function is not pedestrian police work. We cannot depend on that, for if we do we shall fail. Mark my words, we shall fail!”

I tried to calm him, to restore some of his lost self-esteem. It did little good. Finally, I assured him that I would check in on Anna, though he didn’t even seem to think that would be necessary. He said I could do as I wished.

As I trudged back to my car, I wondered if even now our assailant was watching me from one of the narrow windows, gloating over his escape. Whoever he was, it was likely that he knew me well and thought me a bumbling adversary, a foolish dilettante, an aging clown.