Son of Holmes

13

Jacques Magiot and I had been acquaintances for over forty years, and a mutual antipathy had developed between us over the course of time. When he was beginning his career with the police, I was a gadabout. He was a few years older than I, and before we’d finished secondaire, we’d had many of the same friends. Our fathers, as a matter of fact, had been quite close. After they had retired, they spent most of their afternoons together playing boules. So it was more or less assumed that we would become friends. It never happened. Once he tried to recruit me to the force, and I’d laughed at the notion. From that time, the condescension with which he’d always treated me-friendly condescension, to be sure-turned to subtle derision. I think he always considered me a do-nothing, and it no doubt angered him when I began to increase my father’s already substantial fortune through my own resources. Still, we would meet at parties occasionally and exchange pleasantries. As a policeman, he was competent for routine problems, entirely without imagination, and through some admixture of luck and obstinancy had arrived at the position of police chief of Valence.

The police headquarters building was a large neoclassic monstrosity in the center of town. Arched and pillared, it might have been made by a blind, one-armed Roman. It was the largest building in town, built sans doute on the theory that if might makes right, big makes beautiful. Tant pis.

I was ushered down the hall from the front desk to the room of one of the subordinates, a Monsieur Procunier. He was a short, heavy bald man with a large nose and a florid complexion. He sat behind his desk and bade me sit facing him.

“Nice of you to come,” he began sarcastically. “We’ve been by your house several times. Have you received that message? There have been some murders lately, you realize.”

I nodded. “My good man, Monsieur Magiot knows where he can find me, and no one said there was any urgency. Indeed, there couldn’t have been, or you’d have stationed someone at the house and brought me here as soon as I appeared. Now I’m here, voluntarily, to answer questions, I presume, and I have little use for sarcasm. Let’s get on with it.” I smiled. “By the way, will Monsieur Magiot be in?”

“He’s in now. He’s to see you when I’m through taking your report.”

“Fine. I’m at your disposal.”

He asked me the same questions they’d asked the previous Wednesday, adding only a reference or two to Chatelet’s death. Did I have any suspicions? Had anything out of the ordinary happened to me since Wednesday? I didn’t know what Fritz might have told them, so I mentioned the episode with the rock and left out yesterday’s shooting incident.

“You think it was a prank?” he asked.

“Without any doubt. I heard children’s voices.”

“Would you like a police escort?”

“Good God, no! Whatever for?”

“Protection.”

So it went. How well did I know the people at the gathering? What was the purpose of the meeting? Did I know that if more than three people met at any time, it could be construed as a subversive gathering and was forbidden?

“Thank you,” I said. “Is that all?”

He directed me to Magiot. Jacques was dealing with some of his men when I entered, and I stood quietly by the door while he finished talking with them. After they’d filed out, he reached out his hand.

“Jules,” he said. “Good to see you. It’s been quite a while. Nasty business, this, eh? I’m awfully sorry about Routier. He was a good friend of yours, I understand. Do sit down. Cigarette?”

He carried his age very well. Though he was not compelled to by regulations, he preferred to wear his uniform while on duty, and it was well tailored. His dark hair was in a military cut over a disciplined and impassive face. He sat gripping his pipe lightly with both hands over the bowl, his elbows resting on the desk.

I took the cigarette, and sat. “How are you, Jacques? Your man Procunier is quite a personality.”

He waved it off. “Oh, sorry about that. I’ve just been so busy lately I’d rather have him take the routine things. You made a statement?”

“Oui.”

“Good. To tell the truth, I was a little concerned about the circumstances of the death at your place. Several foreigners, that sort of thing. You know gatherings of that size are forbidden.”

“To drink beer?”

“I know, I know. In your case, it’s rather silly. But there are reasons, as I’m sure you’ll understand. There have been rumors that Routier was mixed up in some international matters. Would you know anything about that?”

“Nothing whatever. We’d been friends for a long time, and he never mentioned anything to me. Also, Jacques, between us, he didn’t really seem the type, did he?”

He smiled condescendingly. “Yes. Well, I thought I’d ask.” He shifted in his chair and, looking down into the bowl of his pipe, said rather softly, “We think we know who did it.”

“Really,” I said. “Who?”

“How well do you know this Auguste Lupa? That was the first time he’d been to your house, wasn’t it?”

“Not exactly. He’d been there that morning. As to how well I know him-hardly at all. I only met him last Tuesday, and he seemed a nice enough chap. He’s really an excellent chef, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. That’s one of the reasons we find it strange he was there. He should be working at night. We’ve gone by La Couronne several times and have failed to find him. Why wouldn’t he be there during working hours?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It does seem suspicious.”

“Suspicious, ha! Damned suspicious, I’d say.”

“But, Jacques, you haven’t been able to get in touch with me either in all that time, and there’s nothing suspicious about me, is there?”

“I hate to bring it up, Jules, but you don’t work like your common man. Your hours are your own to order.”

I smiled to myself. Probably my wealth would gall him forever. “So you suspect Lupa?”

“Look at the facts,” he said. “Lupa’s the only new man at the party. He’s a foreigner, from Belgrade or somewhere-”

“He’s an American citizen,” I interrupted.

“All right, America. Doesn’t change the fact. Then, Routier’s sitting in Lupa’s seat and even drinking from his glass when he keels over. Lupa hadn’t even taken a sip from that glass. In the confusion of Lavoie’s glass breaking, Lupa dumps cyanide into the glass and arranges it so that Routier goes back to his seat. We don’t know exactly how he did that, but it seems reasonable. We’ve also got some problems with motive, though this international angle might come into play there. Then Lupa can’t be found when we want him, he refuses to cooperate at all, and”-here he paused for effect-“we went to see Vernet, the owner of La Couronne, and got Lupa’s papers, and they’re forged. Cleverly, but definitely. We’re going to pick him up tonight.”

I sighed. “Well, that’s certainly a relief, Jacques. I’m glad you’ve found him. It does look rather bad for him. Forged, you say?”

“Without doubt.”

“What about your inspector? Him, too?”

“We think so. He’s got no alibi. We figure Chatelet-that was his name-was on to something. He questioned Lupa, and Lupa panicked. With his size, he could have strangled him easily, and probably did. He hadn’t reported back to us yet, but his itinerary that morning had him seeing Lupa after the funeral, then the others, and none of the others saw him. He must have seen Lupa first, and been killed before he could see anyone else.”

“But couldn’t it have happened that when Chatelet saw that Lupa’d missed the funeral, he changed his plans and took off on a new tack? In that case he might have run into someone else altogether.”

“Yes, that’s true. But why would he change his plans? Did anything strange happen at the funeral? Anything to make you suspicious?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“Well, then.”

“Just a thought,” I muttered.

“You just let us handle this, Jules. It’s what we do best.”

I got up to go. “Well, good luck, Jacques. I hope you get him. And thank you.”

He shook my hand warmly. “It’s a pleasure to set the mind of an old friend at ease. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll have everything straightened out and back to normal in no time.”

I walked out into the cool evening. If that was what they did best… I smiled grimly to myself. So no one else had seen Chatelet, which of course meant that Henri had lied to the police. Understandable, but certainly neither wise nor wily. I decided to go to Lupa’s, to warn him. He wouldn’t be any good at all from inside a jail trying to convince a man like Magiot of his innocence. Magiot thought I was supercilious. I shuddered to imagine what he’d think of Lupa.

It wouldn’t do to go directly to La Couronne from the police station, so I walked to my car and drove several blocks back toward my house, checking to see that I wasn’t being tailed. I wasn’t. I parked and began walking, then, back in the direction of Anna’s shop. I knew it was a bit risky entering that way, but it would be better than just dropping in, especially if the police had already arrived.

The walk took me nearly a quarter of an hour, and it was completely dark when I arrived. The door was locked, as I might have expected if I’d been thinking of details, such as Anna lying wounded at Tania’s house, but it presented no problem. Once inside, I crossed to the back door, behind the screen, and opened it. The smell of the flowers rising to meet me was once again overpowering but pleasant as I picked my way back to the tunnel entrance. I remembered roughly where Lupa had reached to turn off the alarm and, after fumbling along the darkened wall for a short while, got it and clicked it to what I hoped was off. The walk was becoming nearly familiar, and I covered the distance to Lupa’s room in less than five minutes. Magiot had said that they were picking up Lupa tonight, and it was now night. There wasn’t much time to waste.

I stood at the curtains and listened to see if Lupa had guests. There was a faint glow around one edge of the curtain, so at least one of the room’s lights was on. I heard no sound, so I quietly pulled the curtain open and stepped in. My training had not entirely deserted me, and I could still move quietly and effectively if I had to. Lupa sat at his desk, absorbed in some reading. He turned a page, and I cleared my throat.

Normally, a man surprised in that manner will start. Lupa didn’t move a muscle. Without the merest glance at me, he closed the book and stared ahead of him. Finally, he turned his head to see me.

“How did you get in here?” he snapped.

“Spontaneous generation.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Under a minute. Now relax. It was necessary. You’re in a lot of trouble, and we’ve got to move right away.”

“So the tunnel’s been unguarded for ten minutes… pfui.” He reached for the button on his desk and activated the alarm again.

“You can check all that later,” I said. “Get Charles in here, and Vernet as soon as he can be reached. I’ve just come from the police, and you’re to be arrested tonight for Marcel’s murder.”

He glared at me. “The fools!”

“I couldn’t agree more, but that doesn’t matter much at this point. We’ve got to get you out of here and covered before the police arrive.”

“The fools!” he repeated.

“Yes,” I said. “It seems that they’ve checked your papers and discovered the forgeries, and that Henri has denied seeing Chatelet, and naturally they assume, then, that you killed him before he could have seen anyone else. Now, does Charles know about the tunnel?”

“Yes. So does Vernet.”

“Anyone else?”

“Besides you, Anna, Watkins, and myself? No. Not that I know of.”

“All right. Let’s get you out that way then. Call in your men.”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not leaving here. Simply impossible. I’m a marked man, and I’ve decided to stick it out here, and I will do so. I’ll call the others.”

“But how-”

He cut me off by ignoring me and calling out into the kitchen. Charles appeared shortly, clad in an apron and chef’s cap, smiling. He was surprised to see me, but nodded courteously.

Lupa began talking. “Close the front door immediately and go fetch Monsieur Vernet. We are closed for business tonight due to the loss of our chef. I beg your pardon, Charles, but it does have nothing to do with you. After you’ve gotten Vernet here, continue on out to Monsieur Giraud’s house-you remember where it is? Good. Talk to his chef, a Fritz Benet, and tell him to stop whatever he is doing and come along here as quickly as possible. Tell him Monsieur Giraud is in trouble, and we need him. Bring him through the back way. Try to do all this in under an hour, and start now.” Charles already had stripped himself of accoutrements and stood ready to go. Lupa turned to me. “You have a car, n’est-çe pas? Bien. Give the keys to Charles. You can drive, can’t you? Use the car. Speed is everything. Va-t-en! Go!”

When he’d left, Lupa excused himself and left me sitting wondering what he planned to do. I heard him moving about in the adjoining room, evidently rearranging things in some way. In a short while he reappeared, carrying two beers in each hand. He set them on his desk and opened two, offering one to me without a word. Then he sat with his eyes closed and breathed deeply for what seemed an hour but was actually probably less than a minute. Finally he sat up, opened his eyes, and glanced at the beer glass, presumably to see that the foam had settled adequately, and drank. When he put the glass down, it was empty, and he immediately reached for another beer. He looked at me after pouring.

“So.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you planning to do? You can’t stay here, and every minute we sit here threatens you more. Why don’t we just go over to my place, or at least through the tunnel? Here you are too vulnerable.”

“Nonsense. What I did in the outer room just then will prevent any interference from the police. The huge tapestries covering the other walls? Well, for such an eventuality as this, I’ve another on hand. I’ve simply covered the door to the office and the wall surrounding it. No one will suspect there is a room there.”

“But if they search, it’s transparent.”

“Why would they search? If they’re capable of thinking me guilty of Marcel’s death, they are no danger to me. They will look in the rooms that remain, which are certainly ample for one man living alone. They won’t suspect a hidden room. Why should there be one? Monsieur Vernet will tell them he fired me because of my papers, and Charles will corroborate. Then, of course, there will be a new chef, newly hired, and living in these quarters.”

“I suppose that would be…”

“Exactly. Fritz.” He drank more beer, and I joined him.

“Did it occur to you that I might not approve of this? That perhaps Fritz is my private chef and of some worth to me, both personally and professionally?”

“Certainly, my dear Jules.” He smiled. “That’s why I did-n’t want to discuss any of this with you before sending Charles on his errand. I didn’t want to waste the time. You see, there really isn’t much choice. I can be very effective here, and I intend to remain. Come. It won’t be for long. Enjoy your beer.”

I sat and thought in silence. He was right, but it was aggravating. What was I to do with Fritz gone? Suddenly I realized what had begun to nag me.

“I gather, then, that you’ve cleared Fritz? You might have mentioned it to me.”

He did not respond in any way.

“Well?” I said.

He sighed. “There are simply some matters that I can’t disclose at this time, even to you, Jules.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Patently, it is not.”

“Might I ask why?”

He searched for the least objectionable way to phrase it. “You are a valuable ally, Jules, and becoming a good friend, but there is a certain ingenuousness in your character that I can turn to my advantage. I must ask you to trust me in this.”

“I find it highly insulting.”

He got up from the desk and crossed over to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “It is not that, I assure you.” He leaned his huge bulk back against the desk. “My father, Jules, had a companion for many years-a very good man of impeccable character and great bravery. But his goodness was so ingrained, his honesty so natural, that he was absolutely incapable of dissembling. My father knew this, of course, and occasionally had to leave this man in the dark, or in a few cases actually mislead him, so that he might not unwittingly tip a winning hand.”

Again, his hand came to rest on my shoulder. “Jules, forgive me, but you are not an actor. You are an agent, and a valuable man of action, but if you were closing in on Marcel’s murderer, I doubt if you could altogether suppress your feelings until the optimum moment. And that, in this case, is essential.”

“But Fritz…?” I began.

“For the time being, let Fritz be my problem. I will say this much: if he is our man, what better place to monitor his activities than under my own roof?”

I was not completely happy or convinced by his rationale, but I could see that his mind was made up. He went back around his desk and sat, and we waited for the others to return. Lupa opened the last beer, poured it for himself, and had nearly finished when Vernet entered.

He was of average height but distinguished by a full red beard and, incongruously, piercing dark eyes. It was an odd combination, which his dress reinforced. He wore an English derby hat and a large plaid overcoat, which, when removed, gave way to more conventional attire-a dark suit and tie. The color scheme of his face became even more bizarre when he took off the hat, revealing a head of gray hair. He entered by the tunnel, so of course we’d been warned of his entrance.

“See here, Auguste, what’s this about closing down the restaurant? I realize that ‘M’ and Altamont have asked me to cooperate in every way I could, but we’re beginning to lose customers, what with Charles’s cooking and your irregular hours. What’s the explanation this time?”

Perfectly unruffled, Lupa introduced us.

“Now, sit down, monsieur. I am sorry, but it’s really unavoidable. We should be open for business again within the hour, but in the meantime I am going to need your help. Will you have some beer? Cognac?”

The owner sat and nodded. “Courvoisier, s’il vous plait.” To my surprise, Lupa attended him. When they had both been seated, Lupa began again.

“We have a real problem, though we could possibly have foreseen it, given the way the police have handled everything so far. They’ve reached the inescapable conclusion that I am Monsieur Routier’s murderer. Monsieur Giraud has just given me that report, and the police are supposedly to be here this evening to arrest me. Unfortunately, that would be most inconvenient, so I’ve covered over the door to the office and decided to remain here until I’ve settled this matter. Let it look to the police as if I’ve run. That’s fine; in fact, it suits my purposes, since now the heat will be off the actual murderer. They’ll of course question you as to my whereabouts, and you should tell them that you dismissed me immediately upon learning that my papers were forged and you haven’t seen me since.”

“Fine,” said Vernet with impatience, pulling at his beard, “but who’s to be the new chef? How did I find him? And, above all, can he cook?”

“On the last point, you may rest assured. His name is Fritz Benet, and he would be worthy to be my own chef, were I ever in a position to be able to afford one. Maybe after the war… but that’s irrelevant. He’s been the chef for Monsieur Giraud for quite some time. However, for these purposes Giraud fired him because he suspected him of complicity with Routier’s death.”

“Now, wait a minute, Auguste…” I began, but he waved me down.

“That puts him in no danger. Believe me, it’s perfectly safe. The police have checked him thoroughly.”

“But why should I suspect him?”

“He poured the beer.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t have to make sense to us. It merely has to be plausible to the police. They’ve apparently settled on me. That you might suspect Fritz will have no bearing.”

Vernet sipped at his cognac. “So I will once again have a restaurant.”

“Barring difficulties.”

That seemed to palliate him. His face relaxed and he looked at me. “I asked for this when I decided to accommodate our friend here. At least it’s not dull.”

Lupa picked up the book he’d been reading when I entered and, without so much as a “by your leave,” became engrossed again. Vernet and I discussed Fritz’s merits until the alarm sounded again. Lupa distractedly pushed the button, and I, seeing that he was taking no precautions, got up and walked into the tunnel, my pistol ready. After a few moments, I heard Fritz’s voice and returned to my chair.

When they entered, Fritz crossed over to me.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

“Perfectly.”

“What’s the trouble?”

Lupa spoke. “Hello, Fritz. Please take a seat.”

Within a quarter of an hour, the thing had been settled, and Fritz was in the kitchen, getting acquainted. Vernet waited for the police in the bar upstairs, and Charles, somewhat miffed at his demotion, nevertheless was assisting Fritz whenever necessary. Lupa and I sat in the office, discussing the war.

“I still say that it will be over soon. Now that Italy has joined us…”

Lupa shook his head. “Jules, you are deluded. This war will continue for years.”

“Years? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Mark my words. You talk of settling down and growing your vineyards in peace. In two years, you’ll be wondering if you’ll be able to hold on to your land. The government will need every man, every resource, and it will take them. Your hobbies, which you so treasure, and rightly so, will fade to insignificance. There will be no good food available. Everyone will join in the effort. Watkins has brought me the news that they’ll soon be hiring women at the munitions factories.”

“No!”

“Yes, indeed. Every man will be fighting. Factory workers, sick men, even older men will be forced to the front, and it will be to no avail. The war will drag on. Keep in mind, Jules, it’s only been ten months. There’s still adventure and idealism in the thought of war. Give the world two or three or five years of it, and you’ll see everything you know change. After this case is over, I’m quitting myself, though my uncle will disapprove. I may have to go to America to escape this war, though I fear that even the Americans and their pacifist Wilson will have to join. Luckily for France, they’ll support her.”

“Not exactly a Utopian, are you?”

“No, a realist. They don’t go well together.”

Knowing that cynicism and youth were constant companions, I was not unduly depressed by his opinions, though it saddened me to see such an intelligent man obviously unaware of the military realities. Germany was strong, but we’d been beaten in 1871 and had learned from it. The Kaiser was no Bismarck. That was the point to remember. No German army would ever march under the Arch de Triomphe again.

“You French,” he continued, “with your elan vital! It isn’t will that wins a war, it’s firepower. This war won’t be settled by men being pushed against other men on the fronts but in the countries themselves-where every effort of the economy, the government, the citizenry itself will play a part. And it will be at least two years before that fact is realized. No, Jules. Prepare yourself for a long siege.”

“And you,” I said, “how will you avoid conscription?” He sat back. “I am willing to die, I suppose, for freedom, and I am more than willing to devote my talents to serve the Allied cause. But I could never, ever serve on the front as one of the thousands who are important because they are bodies. My ego would never permit it. And honestly, Jules, would yours?”

I looked down at my hands. “I’d rather not serve at the front, if that’s what you mean, but in my case it’s more a question of age than conceit.”

He shrugged. “Call it what you will. Are you getting ready to go?”

I’d gotten up, alerted by noises upstairs. He put his fingers to his lips as he crossed over to me, and together we listened at the door to what sounded like Magiot himself talking to Vernet.

“You expect me to believe that he left here this afternoon and left no hint of where he was going?”

“I expect nothing, monsieur,” Vernet replied. “I merely tell you what happened. I dismissed him. He left. C’est ça. C’est tout.”

Magiot asked a couple of questions about Fritz and then, angry but satisfied with the responses, left. So it had worked.

Lupa walked back to his chair and sat. “Satisfactory. Jules, you’re going home this evening? Good. Would you check something for me?”

“Of course.”

“The table in your sitting room, in front of the fireplace, I’d like you to look at it carefully and describe it to me in detail when you return tomorrow.”

I left him exactly as I’d found him, sitting over a book at his desk. I found my way out easily through the tunnel, walked to the car, and began the drive home. It had been a long day. Only as I turned off the light near my bed to sleep did I remember that the telegram from Georges hadn’t arrived.