Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

As to the deadly aspects of "Becquerel rays", they are now well understood by scientists. Now we know their dangers and, unlike our primitive forefathers, we do not have to fear that they will ever be carelessly unleashed upon the world.

More than once in my chronicles detailing the amazing deductions of Sherlock Holmes have I commented on my friend's irritating lack of modesty. Though hating publicity of any sort, Holmes was justifiably proud of his work as a consulting detective. Never a humble man, he could be at times insufferably smug. However, when it came to morality, Sherlock Holmes never let vanity sway his sense of what was right. Never was this fact more clearly demonstrated than in the episode of the Parisian Gentleman.

It was a quiet evening in early October, 1894. A thick blanket of fog covered Baker Street. The evening edition contained little of interest and I relaxed, half-dozing, on the sofa. Holmes stood in front of the fire, smoking his pipe, a thoughtful expression on his face. From time to time, he glanced to the window. It was quite clear he was expecting a visitor.

"Are we due for some company tonight, my dear Holmes?" I asked, wondering what manner of trouble would soon be knocking at our door. "Something odd in the paper? Or, perhaps a difficult problem for theYard?"

"Neither, Watson," declared Holmes, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Our client comes from abroad. Start thinking about your wardrobe for a trip to the Continent. Tomorrow, we set off for Paris."

"What?" I said, astonished. "Obviously, Holmes, you've already had discussions with this new patron."

"Not at all," said Holmes. "I have never spoken to the gentleman."

"His letter then," I continued. "He mentioned details in his correspondence with you."

"Nothing of the sort," said Holmes. He dug out a folded piece of stationary from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. "See for yourself."

The paper was from the French Embassy. Scribbled in bold handwriting were the words, 9 PM at your quarters. Utmost urgency. Privacy Required. The note was signed, Girac.

"Who is this Girac?" I asked, shaking my head in bewilderment. I knew better than to question Holmes's deductions. Though how these few words signalled a journey to Paris was a mystery to me. "Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation," said Holmes. There were footsteps on the stairs leading to our rooms. My friend stepped to the door. "A member of the French Sûreté, he is quite famous for his problem-solving abilities. Some call him, I am told, the French Sherlock Holmes."

A brisk knock indicated the arrival of our guest. "Inspector Girac," said Holmes, as he ushered the Frenchman into our parlor. "I am Sherlock Holmes. And this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson."

"A pleasure, gentlemen," said Girac in a smooth, deep voice without the least trace of an accent. He was a tall, heavyset man with clean-shaven features, a thick mop of black hair, and dark, observant eyes. His gaze never rested, moving quickly from one point to another in our apartment. "Please excuse the lateness of the hour, but I needed to see you as soon as possible and embassy business kept me occupied until now."

"Please be seated," said Holmes, waving Girac to an empty chair. My friend strolled back to his place in front of the fire as the Frenchman sat down. "You are here, of course, concerning a new problem involving the Dreyfus case."

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Girac, his eyes bulging in shock. "Can it be there is a spy in the Embassy? My mission is quite secret. Other than the President himself, no one knows why I'm in England." The Frenchman shook his head in dismay. "We are undone."

"Surely, Holmes," I said, equally startled, "This revelation is magic."

"Nonsense," said Holmes. "Merely an elementary exercise in logical thinking, Watson. You should know by now that superstition is no match for basic deduction."

My friend held out the note he had shown me a few minutes earlier. He assumed the pose of a university professor, about to lecture his students. "Receiving this letter in the morning, I instantly knew important events were brewing. Why would Inspector Girac, famous in his own country as a detective and investigator, need to visit me? Only a case of the highest national interest, requiring he use every available resource, would force the Inspector to seek the skills of an outsider. But why me, a foreigner, instead of another member of the Sûreté? The answer had to be that Monsieur Girac harbored suspicions about his comrades. As you well know, Watson, police organizations are normally a tightly knit group. Such apprehensions can only be the result of national turmoil. While I do not regularly follow French politics, I am not blind to news of the world. It was therefore quite apparent to me that Girac's visit concerned the notorious Dreyfus spy case."

I nodded, immediately recognizing the truth in what Holmes said. The infamous crime had rocked France, unleashing long simmering hatreds. After Dreyfus's conviction for treason, powerful factions in the Army and Church had unleashed blistering verbal attacks on the Jewish population of France. The virulent race baiting had turned brother against brother, friend against friend. The whole country trembled on the brink of revolution. Once Holmes explained his reasoning, the inexplicable became transparent. "But, you mentioned a trip, Holmes?"

Holmes turned and his piercing eyes stared at the French police official. "Monsieur Girac's note demanded privacy, Watson. He wanted to meet at night, in secret. Not normal conduct for a member of the Sûreté. Besides, though his mission involved the Dreyfus Affair, that matter had already been settled in military court. The officer was pronounced guilty and sentenced.

"He has been sent to Devil's Island to serve the rest of his life in hard labor. Despite some doubts to the validity of the charges, the case is closed."

Holmes paused dramatically. The theater had lost a great thespian when my friend chose to become a detective. "Whatever aspect of the case Monsieur Girac wants me to investigate, it is definitely not a minor matter. Since the government refuses to conduct further investigations into the Dreyfus Case, the Inspector's business must concern possible repercussions from the affair. Since he does not trust his colleagues among the Sûreté, it seems logical he requires our assistance in their stead. Such investigations are best conducted at the scene of the crime. Girac comes from Paris, so I assume we are to travel there to pursue our case."

Girac, his features pale, nodded. "I need for you to return with me to Paris immediately, Mr Holmes. I dare not trust any of my assistants. No one knows who has been corrupted by this scandal. Treason walks at the highest levels of the government and the military. Disaster approaches and only with your help can I prevent it from happening."

"Pray tell," said Holmes, raising his pipe to his lips, "what is the nature of the catastrophe?"

"Assassination," whispered Girac, his tone low, as if afraid of being overheard. "I have from reliable sources that a group of Jewish anarchists have hired Jacques Huret, the Boulevard Assassin, to murder the new President of the Republic in retaliation for Dreyfus's imprisonment. I am resolved not to let that event take place."

"With the assassination of President Sadi Carnot just months ago," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "a second murder could quite possibly plunge France into civil war. I find it difficult to believe a group of Jewish intellectuals would embark on such a risky venture. Are you sure that they are the ones who hired Huret?"

"Who else has a motive?" declared Girac. He waved a hand in the air, dismissing Holmes's doubts. "The villains behind the crime are unimportant at present. What matters is the deed itself. In the past five years, Huret has been responsible for the deaths of nearly a dozen men. The few clues we've found indicate that he's a man of wealth and breeding. We don't know why such a man would be a killer, as he certainly doesn't need money."