Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

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."

"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

The Adventure of the Parisian Gentleman 281

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.