Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

Perhaps , Holmes thought, without replying. But it is too early to go jumping to conclusions yet.

He concentrated on the sight before him. And the plain truth of the matter was – whatever crumpled and pathetic state this man had been reduced to – he had, whilst alive, been no pygmy himself. A muscular and burly chap, in fact. Holmes believed he’d worked out regularly at a gym, since there were calluses on his hands that were consistent with weightlifting.

“You have already identified him, you say?”

Which seemed incredible under the circumstances. This sorely mangled piece of flesh would not be recognised by its own mother.

“By some papers in his pocket,” Fontaine confirmed. “He is Henri LeClochet, a doorman at some seedy club in the Pigalle. And the fellow is well known to us.”

“Not in any favourable way?” was Holmes’ assumption.

Fontaine went a little stiff and straight. He was a dapper middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, and with a manner about his bearing which suggested military service earlier on.

“A long criminal record, yes. Theft, violence, extortion by threat of the same. And there have been …”

The inspector stopped and cleared his throat.

“… four allegations against him of assault to women.”

Holmes noticed the way in which the man had coloured slightly, and he did the same.

“By assault, I take it you don’t mean a slap?”

“Indeed. All the cases were dropped, I’m afraid, for insufficient evidence. But this man had a vicious, predatory nature when it came to the gentler sex.”

Which gave Holmes all the confirmation that he needed. He stepped even closer to the body, and then picked up something he’d already spotted lying by its splayed right hand. He examined it for a few seconds, and then held it up for his companion to see.

“Mon dieu!” Fontaine exclaimed.

“Quite! A button off a woman’s coat!” Holmes turned it around between his fingertips. “You see how there are still some cotton threads depending from it? That suggests it was yanked off. Which tells us that this LeClochet was up to his old, filthy tricks again. He was attacking a poor woman underneath this bridge, and someone stopped him.”

“Perhaps more than one person?” Fontaine suggested. “That would explain the state of the corpse. He was forcing himself on some unlucky mademoiselle, and a group of hearty young Parisians intervened and dealt out instant justice.”

He looked towards Holmes with his eyebrows raised, hoping for some kind of validation. But the great detective simply shook his head.

“Observe around our feet, inspector. It rained so heavily, earlier this evening, that the ground under this bridge is wet. It’s slightly muddy too, from the detritus that has collected here. And recent footprints are still clearly visible.”

Holmes moved up even closer to the underside of the bridge.

“Here …” and he pointed, “… is a pair that are high-heeled. The female victim we were speaking of, who must have fled. She was proceeding casually until she reached this point. But beyond it, her footprints have become erratic, and then scuffed. She must have tried to get away, and not succeeded. And she was physically dragged and forced against this wall. That was when this first button came off.

“The second set of footprints, they belong to LeClochet. I’ve already confirmed that by the size and the tread pattern of his shoes. And they are consistent with the original scenario, a large and brutal man waylaying a helpless woman.”

Sherlock paused. Fontaine stared at him breathlessly.

“There is just one other set of prints,” the Englishman continued, “so you can forget your ideas of any mob. A single set, and yet a rather curious pair. Extremely large, half again the size of LeClochet’s. Except the feet are bare.”

He began following them along. How the man could even see them in this lack of lighting was a wonder to Fontaine. He already knew of Holmes’ reputation, naturally. But the fellow had to have the eyes of a wild eagle.

“They first appear, extremely abruptly, here. I believe the man who made them jumped down from the edge of the bridge, and that is quite a leap. They then become erratic too, confirming that a struggle took place. And once the matter was resolved, our barefooted avenger headed for these steps …”

The detective began walking purposefully over to a flight of brick-built steps that led up from the towpath to the avenue above. But then he halted, abruptly and astonishedly.

“Good God!”

“What is it, M’sieu Holmes?” Fontaine inquired, tugging nervously at his moustache.

“The footprints do not reach the staircase. They terminate here. The final pair of them is turned to face the street above. And it looks as if great pressure’s been applied through them. Like …”

Holmes visibly sucked in a breath. And then went racing up the stairs and inspected the railings on the street above. Inspector Fontaine came hurrying up behind him.

“What is it, m’sieu?” he demanded.

“Take a good look at this upper railing.”

Fontaine peered.

“I think … it’s slightly bent.”

“Precisely. And it’s quite hard to believe, I know. But the evidence currently before us … it suggests that our avenger made it from that towpath to this railing in one single, enormous bound.”

“He jumped up here? But …” Fontaine stared down. “… that is a vertical leap of roughly six metres. What manner of man could do that?”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“No, m’sieu. The street was deserted.”

“Damn!”

Holmes took note of where they were, a slightly shabby section of the Left Bank. There were, indeed, no pedestrians abroad, no traffic on the street. And so he hurried across the wet and shiny asphalt to the building facing them, an old and rather down-at-the-heels hotel.

There was a rusty fire escape running along the front of it. And Holmes began ascending that, pausing occasionally to stare at its window ledges, Fontaine still hard on his heels.

“M’sieu Holmes?” the French policeman begged. “What precisely are you looking for?”

“What am I looking at , more like! Again, m’sieu, observe!” His index finger came swinging out like a magnetic compass needle. “Hand and footprints both, enormous ones, on the third storey ledge. Another set of such on the fifth storey. And then, nothing. They give out completely. I believe that our bold vigilante made it from the street below to the roof of this establishment in merely two more massive leaps.”

“Some kind of freakishly huge acrobat?” Poor Inspector Fontaine, he looked utterly nonplussed. “But how can that be possible?”

And Holmes’ eyebrows came together.

“It is not.”

Nothing more was required of both men for the remainder of the night, nor the following day. But two hours after dusk had fallen, Holmes received another call. He took the Metro from his hotel to the Pigalle, the same district where LeClochet had found employment And once he’d emerged above ground he was appalled by what he saw.

This district of Paris – it had always had a slightly racy reputation. There had been street girls working the broad boulevards here even in his day. But now, the area had been totally disfigured by that kind of trade.

He found himself confronted with a bewildering mass of flashing neon signs. Nearly every single place along this way was given over to pandering to the basest yearnings of the flesh. There were bars and there were clubs, there were bookshops and video stores and grubby little cinemas. Their produce, or photographs of such, were displayed openly in their grimy windowfronts for everyone to see. And outside most of these establishments were barkers, trying to induce the crowds of passing men inside.