John Lescroart - Son of Holmes

I looked at the faces of my friends. The men all were wary, and Tania was furious.

“I’d like another beer,” said Henri.

“What about Monsieur Giraud, here?” Tania said. “Why is he helping you? Is he a spy, too?”

Lupa looked at me. “Him? Don’t be silly.”

“Then why are you helping him?” Paul asked me.

“Marcel was my best friend,” I answered. “After he was killed last week, Monsieur Lupa took me into his confidence, and I believe him. I want to see Marcel’s killer punished, even if it is one of you.”

“It is,” interjected Lupa. “What you don’t seem to realize is that any of you could have sat in the seat I vacated last week. Whoever sat in that seat would have been poisoned.”

They eyed one another, a hint of suspicion finally creeping into an expression or two. Henri sipped his beer and wiped sweat from his brow; Paul leaned with his elbows on his knees; and Georges stiffly crossed one leg over the other. Tania was still angry.

“All right,” Lupa went on, “so my first problem was who to suspect, and at first that, too, seemed simple. Suspect Monsieur Lavoie, since he’s the only one who was not in Valence during the time I was chasing someone in the East. I saw the flaw in that almost immediately and cursed myself thoroughly, I assure you. The murderer, assassin—call him what you will—rarely did his own work. I hadn’t been chasing him all that time, but rather his agents. I checked with another of my contacts on that point, and he agreed. So I had two scores to settle with this man: he’d tried to kill me, and he’d made me look a fool.”

“Then how did he recognize you right away?” asked Paul again.

“Photographs.” He drank some beer. “You’re listening carefully. That’s a good sign.”

“You still look a fool to me,” said Henri.

Lupa nodded. “Perhaps, but let’s go on. I was left suspecting everyone, so I had to eliminate. Madame Chessal.” He looked at Tania and she met his gaze. “I’m sorry I suspected you for so long, but it began when I entered Monsieur Giraud’s house last week. I’m sure you didn’t realize it—indeed, you couldn’t have—but you, in your close observation of me, changed your position as I did all evening, even after the murder. If I crossed my legs, you crossed your legs, and so on. And so you gave away your interest in me. At the time, I had no idea what could cause that interest, except of course the obvious.”

He opened his desk drawer and pulled from it the photograph I had delivered earlier. “Only yesterday did I learn that I closely resemble your eldest son.”

“Damn,” I said, “he does.” Tania’s son had a mustache and was much smaller than Lupa, but the face was very similar.

“Where did you get that picture? Jules”—she turned to me, her mouth taut—“did you have anything to do with this?”

Lupa butted in before I could speak. “Monsieur Giraud is more your friend than you know, madame. The point is, do I or do I not remind you of your son?”

Tania, still fuming, lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said coldly. “I saw it then.”

“Precisely. And you’ve been piqued at me ever since because your son is in the war, at the front, and I’m not.” He leaned slightly toward her. “Be assured, madame, that I too am fighting this war.” He continued. “Later, when you came to question me about missing the funeral, I was on my guard and so was perhaps unnecessarily abrupt. I now apologize. And I thank you for your help with Anna’s wounds.”

The others looked quizzically at us.

“Last Sunday,” Lupa went on, “another attempt was made on my life, this time wounding a woman I was with and barely missing an associate. I have been extremely fortunate, I admit. At the time, I thought it possible that my pursuer had hired an assassin and wanted to be sure he’d done his work. Shortly afterward, I realized that that was folly. A hired assassin would have killed me. No, my man was terrified, and was acting as his own agent. In the past, he’d avoided being the center of suspicion because he’d avoided direct action. Now, once he’d acted, the inexorable pull of events would lead to his downfall.

“So I finally rejected you as a suspect, and happily. Monsieur Giraud was most unwilling to believe you guilty.”

“Thank you for that,” she said to me.

“Monsieur Pulis,” he said, turning his gaze full upon Henri. “I’m surprised the police haven’t arrested you, since you’ve acted the most like a guilty man. When the police discovered cyanide in your house, you panicked, and have been on edge since that time. Monsieur Pulis’s son is a photographer,” he explained to the others, “and cyanide—Prussic acid—is used in the developing process.” He wagged a finger at Henri. “You should have immediately offered yourself for thorough investigation, but instead you were terrified that the police would arrest you because you are not French, and you tried to hide, distorting some facts, lying about others. You should never have lied about seeing Inspector Chatelet, for example. That made me suspicious of you, and it had nothing to do with your nationality. Last Wednesday, you were blatantly unhappy to see me. Actually, that worked in your favor, since the man I sought would never have shown himself so openly. I finally discounted you when I couldn’t see any possible way that you could bring destruction to St. Etienne, despite your deliveries there. Though it wasn’t crucial, I also found it difficult to believe that the man I sought had a high-strung wife and six children to support.

“That leaves the bachelors. To be fair, let’s start with Monsieur Giraud. He convinced me of his innocence by his actions late the night of the murder, and if that wasn’t enough, Routier’s recommendation was.”

This last, of course, was nonsense, but I kept my silence.

Lupa half turned in his seat and reached for another beer. After opening it, he stared at the two men sitting directly opposite him. Paul shifted nervously in his chair. Georges lit a cigarette.

“Mr. Anser. I was loath to suspect you originally because you share my country of citizenship. But consider these facts: you were sitting next to me last week, and were in the best position of anyone else in the room to simply switch glasses with me during the commotion over Monsieur Lavoie’s hand. You are an amateur geologist and as such have access to, or have had access to, cyanide. You are a crack shot, by your own admission. You are not French and you live in St. Etienne. The circumstantial evidence against you is, therefore, impressive. On the other hand, last week I sent one of my own men to try and ‘cross over’ with your help. He was most persuasive and most subtle, and came away convinced that you had no idea what he was hinting at.” Lupa turned to me. “That, Jules, was the mysterious man you saw with Mr. Anser when you went to St. Etienne.” He went on. “Still, that you refused my man by no means completely cleared you. You might have recognized my ploy and acted accordingly. No, it wasn’t until I discovered that Monsieur Lavoie was the man whom I sought, and that wasn’t until yesterday afternoon, that I listed those circumstantial facts concerning you as coincidental.”

All eyes were on Georges. He sat calmly, smoking.

“I take it,” he said to Lupa, “that you are accusing me?”

“Yes.”

Georges chuckled mirthlessly. “This is rather tedious, you know.”

Lupa shared the grim humor. “I don’t really find it so, but perhaps you would like another beer. It may be your last for a long time. Still no? Well. It was admirable the way you arranged to be out of town during most of this week. It did serve to divert attention from you for a time—long enough for you to go about your special tasks.