Son of Holmes

“So you work for England?”

“For the time being, yes, but I direct my own inquiries.”

“By the way,” said Watkins, “ Altamont says-”

“That will do,” Lupa said abruptly. “Let us get on with your information.”

“Yes, well, um…” He fumbled a moment, then leaned over and spit out the pits. “We’ve got information that he is not here for assassination. You’re aware of the arms and munitions factory at St. Etie

Lupa’s gaze was withering.

Watkins pressed on. “It’s going to be blown.”

I found myself smiling. “How do you know?”

“One of the boys flushed a Kraut spy and persuaded him to drop a few tidbits, and this was one of them. Unfortunately, our man brought some friends. They all got a bit carried away during the interrogation, and the Kraut died before he could be of much more use.”

Lupa looked at me. “And they say that we are fighting the barbarians.” To Watkins: “Did you get any descriptions, anything definite?”

“Not of your man, no. But there was something.”

“What was that?”

“It’s to be an inside job.”

I laughed, and the man looked at me angrily.

“What’s fu

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but it would have to be. Have you seen the place? It’s guarded rather completely.”

Lupa was absently ru

“Where was he caught?”

“ Marseilles. Usual narcotics stuff. He was delivering to their man in St. Etie

“Why didn’t the fools let him deliver?”

“I think you’ve answered your own question. The fool-that is, our man-wanted to make sure he didn’t escape. They knew something big was going on in this area. He wanted to get a piece of it.”

“And lose the pie in the bargain.” Lupa was a

“One other thing bothers me,” Watkins said.

“What’s that?”

“I think he is here to assassinate. That is patently a part of it. Remember, we have had-what is it now?-three deaths of operatives in the past year. It’s just a hypothesis, but it is corroborated by the lack of any other overt activity until he moves. That’s all. Of course, no clues. But the man must sooner or later make a mistake. He must.”

He shrugged and reached into his pocket for some more olives. Someone walked into the store and A

“I hope you’re right. Because if he is only here to blow the factory, then when the job is done, he’ll disappear. Whereas if he is here for a dual purpose, one job may give us the clue to the other.”

“You think he’s the man who killed Routier?” asked Watkins.

“Do you think he isn’t?”

“Then he must have been…”

“Precisely,” Lupa said, “he must have been among our gathering last night.”

I started to object. After all, everyone who had been there was a friend. But even as I began my defense, I realized that there was no other conclusion.

“That’s good,” Watkins said. “It narrows the field considerably.”

“Yes,” Lupa agreed. “Yes, it does.”

He got up and beckoned me to follow him. He paused at the screen to the back door. “Joseph, you’ll have to go to St. Etie

A

I sat across from him. The weight of my friend’s death had begun to settle on me again. I must have looked tired.

“What are your ideas?” Lupa had gone to an oversize, overstuffed chair. “I’d like a beer,” he said, but he didn’t get up.

“I’d like some sleep,” I said. We spoke in English.

“I’d say you need it. But first, what do you think of St. Etie

“That’s been bothering me,” I said. “I mean the fact that it looks like the man we’re after is a friend of mine. Going on that assumption, everyone has a plausible opportunity, but…” I stopped.

He grunted. “It begins to look that way.”

“More than you know,” I said.

I got up, walked out to the kitchen and up the stairs, ordered two beers at the bar, and returned. He nodded graciously when I handed him a bottle, and took a long drink.

“I detest drinking beer from a bottle, but what can one do?” He drank again. “More than I know?”

“List our suspects,” I said. “Paul Anser lives in St. Etie

“Tania?”

“That’s the worst part.”

He finished his beer and waited.

“One of Tania’s oldest acquaintances, through her husband, who was a French officer… Anyway, one of their friends was Maurice Ponty, who happens to be the director of the St. Etie

Lupa leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. “That’s everyone.”

“Except Fritz.”

“No, not except Fritz.”

“You have something on him,” I asked, “some co

Lupa shook his head. “I was loath to consider him because of his cooking. He is so sympathetique. Still, that is a flaw in my own method.”

“But you just said you have nothing on him.”

“Nothing definite, Jules, but certainly something. It stretches the bounds of coincidence that every one of your guests has some foreign co

“But what possible…?” I began.

“Jules, please. I must suspect everyone.”

“Even me?”

He was young. A look of ineffable sadness crossed his countenance. “I’m afraid, my new friend, even you.”

I stood up. “The beer is terrible, but it isn’t that. I must be getting on home. Would you like me to have Fritz send up a case of my beer, if it wouldn’t spook you?”

“That would be excellent,” he said, lifting the corners of his mouth in what perhaps he thought was a broad smile.

“Meanwhile, I’ll get some sleep and then try and contact everyone and see what I can find.”

Lupa seemed to consider something, then stopped me from leaving by raising his hand. “Jules,” he said, “a small point, but in English the word ‘contact’ should never be used as a verb.”

“Au revoir,” I replied with dignity, then turned on my heels, left him, and began walking home through the gray and dismal afternoon.

Stones crunched noisily under my feet as I trudged homeward, the sound a somber coda to the theme playing over and over in my mind. Lupa had said, “I must suspect everyone,” and he was right. I walked slowly, hands deep in my pockets, head down.

Everyone…

I thought of the word as a sledgehammer pounding into the wall of reluctance I had built against suspicion of my friends. And they had been my friends, every one of them. Now, until this was all over, they would not be friends, and they might never be again.

I remembered how it had all begun, with Paul Anser. It had been in Paris around 1911. What had he been doing there? Ah yes, publishing something. He did actually publish poetry. I had two or three of his bound collections and even an autographed manuscript at the house. There had been a party, I recall, with lots of young men from London taking the Grand Tour, as well as several charming young women. I had the feeling that I’d been asked to chaperon, but that suited me. The crowd was lively and intelligent, a far cry from the stultifying soirees held by the wives of military men to further their husbands’ careers.