Son of Holmes

“Your car!” he yelled over his shoulder.

“Tout droit! Straight ahead.” I pointed to the barn.

The car we’d seen had been covered, so we had no opportunity to see the driver or even whether there had been more than one occupant. Still, I would recognize the automobile itself-made of a corrugated iron just becoming popular here and painted a dull green.

We came to the barn and dismounted roughly. I stumbled and fell dismounting, but Lupa did not slow up at all. As I picked myself up, he was pulling back the building’s door, grunting with the exertion. I ran past him and threw myself behind the wheel.

It pays to keep one’s machinery in top condition, as I had done. Immediately, the motor caught, I slammed the gearshift into position and nearly ran over Lupa as the car lurched forward. He caught the windshield and leapt onto the ru

I pressed the hand throttle to its limit, and before we had left my property, we were closing on fifty kilometers per hour. On the unpaved and pitted drive, the ride shook my very bones. I hoped the automobile would handle the shocks better.

“A

“Not now!” Lupa bellowed.

As soon as we hit the road, however, it became smoother. The car skidded slightly as we turned left, and I nearly lost control of the wheel, but Lupa grabbed it and righted me as we continued our acceleration.

We hadn’t gone a kilometer, though, when the ride very nearly ended. What I thought at first was a backfire, or perhaps a blowout, made me lean forward against the steering wheel. That move may have saved my life. Lupa, without the worry of watching the road, spun and evidently made out a glint of metal in another stand of trees by the road. It had been another shot.

“Keep driving,” he yelled as I began to slow down. “Let Watkins get him.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Our man’s in the car.” he said. “Drive!”

Lupa pulled a weapon from under his coat. The pistol, an M-1911 Colt American military issue.45 automatic, boomed like a ca

“Damn!” Lupa spun around, grabbing his cheek. A sliver of red appeared and he wiped at it with his hand.

“You all right?”

“Scratched. Nothing more.”

No more than three minutes had elapsed between the enemy’s car breaking from the cover of the trees and our turning into the road in pursuit. With the speed of my Model T, if the chase lasted more than fifteen kilometers, I thought we had a chance of overtaking our prey. I kept the accelerator jammed to the floor while Lupa dabbed at the cut on his face with a handkerchief. Just as I turned to look his way and question him again about the initial shooting and how badly A

The driver had leapt off the cart to the roadside and lay sprawled in the shallow grass. “Has there been another car?” I asked.

Clearly furious, swearing violently, he seemed inclined to rush us. Lupa pointed his gun at the man’s head and quieted him. “Has there been another car?”

“Oui.”

“How many passengers?”

The man shrugged. “I didn’t notice,” he said. “I was getting out of the way.” In spite of Lupa’s weapon, his anger spewed over again. “You bastards don’t own the road, you know. I’m reporting this. I…”

We couldn’t stay to discuss the niceties of priorité á droit, but pressed onward. If we were having trouble making headway, perhaps we were not alone.

The top was still off on the Model T, and the wind brought tears to my eyes, slightly impairing my vision. I didn’t mind it, pushing the car to nearly 120 Ks. Very few other machines could match that speed. The road’s surface, relatively smooth, nevertheless provided its share of bumps and necessitated my full attention.

Lupa stemmed the flow of his blood, then removed the clip from his weapon and refilled it. To my inquiring look, he answered, “We could have hurt him. The range is close to fifty meters.”

“Who do you think it might have been?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He dabbed again at his cheek reflectively. “I just don’t know. Perhaps Watkins will come up with something.”

I finally got the question out. “A

He shook his head wonderingly. “Again, just a scratch. We’ve been uncommonly lucky.”

I thought of Marcel. Our luck had its limits.

Within moments, we were on the outskirts of Valence. Cart traffic and a few military vehicles slowed our progress as we stopped and started, honking, through the narrow streets. The town was a maze of alleys, any one of which could hide the man we sought. But we had no choice other than to pursue his logical path-toward St. Etie

The frustrating ride through the city streets, where we were stopped time and again by carriages, children, geese, dogs, and pedestrians, continued and continued. Our only hope was that the car we followed was experiencing similar delays.

Finally, just as we broke from the confines of the cobbled streets and onto the smoother, wider thoroughfare that led to St. Etie

“There it is!”

I didn’t know how he could be sure. The car was a mere speck on the roadway, and he’d only glimpsed it before it rounded a curve and disappeared again. Still, it was not a time to quibble, and I pushed the Ford to its limit.

We were gaining. As we took the same curve, we’d picked up perhaps fifty meters. Now, clearly, even to my blurred vision, it looked like the same car.

“Keep low,” Lupa cautioned. “They might shoot.”

I followed his instructions, and we closed rapidly. In another minute, we were within range of Lupa’s weapon, but he held his fire. It would not be wise to shoot until we had seen the occupants.

By the time we reached the first aqueduct crossing the Rhone, we had nearly come upon them, and it was becoming obvious to me that something had gone wrong. They were not pulling away, not shooting. In fact, they paid us no attention whatsoever.

As we pulled alongside, we glanced over at them-two elderly men in officer’s uniforms. They looked back at us with mild curiosity, nothing more. At the first opportunity, I turned into a side road, drove on for several hundred meters, then pulled over.

“What now?” I asked.

The breeze blew over us gently. Overhead, a flock of birds chided us with their song.

11

“We’re fools,” Lupa said. “What else could we have done?”

“Yes. I’m trying to determine that now.”

“There must be a dozen look-alike cars on the road.”

“Jules,” he explained, “I know the answers as well as you do. We must be asking the wrong questions.”

We continued in frustrating and desultory conversation until, in the end, he asked if I would drop him off at La Couro

“Aren’t you curious about A

“I am many things in relation to her,” he answered, “but almost never am I curious. No, I am sure she has gone back to be ministered to by Madame Chessal. She was fine, Jules, as fine as I am now. I did make sure before I joined with you.”

The drive continued in silence. Occasionally I would glance over at my companion. He sat, motionless, eyes closed, pursing his lips in and out. Finally, he spoke:

“Where was Madame Chessal when you heard the shots?”

“With me. Well, she’d gone off into the bushes for a moment.”

“So she was not with you.”

“Auguste, don’t be absurd. She didn’t even know we’d be here. She was nowhere near where the shots came from.”