Son of Holmes

“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 u

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. Etie

“That leaves the bachelors. To be fair, let’s start with Monsieur Giraud. He convinced me of his i

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. Etie

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.

“Let’s begin with last Wednesday. By the way, consenting to be a regular guest was an admirable choice of covers. Whether it had begun by design or by coincidence, you wasted no time in recognizing the value of this particular group to your ends. They were a singularly respectable, though eccentric, group of citizens. Your presence among them established your bona fides in an especially effective ma

“Thank you,” said Georges sarcastically.

“Don’t mention it. But to continue, when you saw me enter Monsieur Giraud’s sitting room last Wednesday, you immediately recognized me, as I’ve said. Perhaps my small deductions that evening were a misplaced show of bravado, but in any event you wasted no time, since an agent like yourself is always prepared. I am, too. While the others were preparing for their toast, you slipped from your pocket a mercury fulmonade cap which you’d earlier procured, no doubt, by prying it from the back of a bullet. Much smaller than a petite pois, it was an admirable weapon. You placed it on the table and brought your beer bottle down on it, causing it to explode and cutting yourself. The explosion, by the way, left a small but recognizable mark on the table.

“You then excused yourself to dress the wound and, passing my seat by the door, took advantage of everyone’s being grouped around the spilled beer, as you knew we would be, to drop the poison-stolen from Monsieur Pulis, I assume-into my glass. You didn’t even have to break your stride.

“When you returned and found that Routier had inadvertently returned to my seat and drunk the poison intended for me, your panic increased. Please correct me where I may be wrong.”