Son of Holmes

Lupa was the unparalleled genius among the agents of Europe and he seemed to work for himself, for no government acknowledged him. As far as we knew, he’d been approached before, by us as well as the British and Russians, and to all he’d feigned an absolute i

During lunch, I had asked him if he’d mind if a friend of mine were present at the next day’s meeting, and he’d said no. Accordingly, I invited Marcel Routier, and he arrived early the next morning, a little past nine o’clock. We sat outside in the sun for our coffee.

“He, of course, knows us,” he said.

I shrugged. “It’s nearly certain, but he may have been so attuned to his own inquiries that they haven’t crossed ours yet. In any case, we’ll see before long.”

He sipped at his coffee, took a bite of Fritz’s blueberry muffin, and looked out over the grounds. His hair was the color of straw, which made it look as though there was less of it than there was. It was a bit too long for my taste, just touching the tops of his ears, which he said was to make up for the lack on top. This morning he was wearing white pants and shoes, and a high-collared blue shirt, and, except possibly for his face, he looked much more the dandy than the spy. A lot of women had found him attractive, but I couldn’t understand why. Tania had said he had classic features, but too many of them. His forehead and nose commanded his face except when he smiled, at which time his teeth commanded everything. He was smiling now.

“Damn,” he said, “I wish I’d thought of getting Lupa with beer. Occasionally you show real genius, Jules.”

“Perception and devotion, hardly genius. When Fritz told me of the food at La Couro

“Like Columbus’s egg,” he said.

At first, even at Lupa’s insistence, Fritz would not come to the table with us, but finally he overcame his prejudice against the chef dining with his patron when Lupa got him engrossed in a recipe for pheasant.

“The problem,” he said, “is that too often that delicate bird is overwhelmed by tarragon and sage, when it should be coaxed into accepting their favors, as a woman might accept other favors, with a little wine. Set the spices in the wine first, several hours before, and leave it chilled. Then-”

“Gentlemen,” I said, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but couldn’t we continue this discussion at the table?”

So the four of us sat to savor Fritz’s delicious sole and honey, followed by a subtle tournedos Béarnaise. The two chefs were very close to the same age, and they seemed to get along exceptionally well, which made the lunch even smoother than it would have been with the fine food. There was no hint of recognition between them when I introduced Marcel and Lupa, though once during the meal they glanced at one another after a remark Fritz had made about the state of cuisine in the Balkans.

“And now,” I said, as we were finishing our coffee, “shall we go to the cellar? Fritz, will you prepare the arbor?”

“He is a sensitive chef,” Lupa said when Fritz had gone. “Has he been with you long?”

“Actually, no. Less than a year.”

“Do you know where he was trained?”

A look of a

“To tell you the truth, I’m not at all certain. He arrived here on the recommendation of a mutual friend, and his cooking has never given me cause to question his background. My friend was living in Strasbourg before the hostilities began, so I gather he trained in one of the establishments there.”

“In Germany, then?”

Finally Marcel got in a word. “That point is most arguable, isn’t it?”

“ Strasbourg is a German city,” Lupa asserted.

“ Strasbourg is French! It will always be French, regardless of who its rulers might be.”

“Gentlemen, please!” I felt I had to step in or tempers, specifically Marcel’s, would flare.

For an instant Lupa seemed inclined to glare and continue the debate, but as I watched him, he swiftly conquered his rising emotions. He spoke contritely. “You’re right, of course, Monsieur Routier. I apologize. Strasbourg must once again fly the tricolor. I only meant to comment favorably upon Fritz’s cuisine, and I’m afraid my youth carried me into irrelevancies. He is a fine, fine chef-and you, Monsieur Giraud, are a lucky man to have him.”

There was an awkward moment as Marcel brought himself back under control, but I could see that Lupa’s obvious sincerity had made its mark.

“Well,” I said, clapping my hands, “should we begin the tour?”

We all rose from the table and I led the two down to my cellar, the left half of which was reserved for wines and the other for the beer apparatus. There were five stone crocks lined against the right wall, and the smell of yeast and ripening beer lent an aroma that I found pleasant to the room, but I knew it might prove too strong to a novice, even a beer-loving novice.

“As long as the wine isn’t opened down here,” I said, explaining, “it is ideal.”

As we walked along, I went over some of the steps in the brewing, and seeing the two of them smile patiently, I suggested we proceed to the tasting.

Off to the side of the house, I was blessed with a small arbor of trees, through which ran a clear stream where Fritz stored butter and beer. It was perfectly chilled, and I’d built a table of thick oak, where my friends and I came to sit and relax, out of the glare. We walked out to that table now and silently sat while Fritz brought the beer, left the bottles with us, and departed.

Lupa drank his whole glass at one swill, just as he had the day before at La Couro

“Remarkable.”

“It pleases you?”

“There are certain advantages to being raised a rich man, eh?” said Marcel. “Certain opportunities to develop talents which otherwise would be buried under the mundane cares of survival.” He looked at Lupa, smiling. “He constantly makes me envious. Such beer, such a house, such a chef…”

“Such beer,” Lupa repeated, leaning back with his eyes closed.

I poured him another glass. For the next quarter of an hour we sat quietly enjoying the day, the beer, and… was it the company or the suspense? It seemed to me that we were all waiting for another to be the first to speak. Finally, I ventured cautiously, “Monsieur Lupa, what brings you here to Valence? Could you not accomplish your goals elsewhere, in a larger city?”