“Why, th-thank you, sir,” Pierce stammered, and made a hasty exit, this time remembering to take his cigarettes with him.
I addressed the tall stranger a second time. “Now, then, sir, how can I help you?”
Apparently finished with his survey of our little office, he turned his attention to me. Having those eyes fixed on me made me feel rather like a laboratory rat under a microscope—there was such intensity in his gaze, and a force of personality as I have rarely encountered.
“You are Captain Brasseaux?” he inquired, removing his hat, which was expensively made but rather worn.
“I am,” I replied. “And you are—?”
“My name is Altamont. Jean Paul Altamont.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Altamont?”
“I am looking for an aunt of mine who I have reason to believe is not well. I believe she lives in the French Quarter, but I am not familiar with this city, and I thought you might be able to help me locate her.” His accent was decidedly English, clear and clean as the cut of his clothes.
“I perceive that you are English, sir, and yet your name, you say, is French.”
My visitor regarded me sharply for a moment, then smiled. “I am of French extraction, but my family has lived in England for several generations.”
“I see.” I nodded. Something about this mysterious man didn’t ring true; I had the feeling that he was hiding something from me.
“Your family is Acadian, then?” I said, knowing full well the answer.
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded.
“That is correct, yes.”
I faced my companion and took a deep breath.
“You are plainly not who you claim to be, sir. I wonder if you would tell me the reason for your deception.”
He glared at me darkly for a moment, then, to my surprise, he smiled.
“Well, I really must congratulate you, Captain. What was it that gave me away?”
“I am half-Acadian myself,” I replied, “and Altamont is not one of our names. French perhaps, but not Acadian. There are a limited number of ancestral names of the families who fled Nova Scotia in the last century, and yours is not among them.”
“I see,” he replied evenly, giving me a look of intense scrutiny. “If I tell you who I am, you must not reveal my identity to anyone—not anyone, do you understand? Can you promise me that?”
“I think I can agree to that, provided, or course, that you have committed no crime.”
A short, harsh laugh escaped his lips. “I can assure you that I am no criminal, though perhaps I have spent too much time in the company of that class of person.”
“Very well, then,” I replied, growing more curious by the moment. “Who are you, then?”
The answer, when it came, struck me like a thunderbolt.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
I stared at him for a moment, then sat rather heavily in the nearest chair.
He smiled. “I see you have heard of me.”
“But—but I thought you were dead … I mean, Dr. Watson—”
I paused, unable to continue. This second shock of the day had completely unsettled me.
He sighed. “Yes, poor Watson. I allowed him to believe I was dead because I wanted certain—elements, shall we say—to believe it also. If they suspected I was still alive, I would be in considerable danger.”
I blinked, unable to believe that standing before me was indeed the great detective himself, whose exploits I had so eagerly read about, endeavoring to follow his methods when I was a detective, before I was promoted to district captain.
“What brings you to New Orleans?” I asked when I had finally regained some of my composure.
“A matter of some international importance. I am acting as an emissary of my brother Mycroft. More than that I cannot say.”
“Why did you come to me with the story about your aunt?” I inquired, looking around again for my mislaid coffee cup.
“Oh, that is all quite true. I do have an aunt here somewhere; my brother suggested I look her up.”
“Why did you not go to the local clerk’s office instead of coming here?”
“That, too, I am afraid I cannot reveal,” he replied, lighting a cigarette. He offered me one, but I shook my head. I have always deplored the habit, which ruins the teeth and skin—and, even worse, destroys the taste buds.
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” I said, “I am more than honored to make your acquaintance—in fact, I am quite overcome. I doubt there’s a lawman in this city—or this country—who wouldn’t like to meet you and shake your hand.”
“Well, such is fame,” he replied with a shrug. “But I thank you,” he added sincerely. “I hope I shall prove worthy of your confidence.”
“But you already have! I have read all of Dr. Watson’s cases many times over. One of my favorites has always been the case of the Red-Headed League. I could never understand how you managed to—”
“My dear Captain,” he interrupted, “Dr. Watson has a habit of romanticizing reality. I regret to say it, but you must take his recounting of our little adventures with a grain of salt.”
“But the incident at Reichenbach Falls! Surely that is not—”
He shuddered in spite of the heat. “No, that is true; I did meet Moriarty and struggle with him at the precipice.”
“But you lived! How on earth did you—”
He silenced me with a finger to his lips. “Why don’t we leave that for Dr. Watson to tell one day?”
I nodded, wanting to ask him so many questions, but I could see it would not be advisable.
“And now,” he said, “I perceive that you have troubles of your own. Perhaps you would like to tell me why the visit of that singular-looking woman upset you so?”
“How do you know I—” I began, but my voice faltered.
“From the condition of your desk, I perceive you to be an exceedingly orderly man, and yet you have paid no attention to the loose shoelace that has been flapping on your left shoe ever since I arrived. Also, you have twice laid down your cup of coffee and forgotten where you put it. You seem to be a man very much distracted by unwelcome news. I would not be surprised if it was directly linked to the woman who left just as I arrived.”
My shoulders slumped, and I sank down in my chair. Outside a soft rain had begun to fall. I could hear the rattle of carriage wheels and horse hooves clattering on Royal Street, slipping slightly on the wet cobblestones as they rounded the corner onto Conti Street. The traffic was picking up, as was the sound of vendors selling their wares on street corners before heading down to the French Market for the evening. I glanced at the wall clock; it was almost six, at which time the duty watches would be switching over. My own shift would be ending, and Lieutenant Daugherty would soon arrive to take over the evening watch.
I looked up at my visitor, who stood leaning against the wooden railing that separated my desk from the sergeant’s. Even standing there casually, he had a commanding presence which gave an impression of personal strength and enormous will power. I tried to imagine what kind of criminal would dare to cross him, and then I too shuddered, glad to know that Professor Moriarty was indeed at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls.
“Perhaps you would like to join me for a coffee at the Café du Monde?” I said.
“By all means,” he replied.
Lieutenant Daugherty arrived at the station punctually as usual, and though he gave Holmes a curious glance, I didn’t offer any explanation or introduction, but merely gave him the duty roster for the night. Except for the visit of Madame Celeste, it had been a quiet day, and it was just past six o’clock when Holmes and I slipped out into the damp February twilight, my head swimming with the giddy sensation of being in the company of the great detective. We quickly rounded the corner onto Conti Street and headed south toward the French Market.
The Mississippi River curls and twists through the city of New Orleans like a sleeping snake, as if reluctant to surrender its
waters to the sea, slowly seeping into the bays and bayous of southern Louisiana, until arriving at last at its final destination, pouring inevitably into the ocean, just as we must all finally return to the place whence we came. The French Quarter lies along the part of the river where it curves and gathers around a lump of land, bunching like the back of a humpback whale.
At the far end of a series of stalls and shops, on Decatur Street, along the wide, flat banks of the Mississippi, is the Café du Monde, the jewel in the crown of the French Market. There the beignets are always fresh and hot, the coffee is rich and bitter with flavor of chicory, and the panorama of the mighty river provides a backdrop to all the forms of humanity that stream daily into the bustling port of New Orleans.
In a life of uncertainty, Café du Monde represents a certain constancy: open twenty-four hours a day ever since it was built in 1862, it is our city’s central meeting place. Beggars and princes, vagabonds and counts—no matter the social standing, everyone eventually finds his way to the wide, open-air market that sits, long and low as a shipyard, nestled along the banks of the moody, muddy river that helped make this city what it is. And sooner or later everyone ends up at Café du Monde.
As Holmes and I approached through the dimly streets, I could not suppress a little gasp of delight. As many times as I had beheld the sight, the view seldom failed to stir my heart. Paddleboats and packet boats glided along the murky waters of the river as twilight settled over the city and lanterns were lit in the stalls of the vendors. It was one of those evenings when the color of the river exactly matched the sky at dusk; both were a troubled grey hue, grainy and dense as the chicory-flavored coffee our city is famous for. The murmur of buyers and sellers in the market mingled with the more lively chatter and occasional burst of laughter from the patrons sitting along the river at the outdoor tables of the café. Couples strolled along the Moonwalk, a dirt path that follows the river as it twists and curves around the French Quarter.
You could find most anything at the French Market. There were fishmongers and fruit sellers, bakers and butchers, dressmakers and tobacconists. Merchants in crisp white aprons hovered over their wares as prospective customers surveyed the row of stalls, bending over the tables and shelves of various goods. In spite of the gloom of the descending February twilight, there was a festive mood in the air. Mardi Gras was only weeks away, and you could sense the gathering anticipation among the patrons of the café.
I was not in a particularly festive mood, however; nor was my companion, from what I could tell. He viewed the scene in front of us with a detached eye, his face betraying no emotion. The wind had died down as sunset approached, and there was barely a ripple of breeze as we seated ourselves at a table near the water’s edge. A harried-looking waiter appeared to take our order; I asked for coffee and beignets, while Holmes ordered only coffee. After the waiter scurried away I took a moment to observe the great detective more closely. The flush I noticed earlier on his cheeks appeared more pronounced, and sweat stood out on his forehead when he removed his hat. I did not think it was a good sign; a man as lean as he was should not feel overly exerted from our short walk, and I feared he was indeed ill. Our climate is not an especially healthful one—the hot, humid weather greatly increases the incidence of fevers and other infections.
“Mr. Holmes, are you feeling all right?” I said.
Either he did not hear my question or chose to ignore it. Instead, he turned to look at a man sitting at an adjacent table.
“You can tell so much about people from their shoes,” he remarked, almost to himself. “For instance, that man over there went through a period of depression after his wife left him, but things seem to be looking up for him tonight. He was beginning to regret coming over here from Ireland, where he was more prosperous, but perhaps the affections of his new lady will change that.”
I did my best to study the man closely, but from what I could observe, there was nothing singular about him or his shoes. He was of average height, with a broad Irish face and a splotch of reddish brown hair—utterly ordinary, the sort of man you might see working along the docks.
“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes,” I said. “Apart from the fact that he is Irish, which you can plainly see in his face, I have no idea how you came to your conclusions.”
Holmes shrugged. “You are right about his face, though I deduced he was Irish by the cut of his shoes—Dublin-made, by the look of them.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, “but his wife leaving him—how on earth did you reach that conclusion?”
“If you look at his shoes, you will observe that they have long gone unpolished. And yet recently—today, perhaps, an attempt has been made to restore order, and some polish has been carelessly swiped across the tops—a hasty job, but a hopeful one. The shoes have gone unpolished because keeping them up was his wife’s job; but once she left he lost heart and let his shoes fall into some disrepair—you may notice that the laces are frayed as well—because he was depressed at losing her. The shoes are well made, of expensive leather, so I gather he was more prosperous in Ireland, when he was able to afford such a pair of shoes.”
I shook my head. “Truly remarkable, Mr. Holmes. And the new lady friend?”
Holmes permitted himself a slight smile. “Well, there is hopefulness indicated in the new coat of polish, and also a bit of vanity, but I must admit to a bit of cheating on that score. Our friend is evidently meeting someone, because he keeps looking around anxiously every few moments to see if she has arrived. One does not look around that eagerly for a casual meeting with a friend; therefore, I deduce that he has met someone who has taken his fancy.”
No sooner had Holmes spoken than he was proven right. A very attractive young lady entered the café area from the direction of the vendors’ stalls, and as soon as our man saw her, he practically leapt from his chair to greet her. I turned to Holmes and shook my head.
“I congratulate you, Mr. Holmes—everything I have heard about you is true.”
“I am gratified to meet your expectations, Captain,” he replied, as the harried waiter brought our coffee and my plate of beignets, which were always served three at a time.
I took a bite, savoring the crispness of the crust and the soft, hot interior, fresh from the fryer. A beignet is really just a square donut—fried dough dusted with powdered sugar—but there is something about eating them in the open-air café along the river that is never disappointing.
Holmes took a sip of coffee. “This is most unusual coffee—it has a kind of charred flavor, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I smiled. “You know, it’s funny, Mr. Holmes—my Cajun ancestors added roasted endive root—which they called chicory—to their coffee when times were hard and coffee was scarce, to make it last longer, you know? And now the chicory coffee is one of the things folks come to New Orleans for. It’s ironic, don’t you think?”
“I do indeed, Captain. In fact, I have observed that whole lives can turn upon a single irony such as that.” He leaned back in his chair and fixed his keen dark eyes upon me. “Now then, Captain, why don’t you tell me what it is that upset you so?”
I took a deep breath and relayed to Holmes everything that happened in the station just prior to his arrival.
“I know you must think me a fool for being swayed by the words of a so-called voodoo priestess—”
“I think no such thing, Captain, I can assure you.”
“You see, Charles Latille is my dearest friend, and on top of that I am engaged to be married to his sister, Evangeline.”
“Evangeline,” he mused. “Isn’t that the name of the heroine in a very romantic tale about your Acadian ancestors?”
“Yes—Longfellow wrote a poem about it. It is the tale of a faithful Acadian girl who follows her lover, even after he has been banished.”
“Yes, yes—I seem to recall coming across it at some point.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, my Evangeline is just like the one in the legend! A more l
ovely creature never sat foot on Louisiana soil!” I knew it was foolish of me, but I couldn’t help myself. With the beauty of the night, the river, and the exhilaration of being in the great detective’s presence, I was in a rhapsodic mood. “She has the face of an angel and a temperament to match. And her eyes—they’re dark brown, Mr. Holmes, so dark that in dim light they appear to be black. Such depth in them, too—you could lose yourself in those eyes.”
“Well, be very sure you don’t, Captain; your friend may have need of your assistance.”
I grew solemn, ashamed that in my ardor I had forgotten the peril Charles was in.
“What do you think, Mr. Holmes? Who could be behind this? Who would want to harm Charles?”
“Precisely what I was going to ask you, Captain. Who indeed?”
I took a sip of coffee and stared out at the couples walking arm in arm along the banks of the river. Dusk had deepened into twilight, and the gas lamps along the Moonwalk were all lit by then, their reflected glow rippling softly upon the water.
“Well, there is heavy competition in the shipping business … in fact, Charles confided in me just the other day that things were not going at all well for him financially. And quite frankly, not all of his competitors are—well, lawful citizens.”
“You are referring to the so-called Italian Mafia, of course.”
“You know of it?”
He nodded. “I have in my own career had some interaction with members of various crimes organizations, both here and abroad. Your Italian Mafia is a rather recent import to this country, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Yes, though in Sicily it dates back to the twelfth century, when the French controlled and oppressed the inhabitants of that island. In fact, I have heard that the word comes from the first initials in the phrase, ‘Morte all Francia Italia anelia,’ which is Italian for ‘Death to the French is Italy’s cry.’”
He cocked his head to one side. “Indeed? You seem to know rather a lot about the organization.”
“With good reason. You may perhaps have heard of the events of last October?”
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 32