“Room four on the third floor.”
Holmes nodded and started forward.
“Wait, wait, monsieur. Save yourself a climb. She is not at home. She is never at home.”
“What?”
The old man shrugged. “I have not seen her for a long time.”
“How long exactly?”
“Weeks, months.”
“But don’t you see her when she pays her rent?”
“She paid a year’s rent in advance, last March it was. I think I saw her come and go once in June. She was up there for only an hour or so.”
“A year’s rent in advance? That is quite unusual, is it not?” The concierge laughed and nodded. “And you have no idea where else she may be staying?”
“None.”
Holmes stroked his chin. “What does she look like, Mademoiselle Dujardin?”
“Small, quite small, with blond hair. She dresses well.”
“Pretty?” Holmes asked.
The concierge gave him a brief, conspiratorial male smile. “Ah, oui, monsieur.”
“Merçi beaucoup, monsieur.”
We stepped back out into the cold air. “Curious,” Holmes said. “I must speak with Juvol. He can have his men search her room.”
We took a cab back to our hotel and went directly to the hotel restaurant. Soon the waiter set down plates with steaming aromatic gigots of lamb before us, and this time we accompanied our meal with a red wine from Bourgogne. “I could become accustomed to eating like this every night,” I said, “although I would probably grow fat.”
“We have Mr. Hardy to thank for our high standard of cuisine.”
“That was odd that Dujardin is never at home, and yet she pays for the apartment. Did you find out much about her from the report?”
“She struck me as rather shrewd. When her first story about two female accomplices would not work for her, she changed to a second version which would garner sympathy with a jury, one involving an evil domineering man.”
“So you don’t think a man was involved?”
“I did not say that. We have one obvious candidate.”
“Who?”
Holmes laughed. “Henry, Henry! Gaston Lupin, of course.”
“But he was only an artist, not a criminal. Did his name come up in the report?”
“No—as I might have expected.”
“Did you find out anything more of interest this afternoon?”
“Juvol already gave us the salient facts. The report was, as is customary with French bureaucracies of every stripe, extremely long-winded. Le Comte de Laval was stabbed twice in the chest. A few of his wife’s jewels were stolen, but she had taken the most valuable ones on her trip. There were signs on the count’s wrists that he had been bound.”
I frowned. “Certainly a man must have been involved then. A small woman like Dujardin could hardly tie up a grown man.”
Holmes’s mouth flickered briefly upward. “Not unless he was a willing participant.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. It’s still hard to believe a woman could have actually stabbed him in the chest.”
“Come now, Henry. You know your Shakespeare, do you not? Remember Lady Macbeth goading on her husband? And she was a most willing participant with the daggers in Duncan’s assassination.”
“That is only a story, after all.”
“Is it? It is true that women prefer poison. I still suspect that is what happened with Lupin. Easy enough to tamper with his morphine bottle and double or triple the concentration.”
“Accidental overdoses with opiates are common enough. Perhaps that painting was only a copy, and there is no real connection to the theft and murder of the count.”
Holmes’s faint bittersweet smile returned. “Perhaps. Things are progressing nicely, Henry. I did not think this morning that we could have discovered so much in a single day. But there is one gaping hole that concerns me.”
“What is that?”
“We have no clue as to the whereabouts of Angèle, no idea who she might really be, except possibly a friend of Mrs. Hardy.”
“But she said she did not know her.”
“Of course she did! Blast it, if only I could more directly question Mrs. Hardy, but then I would give myself away. This situation is untenable—and dangerous. I think I shall telegraph Hardy and tell him I must present myself as Sherlock Holmes to his wife.”
“Well, I suspect sooner or later Angèle is bound to turn up.”
His expression was grim. “Later is what I fear.”
“How so?”
“Remember the note, Henry. Le premier est Gaston. Le deuxième sera Angèle. I would prefer to find her while she is still alive.”
Chapter Five
For Thursday, Holmes had scheduled a luncheon meeting with the retired inspector Tabernet, but in the morning he and I visited two of Lupin’s acquaintances.
First was Dr. Pascal Bazin. His elaborately furnished waiting room and office put those of Michelle and mine to shame. The old doctor was dressed very formally in a fine frock coat and a shirt with a faintly yellowed white collar. His watery bloodshot brown eyes blinked dully at us from behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. His ineptitude soon became obvious. He muttered stock laments about the tragic death of Lupin, struck down in his prime. He admitted that he had signed the death certificate, but when Holmes questioned him about the diagnosis of heart failure, he grew defensive.
“Of course it was heart failure! In the end, it’s always heart failure, isn’t it? Your heart fails, then you die.”
I glanced at Holmes and rolled my eyes.
When Holmes asked if he knew that Lupin was a morphine addict, the doctor became outraged. “Never!” he cried and demanded to know who had made such an outlandish accusation. Clearly we would learn little from the doctor, so we soon departed to visit Lupin’s accountant.
Monsieur Julien Moullet’s offices were just off the Champs-Élysées, and his plush black frock coat with the silken lapels was even more impressive than the doctor’s. Lupin had obviously sought out the most costly and ostentatious professionals. Moullet was of medium height, thin, with the pale complexion one might expect for someone who labored daily over ledgers. His wavy brown hair was almost the same color as his eyes, and he had a rather translucent mustache with a reddish tint to the brown. Unlike the doctor, he knew of Sherlock Holmes; he stared through a thick monocle at the business card in amazement.
“Monsieur Holmes! It is an honor—a very great honor. How may I help you?”
Holmes first showed him the letter from the prefect of police. Moullet’s eyes widened, making the monocle plop out. He gave a quick nod and put the monocle back in place. “Of course. It is to be expected.”
“What can you tell me about Monsieur Gaston Lupin, the deceased artist?”
“Ah, pauvre Monsieur Lupin! Un moment, s’il vous plaît.” He left the room briefly and returned with a thick brown-paper file. “This has all the documents concerning the unfortunate Monsieur Lupin. Have a seat, gentlemen.” He gestured with his small delicate hand at the wood and leather chairs before the vast shining expanse of his walnut desk. We all sat, and he undid some strings to open the flap of the file, then pulled out a great stack of papers.
“Did you work for Monsieur Lupin for a long time, sir?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed I did, although my senior partner, now retired, initially handled Monsieur Lupin’s affairs.”
“How many years was Lupin a client with your firm?”
“I believe…” He turned over the bulk of the papers, looking for the ones lowest down, then set the monocle again into his right eye. “Yes, almost nineteen years exactly.”
“And what did you do for Monsieur Lupin? Why did he need an accountant?”
Moullet’s right eyebrow shot upward. This time he held the monocle by its cord in his slender right hand. “It is our opinion, sir, that any gentleman of means needs an accountant.”
An ironic smile pulled at Holmes’s mouth. “Perhaps, but can you tell me more specifically what you did for Lupin?”
“Well, to put it briefly, we handled everything involving money for him.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. He did not like to trouble himself paying bills or taxes, paying tradesmen or servants, managing his bank accounts, or investing his money. Let me see…” Again the monocle went into Moullet’s eye as he regarded a paper. “At the first interview he said, ‘Do not bother me with any details. I want you to take care of it all.’”
“Did you actually invest his money?”
“No, sir. It was just distributed to several banks, half here and half in Geneva, and his only gain was from the interest. Given his great wealth, he wisely saw no need to risk his capital with foolhardy investments, hence the division amongst banks.”
“How much money did he have?”
“Let me see.” Again the monocle went in place, and Moullet sorted through some papers, writing down some numbers, which he then proceeded to add up a column at a time.
When he told us the sum in francs, my mouth parted. It took me a while to roughly divide by twenty-five, but I knew that it was a prodigious sum. “Good Lord—that’s over half a million pounds.”
Holmes eyed Moullet thoughtfully. “Did anyone ever ask him how he obtained such a fortune?”
The monocle again tumbled from Moullet’s eye onto his chest, restrained by its cord. “We would never ask so indiscreet a question!”
“So you took care of paying everyone in his employ and all his expenses?”
“Yes, any bills such as those for his doctor, his tailor, his cordwainer, his house upkeep, were forwarded on to us and promptly paid. One of my assistants also went to his home at the beginning of every month and gave all the servants their wages. He also gave Monsieur Lupin a few thousand francs for pocket money.”
“Did he pay his servants well?”
Moullet frowned. “Well?”
“Yes, well.”
“Let me see.” Moullet shuffled more papers. “Here are his typical monthly expenses. Yes, I would say he paid them well, much above average.”
“Might I have a look?” Moullet handed Holmes a sheet of paper, which my cousin quickly scanned. He nodded. “Yes, he was generous. And this ‘pocket money’—it seems a considerable sum. Do you know what he did with it?”
Moullet shrugged. “The usual, for a gentleman, I suppose. The theater, restaurants.” He hesitated for a moment.
“Women?” Holmes asked.
Moullet frowned ever so slightly. He obviously found the question distasteful. “Perhaps.”
“And are there any regular monthly payments you cannot exactly explain, especially to a woman, a woman by the name of Angèle or Anne or Anne-Marie?”
Moullet lowered his gaze for a few seconds, then looked up. His forehead was creased above the monocle, and the thick lens made his right eye appear smaller than his left. “How could you possibly know that?”
Holmes drew in his breath slowly. “What exactly is the name?”
“Anne-Marie Varin.”
“How much was she paid?”
“Two hundred francs a month.”
Holmes laughed softly. “A pittance for Lupin. And do you have an address for Madame Varin?”
“Yes, sir. It’s in the Faubourg de Saint-Antoine, near the Rue de Charonne.”
“Could you write it down for me?”
Holmes stroked his chin with his long fingers while Moullet wrote, then he took the piece of paper, folded it into quarters, and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. “You have been most helpful, Monsieur Moullet. I was planning to visit Monsieur Lupin’s lawyer, but you may have the answers I seek. Did Lupin have a will?”
Moullet nodded, even as his mouth pulled into a wry smile. “Yes, sir.”
“And would you know who the beneficiaries of that will are?”
Moullet gave a sharp laugh and shook his head. “The beneficiary is his old mother, who must be nearly eighty. Monsieur Belvaux the lawyer and I both tried to dissuade him, since it seemed extremely unlikely she would outlive her son. However, in the end, his wish will be fulfilled, although what in heaven’s name she will do with such a fortune remains a mystery.”
“I see. And where does the lucky woman live?”
“Near Chartres. She was receiving some…” Again he glanced downward. “…five hundred francs a month.”
“One final question, sir: would you say that Monsieur Lupin was a clever man?”
Moullet frowned. “Clever?”
“Yes, clever.”
“Well, he was, no doubt, an extraordinary artist.”
“But you were never struck by his great intelligence?”
Moullet’s eyes were wary, his mouth carefully neutral. “No, Monsieur Holmes. I cannot say I was.”
We said our farewells, then went out onto the street. Holmes paused briefly to withdraw his watch. “No time before our lunch with Tabernet. We shall have to visit her afterwards.” He put back his watch and strode briskly forward.
“Visit whom?”
“Madame Varin. Anne-Marie Varin, our Angèle.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Without a doubt.” He stopped suddenly. “I wonder… Can it wait?” Beneath the brim of his top hat, his eyes were troubled. “We have made our appointment with Tabernet. We must keep it.” He resumed his brisk walk, and I followed.
From the Champs-Élysées we took a cab which crossed Paris, then wound uphill to the Belleville neighborhood and stopped before a small brick house with a few faded pink roses still on the bushes. A short stout man with a big white mustache and a freckled bald pate answered the door. Holmes introduced us, then asked if he would like to dine with us at some nearby restaurant.
Tabernet reflexively made the sign of the cross. “I never eat at restaurants. Never.”
“We hate to impose ourselves upon you,” Holmes said. “Surely there must be some place…”
“None.” The single word announced the matter was settled. “While I was with the police, I occasionally worked with the department of health and sanitation. If you had seen the adulterated horrors I saw…” He shuddered. “The only way to be certain is to buy everything from those merchants you trust and to prepare your own food, which my wife has done. Please come in.”
We were introduced to Mrs. Tabernet, a short stout woman in a plain muslin dress. She and her husband seemed a sort of matched pair like crafted salt and pepper shakers. She led us to a sturdy trestle table set for four with thick earthen crock ware. She swept away to the kitchen, then returned with a huge soup tureen and ladled out a pungent-smelling bouillon, brownish-yellow broth with glistening spots of oil floating on its surface.
Tabernet declared what an honor it was to dine with Sherlock Holmes. His wife nodded and exclaimed that she had read all of his adventures. Holmes’s mouth formed a pained smile. The soup was delicious, and it was followed by a well-cooked joint of mutton accompanied by various roasted vegetables. Tabernet asked if we would mind having cider rather than wine, and when we concurred, he poured some from a big brown glass bottle. He explained that Madame Tabernet was originally from Brittany, and they had a reputable source for the best cider of the region. After a cheese course, dessert was an apple tart seasoned with cinnamon. The meal was not fancy, but it was absolutely delicious. Madame Tabernet had many questions for Holmes, and she spoke more than her husband. Afterwards the men retired to the sitting room with coffee, while Madame Tabernet returned to the kitchen.
Tabernet sagged down into a worn brown leather chair that he somehow faintly resembled. “Now that we have dined, Monsieur Holmes, we may get down to business. You have been very polite, but I know you want to hear about the case of the stolen Madonna of the Apple.”
Holmes smiled. “I do indeed.”
“It is difficult to believe it has been twenty years. As one of my most memorable cases, I
kept a copy of my report, which I reviewed yesterday afternoon. It was hardly necessary. The case remains fresh in my mind, partly because it was my first after my promotion to commissaire. Even now I can see the face of Mademoiselle Dujardin before me.”
“Describe that face, if you please,” Holmes said.
Tabernet held the tiny cup with his big fingers and, rather delicately, sipped the dark brew. “The first word that comes to mind, odd as it may seem, is ‘angelic.’ Of course, that was only an impression—and a completely misleading one, at that.”
“Diabolic would be more appropriate?” Holmes asked.
“I fear so. When I first encountered her at about two in the morning, I clearly saw that other side. It is curious how great anger will make some people flush, others go pale. In my long career I have seen both phenomena, but when she realized she had been betrayed, she was a striking manifestation of the latter. Her very lips went white even as her hands trembled. With her extreme pallor and fury, as well as her great beauty, she reminded me of the ice queen from a fairy story. She was a ravishing woman, and despite her young age, only eighteen, she already knew how to wield that beauty. As a policeman and a married man, I was immune to her charms, but I could feel their pull. The prosecutor at the trial was clever and managed to reveal something of the real woman. I say woman, because she was old and hardened beyond her years. She was no girl, despite her age.”
“Can you describe her physically? There was a faded photograph in the file at the Prefecture, but obviously it was made before the late eighties when Monsieur Bertillon standardized the photographing of suspects. It is faintly blurry, and she looks rather plain.”
“I shall describe her for you, but I might point out that she was a butcher’s daughter.” He gave Holmes an inquisitive look.
“Ah. So she was well fed. That does marvels for the appearance. Good skin and teeth, then?”
Tabernet laughed. “Indeed so! Very good, Monsieur Holmes. A fair complexion with a touch of rose at the cheeks when the lesser emotions were stirred, but deathly pale in her fury. Her small nose was slightly turned up, her mouth… well, the mouth of one, I fear to say, who was born to be a harlot, broad with thick sensual lips, made for kissing. Her hair was very blond, closer to white than yellow, and her eyebrows hardly stood out from her pale skin. Her eyes were a grayish blue with flecks of brown around the pupils. She had a small mole on her right cheekbone.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 10