by Barry Day
So which of the facts were, indeed, vital and which incidental?
Three men out of an original seven—no, eight—had been murdered, ostensibly in the quest for the holy Book of Kor. And yet the person charged with the sacred duty of recovering it appeared genuinely horrified by the deaths and I could not find it within me to believe that anyone could counterfeit her degree of revulsion at the acts committed in her name.
Ergo, the Book was the means and not the end, a convenient rationale that excused the murders in some supposedly holy cause and incriminated its followers. A false trail, in fact.
But, if that were the case, the murders of the Sinners were the real purpose and why would the murderer stop until he had paid off the debt, as he saw it, owed to him by all the other Sinners?
Suppose he found the Book before that aim was wholly accomplished? Would he return it to the Zakhistanis? Or would he perhaps hold on to it, using it as blackmail for their silence and later on, when he was safely away from the long arm of English justice, extort some further fee from these primitive people? The more I considered it, the more persuasive the line of thought became.
Next I considered what Holmes always refers to as ‘the psychology of the individual’. What did we know of the killer?
He was determined and ingenious, one had to give him that. Uma’s claim that he could change his appearance at will had been proved tragically correct by our own recent experience. In perpetrating each of the murders he had run considerable risks of being interrupted and caught.
And the murders themselves. Imaginative, if that was the word I wanted. Each of them tailored to suit the individual Sinner’s proclivities—Avarice, Pride and Lust—and then signed in a cavalier fashion that was meant to call attention to its perpetrator’s ingenuity. But then, the man was an Oxford scholar.
Something else occurred to me. It had long been Holmes’s contention that a criminal rarely changed his modus operandi and that the habitual criminal invariably took greater and greater risks as a way of showing his invincibility.
If that were so in this case, then he would attempt to match any further murders to the sins of the individuals. In the case of Pascal—supposing Pascal was not the murderer—that would involve Gluttony. For Mycroft it would have something to do with Sloth. Staunton? None of the above but, then, we did not know enough about Staunton to associate him with any other specific sin. The Sin of Omission, perhaps.
Logic dictated that it had to be either Pascal or Staunton. Pascal, we now learned, had been in the country at the time of all three murders. Staunton? Again, we knew nothing.
Which left Challenger and Summerlee. Were they really in darkest Africa or had they returned quietly and without fanfare with quite a different mission in mind?
Try as I would, I could not reduce the permutations any further. Perhaps with a good night’s sleep, things would seem clearer but somehow I doubted it.
As I drifted off, I recalled something Uma had said about a song. What was it? “Six green bottles …” It seemed important but I could not for the life of me imagine why. And then sleep claimed me.
Chapter Nine
When I came down the next morning, I found the unmistakable signs that Holmes had already breakfasted and departed. The morning papers were littered around his chair. It is one of his less endearing habits to read them and then cast them aside to fall where they may, whereas civilised human beings who share accommodation with other civilised human beings will have the common courtesy to fold a newspaper, so that someone else is able to read it.
There is one advantage, however, to Holmes’s lack of tidiness. It is always obvious what has caught his interest. This morning it was clearly the full page article in the Telegraph about Pierre Pascal’s Fête Gastronomique.
And, if further evidence were needed, he had left one of his Index volumes lying open at the entry on PASCAL.
Guillaume, Pierre’s father, it appeared, had been head chef at the court of Napoleon III under whose patronage he had. founded the world famous restaurant, Chez Pascal, which his only son, Pierre Aristide had subsequently inherited. Pierre had opened branches in London, Brussels and Berlin. The entry gave lists of the many awards for haute cuisine that both men had won as well as several of their famous recipes, ending with the son’s celebrated Surprise Pierre.
Assuming that the chef were not our murderer, what surprise, I wondered, did somebody out there have in mind for Pierre, Monsieur Glutonnerie?
Set into the piece were photographs of both men. Pierre, I noticed, boasted a luxuriant moustache which dominated the lower half of his face, making it next to impossible to distinguish his features. You might hide three murderers behind such a moustache, I thought, as I stroked my own more modest effort.
When I had picked the day’s news out of the papers as best I could and satisfied the inner man rather more satisfactorily, I decided to take a stroll. The day was fine and some of the heat that even London experiences in August seemed to have held off.
Without being conscious of having made a decision, I found my footsteps taking me north in the direction of Regent’s Park and before long I found myself walking along a stretch of road that contained several minor embassies and consulates.
The houses were all substantial Regency residences, many of them recently converted to this diplomatic purpose. In each case, along this particular street, they were set back from the road at the end of a walled garden, the wall containing a substantial entrance gate.
Suddenly my eye was caught by a brass name plate that looked newer than its neighbours. It bore an all too familiar design and I stopped in my tracks. There were the entwined serpents poised to strike and beneath then the legend—
CONSULATE OF ZAKHISTAN
A gruff young voice behind me said—
“Tell Mr. ’Olmes they’re all in there.”
I turned, to be confronted by one of the untidiest young urchins one could ever hope to meet and yet, for some reason, I took fresh heart from the sight of that begrimed and freckled face and the sound of that croaking voice, hovering between childhood and adolescence.
“Wiggins!” I cried, “Well met! What are you going here?”
It was the unofficial leader of the group of youngsters Holmes had recruited to watch and follow in places where he—or any other adult—would only attract unwanted attention. Holmes declared the Baker Street Irregulars to be as ‘sharp as needles’ and paid them each a shilling a day when they were on a ‘case’, with a guinea going to the lad who found the object of their search. “There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars,” he would often say, “than out of a dozen of the force.”
“Keepin’ an eye peeled on this ’ere place.” His eyes flickered momentarily at the consulate. Tell Mr. ’Olmes Wiggins will give ’im a full report in due course but right now the green lady’s in there, sure enough, and she don’t look too ’appy about it. Keeps coming to the winder, until the little brown feller who’s ’er assistant or something comes up to ’er and then she moves away again. I’d tell ’im what for, if I was ’er. Well, they’re all brown folks in there—except one chap. I’ve seen ’er arguing with ’im and he stays pretty well away from the winders, as though he oughtn’t to be there in the first place.
“’Ere, Doctor, it’d be best if you was to give me a tanner—no, better make it a bob—just in case anybody’s watchin’ us. That way they’ll just think I’m begging, as usual.”
Good old Wiggins, I thought to myself, inventive as ever. If there is any justice—which I am increasingly coming to doubt—you’ll end up as Governor of the Bank of England or at least Lord Mayor.
I did as he suggested, deciding a shilling was the safer option. He gave his forelock a desultory tug and was off. I continued my own stroll, for he had made a good point. We did not want to telegraph our own interest in the place. But now we knew where our birds came back to roost.
When I returned to Baker Street, I passed Mycroft on the s
tairs and heard him say—“If it becomes absolutely necessary, you have my reluctant consent.”
Then, passing me, he raised his hat and said—“I fear that in the past I have used the phrase ‘For my sins’ too lightly. I now intend to remove it from my vocabulary entirely. Good day, Doctor.”
In the sitting room I found Holmes in conclave with Lestrade.
“Ah, Watson, thought we’d lost you. Lestrade, tell Doctor Watson what you were just telling me, if you would be so good.”
The Inspector looked a trifle put out.
“I really can’t be dealing with these ’ere foreigners, Doctor. I don’t know why they can’t stay in their own countries, where they belong, instead of coming over ‘ere and getting under my feet.
“It’s this Pascal feller, or whatever he calls ’imself. I went to see him myself and told ’im we felt he might be in physical danger but not to worry, as we intended to put a guard on ’im night and day while he was in the country. Well, you’d think I’d insulted the honour of la belle France! Wouldn’t ’ear a word of it. Told me he was a foreign subject and we were lucky to get ’im over here to show us what proper food was all about. Then he went off into some foreign lingo …”
“Probably French,” Holmes suggested mildly.
“Very probably,” Lestrade concurred, totally missing the irony.
“So there we are, Watson. It looks as though we shall just have to take our chances with cher Pierre. Incidentally, Lestrade was saying that Pascal keeps a flat above the restaurant for his visits to this country. We shall just have to do our best to keep an eye on the whole building, particularly while the Fête Gastronomique is going on.”
“Oh, I’ve got my lads doing that already,” said Lestrade, but then a sudden disquieting thought struck him. “But there’ll be up to a hundred total strangers milling about the place this evening.”
“Nothing, I feel sure, the yeomen of the Yard can’t handle,” Holmes replied. In the light of recent events I found his confidence strangely unsettling.
Sensing my reaction, he continued—
“We have many options still open to us, old fellow—or, rather, our murderer does and we cannot yet afford to concentrate all our forces on any one of them. Since Pascal seems to be well protected or observed—whichever turns out to be the case—I suggest that you and Lestrade attend this evening’s event, while Mycroft and I pursue an alternative course of action.”
Although I was uneasy about what my friend proposed, I knew better than to argue with him. Anything he did was likely to be but one part of some grand plan and he was never happy to reveal that until he considered the moment right.
Consequently, I agreed to meet Lestrade at Chez Pascal a quarter of an hour before the event was due to begin and he departed to inspect his troops.
I then told Holmes of my encounter with Wiggins outside the consulate. What I had to say seemed to please him and his only question was—
“Did you happen to observe, Watson—were there trees in the garden and, if so, how tall were they?”
I told him that, as far as I could recall, all of the houses in that particular row had mature gardens with oak trees of approximately twenty feet in height. Had I known that he was an arborist, I added sarcastically, I would have been sure to take my tape measure along. Not a word of concern about Uma! Sometimes I wonder about the man’s priorities.
All of which was apparently lost on him, for all he said was—“Capital, Watson. Well done!” And then he picked up his violin and began to play a cheerful little composition of his own.
Chez Pascal occupied one of those beautiful late 18th century buildings you still find tucked away in a Soho square. As my cab dropped me on the far corner and I crossed the square, a steady stream of people were already making their way towards it.
Pascal was determined to show that he was in town, for he had taken over the whole square for the occasion. A banner proclaiming the FETE GASTRONOMIQUE was suspended from the trees and small booths had been set up in what was normally the communal garden. There Pascal’s aproned assistants were handing out samples of various dishes to the passers by. Threading through the crowd were two or three of those violinists and accordion players one never seems able to avoid in Parisian restaurants. I had to admit that it was quite a festive occasion and most—un-English.
With my trained investigator’s eye I examined the location. What had Holmes taught me? Try and take in the whole scene objectively, then see if any detail catches your eye and strikes you as discordant in any way.
Virtually impossible to do that here. This was an out of the ordinary occasion, so it was impossible to tell what the square was like on an ordinary day. Here and there among the crowd I thought I could detect Lestrade’s men in plain clothes—although to me they seemed to stand out like so many sore thumbs and fingers.
Now I could see what Holmes meant. There was a pattern to the ebb and flow. For the time being the doors to the main restaurant remained closed to the public and only the uniformed waiters and assistants were allowed in and out. This was what the police were monitoring.
I took a casual stroll through the street behind the restaurant and here the security was even tighter. The restaurant’s back doors had been locked and two uniformed officers stood visibly on guard. None shall pass there in a hurry, I thought, and returned to the square somewhat reassured.
Now Pascal’s own officials had opened the doors and the crowds were leaving the square and beginning to file inside. There was a cheerful buzz in the air, as they did so. There is nothing an English crowed likes more than something for nothing and to be fed into the bargain.
I was determined to be one of the last to enter, so that I would be able to stand at the back and survey the room. Just as I was making my way to the door, my elbow was taken and Lestrade was at my side.
“Everything’s tickety-boo, Doctor. A mouse couldn’t get in or out of ’ere without me knowing.”
An unfortunate image in the context of a culinary establishment, it occurred to me, but I kept my counsel.
And then, as we entered the restaurant, I saw them. It was the flash of bright green among the relative drabness of the rest of the people in that room that caught my eye.
There was Uma with—what was the fellow’s name?—Khali? Was it my fancy or was she looking more tired and under stress than when I had seen her last? Then, as people often do when they are the object of scrutiny, she saw me, too, and her remarkable eyes flashed a greeting and a warning at the same time.
Just as on the occasion I had first seen her in Scotland, she stood out like a beacon and it was only later that one took in her context, so on this occasion it was only her expression that made me look to the other side of her.
There, sure enough, was the third man from that momentous encounter at the inn. I felt sure that it was only because he was speaking softly into her ear that he failed to notice her instinctive reaction to my presence in the room.
‘Mr. Smith’ seemed distinctly pleased with himself and what he had to impart but, whatever it was, it made the lady’s eyes widen with horror. Her evident distress clearly only increased his pleasure and, when she turned and spoke rapidly and passionately to Khali, the man looked positively smug.
Now he began to survey the crowded restaurant and I quickly averted my gaze and engaged Lestrade in apparently earnest conversation over the menu we had each been given on entering.
“Sandy haired fellow on the left of the woman in green. ‘Mr. Smith.’”
“Got ’im, Doctor.”
Before we could discuss the situation further, the restaurant’s mâitre d’ was calling the mesdames et messieurs for their attention. He trusted we had enjoyed the hors d’oeuvres the staff had prepared for our earlier delectation. And now—in honour of this famous establishment’s fiftieth anniversaire—he had the honour … almost, if one were to permit him the little jest, the légion d’honneur … to present le grand mâitre, the son of the founder of Chez
Pascal—Monsieur Pierre Pascal …
As he spoke, I found myself drawn back to ‘Mr. Smith’ and what I saw frightened me, for the man could hardly contain his excitement. And somehow I knew this was not due to the anticipation of the Surprise Pierre.
I was looking at the face of murder—or, at least, one of his faces.
And then his expression was wiped clean, as if a damp cloth had been pulled across a blackboard. For through the swing doors behind the mâitre d’ swept two minions carrying various culinary implements and in their wake—the moustachioed figure of Pierre Pascal.
Smith’s face was now a ghostly white and a vein was throbbing so visibly on his forehead that I could see it distinctly from where I was standing. I nudged Lestrade and nodded my head slightly to direct his attention.
For a moment I though Smith was about to faint. He looked wildly around him, then obviously concluded that he was hemmed in where he stood near to the demonstration table at which Pascal and his retinue had taken their places and would attract too much attention by trying to leave.
Now the great chef went to work. In total silence, like some professional conjuror, he summoned an ingredient from an assistant here, an implement there. His hands were a blur over the large bowl that dominated the table.
The crowd, which had been a buzz of conversation when he entered, had fallen totally silent, too, mesmerised by the man’s skill.
Then, with a final flourish, Pascal stepped back from the working surface and spoke for the first time.
“Voilà. Surprise Pierre!”
There was a spontaneous outburst of applause from the people in the room.
Now the mâitre d’ stepped forward once more and raised his hand.
“Monsieur Pascal has requested that one member of the audience should be his—how do you call it?—his cochon d’Inde, his ‘guinea pig’ this evening and approve his concoction before we invite all of you to sample some he has made earlier.
“What about you, sir?” And he made unerringly for Smith and pulled him out of the crowd.