Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin

by John Hall

  I laughed. ‘I did say a “known” crook! But if Huret could achieve his ends without too much obvious villainy, he would be less likely to be opposed by honest men.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘True. And then, with martial law and the rest, whoever controlled the army would control France. And we may be certain that the man who controlled the army – and most of the other elements of public life besides – would have been Huret.’

  ‘Does it not sound just a touch – melodramatic, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Holmes with a laugh. ‘But would you call the first Napoleon melodramatic? After all, just as our old friend Jean-Paul suggested to us, Huret was only doing what Napoleon – and others like him – have already done. History repeats itself, you know.’

  ‘I wonder how Napoleon would have managed had there been a Sherlock Holmes around then?’ I mused.

  Holmes laughed. ‘It is perhaps as well that it was never put to the test,’ said he.

  ‘Why did Huret keep you alive, then? It would have been much safer to have killed you at once, when he knew your identity. That is what I should have done, in his place!’

  ‘Ah, it is as well for me that you never turned your talents to crime, Doctor! No, there we can only speculate. I have no doubt that he planned to kill me eventually, but that he wanted my death to be part of some grand scheme – he might claim that he had caught the jewel thief whom the police had failed to catch, let us say, although he would naturally regret that the thief was not taken alive to stand trial. That would bring him to public attention, make the masses look favourably upon him.’

  ‘And then when he made the attempt on the life of the Minister – had he succeeded, he would undoubtedly have killed you! And Jupin! And me too, Holmes!’

  ‘Indeed he would. He was, as you say, cunning. And ruthless. Having realized that his first scheme was useless he very quickly produced a second. He assumed his waiter’s garb, and planned to kill the Minister, and then us! He would have said that we – three wanted criminals – had killed the Minister, and that he, Huret, that is, had killed us in turn. That would send his stock up considerably, would it not? The assassination by known criminals of the Minister of Justice, hard on the heels of the assassination of the President by an anarchist – that would show that a strong man was needed to take over the apparatus of government. And there would be Huret, the man of action who had killed the assassins – though, alas, too late to prevent their killing the poor Minister! Why, that incident might easily have been the final factor which would have led to his being swept to power on a wave of popular acclaim, led to his being declared President, or First Consul, or whatever title he had picked out for himself!’

  ‘A close thing, Holmes!’

  ‘As you say. Will you wear your Afghan medal?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Holmes was to attend a small ceremony, at which he would be awarded the Legion of Honour for his arrest of Huret; and I was invited to accompany him. ‘I do not wear it often,’ I added, ‘for it seems to me wrong to glorify war over-much. But, on special occasions – and this is indeed a special occasion. By the by, I find that I was wrong just now – there is in fact another small point which puzzles me. Why is it that you accepted the Legion when I know that you have so often refused honours from the British government?’

  Holmes was seldom at a loss, but this time he looked almost embarrassed. ‘It is a silly thing,’ said he at length. ‘When I was a boy, there was a portrait of one of my French ancestors hung up at home; and he wore the medal of the Legion. It seemed to me – well, a young lad’s dreams, you know, Watson. And, besides, did not your friend Conan Doyle once say something to the effect that there were so many holders of the Legion that it was almost a distinction not to be so invested?’

  ‘If he did, I am sure he spoke in jest,’ said I. ‘And if by some mischance I am wrong, then surely no honour was ever more deserved than this!’

  Holmes seldom showed emotion, but he had to clear his throat before shaking my hand and saying, ‘Why, thank you, Watson! Are you ready?’

  ‘All ready.’

  He hesitated. ‘You are really not obliged to come along, you know.’

  ‘Where should a man belong but by the side of his friend, in the hour of triumph no less than in the moment of danger?’ said I sententiously.

  ‘But this is almost our last day in Paris, and I am sure that there must be things you wish to do!’

  ‘Not a bit of it, Holmes!’

  ‘It is such a lovely day,’ said Holmes, a touch of desperation in his voice. ‘The Bois will be looking at its best just now. There will undoubtedly be attractive young women promenading therein,’ he added, by way of an extra inducement.

  ‘It will be equally clement this afternoon. And there will be equally lovely Parisiennes to be encountered.’

  ‘I fear that the ceremony will bore you.’

  ‘I am used to ceremony – and boredom, too – my dear fellow, after my time in the army. I am looking forward to it. And in any event,’ I added, rubbing it in unmercifully, ‘not for all the world would I miss the chance of seeing Mr Sherlock Holmes being kissed vigorously on both cheeks by an enthusiastic Frenchman!’

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  [1] See The Travels of Sherlock Holmes.