“Thirty-three minutes,” Holmes corrected, “and we will be there—but in costume.” He led the other two down beneath the stage, finding the wardrobe department and a much-used assortment of face paints, wigs, and prosthetics. “We must work quickly. We have a healthy walk ahead of us.”
Anna lifted a ball gown, very ornate, but with a bust that would have left her exposed. “What am I to be?”
“Actually, my dear, the costumes are for Thomas and myself,” said Holmes, tossing the dress away. “Your father would recognize you in any costume, so you must go as you are.”
Thomas glared. “This is your plan?”
“Anna, you must pose as yourself,” Holmes continued smoothly, “but outwardly repentant.”
“Repentant?” Anna asked.
“When you see him, break into tears and run to him. Tell him I regained my mind and repudiated you. Tell him even Thomas thinks you’re a traitor. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“No she can’t,” Thomas said. “He’ll see through it. You’re putting her in mortal danger.”
Holmes shook his head. “Danger, yes, but not mortal danger. As deranged as Moriarty might be, he has never shown the will to kill his own daughter. No, she must go as herself.”
“Or stay behind,” Thomas said.
“I won’t stay behind,” Anna said.
Holmes nodded happily. “Then it’s settled.”
Thomas gathered the ball gown from the floor and held it up to him. “And so, am I to be the lady?”
Holmes tossed a rumpled pair of trousers to him, along with a dirty gray tunic and a worn-out cap. “You’ll be a porter.”
“Aw, I was hoping to be a scamp.”
“It’s too close to your true self. Be a hardworking man for a change—but do your best not to get distracted lugging luggage. Instead, watch for Moriarty—and guard Anna.”
While Thomas began to change into his costume, Anna turned away and watched Holmes pull a black cassock from the rack of clothes.
“What are you going to be?”
“A priest,” he said as he drew the robe over his shoulders. Then he went to the makeup table, lit the lamp, and set to work on his face. He spread spirit gum across his jawline and attached a very ragged beard and mustache. He also set a round-brimmed black hat on his head.
“You don’t make a believable saint,” Thomas piped, coming up in his ragged work clothes.
“Most priests are not saints,” Holmes pointed out, his eyes flashing at Thomas’s costume. “And you might actually have to do a little work to be convincing.”
“No, I’ll be a loafer,” Thomas suggested.
“Enough fooling,” said Holmes. “Twenty-seven minutes left.” He led them up a back stairway and into a dark alley among rubbish bins. There, he stopped and looked Thomas over. “It’ll have to do. If it comes to a fight, let me confront the man.”
“Your costume’s not that good.”
“Perhaps. But this is my fight, not yours. It’s a fight that began a year ago on the streets of London and will finish today on the streets of Paris.” He walked out of the alley into the morning throng. Thomas and Anna followed.
The three comrades passed a counting house where a clerk swept coal dust from the pavement, a bakery that charged the air with the scent of yeast and fresh bread, a butcher’s shop where young lads hauled gutted hogs from a wagon through the front door … . The world was going about its daily routine while Thomas, Anna, and their friend Sherlock Holmes marched toward a most desperate confrontation.
“Holmes,” Anna said, tugging on his sleeve. “Remember—this is my father.”
He glanced her way. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat and above his burly beard, Holmes’s eyes were both keen and compassionate. “I have never killed a man, my dear—”
“Never that you remember … .”
“Never that Watson reported, either,” he replied. “I do not intend to start today.” They walked on a few more paces in silence before Holmes hedged. “Of course, your father is a most remarkable opponent, and he is bent on killing me. I will do what I must.”
“That’s Gare Saint-Lazare, three blocks up,” Thomas announced.
“All right,” Holmes said. “We’d better split up here and approach in character.”
The morning’s irritation melted from Thomas’s face. He grasped Holmes’s arm briefly and said, “Be careful.”
The old priest—for that’s what he seemed in that moment, smiling and starry-eyed—gave a nod and scuttled away.
Then Thomas lifted Anna’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “You, especially—be careful.”
Next moment, she was anything but careful, pulling him toward her and kissing him full on the lips.
38
THE MARTYRDOM OF GARE SAINT-LAZARE
The kiss was over before I realized it was happening. Anna drew away from me, and there I stood, a ragged young porter with feet planted on the Parisian pavement and heart pounding and lips tingling. I don’t know why she did it—the kiss. I wanted to chase after her and ask, but already her skirts receded in the morning crowd. A moment later, she was lost in the mob that poured down the street.
Shaking out my wobbly legs, I strode toward the Gare Saint-Lazare station. By now, Anna was somewhere inside, and her father was as well—or soon would be. I glanced up at the giant wrought-iron clock that filled one gable of the station—8:48. What had Holmes said? Seventy-one minutes from when? From 7:38? That meant that just now …
Ahead of me, in one of the glass-topped aisles of that huge station, a behemoth of metal snorted its way forward. Black smoke belched from its smokestack, and white steam jetted from its pistons and brakes.
“That’s it!” I said to myself, hurrying across the street among a herd of businessmen. I dodged past them, beginning to run, and broke from the crowd to descend to the platform.
Already, porters were hanging from the sides of the train, their outstretched legs reaching for the platform as it slowed below them. With a final hiss, the engine rolled to a stop, and coupling after metal coupling clanked as each car nudged the one before. The porters leaped down and unfolded the metal stairs and extended their hands to ladies alighting and men who fumbled for a sou to tip them. These porters were the old ones, with seniority and stiff joints. They had the easy task, while their younger brothers hauled trunks on their backs or dug crates from the undercarriage storage bins.
I stood near the engine, watching as a tide of humanity poured off the coaches. Which man was Moriarty? It was a long train, stretching a quarter mile ahead of me, and I could only be certain of the passengers debarking the first four cars. Beyond that …
There was Anna. She’d posted herself near the center of the train and was looking up and down the length of it, wringing a white handkerchief. At first, my heart broke for her—so afraid—but then I realized she was acting, playing her part. Every now and again, she even stood on tiptoes and perched her hand above her brow like some Bo Peep searching for her sheep—or rather for the wolf among them.
And beyond Anna, I caught sight of a priest with a big hat and a bigger beard. Holmes had taken his post at the rear of the train. I felt suddenly better. We three were smart and vigilant. It was just a matter of time before one of us spotted him.
A man grabbed my shoulder and turned me about. His face was craggy like an eroded stone, and he wore the coal-and sweat-soaked tunic of a fireman. “Toi, paresseux! Bouge-toi! Tu vois toutes ces caisses qu’il faut bouger!” He wanted to know why I was just standing around when there were so many cases to move.
I smiled fearlessly at him and replied, “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternitél”
He snarled and took a swing at my head, but I simply ducked under the blow. My tormenter overbalanced—perhaps a bit tipsy—and staggered on past. With a cocky grin, I watched him go. This new persona of mine—the lazy lout with a loud mouth—felt right.
I walked to a pile of trunks and baggage that
had been unloaded by more industrious types, sat down on one crate, leaned against another, and tilted my cap so that I looked asleep.
Ah, the perfect cover. From this vantage, I could see the first four cars clearly, and every person that descended those iron steps. I also could watch Anna in her distressed dance, kerchief coiling like a living thing in her fretful hands. Good acting. Good girl. And with a little roll of my eyes, I could even see Holmes moving among the tide of passengers.
He seemed to look toward me in that moment, and the sunlight suddenly flashed beneath the broad brim of his hat to show wide eyes. The effect was almost comical. Holmes turned toward me and began swimming through the tide of passengers, as if he had just discovered something.
Someone tapped the sole of my boot. It was another railroad official, a tall, thin man with a gray uniform and a cruel face. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais? Paresseux! Lève-toi et va mériter ton salaire.” He, too, thought I was a lazy lout who didn’t earn my keep.
I tried my previous line—“Liberté, Egalité, Frat-”—but before I could finish, I recognized that vicious face.
Professor Moriarty plunged a knife into my chest.
I gasped and heard the air rush, bubbling, past the buried blade.
“Thomas, you’re the first to go—bait to capture Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty whispered as he drew out his knife. “Die knowing that you were killed by the greatest crime lord who ever lived.”
39
CONFRONTATION
Anna felt alone. Thomas lounged on a set of crates near the engine, and Holmes poked about among passengers at the caboose. Meanwhile, Anna was stuck in the middle, watching for Father. There was no sign yet.
A burly porter shouldered his way through the crowd, a heavy trunk on his back. With a groan, he swung the trunk around and let it crash down on the planks beside Anna’s feet.
She glared at him. “Regardez ce que vous faites!”
He looked at her thickly and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Il m’a dit de le faire.”
“Who told you to—?” Anna began. But then she saw the distant man.
Her father, dressed in the blue suit of a conductor, was leaning menacingly over Thomas.
“Father?” Anna took a step toward him, but someone grabbed her arm and yanked her back. It was Holmes.
“You mustn’t,” he admonished, pointing. “Look!”
Her father drew back from Thomas, and a bright wedge of steel glinted between them—a knife tipped in a triangle of blood. Withdrawing the knife into his sleeve, Moriarty turned toward Anna and flashed a triumphant grin.
Anna tried to break free from Holmes, but he held on.
“Wait till I’ve run him off. Then go to Thomas.”
With that, Holmes darted away, weaving expertly through the crowd despite cassock and beard.
Anna’s father laughed wickedly and dived into a mass of passing travelers. He disappeared among them.
Anna rushed after Holmes, but the crowd closed around her. She shoved her way forward.
“Pardonnez-moi,” a woman snarled as Anna pushed her aside.
Others turned at the ruckus, eyes annoyed and lips brimming with reproach, but Anna shouted, “He’s been stabbed! On l’a poignardé!” A path cleared ahead of her, and she charged down the corridor of bewildered faces to reach Thomas.
He lay on the crates and gasped for breath. One hand clutched his chest, and bright red blood foamed out between his fingers.
“Thomas!” Anna set her hand on his. “Your heart.”
“My … my lung,” he managed, coughing. Blood rimmed his gums as he looked up at her in panic.
“Help! We need help! Un homme a été poignardé!”
The mob pressed up around them, but no one offered aid. One young man took a look at Thomas, pivoted, and emptied his stomach on the ground. The lady beside him collapsed in a magnificent faint.
“Est-ce que quelqu‘un peut m’aider?”
A man in a pinstriped suit muscled through the line of gawkers, his fleshy fingers gripping the handle of a medical bag. “What’s it? What’s happened?”
Oh, that blessed London accent! thought Anna. “He’s been stabbed in the lung!”
The doctor set his bag beside Thomas, wrenched it open, and drew out a scalpel. “Pull his hand away.” Anna did, and the doctor sliced the dirty tunic away from his chest.
The wound was a vermilion puncture, two inches wide and very deep, and the skin around it was paper-white.
“Help him!”
Hand shaking slightly, the doctor reached into his bag and drew out a roll of gauze and pressed a wad of it into the wound. Then he held his hand over the spot.
Eyes clenched in agony, Thomas gasped, “I can hardly breathe!” The words rattled in his throat.
“His lung’s collapsed. It’s filling with blood. We have to get him to hospital.” The doctor’s eyes fixed on Anna’s. “I don’t know Paris.”
She swallowed. “The cabbies do. Can you lift him?”
The doctor nodded once, gritted his jaw, stooped down, and hoisted Thomas over his shoulder. Anna staggered back in awe. The doctor seemed almost a bear—so brawny and powerful. “Clear the way!”
“Dégagez le passage! Degagez le passage!” Anna pushed back the crowd of gawkers. The good doctor marched out behind her. Two young Parisian lads ran ahead of them, taking up Anna’s shout and shoving pedestrians aside.
She broke into a run, heading for the street. A line of cabs waited there, and Anna charged for the first one. “A l’aide! A l’aide! Nous avons un blessé!”
The cabby looked at her in terror, cracked the reins, and sent his carriage bolting away. Anna stopped, stunned, and then saw, within the compartment, her father’s devilish face leering out at her. The next carriage in line bounded out after it, driven by a priest with cassock and beard.
The doctor trudged up behind Anna. “Quickly now. His life hangs by a thread!”
She ran toward the next cab, fifty yards farther down. “A l‘aide! A l’aide! Nous avons un blessé!”
This time the cabby, noble soul, drove his coach up onto the pavement, scattering pigeons and pedestrians and heaving to a stop right in front of Anna. She grabbed the coach door and swung it wide, and the doctor clambered up the steps to dump Thomas on the seat within. Meanwhile, Anna craned up toward the driver. “A l’hôpital!”
“Les Invalides!” he replied with a nod.
She squeezed into the carriage beside the doctor and Thomas and slammed the door behind her. The coach lurched into motion, and Thomas nearly tumbled from the seat. He was unconscious now, blood painting his lips.
The doctor said, “Help me bend him over. We’ve got to get some of this blood out.” The doctor pivoted to grab one of Thomas’s shoulders, and Anna grabbed the other. “On three,” he said. “One, two, three—!”
They thrust Thomas forward, doubling him over. He groaned, and a great gobbet shot from his mouth, followed by a red gush. Thomas coughed explosively, and more of the stuff came out.
“Haven’t had many of these, have you?” Anna asked nervously.
“All too many,” the doctor replied. “Bayonet wounds—Afghan campaign.”
The carriage jolted, and Anna and the doctor braced themselves to keep from pitching onto the floor.
Beyond the window, the streets of Paris flew by, people running from the hansom’s path or standing on the pavement and staring openmouthed as they thundered past. There was a tremendous wailing sound like a siren: The driver stood in his seat and shouted the way clear.
“Il y a urgence! Il y a urgence!”
The coach scraped along another cab heading the other way, and the doctor and Anna struggled to hold Thomas in his seat.
“Help me lift him again!”
Gritting her teeth, Anna leaned back and hauled Thomas upright. She and the doctor braced him there. He was breathing again, raggedly, but his face was still slack and unconscious. He looked horrible—blanched except where the blood
was.
“Les Invalides!” cried the cabby as the coach bounded up off the road and clattered down a cobblestone approach. His horses whickered as they passed beneath the first great archway and into the inner courtyard.
The doctor craned his neck out the window to shout, “Take us to admitting!”
“Parlez-vous français?”
Anna yelled up through the trap, “Le bureau des admissions!”
The coach turned sharply, and the cabby resumed his call of “Urgences!”
Next moment, the carriage jolted to a stop before a broad double door.
Anna pushed open the carriage door and climbed out as the good doctor hefted Thomas once again on his shoulder and backed from the cab.
Behind them, the double doors swung wide, and nurses in white scrambled out. One took a look at Thomas and ran back into the building. Next moment, a pair of orderlies appeared with a stretcher slung between them. They rushed to the doctor, who gratefully heaved Thomas onto the stretcher. There was a trail of blood down the doctor’s back.
A French doctor bustled out of the doors, his waxed mustache curling above his cheeks. “Qu est-ce que cest?”
“Urgences!” blurted the cabby, who had leaped down from the carriage to join in the excitement.
“Il ne peut pas respirer. Il a été poignarde en pleine poitrine—une mauvaise blessure,” Anna explained.
Apparently the doctor was unimpressed with her French, for he switched to English. “Hello, mademoiselle. I am Dr. Maison, and I must ask you a few questions. Is this man a veteran?”
“I am a veteran,” interposed the Londoner, “and a doctor.”
“And this man is a veteran, too,” Anna lied.
“Where are his papers?” Dr. Maison asked.
“Urgences!” the cabby repeated.
“You’ll get his papers after you save his life!” Anna said.
Dr. Maison rolled his eyes and gestured to his English counterpart. “We will take him if you come within and sign for him.”
The orderlies carried the stretcher with Thomas through the double doors and into a receiving hall. The others followed.
The Shadow of Reichenbach Falls Page 21