The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  “Yes,” I responded, “it is indeed I. Again, I require to know the purpose of your visit.”

  “I’ve brought you a message, monsieur,” the urchin stated.

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know the gentleman’s name,” he replied.

  “Then what is the message?”

  The boy held the object in his hand closer to the opening. I could see now that it was a letter, folded and sealed with wax, and crumpled and covered with grime. It struck me that the boy might have found the paper lying in a gutter and brought it to me as part of a devious scheme, but then I remembered that he had known my name, a feat not likely on the part of a wild street urchin.

  “I can’t read, monsieur,” the child said. “The gentleman gave it me and directed me to your lodging. I know numbers, some, and was able to find your place, monsieur.”

  “Very well,” I assented, “give me the paper.”

  “I’ve got to be paid first, monsieur.”

  The boy’s demand was annoying, and yet he had performed a service and was, I suppose, entitled to his pay. Perhaps the mysterious gentleman who had dispatched him had already furnished him with payment, but this was a contingency beyond my ability to influence. Telling the child to await my return I closed the door, made my way to the place where I keep my small treasury, and extracted from it a sou coin.

  At the doorway once more I exchanged the coin for the paper and sent the child on his way. Returning to the dual illumination of hearth and oil lamp, I broke the seal that held the letter closed and unfolded the sheet of foolscap. The flickering firelight revealed to me the work of a familiar hand, albeit one I had not glimpsed for many years, and a message that was characteristically terse and demanding.

  Come at once. A matter of urgency.

  The message was signed with a single letter, the initial D.

  I rocked back upon my heels, sinking into the old chair which I had used as my comfort and my retreat from the world through the passing decades. I was clad in slippers and robe, nightcap perched upon my head. It has been my plan, following a small meal, to spend an hour reading, then retire to my narrow bed.

  Instead, I now garbed myself for the chill of the out-of-doors. Again I raided my own poor treasury and furnished myself with a small reserve of coins. In a short time I had left my apartment and stood upon my stoop, drawing the door closed behind me and turning my key in the lock.

  No address had been given in the demanding message, nor was the messenger anywhere to be seen. I could only infer from the lack of information to the contrary that my old friend was still to be located at the lodgings we once had shared, long ago.

  It was too far to travel on foot, so I hailed a passing cab, not without difficulty, and instructed the driver as to my destination. He looked at me with suspicion until I repeated the address, 33 Rue Dunot in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He held out his hand and refused to whip up until I had delivered the fare into his possession.

  The streets of the metropolis were deserted at this hour, and mostly silent save for an occasional shout of anger or moan of despair—the sounds of the night after even revellers have retired to their homes or elsewhere.

  As the cab drew up I exited from it and stood gazing at the old stone structure where the two of us had shared quarters for so long. Behind me I heard the driver grumble, then whip up, then pull away from number 33 with the creak of the wooden axle and the clatter of horse’s hooves on cobblestones.

  A light appeared in a window and I tried, without success, to espy the form of the person who held it. In a moment the light moved and I knew that my erstwhile friend was making his way to the door. I presented myself in time to hear the bar withdrawn and to see the door swing open.

  Before me stood my old friend, the world’s first and greatest consulting detective, the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin. Yet though it was unquestionably he, I was shocked at the ravages that the years had worked upon his once sharp-featured visage and whip-thin frame. He had grown old. The flesh did not so much cover his bones as hang from them. I saw that he still wore the smoked-glass spectacles of an earlier age; when he raised them to peer at me his once ferret-like eyes were dim and his hands, once as hard and steady as iron rods, appeared fragile and tremulous.

  “Do not stand there like a goose,” Dupin commanded, “surely by this time you know the way.”

  He retreated a pace and I entered the apartment which had meant so much to me in those days of our companionship. Characteristically, Dupin uttered not another syllable, but instead led the way through my onetime home. I shut the door behind me, then threw the heavy iron bolt, mindful of the enemies known to seek Dupin’s destruction in a former epoch. That any of them still survived was doubtful, that they remained capable of working mischief upon the great mind was close to what Dupin would have deemed “a nil possibility,” but still I threw the bolt.

  Dupin led the way to his book closet, and within moments it was almost as if the decades had slipped away. He seemed to regain his youthful vigour, and I my former enthusiasm. Not waiting for me to assume the sofa upon which I had so often reclined to peruse musty volumes in past decades, Dupin flung himself into his favourite seat. He seized a volume which he had laid face downward, its pages open, upon the arm of his chair.

  “Have you seen this?” he demanded angrily, brandishing the volume.

  I leaned forward, straining in the gloom to recognize the publication. “It bears no familiarity,” I confessed. “It looks but newly arrived, and my reading in recent years has been entirely of an antiquarian nature.”

  “Of course, of course,” Dupin muttered. “I will tell you what it is. I have been reading a volume translated from the English. Its title in our own tongue is Une Etude en Ecarlate. The author has divided the work into chapters. I will read to you from a chapter which he entitles ingenuously La Science de Deduction.

  Knowing that there was no stopping Dupin once he was determined upon a course, I settled upon the sofa. The room was not uncomfortable, I was in the company of my ancient friend, I was content.

  “I will omit the author’s interpolations,” Dupin prefaced his reading, “and present to you only the significant portions of his work. Very well, then!

  Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends’ thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine.

  With a furious gesture he flung the slim volume across the room against a shelf of volumes, where it struck, its pages fluttering, and fell to the carpet. I knew that the Poe to whom the writer averred was the American journalist who had visited Dupin and myself from time to time, authoring reports of the several mysteries which Dupin had unravelled—with, I took pride in recalling, my own modest, but not insubstantial assistance.

  “What think you of that?” Dupin demanded.

  “A cruel assessment,” I ventured, “and an inaccurate one. Why, on many occasions I can recall—”

  “Indeed, my good friend, you can recall the occasions upon which I interrupted your words to tell you your very thoughts.”

  “As you have just done,” I averred. I awaited further words from Dupin, but they were not at that moment forthcoming so I resumed my speech. “Who is the author of this scurrilous assessment?”

  “The author’s name matters not. It is the villain whom he quotes, who is of significance.”

  “And who, may I inquire, might that person be?”

  Dupin raised his eyes to the ceiling where smoke from the fireplace, draughty as ever, swirled menacingly. “He is one whom I met some years ago, long after you had departed these quarters, mon ami. I had by then largely retired from my labours as a consulting detective, and of course my reputation had long since reached the islands of fools.”

  By this time I could see that Dupin was off on a tale
, and I settled myself more thoroughly than ever upon the sofa, prepared to listen to the end.

  * * * *

  Those were days of tumult in our nation (Dupin said) when danger lurked at every turning and the most ordinary of municipal services were not to be taken for granted. When I received a message from across the Channel, I was of course intrigued.

  The writer was a young man who professed admiration for my exploits and a desire to learn my methods that he might emulate them in the building of a reputation and a career for himself in his own land. I received many such communications in those days, responding to them uniformly that the entire science of detection was but a matter of observation and deduction, and that any man or even woman of ordinary intelligence could match my feats did he or she but apply those faculties with which we are all equipped to their full capacity. But the person who had written to me mentioned a particular case which he had been employed to resolve, and when he described the case my curiosity was piqued.

  Your expression tells me that you, too, are aroused by the prospect of this case, and I will tell you what it concerned.

  The young man’s letter of application hinted only of a treasure of fabulous value, a cache of gold and gems lost some three centuries, that had become the subject of legend and of fanciful tales, but which he believed to exist in actuality and to be in France, nay, not merely in France but in the environs of Paris itself. Could he but find it he would be wealthy beyond the power of imagination, and if I would but assist him in his quest a portion of it would be mine.

  As you know, while I am of good family, I have long been of reduced means, and the prospect of restoring the fortunes of my forebears was an attractive one. My correspondent was reticent as to details in his letters, for I wrote back to him seeking further information but was unable to elicit useful data.

  At length I permitted him to visit me—yes, in this very apartment. From the first his eccentric nature was manifest. He arrived at a late hour, as late I daresay as you have yourself arrived this night. It was the night before that of the full moon. The air was clear and the sky filled with celestial objects whose illumination, added to that of the moon, approached that of the day.

  He sat upon the very sofa where you recline at this moment. No, there is no need to rise and examine the furnishing. You do make me smile, old friend. There is nothing to be learned from that old sofa.

  The young man, an Englishman, was of tall and muscular build with a hawklike visage, sharp features, and a sharp, observant mien. His clothing bore the strong odour of tobacco. His hollow eyes suggested his habituation to some stronger stimulant. His movements suggested one who has trained in the boxing ring; more, one who has at least familiarized himself with the Japanese art of baritsu, a subtle form of combat but recently introduced in a few secretive salons in Paris and Berlin, in London, and even in the city of Baltimore in Maryland.

  It took me but moments to realize that this was a person of unusual talent, potentially a practitioner of the craft of detection to approach my own level of proficiency. It was obvious to me as we conversed on this topic and that, the politics of our respective nations, the growing incidence of crime which respects neither border nor sea, the advances of science and literature among the Gallic and Anglic races, that he was watching me closely, attempting to draw my measure even as I was his.

  At length, feeling that I had seen all that he would reveal of himself, and growing impatient with his avoidance of the topic that had drawn him to my apartments, I demanded once for all that he describe that which he sought and in the recovery of which he desired my guidance, or else depart from my lodging, having provided me with an hour’s diversion and no more.

  “Very well, sir,” he replied, “I will tell you that I am in search of a bird.”

  Upon his making this statement I burst into laughter, only to be shocked back to sobriety by the stern expression upon the face of my visitor.

  “Surely, sir,” I exclaimed, “you did not brave the stormy waters of the Channel in search of a grouse or guinea hen.”

  “No, sir,” he replied, “I have come in search of a plain black bird, a bird variously described in the literature as a raven or, more likely, a hawk.”

  “The feathers of hawks are not black,” I replied.

  “Indeed, sir, you are correct. The feathers of hawks are not black, nor has this hawk feathers of any colour, but the colour of this hawk is golden.”

  “You insult me, sir,” I stated angrily.

  My visitor raised his eyebrows. “Why say you so?”

  “You come to me and speak only in riddles, as if you were humouring a playful child. A hawk that is black but has no feathers and yet is golden. If you do not make yourself more clear you must leave my apartments, and I wish you a speedy return to your country.”

  He raised a hand placatingly. “I did not wish to offend you, sir, nor to speak in conundrums. Pray, bear with me for a little longer and I will make clear the nature and history of the odd bird which I seek.”

  I permitted him to continue.

  “This was the representation of a bird,” quoth he, “the creation of a group of talented metalworkers and gem-smiths, Turkish slaves employed by the Grand Master Villiers de l’lsle d’Adam, of the Order of the Knights of Rhodes. It was crafted in the year 1530, and dispatched by galley from the Isles of Rhodes to Spain, where it was to be presented to the Emperor Charles the Fifth. Its height was as the length of your forearm. It was of solid gold, in the form of a standing hawk or raven, and it was crusted over with gems of the greatest variety and finest quality. Its value even at the time was immense. Today it would be incalculable!”

  He paused, a look in his eyes as if he could envision the fantastic sight of a golden falcon, emeralds for its eyes and rubies for its claws, circling the chamber. Then he resumed his narrative.

  He then did something which seemed, at the moment, very peculiar but which, I would come to realize, was in truth to have been expected of a man such as he. He leaped from his seat upon the cushion and began pacing restlessly around the chamber. At once I inquired as to what had caused such an abrupt alteration in his manner and demeanour, whereupon he turned upon me a visage transformed. The muscles of his face were drawn, his lips were pulled back to expose gleaming teeth, and his eyes, by heaven, his eyes glittered like the eyes of a wild leopard.

  “I must visit an apothecary at once,” he exclaimed.

  In response to this demand I remonstrated with him. “Sir, there is an excellent apothecary shop upon the Rue Dunot, an easy walk from here, but what is the urgency? A moment ago you were calmly describing a most extraordinary bird. Now you demand directions to the establishment of a chemist.”

  “It will pass,” he responded, most puzzlingly, “it will pass.”

  He sank once more to his former position upon the sofa and, pressing the heels of his hands to his deep-sunken eyes, paused to draw a deep breath.

  “Do you wish to continue?” I inquired.

  “Yes, yes. But if you would be so kind, monsieur, as to furnish me with a glass of wine, I would be most grateful.”

  I rose and proceeded to the wine cupboard, from which I drew a dust-coated bottle of my second-best vintage. In those days as in these, as you are of course aware, I saw fit to maintain my own household, without benefit of servant or staff. I poured a glass for my guest and he tossed it off as one would a draught of water, extending the emptied goblet for a second portion, which I forthwith poured. This he studied, lifted to his lips and sipped, then placed carefully upon the taboret before him.

  “Do you wish to continue your narration?” I inquired.

  “If you please,” he responded, “I beg your indulgence for my outburst. I am not, I must confess, entirely well.”

  “Should the need arise,” I assured him, “M. Konstantinides, the chemist, is qualified to provide specifics for all known illnesses. The hour is late and he would by now have closed his establishment for the night and retired to
his chamber, but I could rouse him in your behalf.”

  “You are gracious, sir. I trust that will prove unnecessary, but I am nonetheless grateful.” Once more he paused as if to gather his thoughts, then launched upon a further exposition. “I will not trouble you with every detail of the peregrinations of the golden falcon, save to point out that within our own generation it had passed into the possession of the Carlist movement in Spain.”

  To this statement I nodded. “Wars of succession are tiresome, but it seems they will be with us always, does it not? I was struck by the recent surrender of Señor Maroto’s Basque followers after their lengthy and strenuous resistance.”

  “You are well informed, sir! If you are familiar with the fate of the Basque Carlists, then you would know that Señor Ramon Cabrera has continued the struggle in Catalonia.”

  “He is also in dire straits, is he not?”

  “Yes, it appears that Her Majesty Isabella the Second is at last about to reap the harvest of the Salic Law invoked by her royal father. But I fear I am boring you, M. Dupin.”

  “Not so much boring as stimulating my curiosity. Surely, sir, you did not travel here from London merely to relate the saga of a fabulous bird and then digress upon the politics of the Spanish succession. How are these things related, for surely that must be the case. If you would be so kind as to come to the point, then.”

  “Indeed.” He bowed his head, then raised it once more. “You are aware, surely, that Don Carlos has sympathizers here in France. You were perhaps not aware that Señor Cabrera had sent an agent on a dangerous and secretive mission to traverse the passes of the Pyrenees and make his way to the chateau of a French sympathizer, no less a personage than the Duc de Lagny.”

  “I am familiar with Lagny,” I confessed. “I have had the pleasure of being introduced to His Grace and to Her Grace, the Duchess. Their chateau is of noteworthy architecture. But of the Duke’s Carlist sympathies I must confess profound ignorance.