The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  From his inner beast pocket, Dupont withdrew two envelopes. “The first,” he continued, “was delivered to my home in Paris a week ago. At first I thought that it was yet another threat from a business rival. The message itself was short and quite vague: ‘Your time on earth is running short.’ It was not until I examined the note more deeply did I truly begin to fear for my life. You see, Mr. Holmes, this message was written in blood.”

  I sat upright in my seat suddenly. Dupont passed the letter to my friend. He took it and observed it first with the naked eye before peering at it through his convex lens.

  “It is genuinely blood,” my friend said length. “You will doubtlessly recall, Watson, that when first we met I was in the midst of developing a test to determine whether a substance perceived to be blood is actually blood. The congealed quality of the substance is enough to tell me that it is not ink.”

  “Naturally, I was scared out of my wits,” Dupont continued. “I made sure that all the doors and windows of my home were locked. I began to carry a gun on my person and slept with it under my pillow. My wife, Michelle, started to question me about my curious behavior, but I did not wish to disturb her.

  “However, my genuine terror only increased when, shortly after the arrival of that first letter, my pet dog disappeared from outside my own home in Paris. I feared that he had run away, but after searching for little more than an hour, my staff and I discovered that it had been slain. My wife knew something was amiss and confronted me that very night. I showed her the letter which I had received and together we believed that it was for the best that we leave Paris. I did not wish to make public my intent to travel to London, but it somehow it ended up in the majority of both Parisian and British papers. It was for that reason that I plotted to arrive here in London a full two days before my public arrival this morning. We traveled with some of my most trusted staff so we should want for nothing here in London. I even managed to hire a man with a similar resemblance to me to publicly be seen leaving the ship. I was taking no chances, whatsoever.

  “I thought, Mr. Holmes, that I was safe. And then, yesterday morning, I received yet another letter. It is postmarked London.”

  He handed the second envelope to Holmes. The threatening message was, once again, terse and to the point: “Death is Coming For You.”

  “It, too,” Dupont said grimly, “is written in blood.”

  He drew in a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. “Whoever has sent me these letters knew of my flight to London,” Dupont continued. “He knew that I would leave early and has dogged my heels across the Channel. Mr. Holmes, I beg of you. Please protect me.”

  “I am not a common bodyguard,” Holmes retorted, more coldly than I believed was warranted. He handed the letter back to our client, and eased back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other in a deceptively languid manner. “I shall, however, do my utmost to help you in unmasking your stalker. However, I must insist upon one thing M. Dupont: You must reveal to me all you know.”

  “I have told you everything.”

  “I do not think so,” Holmes icily replied. “You identified your stalker as ‘He’ a moment ago, almost as though you know precisely who is responsible for these acts against you. If you gave me some indication of who this man might be, I can go a long way towards clapping irons about his wrists.”

  Andre Dupont sucked in another deep breath. “I know of only one man who would have cause to wish such misfortunate on me,” he murmured. “But that man is dead. I am sure of it.”

  “Nevertheless, tell me about him M. Dupont.”

  Dupont leaned back in his chair and, for an instant, the ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. “You will notice,” he began, “that I am a collector. These paintings on the walls are all originals. Are you an art enthusiast yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I can appreciate a Bond Street art gallery as well as the next,” Holmes replied. I cast my friend a quizzical glance, silently asking him what this could possibly have to do with the matter at hand. Holmes met my eyes and seemed to silently address me, saying that all would become clear in time.

  “I have amassed something of a collection,” Dupont continued, rising from his chair and moving to a small, elegant-looking bureau in the corner of the room. From his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a key, and inserted it into the lock. He opened a cabinet door and removed a small case about six inches across, wrapped in a light cloth.

  “I have always had a fascination with art,” Dupont continued, “and from time to time, I have been captivated by the oeuvre. I confess, that I have always been riveted by Bosch’s depiction of Hell in The Garden of Earthly Delights. I suppose that is what led me on the path to having an eye for the fantastic and the unique.”

  Dupont accented the last word as he removed the cloth from the case. What lay beneath was a neat, glass container. It was the contents of that container which turned my blood to ice.

  Within the case sat a neatly severed human hand.

  Though I have a strong stomach and am immune to much, the sight made me feel dizzy for a moment. Perhaps it was the showman-like air which Dupont had adopted in revealing to us his unique piece of art. I looked to Holmes, but his face was cold and unreadable.

  “Whose hand is this?” Holmes asked at length.

  “The man’s name was Jacques Bonnaire,” Dupont replied. “He was a close friend of mine for many years until, after my wife and I married, he attempted to make love to her. I caught him in the act and shot him on the spot. He was severely wounded and, as he lay bleeding, I told Michelle to call for the police at once. When she had gone, I must have lost my head, Mr. Holmes, for I took up a knife and cut off his hand. I just wanted to make a point to the blackguard not to cross paths with me anymore. The police arrived and dealt with the matter. Luckily in France, crimes of passion are leniently treated under the law, and Bonnaire was hauled away a hospital. I have not heard of him since, but I cannot imagine that he survived his wounds.”

  Sherlock Holmes remained silent. For once, I could read Holmes’s cold, inscrutable eyes like a book and it came as little surprise to me when he opened his mouth a moment later and said, “Frankly you disgust me, M. Dupont and I shall have nothing to do with you.”

  “But what about the threats to my life?”

  “You seem like the type of man who is quite capable at defending himself,” Holmes retorted. “And, should you be too much of a coward to face your threats, then do what cowards do best: Run. You have shown yourself quite adept at that as well. Run away. Perhaps, back to Paris. Surely, Jacques Bonnaire will have quite a time crossing the Channel once again minus a hand and a bullet in his chest. That is my advice and I shall do nothing else but offer that alone. Good day, sir.”

  So saying, Holmes spun around on his heel and started out of the room.

  When I managed to catch my friend, he was already standing outside hailing a hansom back to Baker Street. Once we were ensconced in the belly of the cab, I could see Holmes silently gnashing his teeth.

  “It is said that you can judge a man’s character by the company he keeps,” he said “and I should surely never wish to keep company with M. Andre Dupont and his penchant for hacking off the hands of his rivals.”

  “I do not blame you, Holmes,” I said comfortingly.

  Holmes drew in a deep breath and sighed. “But I cannot help but think,” he murmured, “that I may have been hasty in my judgment and I have sent a man to his death. I fear that if my imitations prove to be correct once again, then M. Andre Dupont’s death may very well weigh on my conscience.”

  * * *

  Holmes refused to speak on the matter for the next few days and, it was only as I sorted through the first post of the day three days later, that the business of M. Andre Dupont re-entered our lives.

  “Postmarked Paris,” I said as I held a letter aloft.
I read the return address. “Inspector Durand. I say, Holmes, isn’t that-”

  “Yes,” Holmes interjected. “Inspector Durand was the most competent of investigators who we ran across during that bad business at the Paris Opera House five years back. Please, Watson, do me the service of reading the letter out.”

  I settled into my chair and opened the letter. It was written in an authoritative hand:

  Mr. Holmes,

  You will no doubt remember my name well. Though we seldom worked side-by-side so many years ago, I considered it a pleasure to have seen you in action. You have developed something of a following here on the Continent as your name has begun to appear in the press with frequent rapidity.

  I wish then that it could be under better circumstances that I write to you, and I severely hope that when you receive this letter that you are able to drop whatever it is that currently occupies you and join me in Paris. To put it briefly, it is murder - the murder of Andre Dupont, the wealthy businessman. If it were only a routine investigation, I should not think on troubling you as I do. However, the savagery with which this murder was committed is unlike anything I have seen in many years of working as a police inspector. Both M. Dupont and his wife, Michelle, fell victim to the murderer. They were stabbed to death and discovered with one of their hands neatly cut off.

  “Good Lord, Holmes!”

  The inspector’s words seemed to cut into me like a knife as well, and I felt a shiver run up and down my back. I hardly had time to register Holmes bolting from his chair and perusing the train directory.

  “The boat-train to Paris leaves in two hours, Watson,” he said. “If we make haste, we can still catch it.”

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest of the letter?”

  “On the train,” Holmes said, as he rushed off to his room with a frenzied wave of his hand. “We must act while the game is still very much afoot.”

  The next hour disappeared in a flurry of packing of bags. Holmes rushed off a telegram replying to Durand, and we soon found ourselves charging across the station platform and ducking into a first-class carriage. I was only catching breath as the train became wreathed in smoke and pulled out the station. Once we found ourselves hurtling across the English countryside, I cast a glance across to my friend. He stared out of the window at the passing fields, his face betraying no discernible emotion. I wondered if the deaths of Dupont and his wife were, indeed, weighing on my friend’s mind. Knowing him, he would blame himself for their violent ends. I was almost inclined to say something in an attempt to break him free from his reverie, but I decided against it.

  We passed the voyage in relative silence, broken only by Holmes pressing me for more information from Durand’s letter. After I had read a part through, he would sit in silence and contemplate the scant words for what masqueraded as hours before urging me to continue.

  Inspector Durand had explained that the room in which M. Dupont and his wife were discovered was the locked sitting room of their well-appointed abode, located on a well-to-do road in the middle of Paris. The bodies had been discovered by the valet, Alexandre, who had contacted the police at once. Aside from a servant girl, there were no other persons in the house.

  A silent passage by boat was followed by another sojourn by train. It seemed as though the foul weather which had descended on London had followed us to the Continent. Rain lashed the train compartment windows and, when we finally arrived in Paris, we found ourselves rushing to hail a cab and avoid the deluge. Holmes had done us the service of booking a last-minute set of rooms at a hotel and, after we checked in, he sent off another telegram to Inspector Durand announcing our arrival. It had been a long, exhausting day, and at the end of it I found myself famished. I ate a small repast, and was not surprised - and not pleased - that Holmes refused to take any nourishment. I had just gathered up my plates and silverware when we were arrested by a knock on our door.

  Holmes answered the call and found the familiar figure of Inspector Durand in the doorway. The half-decade since last we had met had been good to the inspector. He was a tall, lean man, broad-shouldered, and rather statuesque in appearance. He had a long face with deep-set eyes, and a shock of fair hair atop his head. He furled his umbrella while my friend relieved him of his coat, gesturing for the representative of the Parisian police to draw up before the fire.

  “You look as though you could use a drink, Inspector,” I said as I poured him a brandy from the sideboard. He accepted the libation all too readily.

  “Merci, Doctor,” he said, draining his glass. “It has been quite a day.”

  Holmes took a seat opposite the inspector and lit a cigarette. “Dr. Watson did me the service of reading the details of the case,” he began. “Are there any particularities which you were unable to convey to me?”

  “None, M. Holmes,” Durand replied. “All of the facts which are in my possession were highlighted. And, alas, very little has been gained from the investigation.”

  “I assume that you have conducted an examination of M. Dupont’s papers and personal possessions?” Holmes asked.

  “Why, of course,” Durand said, appearing slightly injured by Holmes’s question. Perhaps the inspector did not know Holmes well enough to understand my friend’s low opinion of the official police.

  “Did you happen to find any mention of a man called Jacques Bonnaire?”

  Durand considered for a moment. “No,” he said. “Why? Who is this Jacques Bonnaire?”

  “At present,” Holmes replied, blowing a ring of smoke about his gaunt head, “he is a suspect of particular interest. However, as it is a capitol mistake to theorize before one is in possession of all the facts, I shall do my utmost not to let the lamented M. Bonnaire enter into the investigation at this time.”

  “But if he could have an impact on this case,” Durand said, “it would be a grave miscarriage of justice not to pursue this particular thread. Who is Jacques Bonnaire?”

  “Holmes and I were contacted by M. Dupont in London three days ago,” I began. “Dupont had been receiving a number of threatening letters - first, here in Paris, and again in London. He believed that they were sent by a man named Jacques Bonnaire, his one-time friend who tried to seduce Dupont’s wife. In retaliation, Dupont shot Bonnaire and cut off the man’s hand. Dupont lost all traces of Bonnaire after the incident, but seeing how these murders have a strong link to the incident involving Bonnaire, it is understandable how he should become a suspect.”

  “I should think so!” the inspector exclaimed. “I shall make it a priority to look into this Jacques Bonnaire character.”

  “No, Inspector,” Holmes retorted rather coldly. “You should make it a priority to allow Dr. Watson and me to examine the bodies. I assume they have been taken to the mortuary? Excellent. Though the hour is rather late, I can think of no time like the present to visit the morgue.”

  In short order, the three of us had donned our hats and coats and had stepped into the street. The deluge had lessened and a mist was falling upon us. Inspector Durand hailed us a cab and, as we climbed inside, a palpable silence descended over us. I watched as Holmes peered out at the passing rain-soaked city. The City of Light took on a haunting yellow glow as the undulating flames of gas lamps mingled with the wall of fog and mist into which our carriage trundled.

  We alighted before a small, stone building tucked on a side-street. Inspector Durand eased open the door and we stepped inside. The smell of death was overwhelming and I clapped a hand to my nose. Though I have in my time been in the presence of death and decay - as both a soldier and a doctor - I would never be able to become immune to the thick, cloying stench of loss. Holmes, however, did not seem to take notice and proceeded into the room. We approached two tables standing side-by-side, the familiar shapes of cadavers atop them, covered in shrouds.

  Durand drew back the white sheets which covered the bo
dies, and I stared at the pale corpses. Holmes circled the table and, from his inner pocket, withdrew his convex lens. Leaning over the body of Andre Dupont, he held the lens close to the wound which had been the cause of his death. Moving swiftly to the body of Madame Dupont, he did the same. In life, Michelle Dupont would have been a lovely woman. She was tall and lean, with a head of charcoal-black hair which would have cascaded down her shoulders. Despite what I knew of Dupont’s dubious past, I could not reconcile the claiming of the life of someone who I was sure was guilty of nothing.

  Holmes stood and pressed the magnifying glass into my hand. “I would appreciate a doctor’s opinion,” he said. “The wounds - they were inflicted with the same weapon?”

  Approaching the bodies, I held the lens close to my eye and examined the wounds in much the same manner as Holmes had just done.

  “These wounds were undoubtedly inflicted by the same hand with the same weapon,” I said. “And, from the looks of it, I should think that the knife which did this was a large kitchen knife. The wounds are deep and quite wide.”

  “And the hands,” Holmes continued. “Would you say that the same knife was used to sever the hands?”

  I examined the bodies once more. “From what I could see, a different knife was used in this operation.”

  “A different knife?” Inspector Durand echoed.

  “I should imagine that the weapon was not as sharp as the one which dealt death to M. Durand and his wife. The cut is far more jagged and less clean.”

  I returned the lens to Holmes who pocketed it wordlessly. He tapped his long index finger against his lips for a moment.

  “Why should the murderer carry two knives on his person? What kind of butcher could have done this thing” Durand asked.