The Soprano's Last Song

by Irene Adler

  “Of course,” I answered.

  “They arrested him while he was on a gutter. It was near the hotel where that man got murdered . . . Alfred Santi,” Lupin explained.

  “Have you talked to him?” I asked.

  Lupin shook his head. “They wouldn’t allow it. But Mr. Aronofsky — the owner of the circus — and I spoke with a lawyer . . . someone called . . . uh . . .”

  He dug into his pockets and found a business card, which he showed to us: Archibald J. Nisbett, Lawyer.

  “And what did Nisbett tell you?” Sherlock asked.

  “Nothing,” Lupin said, sighing as he lay back on the bed. “I have a meeting with him in less than an hour to gather some information . . .”

  “What a mess!” I said, looking at Sherlock. He did not seem worried, just focused — like he was thinking about many things at once.

  “I have to ask you something, Lupin,” he said in a firm voice.

  “My father didn’t do anything,” Lupin told him.

  “I don’t doubt it, but . . . your father was arrested while he was on a gutter by the Hotel Albion,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

  Lupin closed his eyes, still lying on the bed.

  “So the question is, what was your father doing there on the gutter?” Sherlock asked.

  A long silence followed, interrupted only by the ticking of a clock. When Lupin finally started talking, his voice was so quiet that Sherlock and I could not hear him. Another silence followed, and then he said, “Fine! I’ll tell you the truth. You’re my friends, right? But you both have to promise . . .” Lupin hesitated, then sat up to look at us. “You have to promise you won’t tell anyone for any reason.”

  We promised. I felt so many emotions then — pity, rage, shock — all of them bubbling up inside of me as tears threatened to fall from my eyes.

  “I believe my father is a thief,” confessed Lupin. Since neither Sherlock nor I said a word, he added, “I’ve known this for a while. It’s the only explanation for the fact that we can afford this lifestyle.” He gestured to the room around us as he got up from the bed. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you. It’s nothing like your homes, after all. But when you’re living on the road in a circus . . . this is pure luxury.”

  Lupin stood up and began pacing the room. “At first I thought it was my mother who took care of all this. She’s rich, you know. And she’s doing great wherever she is.” He laughed nervously and shook his head. “Her family never accepted my father — they never forgave her for falling in love with a man who worked in a circus. Someone who lives on the road, someone not good or proper . . . a thief!”

  He turned his back to us. The more he talked, the more he demonstrated the anger I had known him to have during the summer.

  “That’s how I grew up with my father and the circus. If I had to describe my mother, well, my memory fails me! But my father is more than just a father. You can’t understand what it means to grow up and wander around with him and the others from the circus. You create a bond that’s deeper than blood. My father taught me everything, and made sure I had everything I ever wanted. We followed the circus, but we always traveled on our own — first class, good hotels, first-rate locations.” Lupin shook his head. “I’ve always tried to ignore where the money came from, even if I knew the truth.”

  I shivered, thinking about our walk on the roofs of Saint-Malo during the summer, and I started to think about what types of skills Théophraste might be teaching his son.

  “Yes, my father is a thief. Now I’ve told you. And now you can leave this room and never come back. I can’t blame you if you don’t want to deal with a thief. But . . . even if it is true that my father is a thief . . . he is not a murderer. No way!”

  I walked across the room and stood in front of one of the dormer windows so my friends wouldn’t see the tears that were streaming from my eyes.

  As I rested my forehead against the window, I noticed some of the hotel staff talking on the street below, and then I saw the journalist we met in the lobby taking notes.

  I sniffed. Who knew what they had just made up about the arrest of the man in room 77. And everyone would believe it to be the truth.

  There was silence in the room again, thick as the fog outside.

  I could not take it anymore. “We must go to the Hotel Albion!” I said. I turned to my friends, drying the tears from my eyes. “Even down there, people are talking about Santi’s murder.”

  Sherlock and Lupin looked at me.

  “While you’re meeting with this lawyer, Lupin,” I continued, “Sherlock and I will try to figure out a way to help your father. What do you say?”

  Neither of them said a word. That was the way it worked with us. Sometimes all we needed was one look to say everything we held in our hearts.

  Chapter 9

  THE ART OF GOSSIP

  “Miss! Let me help you, please. Give it here, I’ve got it!” exclaimed the young Sherlock Holmes, as if the courtyard at the Hotel Albion was a stage and the laundry basket he held in front of him was a prop.

  My friend seemed so silly and theatrical in his attempt to make good with the laundress that I thought she might promptly tell him to get lost. Instead, she seemed to fall for it. She let Sherlock carry the basket to the laundry room and took the opportunity to fix her hair and apron. I followed them, pretending to be Sherlock’s sister.

  When Sherlock reappeared in the middle of the steam that rose above the tubs of hot water in the laundry room, she looked him up and down and said, “Spit it out, come on! Who are you? One of those people who writes for the newspaper?”

  “On my honor — no!” Sherlock said, pretending to be offended by the possibility.

  “You’re too good-looking to be from around here,” the laundress continued. “You’re too well dressed to be a busboy. So, if you’re not one of the reporters from the newspaper, I simply don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

  “I help ladies in distress . . . the basic duty of every gentleman!” Sherlock replied, acting surprised.

  “And who do you think I am, little prince? Do I look like a lady? And a distressed one, at that?” the woman asked, giggling. “It was kind of you to carry that basket for me, so I’ll give you a tip in return. You should wear a pair of glasses on that long, pointed nose of yours . . .”

  Sherlock laughed. The laundress laughed even harder and headed toward the steaming laundry tubs.

  My friend followed her. “I don’t want to lie to you, Miss,” he began, passing a bucket to her. “The truth is — I live nearby, and when I read about the murder in the newspaper, well, I couldn’t resist the temptation to look around.”

  “And you’ve done well, little prince,” the maid replied. “If only I didn’t have to do a darn thing all day, I should like to snoop as well!” She burst into thunderous laughter.

  “Well,” Sherlock said, straightening his back. “It’s not every day a murder occurs close to your home. Not to mention one that involves a famous character.”

  “Was he really so famous, that man who died?” the maid asked, rolling up her sleeves.

  “So they say.”

  “Psh! Those fools write like they know about things, but . . .”

  Sherlock threw a sheet to her.

  “But?” he prompted.

  “But if they had met him in person just once they wouldn’t have written that.”

  At that point, Sherlock turned and winked at me. The maid now seemed to have a great desire to talk.

  “Interesting!” he said. ”What do you mean exactly?”

  “Well, the assistant — Santi? — he seemed to me a poor man . . . in spirit and in wealth. Now, the older one — he’s rich and famous, indeed!”

  “Are you referring to Barzini?” Sherlock asked.

  “That’s him, little prince. Not to ment
ion Merridew . . . now that’s a lady. And a classy one at that! It’s true — certain things cannot be learned. I could spend a lifetime trying, but in the end I’m sure I could not even hold a glass with as much grace as Ms. Merridew does.” She giggled, and then continued. “But regarding men . . . who knows. Maybe I’d also be interested in the grumps!”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand, Miss,” Sherlock said.

  “I’ll explain,” she said, “but you must promise not to go gossiping around.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  She clicked her tongue, amused, and shook her head. “You’re also a liar! At your age!” she chuckled.

  “Not a liar, but, I repeat . . . just curious!” Sherlock protested.

  “Then listen to me here, curious little prince,” the laundress whispered as she threw a sheet into the water. “The fair lady Merridew was dating that man who died. Of the three, he was the least handsome and the most ill-tempered, and now the poor man is dead, God rest his soul. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, the man’s life must have been a nightmare! He was always nervous and in a bad mood, except when Ms. Merridew was around. Then everything changed. He would suddenly become cheerful and friendly . . . like a dog wagging his tail! But it never lasted long. As soon as she would leave the hotel to rehearse at the theater, he would become gloomy again. And he was unbearable!”

  “But did he get along with Barzini at least? After all, he was his personal assistant.”

  “Don’t joke, little prince! That man did not get along with anyone! Not with old Barzini, nor with the other one — the Frenchman.”

  “Duvel,” I muttered, recalling the name of the composer’s other assistant, who I had seen with Santi and Barzini in the theater the night before.

  “He and Santi would shoot each other glances of fire!” the laundress continued. “They looked like two lions in the same cage. You would never guess that they ate breakfast at the same table!”

  “And that thief who was arrested?” Sherlock asked. “What do they say about him, here at the hotel?”

  “That he was also a Frenchman,” the laundress replied promptly. “And he was apparently just a great bungler!”

  Sherlock raised an eyebrow, inviting the woman to explain.

  “To get caught by those fool cops who wander around the Albion area . . . he must really be an amateur!” she said.

  “Your observation is not very respectful of Scotland Yard, Miss,” Sherlock said, grinning. “But it is nonetheless interesting.”

  “What an honor!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “The little prince said that I was ‘interesting’! Now, before I regret what I told you, either pick up a board and help me wash or get a move on!” she concluded with a final laugh.

  It seemed that Sherlock wanted to gather a few more details on the matter from the laundress, but he was interrupted by a sudden noise that came from behind us.

  We exchanged a quick glance and headed toward the sound. It led us to the main entrance of the hotel. There we found a large group of reporters chattering, shaking their pencils and notebooks in the air toward the road.

  A luxurious black carriage had just arrived and journalists were pushing one another to get to the front of the crowd. Through the mass of arms, I saw Mr. Barzini climbing down from the carriage, followed by Duvel. Barzini wore a brilliant dark green velvet cape and a top hat, which he took off in front of the reporters, passing it to his assistant.

  “Let us by! Let us by, scoundrels!” the usher of the Albion barked, pushing between Maestro Barzini and the reporters. They shouted questions at the composer.

  “Maestro! What feelings are you having now?”

  “Mr. Barzini! Have you met Mr. Santi’s murderer?”

  “Could you ever forgive him?”

  “After this tragedy, will you keep composing? Or will you also retire from the scene, like Ophelia Merridew plans to?”

  “Will Mr. Duvel take the place of Mr. Santi?”

  Barzini staggered through the crowd, shaking hands here and there. He had a bewildered air about him. Duvel, like a little dog, trotted behind him, holding Barzini’s top hat close to his chest like a treasure.

  “I have nothing to say!” the composer yelled from the hotel entrance.

  But it was obvious that, on the contrary, he did want to say something, because then he announced, “If you must write something, write that Maestro Barzini lost someone yesterday who was as dear to him as a son . . . like a son!” Then he turned away, hiding his face in his hands, and disappeared into the building.

  I found myself realizing, with some horror, that people seemed more interested in snatching a few words from the famous Barzini than finding out how things really happened in that cursed room at the Hotel Albion.

  I was trying to make my way toward Sherlock, trapped in the crowd of reporters, when someone behind me called out my name.

  “Irene!”

  I turned. Lupin was running toward me. I met him partway and grabbed his hands, hopeful for news.

  “So, how was the lawyer?” I asked.

  Lupin was out of breath. He must have run half the length of town without stopping for a break.

  “Let’s sit over there,” I suggested, pointing to a small café on the opposite side of the road.

  “They set him up!” Lupin exclaimed after a long breath, his eyes fuming. “My father says he was framed!”

  At that moment, Sherlock also joined us, and he immediately looked at his friend with concern.

  “Get me something to drink,” Lupin said, panting. “And I will tell you everything!”

  Chapter 10

  A TRAP

  Lupin seemed a little less bewildered than when we had met him in his hotel room, but certainly not less concerned about his father’s fate. So, while my friend was quenching his thirst, gulping down cups of tea one after another, I felt the need to find some words that could give him a little hope.

  “Do you know what, Lupin?” I started out. “I think it’s encouraging to notice that we have already discovered some leads that might help reveal the truth about what happened.”

  “Leads?” Sherlock repeated, puzzled.

  “Of course,” I said, without any hesitation. “Love, for example.”

  “Love?” Sherlock said, his eyes wide.

  “A witch must have turned you into a parrot, Sherlock Holmes,” I said. I was overwhelmed at that point, sick and tired of his skepticism. “Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”

  “No, look . . . it’s just . . .” he mumbled, taken aback.

  “So let me continue,” I said. “I am referring to the love between Mr. Santi and Miss Merridew. The laundress at the Albion told us about their romance. The great Ophelia has captured many hearts in her time. How do we know that some jealous suitor did not want to get rid of her new love interest?”

  Sherlock looked like he was about to make one of his usual objections, but my recent outburst must have convinced him to remain silent. He simply shrugged in response.

  “Or can we exclude the possibility that behind the murder of Santi there is his young French rival, Duvel?” Lupin said. “He will likely become the next assistant of the great Barzini . . . he had everything to gain from Santi’s death!”

  “No one can exclude him at the moment. But no one will accuse him either,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair.

  Lupin, however, smiled and looked into my eyes with great sweetness. It was his way of thanking me for my support, I think. Then he took a last sip of tea and cleared his throat. “There is another suspect in this awful thing,” he revealed.

  Both my eyes and Sherlock’s darted over to him.

  “A Spaniard,” our friend whispered gravely.

  Foolishly, I was startled. I suppose I was not expecting the appea
rance of a mysterious stranger in this story.

  “Nisbett told me, actually, many things,” Lupin began. “Taking Nisbett’s advice, my father admitted some of his faults. He confessed that during the night of the murder he was really . . . working.”

  At that point, Lupin looked down at the ground and took a deep breath before continuing. “But that night he wasn’t working on his own, like usual. This time, the theft had been commissioned by a mysterious man with Spanish accent. The man had approached him the night before in Brighton after our circus show.” He paused.

  “And according to my father,” Lupin said, “this Spaniard seemed to understand very well what he was doing. He had a very detailed plan in mind. In fact, he even mentioned a specific window at the Hotel Albion, and he explained to my father that that room was where a very cruel man was staying. A man against whom he wanted revenge.”

  “Such as killing him, maybe,” Sherlock muttered quietly.

  “No,” Lupin replied stiffly. “The Spaniard’s plan wouldn’t have included any bloodshed — if it had, my father would never have agreed to carry it out for him!”

  “We know, Lupin.” I nodded. I gave Sherlock a diapproving look before turning back to Lupin. “Now tell us what this mysterious Spaniard had in mind.”

  “A simple but devastating theft,” Lupin said. “He asked my father to steal a statue of jade while the room was empty. The statue was a good-luck charm that Alfred Santi never let out of his sight. The Spaniard said that his enemy was so superstitious, and so obsessed with that statue, that stealing it would have Santi at his mercy.”

  “Sounds like a fictional story,” Sherlock said. “I do not understand how Mr. Théophraste —”

  “Are you unable to believe this?” Lupin asked. “It’s simple, Sherlock. The man was serious about his intentions. He paid my father a deposit of two hundred guineas, with a promise to pay the same amount after the job was completed.”

  Sherlock let out a loud whistle, which made all the customers in the café turn to look. It was, indeed, a considerable sum of money, and it explained perfectly why Théophraste Lupin was convinced that the matter was serious.