“We both know very well why you have reduced your workload.”
“I believe I have been entirely clear.”
“Not at all, Watson. Miss Terry is a charming companion. You do her a disservice by pretending she is not the reason for your change in schedule. I am least qualified to give advice regarding the fairer sex, but you really must come to terms with your feelings and hers.”
Holmes knew me well. It was true. I was quite taken with Miss Terry and she with me. Our experience in New York had created an emotional intimacy between us we may not have otherwise achieved. She had a recollection of the telephone call she had been forced to make and the humiliation that followed; she did not know the rest. I did not tell her I had seen her in the hotel room that night. I allowed I had been snatched before entering the hotel.
As I found more reasons to enjoy the company of Eden Terry, I communicated less frequently with Holmes. On my last visit to 221B, Holmes allowed he was restless and had decided to go on holiday. It was a spur of the moment decision.
“Most unlike you, Holmes,” I observed.
“Agreed, but I believe I have reached a point in my life where I may be unpredictable, n’est-ce pas?”
“Of course, but where will you go?” I asked, hardly convinced Holmes was being entirely open with me.
“Go?” Holmes asked. “I have yet to decide.”
“It bears repeating: most unlike you, Holmes.”
Holmes remained vague, assuring me postcards would follow.
* * *
Paris
I was to learn Holmes had made for Paris. He established a temporary residence at the Caron de Beaumarchais. How long he would stay, he could not say. The hotel management was delighted to have a guest of such celebrity. Mr. Holmes could stay whatever length of time he wished.
Holmes embraced the role of tourist, visiting galleries and sights throughout Paris. His visits were always to different locations bustling with visitors. His only routine was to take coffee every day at The Esplanade, a quaint outdoor café below The Eiffel Tower.
On Holmes’s eighth day in Paris, a visitor joined him for coffee. The visitor did not ask to join Holmes. He sat, uninvited.
Having immersed himself in a copy of Le Figaro, Holmes folded the newspaper and placed it on the table.
“General Lukin.”
“You are not surprised to see me, Mr. Holmes.”
“I thought you would never make contact. I have positively run out of sights to see in this glorious city.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since the day I returned to London.”
“Ah yes, your Baker Street misfits.”
“As a consulting detective, one is used to being followed. A competent tail is often difficult to spot. They are subtle in ways the thugs you surround yourself with are not. It has been my experience that Soviet goons are clumsy, stupid, and lazy.” Holmes took note of his surroundings. “Unless I am mistaken, you are in the company of four of those thugs now.”
“Most observant. I gather your routine has been designed to lure me to this very open and public setting.”
“I much prefer a bright and sunny location to a dark alley.”
“Where one would normally expect to find Sherlock Holmes lurking in the shadows.”
Holmes snapped his fingers for a waiter.
“Another espresso, steaming this time. Anything for you, General?”
“No!”
The waiter nodded and hurried away.
“Are you always so cavalier? You do not fear for your life, Mr. Holmes?”
“Should I? You had your opportunity to kill me at the crash site and you chose not to. From the beginning of your operation I have been a target. I presume I still am. Or is your interest in me now personal?”
“You have a well-deserved reputation for arrogance, Mr. Holmes.”
“General, you surely have not come to Paris to insult me.”
“I take it the young lady survived.”
“Recovered nicely.”
“She mistakenly assumed I was aiming for you, when in fact she was my target. Had she not lunged toward you the moment I fired, she would have been shot through the heart.”
“Agent Sands posed no threat to you.”
“Had the two of you remained on the ship, shooting her would not have been necessary. A young woman with her training and stamina could have easily tracked me down. I couldn’t take that chance.”
“That will no doubt prove a comfort to her. But tell me, General, how do you envision this little scene concluding?”
“I give you something to make you sleep, and then we whisk you away in a wheelchair. It is not uncommon for a tourist to fall ill.”
“Now that Arkady Shubin is no longer director of Foreign Intelligence, am I to assume revenge is no longer a consideration?”
Lukin stirred the air with his hand. “A little perhaps. We would like to embarrass the British government. What better way than by apprehending The Great Detective? That is what they call you, do they not?”
“You embarrass me. You must be a fan.”
“I see your intent is to get under my skin. You have succeeded. Our tête-à-tête has come to an end.”
The waiter from whom Holmes ordered the espresso approached the table. Holmes took note of the positions of Lukin’s men and the timing of the lifts that ferried visitors to the top of The Eiffel Tower. His means of escape would be limited to a single well-timed choice.
Lukin slipped his hand into his pocket.
As the waiter leaned forward to place the tray, Holmes slapped the tray with his hand. The tray and the scalding coffee hit General Lukin in the face. Lukin howled in pain.
Holmes bolted from the table and dashed toward the tower lifts. Lukin and his henchmen gave chase. The gate of the awaiting lift closed before his pursuers were close enough to grab Holmes.
Lukin watched the lift ascend, his face blistering from the hot coffee.
“One of you come with me. The rest of you cover the lifts,” Lukin ordered. “Holmes has no other way down. Make sure no one gets on. Tell them a deranged man poses a threat.”
Lukin and one of his thugs boarded the next lift for the second level of the tower. There he ordered all occupants out. “Police business,” he said.
Of the two lifts that accessed the top of the tower, one was closed for maintenance.
“Guard the stairs,” Lukin commanded. Once the operative lift returned to the second level, he entered the lift that would take him to the top of the tower and Sherlock Holmes.
After Holmes arrived at the top level, he noted visitor traffic was unusually light. A pair of lovers and a husband and wife with two children were the only ones present.
At best Holmes had less than two minutes to formulate a plan. The gate to the closed lift was padlocked. A warning sign was strung across the lift gate. The out of order lift sat immobile hundreds of feet below on the second level of the tower.
“Quickly, you must leave now!” Holmes ordered. “It is an emergency.”
“Should we wait for the lift?” The husband asked.
“No time. This is a very serious situation. Take the stairs down to the next level.”
Immediately the young couple and the family hurried to the stair entrance.
Holmes’s mind raced. “Wait!” He commanded. “Hairpins, I need hairpins. Two.”
The young woman shrugged. She didn’t use hairpins. She and her boyfriend hurried down the stairs.
The mother pushed her two children and husband into the stairwell. “Here!” She cried. She pulled two hairpins from her hair.
“Go. Hurry!” Holmes ordered.
Satisfied the young family was out of danger, Holmes ripped the
warning sign from the gate. Then he went to work on the lock. He expertly manipulated the hairpins until the lock clicked open. He slid open the gate and threw the notice and lock into the maw of the shaft. He closed the gate as the lift bearing General Lukin arrived.
The general stepped out, pleased to see he and Holmes were the only two occupants of the upper most level.
Holmes stood with his back to the out of order lift. He had already determined Lukin would not use a gun. His specialty was syringes.
Lukin reached for his inside pocket and removed the syringe he had been reaching for when Holmes doused him with scalding hot coffee.
“That burn looks painful. You really should put something on it.”
“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Holmes? Have I fallen into your trap? Do you think a scalding hot cup of coffee will dissuade me from my purpose?”
Lukin pulled the protective shield from the syringe.
“As an Englishman, it is in my nature to maintain an appropriate social distance. Your plan to inject me with that syringe will necessitate that we stand uncomfortably close.”
“Be assured, Mr. Holmes, I have plenty of experience dealing with reluctant patients. Are we finished now? I have had enough of your foolish babble intended to distract me. If you imagine reinforcements are on their way to save you, you are mistaken.”
Lukin moved toward Holmes.
“I must commend you, General, you are a worthy-” Holmes abruptly stopped speaking and averted his eyes from Lukin’s with a slight nod of the head at something over the General’s shoulder.
In that time-tested and obvious ploy to distract, Lukin fell for the gambit. The instant Lukin glanced over his shoulder, Holmes grabbed the forearm of the hand holding the syringe and violently pulled Lukin toward him as his other hand yanked open the gate. Unable to stop his forward motion, Lukin teetered precariously on the edge of the elevator shaft. His arms flailed wildly in a useless attempt to maintain his balance. In the final moment of his life, Lukin glanced at Holmes with utter incomprehension.
“Perhaps, this is the reason I am known as The Great Detective,” Holmes said coldly.
Lukin’s scream lasted but a few seconds.
A flock of pigeons alit from The Eiffel Tower.
Holmes knew the henchmen would be long gone by the time he reached ground level. They would be fearing for their lives, not from Holmes or the French police, but from the Soviets.
In the days to follow, all manner of accusations would be exchanged regarding the death of the Soviet operative known as The Caretaker. The British would be blamed, and then the French. The Soviets would promise a thorough and transparent investigation. After several months, the Soviets would conclude their investigation claiming to know nothing of this man known as The Caretaker. He was an independent actor.
Eventually, another sociopath would take Lukin’s place.
British and French authorities wrapped up their investigations of Holmes in short order. Mycroft had seen to it that his brother would face no further scrutiny. Sherlock Holmes was free to resume his holiday.
Some weeks later I received a postcard posted from Italy. It was from Holmes, assuring me of his good spirits and good health. His return to London was imminent. But first he had a piece of business to take care of. He was pursuing a lead regarding an old flame.
“I’ll be damned,” I said.
John H. Watson, London, 1955
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Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 18