The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [144]
The Adventure of the Parisian Gentleman
Robert Weinberg & Lois H. Gresh
1
More than once in my chronicles detailing the amazing deductions of Sherlock Holmes have I commented on my friend’s irritating lack of modesty. Though hating publicity of any sort, Holmes was justifiably proud of his work as a consulting detective. Never a humble man, he could be at times insufferably smug. However, when it came to morality, Sherlock Holmes never let vanity sway his sense of what was right. Never was this fact more clearly demonstrated than in the episode of the Parisian Gentleman.
It was a quiet evening in early October, 1894. A thick blanket of fog covered Baker Street. The evening edition contained little of interest and I relaxed, half-dozing, on the sofa. Holmes stood in front of the fire, smoking his pipe, a thoughtful expression on his face. From time to time, he glanced to the window. It was quite clear he was expecting a visitor.
“Are we due for some company tonight, my dear Holmes?” I asked, wondering what manner of trouble would soon be knocking at our door. “Something odd in the paper? Or, perhaps a difficult problem for the Yard?”
“Neither, Watson,” declared Holmes, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Our client comes from abroad. Start thinking about your wardrobe for a trip to the Continent. Tomorrow, we set off for Paris.”
“What?” I said, astonished. “Obviously, Holmes, you’ve already had discussions with this new patron.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “I have never spoken to the gentleman.”
“His letter then,” I continued. “He mentioned details in his correspondence with you.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Holmes. He dug out a folded piece of stationary from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “See for yourself.”
The paper was from the French Embassy. Scribbled in bold handwriting were the words, 9 PM at your quarters. Utmost urgency. Privacy Required. The note was signed, Girac.
“Who is this Girac?” I asked, shaking my head in bewilderment. I knew better than to question Holmes’s deductions. Though how these few words signalled a journey to Paris was a mystery to me. “Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” said Holmes. There were footsteps on the stairs leading to our rooms. My friend stepped to the door. “A member of the French Sûreté, he is quite famous for his problem-solving abilities. Some call him, I am told, the French Sherlock Holmes.”
A brisk knock indicated the arrival of our guest. “Inspector Girac,” said Holmes, as he ushered the Frenchman into our parlor. “I am Sherlock Holmes. And this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson.”
“A pleasure, gentlemen,” said Girac in a smooth, deep voice without the least trace of an accent. He was a tall, heavyset man with clean-shaven features, a thick mop of black hair, and dark, observant eyes. His gaze never rested, moving quickly from one point to another in our apartment. “Please excuse the lateness of the hour, but I needed to see you as soon as possible and embassy business kept me occupied until now.”
“Please be seated,” said Holmes, waving Girac to an empty chair. My friend strolled back to his place in front of the fire as the Frenchman sat down. “You are here, of course, concerning a new problem involving the Dreyfus case.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Girac, his eyes bulging in shock. “Can it be there is a spy in the Embassy? My mission is quite secret. Other than the President himself, no one knows why I’m in England.” The Frenchman shook his head in dismay. “We are undone.”
“Surely, Holmes,” I said, equally startled, “This revelation is magic.”
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “Merely an elementary exercise in logical thinking, Watson. You should know by now that superstition is no match for basic deduction.”
My friend held out the note he had shown me a few minutes earlier. He assumed the pose of a university professor, about to lecture his students. “Receiving this letter in the morning, I instantly knew important