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Holmes shook his head. “For the true intellectual, such games are unnecessary. This flaw in Huret’s character will be his downfall.”

“Let us hope so,” said Guret. “The man is a master of disguise. No one knows his features or his methods. He strikes like a snake then disappears without ever being seen. Only his victims serve as evidence of his skill.

“You are famous as a solver of crimes, Mr Holmes. However, the challenge faced here is much greater. Can you, without clues or evidence, prevent a murder from taking place? Can you stop Huret, Parisian man-about-town and professional murderer, from crippling my country?”

My friend’s eyes glistened with excitement. He lived for such moments. “Your assessment of the difficulty of the case is correct, Inspector. Preventing a crime verges on the impossible. Outguessing a dedicated assassin requires genius. The criminal can pick his time, his spot, and his method of execution. There are too many variables to prepare for every possibility. And, from what little I have read about Huret, he is the best of the breed. In the past, he has proven unstoppable. But,” and there was more than a hint of arrogance in my friend’s voice, “never before has he been confronted by Sherlock Holmes.”

2

The next morning, Holmes and I set off for Paris. It was a dull, uneventful trip. For secrecy’s sake, we traveled on our own, without Girac. Holmes remained deep in thought the entire journey, his eyes closed in concentration. Knowing better than to disturb, I kept myself busy by reading the accounts of Huret’s previous crimes left with us by Inspector Girac.

The more I read, the worse I felt. Holmes had faced many challenges in his illustrious career, but never before had he faced a criminal without a face. Huret was no street Apache roaming the back alleys of Paris. The assassin was a gentleman rogue who mocked the police over their inability to stop him.

Though he was responsible for nearly a dozen murders, Huret remained a complete enigma to the Sûreté. He could be anyone, a fact gleefully picked up by the newspapers who dubbed Huret “The Boulevard Assassin”. As the journalists had it, the murderer could be the gentleman walking the boulevard at your side. He could be your neighbor or your best friend. He could be anyone.

In one instance, Huret disguised himself as an Earl’s footman. Having killed the real servant, Huret took his place, and several days later, murdered the nobleman on the way to the opera. Clearly, Huret’s disguise had been so masterful that he completely fooled the Earl, a man who had employed the footman for twenty years.

Perhaps worse, on another occasion, Huret assumed the identity of a chef in one of Paris’ leading clubs. In a private room, an elderly Viscount and his three sons were dining. Huret cooked an elaborate dinner – red mullet with Cardinal sauce, turtle soup, oyster pâtés, fish, sweetbreads, stewed beef, fruit, chocolate creams: ten full courses in all. Huret was seen by the owner of the club and the servants who waited on the diners; all were convinced that Huret was the chef they’d known for the past sixteen years. By the time the servants left the kitchen with the desserts and sherry, Huret was long gone. But the sherry killed all four men.

The only fact known about Huret was that he was a man of tremendous vanity. He delighted in baiting the police. After each crime, he sent a letter to the leading newspapers claiming responsibility for the assassination. According to his statements, he wanted no innocent bystander blamed for his deed. Oftentimes, Huret mentioned sharing a drink with his victim shortly before their death. In his closing, the assassin never failed to state that after posting his letter he would raise a glass of champagne, paid by his ill-gotten gains, in a farewell toast to his victim, then down it with a dish of currant pudding.

That audacious act of knavery elucidated Holmes’s only remark on the crimes during our entire trip. We were in a cab speeding to the house Girac had arranged for our use while in Paris. “You noticed,