The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [148]
The food was excellent, though not the hearty English fare I preferred. Wine flowed freely and after long hours of worry, I relaxed. A half-dozen of Girac’s best men, dressed as gentlemen of leisure, were scattered throughout the dining room. Another three inspectors assisted the waiters.
We were just starting our quail when one of Girac’s men approached the table. Bending over, he consulted for a moment in low tones with the Inspector. The color drained from Girac’s face.
“Please, excuse me for a moment, Doctor Watson,” said Girac, getting to his feet. “There has been a disturbance outside. Some sort of scuffle involving the coachman. I will return in an instant. Please pay close attention to our … clients.”
I nodded, feeling perfectly safe in the dining room with the President surrounded by nearly a dozen police officers. Still, I worried where Holmes might be.
Girac had been gone for less than a minute when, without warning, a series of extremely loud pistol shots rang out in the courtyard fronting the club. Instantly, all through the room, men leapt to their feet and quickly converged on the President and his guest. The other patrons of the club, not knowing what was happening and seeing the stampede, started shouting. For a few seconds, panic reigned unchecked.
“Quickly,” said one of the officers, his authoritative voice rising over the pandemonium, “guard the entrance. Allow no one other than Inspector Girac. I will escort the President through the kitchen to safety.”
“That, sir, I regret to inform you,” said the violinist, stepping apart from the Chamber Quartet and placing a hand on the policeman’s right arm, “will not be possible.”
Angrily, the officer tried to shake himself free. But the musician refused to let go. “Who the devil do you think you are, giving orders to a member of the Sûreté?” the officer demanded, his voice shrill.
“I am Sherlock Holmes,” said the violinist. “And you sir, despite your protests to the contrary, are not a police officer. Instead, I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Huret, the notorious Boulevard Assassin.”
3
“You are insane,” declared the officer, shaking himself free of Holmes’s grip. “You are jeopardizing the life of the President with your mad accusations.”
Inspector Girac returned to the dining room and stared at the officer, as if trying to determine who he was. He shook his head, puzzled. “You look like Edward Ronet, but …”
The officer laughed. He was tall and handsome, with soft brown eyes, smooth brows, and a delicate mouth. His hair was a spray of blond curls peeking from beneath his officer’s cap. “I am Edward Ronet. I’ve been in your employ, sir, for most of my life, as was my father before me.”
Holmes removed his own cap, then peeled off a wig of long dark curls. “You are not the only master of disguise in this room,” he said, with a slight smile. “Accept your fate, Huret. Your bluff is undone.”
My friend glanced at the Inspector. “Any problems with the street Apaches outside.”
“They were nothing,” said Girac, shrugging. “Just a minor disturbance.”
“As I thought,” said Holmes. “Such working class hoodlums posed no threat to the safety of Monsieur Casimir-Perier. They’re after nothing but a rowdy good time. A small but important part of Huret’s scheme.”
Inspector Girac stared at the false officer. “An excellent disguise, but not good enough. Ronet has a small scar beneath his left eye. You, sir, do not.”
Girac gestured to his men. “Escort the President and the Ambassador to their carriage. They are overdue at the Embassy. Keep close watch, though I suspect there is nothing more to fear.”
Girac returend his gaze to Huret. “Take this one to the prison. Lock him in solitary, and guard him well. I’ve waited a long time to meet Monsieur Huret. We have a great