The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [149]
“Brag all you like,” snarled Huret, as the police dragged him off. “It doesn’t matter. You have no evidence, no proof. I have powerful friends. You will never see me stand trial.”
Holmes’ features were grim as the officers dragged Huret from the dining room. “He’s a very dangerous man, Girac. To many people.”
“I will make sure he is guarded day and night, Mr Holmes,” declared the Inspector. The room had emptied and we stood alone in its center. “The President, I am sure, will want to thank you personally for saving his life. A brilliant piece of detection.”
Holmes waved a hand in the air, as if dismissing the compliment. “Elementary, Girac. Huret’s letters to the newspapers aroused my immediate suspicion. No truly professional criminal brags of his crimes without reason. Best to keep their misdeeds secret. Since Huret never failed to write about each murder, I sensed that the communications served some purpose. The common thread in all of them was his mention of a champagne toast to his victim. I therefore reasoned that Huret was trying to establish his status as a gentleman of leisure.”
“The papers dubbed him the Boulevard Assassin, Holmes,” I declared. “So he succeeded in convincing them of his stature.”
“Exactly, Watson. And what gentleman would ever stoop so low as to associate with the working class? Definitely not a Boulevardier.”
“So our assassin assumed the identities of common laborers to commit his crimes?” asked Girac.
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “Along with his champagne toast, he always mentioned a bit of currant pudding in his letters. What gentleman eats pudding, Inspector? That is a meal for the poor.”
“But surely, Holmes,” I said, “why would Huret give himself away, while at the same time, pushing his image as a Boulevardier?”
Holmes reached into his violin case for his pipe. “You gave me that answer, Watson, when you remarked that Huret killed to prove his mental superiority over his peers. And I told you that such vanity would be Huret’s downfall. Some of us have no need to play such games. Huret simply wasn’t smart enough.”
“The scoundrel!” exclaimed Girac. “To think he could pull this off, pretending to be one of my men – ”
“A rogue, as Doctor Watson described him,” said Holmes, “but nonetheless a clever one. Who better to commit a crime than an assassin disguised as a police officer? They can go where others cannot, are ignored by the general public, and are considered above suspicion. And, except to a perceptive few, one policeman looks like every other.”
“An assassin who disguised himself as a member of the police force,” I declared, amazed. “What audacity.”
“Tonight?” asked Girac.
“With no guarantee when the President would return to Paris, Huret had to strike before Casimir-Periot left. His employers, whomever they may be, I am sure wanted immediate results. Thus, he was forced to choose between the opera or the club.
“The crowds of people at the opera, I suspect, would have made it impossible for him to reach the President. Besides, with the police thinking him a gentleman, they would naturally assume he would prefer to act in such surroundings. That belief was, of course, mistaken. Huret’s success relied on deceit and disguise. In the confines of a private club, his chance of success was much greater. I planned a trap, using the President as bait, and Huret stepped into my web.
“His plan was simple and effective. An attack by street thugs on the President’s carriage draws you, Girac, away from the dining room. Then, the same thugs fire their pistols into the air, creating a disturbance inside the club. In the ensuing confusion, Huret enters from the kitchen, in police uniform. By sheer force of will, he commands your men to guard the front door – from a menace that does not exist – while he escorts the President to safety. Once out of sight, he stabs the President and walks away, mentally composing