John Lescroart - Son of Holmes

• Название: Son of Holmes
• Автор: John Lescroart
• Издательство: New American Library
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература
• Год: 2003
• ISBN: 9780451208750

John Lescroart offers an engrossing historical mystery that takes us to a small French town in the dark days of World War I-where the rumor is that Auguste Lupa is the son of the greatest detective of all time. And his mysterious legacy may come to light as he attempts to solve the baffling murder of an intelligence agent...

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Georges returned Ponty’s smile. “Your secret is safe with us, eh, Jules?”

“To our graves,” I responded.

“And now,” Ponty said, opening the double doors, “let me show you . . .”

Our tour continued for the next hour or so. None of the other rooms, it turned out, was as closely guarded as the explosives room, though security everywhere was tight.

The factory made everything from bullets and bombs to rifles and cannons. The next cavernous room was dedicated to working out the rough edges of a motorized armored car with mounted cannons, which Ponty thought would become a powerful new battlefield weapon. The preliminary sketches and models we saw were impressive, but it seemed to me that they still had a long way to go. Ponty hoped to complete a working model within six months, though, and Georges, after careful consideration, pronounced himself in agreement with that verdict. There were many other research rooms which Ponty could not show us. He apologized for this, and we both assured him we understood completely and had very much enjoyed the look around. Finally Maurice—he was “Maurice” by then—showed us to the door and bade us adieu.

“We don’t have visitors very often,” he said, “and, as you said, we don’t want them, but it’s been a pleasure showing you both around.” Maurice turned to me. “Jules, I’m glad that you decided to satisfy your curiosity.” With that, we shook hands and he disappeared back into the building.

Walking back to the car, Georges and I were thoughtful. It was now dusk. The factories would be closing within the hour, and I wanted to get back home.

“Life is sure full of surprises,” Georges remarked, elbowing me slightly.

I said nothing but thought instead of the questions I would have for Tania.

“Very impressive place,” Georges said, diplomatically changing the subject. “I wouldn’t be too worried about a breach of security if I were Maurice. That anteroom scared me to death, to say nothing of the boilers.”

“Yes,” I said. “Unless the Germans take St. Etienne—in which case we’ll have lost the war anyway—I’d say that factory is safe. Awfully modern building, isn’t it?”

“I loved it. I could have stayed all day.”

Something was bothering me, so I thought I’d better say it. “Yes, I noticed how acute your interest was. I thought you’d be bored in there, though I was glad you accompanied me.”

“Bored? Not at all. Fascinated, truly fascinated. Perhaps I’ve never mentioned it, Jules, but my initial love was architecture. I studied it for years in school, and only my father’s passionate belief that all art was somewhat effete—backed by his promise to withhold any financial aid to myself—persuaded me to enter the dynamic and exciting world of business.” He seemed genuinely bitter, the sarcasm heavy.

“I didn’t mean . . .” I began, sorry that I had touched a nerve.

“No. That’s all right. People, in the end, do what they truly want to do, I suppose.”

We talked on for a few more minutes before I dropped him off at a hotel. As usual, in spite of the large delivery today, he had calls to make for the remainder of the week, the weekend notwithstanding.

“Unfortunately, the need for my products keeps increasing. It may be good for business, but I find it difficult to rejoice in the fact.”

“Will you be able to make it by next Wednesday?” I asked.

“I assume so. I’ll leave a message if I’m delayed.”

“Fine. Until then.”

The drive home was long and uneventful. I usually don’t like to drive at night, and by the time I had reached the road to Valence, it was completely dark. My headlights flushed a few animals along the way, but otherwise I saw nothing and heard only the sound of the engine, which drowned out my soft humming of the “Marseillaise.”

7

After dinner—a simple coq au vin and a bottle of beaujolais—Tania and I sat in the kitchen with brandy. The living room still made us nervous, and Fritz said he didn’t mind the intrusion. So we sat on wooden chairs across the table from one another. It was a quiet night. The large stone fireplace crackled from time to time, and Fritz, cleaning up, moved easily about. When he’d finished, he turned down the lamps and left us alone. The room was a montage of pale yellow light and black shadows. Something, probably a mouse, scampered across the floor.

Tania was wearing a light blouse with a tan wraparound skirt that came to a few inches above her ankles. She was beautiful enough to get away with that kind of dress, though it would properly be considered fairly risqué. Her long hair fell across her face, and looking across at her I found it very hard to believe that she was beginning her fifth decade. I got up, came around the table, and kissed her.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I went to see your friend Ponty today.”

Her shoulders stiffened a little. “What were you doing at the arms factory?”

“Georges had to deliver there, and I decided it would be a nice break to put off my appointment today and see this place you’ve talked about so much. It is a very impressive sight, though I wish they could do something about the smoke.”

“I know,” she said. “Isn’t the smell terrible?”

“Horrible. But I suppose when one works with sulfur, that’s impossible to avoid.”

We heard Fritz moving about behind us in his room. He usually did exercises and then read a bit before going to bed.

“How did you find Maurice?” she asked.

I described our tour, including the little episode at the door to the explosives room. Tania smiled and said that sounded just like Maurice. We sipped at our brandy, and the silence came back to surround us. There would never be a better time.

“Tania,” I began, then stopped, terrified. To me she was the most attractive woman in the world, and if I pressed on now I ran the risk of losing her. But I really had no choice—if I couldn’t ask, I had already lost her. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ponty’s proposal?”

Her shoulders sagged slightly as she put her snifter down. “Oh,” she said, “he told you about that?”

“It quite hurt me,” I said truthfully.

“Oh, Jules, I’m sorry.” She reached out across the table and covered my hand. “Maurice and I are only friends.”

“Obviously Maurice doesn’t feel the same way.”

“I know. I was very surprised.”

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have told me.”

She shrugged, squeezing my hand. “It didn’t matter. It had no effect on us. Why did you need to know?”

“Are we operating on a ‘need to know’ basis now?”

“What does that mean? Of course not. I just didn’t think it was so important, or appropriate. And really, Jules, it isn’t.”

“A marriage proposal isn’t important?”

“Not unless I’d have said yes, which I did not.”

I covered her hand with my own and stared into her guileless and beautiful face. “I’m afraid I’m uncomfortable with these secrets between us.”

She lowered her gaze and her voice. Her words seemed to have been wrung from her against her will, as though the necessity of having to admit it belied its own truth. “There are no secrets between us.”

Before I could respond, there was a crashing sound against the front door. I bolted up and ran to see what it had been. Outside, the night was inky black, and I could barely make out even the shadows of trees. Faintly, though, I heard what I took to be several pairs of retreating feet and some high-pitched giggling.

Tania had brought up a lantern and stood behind me. On the ground I could make out a large rock, which I bent over to pick up. There was a paper tied to it, and on the paper a crude drawing of a skull. I turned around and found Tania crying.

“Now, now,” I said, “it was simply a group of kids. You know they do this kind of thing often enough. And especially after word spread about Marcel’s murder in this house. If you listen you can still hear them giggling. Listen.”

And over the quiet fields did come the sound of young voices, muffled and diminishing but still audible.

We moved back inside and stood in the foyer. In spite of my words to Tania, I was shaken. This sort of thing did happen, I suppose, on occasion, but with suspicions already so high, it did my nerves no good. I walked back to the kitchen for another brandy, which I drank much too quickly. Coming back through the dark sitting room, I turned into the stairway and stood transfixed by what I saw.

Tania stood silhouetted against the top of the stairs, holding the lantern in her left hand. Her recent tears still glistened on her face, her hair hung to her shoulders, and she had undone her blouse, which now hung open before her. Very quietly she spoke: “Jules, come to bed. I’m afraid.”

Later, I could not sleep. Overcome by the events of the day, ashamed that I had doubted Tania, unnerved by the children’s prank, I got up and looked out the window. The only sound was the gurgle of the brook as it flowed through the arbor. A crescent moon had just risen, and it was somehow reassuring. In my mind I went over the details of the St. Etienne arsenal so that I could report the next morning to Lupa. At my desk, I lit the lamp and sketched from memory the general floor plan. That took my mind off my worries, and by the time I finished, I felt sleepy. I remembered, though, to write Fritz a note to have him wake me early; then I came back to the bed, where Tania lay, and crawled in beside her.

But just before I dozed off, I thought I heard the sound of a car engine starting, accompanied by indistinguishable voices drifting over the fields, finally fading into the noise of the engine as it roared toward St. Etienne.

8

Tania did not stir when Fritz knocked once discreetly. I rose immediately, tapping once on my bedstead to let him know I was awake. After a fast cup of coffee and several minutes of Fritz’s remonstrance over my sagging appetite, I was on my way to Lupa’s.

La Couronne hadn’t yet opened, but Charles stood behind the bar, dusting, and let me in after only a short wait. Lupa had given instructions that no one was to come to the kitchen without his approval, so I sat at the bar and had another coffee while Charles went to announce me.

He returned and I followed him down the narrow staircase to the kitchen. Lupa sat majestically at the table, clad in a brown silk robe with a yellow monogram, cleaning up the remainder of what had been his breakfast.

“One of the problems with being one’s own cook,” he began immediately, motioning me to be seated, “is deciding an order of courses that provides variety yet leaves oneself free to enjoy each course without having to tend to the next. These muffins, Jules, have become too cold while waiting for the eggs to set.”

I noticed he was having no trouble, however, in finishing off the cooled muffins. The eggs had, by the looks of the plate, long since disappeared. I mentioned this to him.

“Yes, but it’s not as enjoyable as it should be, as every meal should be. Every man’s life is divided up into eating, sleeping, and miscellaneous. Omnia vita in tres partes divisa est, if I might borrow from Caesar. Of their conscious moments, only in their enjoyment of food are all men brothers.”

I could think of several other conscious moments that might qualify as universally pleasing, but he was enjoying himself, so I let him expound.

“And here I am, presuming to call myself a cook, a chef. Ha! Jules, I nearly let the coffee boil!”

I shook my head sadly in commiseration. In spite of his petulance, which Tania had found so objectionable, I found him entertaining. He knew as well as anyone, possibly better than anyone, the gravity of our situation, but he wouldn’t let himself be bogged down in depression. He was a tonic to my flagging spirits.

“Did you get the beer?” I asked.

“Ah, yes. Thank you. Consistently excellent. Fritz brought it around yesterday.”

He pushed back his chair and settled himself more comfortably. After offering me breakfast or coffee, which I declined, he picked up his cup and sipped.

“Madame Chessal came by to see me yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. She told me about it.”

“She seemed rather upset by my lack of interest in the, ahem, proprieties. I tried to explain to her that worry merely clouds the intellect, that I meant no slight to Monsieur Routier, that I had been enthusiastic about sausage because I was talking about sausage, and that enthusiasm is a state of mind I try to cultivate about many subjects. I’m afraid my explanation fell on deaf ears. She left in rather a huff.”

“She was upset about Marcel,” I said. “They’d known each other a long time.”

“I understand that. But you understand I didn’t want to discuss Marcel’s death with her until I was certain she was not involved.”

“Are you?” I asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Perfectly, Jules, perfectly.”

How could I allay his suspicions when only yesterday I had harbored them myself? Still, I forced a response. “At the risk of usurping your methods, do you have anything specific, or is it just a feeling?”

Lupa sipped again at his coffee, smacked his lips with pleasure, then looked levelly at me across his desk. “The questions I have regarding Madame Chessal’s involvement in our inquiries fall into both categories. First, I must confess to a certain feeling that in a general way she is not being completely forthright, that she is hiding something. It may be nothing. It may be that she cultivates an aura of mystery. Many women do, you know, believing that it makes them interesting. In fact, it creates an impression of a fascinating personality that is all the more disappointing when the aura itself is revealed to be a sham.” He continued before I could remonstrate. “I don’t say that is the case here. I merely comment on my feeling.

“Specifically, there are several points. My operatives have stumbled on Madame Chessal many times in and around St. Etienne. She certainly has ready access to the arsenal there. As you yourself have pointed out, she has a relationship of some sort with the director. Secondly, poison is a classic woman’s weapon for murder. Additionally, I find it worthy of note that she is the only woman in what would otherwise be a vigorously masculine grouping.”

“How is that noteworthy?” I had to cut in. His suspicions of Tania seemed to me to be no more than a general indictment of female human beings, and I told him so.

“It’s true. I do have a prejudice there, probably inherited from my father. But I have verified it on my own many times.”

“But we’re talking specifically here about Tania.”

“I understand that. Don’t become upset, Jules. I would expect you to defend her, to be blind to the striking singularity of one woman fitting in so easily with five or six different men. It is certainly odd enough to be labeled a hard fact and to warrant some explanation.”