Read Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin Online
Authors: John Hall
Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin
© John Hall 2012.
John Hall has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in the UK by Baker Street Studios Ltd, 2012.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
The Banque de France occupies Number 1 and Number 3 of the Rue de La Vrillière, Paris. At Number 2 in the same road is an old house decorated with turrets and possessed of a curious spiral balcony. From his post at the main entrance to the Bank, Monsieur Auguste Vauban, the doorman, could – with the exercise of a little ingenuity – see the old house at Number 2, and he spent many hours wondering about it. He wondered who had built it, who had owned it and lived in it, and he wondered what they had thought as they had stood on that odd balcony, or climbed to the turrets for a view over Paris.
Sometimes he would fancy that the turrets were battlements indeed, that they were perhaps part of the great works constructed by his illustrious, but – alas! – unrelated, namesake. He would picture to himself the great men of old, those gallant cavaliers and lords and kings of whom he had so often read, coming galloping down the familiar street hot from some battle, and ready for a night’s boasting and carousing.
And if, on occasion, Auguste imagined that there was some beautiful woman in the old house, in mortal danger from which only one bold, resourceful man could save her, well, Auguste was a Frenchman; and besides, his work was not invariably of the most exciting. Indeed, if one is to be honest, it was frequently downright dull.
There were exceptions, to be sure, to the everyday routine. Auguste’s working hours were not entirely devoid of all interest, particularly when a member of the aristocracy visited the Bank, which was by no means a rare occurrence. Such visits were usually a matter of business, as one may suppose; but sometimes they were for pleasure.
The guidebooks tell us that the building which houses the Bank was formerly the Hôtel de La Vrilliére,, that it was built by Mansart in 1635, and that it was at one time the residence of the Princesse de Lamballe. The Bank retains the eighteenth-century Galerie Dorée, which may be seen by interested visitors who have first applied in writing to the Governor of the Bank. The admirable Baedeker even provides a specimen letter of application, for the benefit of English
milords
and others whose knowledge of the French language begins and ends with the fact that the pen of one’s aunt resides upon the table of one’s gardener’s uncle – interesting enough information in itself,
bien
entendu
, and raising many interesting questions in the mind of the acute reasoner besides; but then perhaps not of any great use in the more mundane business of
la
vie
quotidienne
.
On the morning of St Valentine’s Day, 1891, Auguste Vaudan was in his usual place. It was a Saturday, and Auguste naturally looked forward with some degree of pleasurable anticipation to the following day, when he intended to make a little excursion with his family. The Bank was busy enough, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to prevent Auguste’s mind wandering to the little inn which he knew well, an inn on the outskirts of the city, an inn where the red wine was as rough as the landlord’s invective, but where the fish was a feast for the gods. Auguste thought of the wine, and the fish, and of the countryside, which would just be starting to rally after the horrid drabness of winter.
Auguste’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a carriage. Auguste immediately took a couple of steps forward, for there was money here. The carriage itself, the pair of greys which pulled it, and the coat of arms on the door, all these things conspired together to make Auguste’s back just a little straighter, and his salute just a little crisper, than would normally have been the case. The man who descended from the carriage was just what Auguste would have expected. The aristocratic profile, the heavy diamond ring, the huge pearl in the cravat, the military bearing; these alone would have been sufficient recommendation, without the large, stiff, embossed card, or the
laissez
-
passer
signed by the Governor, which the visitor rather shyly proffered to Auguste – to Auguste, for all the world as if he were the manager himself ! And if the name on the card meant nothing to Auguste, then at least he knew that it would assuredly mean a great deal to his opposite number at the door of the Bank of England! One could see that at a glance!
Accordingly Auguste lost no time in summoning one of the senior clerks to conduct this English
milord
to the office of the assistant manager charged with entertaining such visitors. Auguste was rewarded with a smile which – almost – compensated for the meagre tip, itself a final and incontrovertible proof that the visitor was an English aristocrat.
In the office of the assistant manager, despite the favourable nature of the Englishman’s outward appearance, the visitor’s card, passport, and the letter from the Governor were all scrutinized with greater care than Auguste had bestowed upon them. Everything quickly proved to be in order, and the visitor was conducted to the Galerie Dorée, where his delighted reaction and murmurs of appreciation showed him to be a man of the utmost discernment. The assistant manager did not, of course, leave even so distinguished a foreigner alone, but waited discreetly on one side whilst the visitor saw all that there was to see, and made some notes with a gold pencil in a leather-bound book.
At the conclusion of the visit, the stranger asked if the assistant manager would care to improve their acquaintance over luncheon. The assistant manager felt that politeness required that he should show some hesitation; but when the stranger mentioned the restaurant which he proposed to visit, then hesitation turned at once to acquiescence. Auguste, still at his post, saw the stranger leave in the company of the assistant manager. Auguste gave the stranger his best salute; the stranger greeted Auguste almost as an old friend, and handed him a tip which more than compensated for his previous rather parsimonious behaviour.
The luncheon was everything the assistant manager had expected and more, although the conversation was somewhat limited. Indeed, there was really but one topic – the stranger asked certain very searching questions about the running of the Bank, the various safeguards and precautions against theft, and the like. The assistant manager was naturally flattered that the stranger was so interested, and was more than pleased to answer fully and frankly all that was asked.
At a somewhat later hour than usual, the assistant manager returned, alone, to the Bank. He greeted Auguste with considerably more warmth than was his wont, and Auguste, his mind filled with thoughts alike of expensive luncheons and the money seated snugly in his trousers pocket, gave a conspiratorial grin. The assistant manager then returned to his own office, there to doze unobserved.
Auguste, meantime, turned his thoughts to the money which was burning a hole in his pocket. He pictured to himself the large, chocolate-brown notes; he counted them over and over in his mind; and above all he saw the Sunday luncheon which the money would buy, a luncheon that should not disgrace the assistant manager of the Banque de France – nay, that would not bring a frown to the brow of Monsieur le Gouverneur himself!
Auguste’s delightful reverie was – for the second time that day – rudely interrupted after some thirty minutes by the arrival of two carriages, driven hard and with obvious urgency. The occupants leapt down almost before the carriages had properly come to a halt, and came up the steps to where the astonished Auguste stood.
The man at the head of the little group, a tall, thin man of striking appearance, fairly raced ahead of the others. He stopped in his headlong flight before Auguste and rapped out in a staccato fashion, ‘You have had a visitor today, is that not so? A man of such-and-such a description, who wished to visit the Galerie Dorée?’
‘It is so, Monsieur,’ stammered Auguste.
‘Is he still here?’
Auguste, his head whirling, could only stare at the man. The second of the group, a shorter, stout man who had taken the steps rather more sedately, had arrived by this time, and said, ‘Come, my good man. This is police business,’ and he held up a card which identified him as being from the office of the prefect of police. ‘Is this man still in the building?’ he asked.
‘No, Monsieur. He saw the assistant manager – they had luncheon together – ’
‘And where is the assistant manager?’ asked the tall man.
Auguste stammered out some directions, and the tall man raced off through the building.
The stout man looked sternly at Auguste. ‘You are to remain here,’ said he, ‘and keep a close watch on all who enter or leave. In particular, you are to watch for the man who was here this morning – for I can tell you frankly that he was an imposter, a villain of the deepest dye. Should you see him enter, you are to send a message at once to myself, or to Mr Sherlock Holmes.’ And he nodded after the tall man, who was now out of sight. ‘You are not to leave your post until we shall tell you that all is in order. You understand?’
Auguste nodded dumbly, and the stout man followed Sherlock Holmes into the Bank. The last two members of the group, a tall, thin man dressed in black, and a second rather stout gentleman whom Auguste recognized at once as a director of the Bank, looked gravely at Auguste, shook their heads sadly in unison, and followed their colleagues.
Auguste stood in the doorway, not knowing what to think. He looked at the driver of the nearest carriage, a question in his eyes, but the driver merely shrugged, as one who should say, ‘There is no use asking me,
mon
ami
, for who can say what the great men may do next?’
But still – Sherlock Holmes! The fact that the prefecture of police was involved was exciting enough, provoking enough – perhaps bad enough – of course, but that the famous Sherlock Holmes should himself take a hand! Auguste knew of Monsieur Holmes, of course – who did not? – for all the world knew that the man was no mere English
milord
, but a true Frenchman himself, though obliged – alas! – to hide his identity in perfidious Albion, doubtless for reasons political or amorous, one had no doubt. Perhaps both; with such a man, who could say?
Merde
, thought Auguste – his invariable first reaction to any crisis – and then, as his head cleared slightly,
Mais
qu’est
-
ce
qui
est
arrivé
?
Similar thoughts were going through the head of the assistant manager, as he stared, unbelieving, at Sherlock Holmes and his companions. If it were not for the presence of the director, who was of course well known to the assistant manager by sight, then the assistant manager would never have taken seriously the fantastic allegation that had just been put to him – no, not even though it had been the famous Monsieur Sherlock Holmes and the representative of the prefect of police who had made it!
‘But – but everything was in order, I assure you!’ was all he could eventually stammer out.
‘A clever forgery,’ said Holmes incisively. ‘Do you know who that was?’
‘But of course! His card, his passport – ’
‘Forged!’ cried Holmes. ‘That was Arsène Jupin himself!’
The assistant manager, overcome, sat down and mopped his brow. Jupin! Arsène Jupin! The notorious jewel thief! Jupin! As famous as Sherlock Holmes himself – more famous than Holmes, in France at any rate! Jupin, whose exploits were known to every reader of
Le
Miroir
, the newspaper which, so rumour had it, Jupin himself owned!
Holmes went on, ‘I am only thankful that we arrived before any real damage was done.’
The representative of the prefect cleared his throat with evident hesitation. ‘I take it we are all satisfied that no damage
was
done, then?’
The assistant manager mopped his brow. ‘Nothing, Monsieur! – I assure you – nothing has been taken from the Bank! It is impossible!’
‘But you say that he was asking questions throughout your meal?’ asked Holmes.
‘Indeed, Monsieur. He asked about the guards, the vaults –’
‘The vaults?’ snapped Holmes.
‘The vaults, Monsieur. They contain not merely notes but gold, both bullion and specie, together with a not inconsiderable quantity of diamonds – ’
‘You were not so foolish as to let him roam round these famous vaults, though?’ asked the man from the prefect’s office, sceptically.
‘Indeed not, Monsieur! But I may – that is – he was naturally interested – and yet I swear I told him nothing – nothing that is not common knowledge!’
‘Rumour has it,’ said Holmes, ‘that these same vaults may be flooded with water, or with some mephitic vapour, by the mere turning of a tap?’
The assistant manager, now very conscious of the fact that the manager – who should by rights, of course, have dealt with this sort of disturbing occurrence – had left early, it being a Saturday, looked anxiously at the director, who nodded discreetly to indicate that he should answer.
‘They are merely rumours, Monsieur,’ said the assistant manager. ‘Rumours which we do not take the trouble to counter, since they may well discourage those criminals who persist in taking them seriously. The vaults are, however, supplied with a quantity of sand, stored in bags which can be piled upon the valuables in case of need.’
‘Sand?’ asked Holmes.
‘Sand, Monsieur,’ said the director. ‘To prevent fire from reaching the notes, let us say; or to prevent damage by artillery bombardment, such as we Parisians have unfortunately experienced even in my own lifetime.’