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Authors: John R. King

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BOOK: The Shadow of Reichenbach Falls

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THE MARTYRDOM OF GARE SAINT-LAZARE

T
he kiss was over before I realized it was happening. Anna drew away from me, and there I stood, a ragged young porter with feet planted on the Parisian pavement and heart pounding and lips tingling. I don’t know why she did it—the kiss. I wanted to chase after her and ask, but already her skirts receded in the morning crowd. A moment later, she was lost in the mob that poured down the street.

Shaking out my wobbly legs, I strode toward the Gare Saint-Lazare station. By now, Anna was somewhere inside, and her father was as well—or soon would be. I glanced up at the giant wrought-iron clock that filled one gable of the station—8:48. What had Holmes said? Seventy-one minutes from when? From 7:38? That meant that just now …

Ahead of me, in one of the glass-topped aisles of that huge station, a behemoth of metal snorted its way forward. Black smoke belched from its smokestack, and white steam jetted from its pistons and brakes.

“That’s it!” I said to myself, hurrying across the street among a herd of businessmen. I dodged past them, beginning to run, and broke from the crowd to descend to the platform.

Already, porters were hanging from the sides of the train, their outstretched legs reaching for the platform as it slowed below them. With a final hiss, the engine rolled to a stop, and
coupling after metal coupling clanked as each car nudged the one before. The porters leaped down and unfolded the metal stairs and extended their hands to ladies alighting and men who fumbled for a sou to tip them. These porters were the old ones, with seniority and stiff joints. They had the easy task, while their younger brothers hauled trunks on their backs or dug crates from the undercarriage storage bins.

I stood near the engine, watching as a tide of humanity poured off the coaches. Which man was Moriarty? It was a long train, stretching a quarter mile ahead of me, and I could only be certain of the passengers debarking the first four cars. Beyond that …

There was Anna. She’d posted herself near the center of the train and was looking up and down the length of it, wringing a white handkerchief. At first, my heart broke for her—so afraid—but then I realized she was acting, playing her part. Every now and again, she even stood on tiptoes and perched her hand above her brow like some Bo Peep searching for her sheep—or rather for the wolf among them.

And beyond Anna, I caught sight of a priest with a big hat and a bigger beard. Holmes had taken his post at the rear of the train. I felt suddenly better. We three were smart and vigilant. It was just a matter of time before one of us spotted him.

A man grabbed my shoulder and turned me about. His face was craggy like an eroded stone, and he wore the coal-and sweat-soaked tunic of a fireman.
“Toi, paresseux! Bouge-toi! Tu vois toutes ces caisses qu’il faut bouger!”
He wanted to know why I was just standing around when there were so many cases to move.

I smiled fearlessly at him and replied,
“Liberté, Egalité, Fraternitél”

He snarled and took a swing at my head, but I simply ducked under the blow. My tormenter overbalanced—perhaps
a bit tipsy—and staggered on past. With a cocky grin, I watched him go. This new persona of mine—the lazy lout with a loud mouth—felt right.

I walked to a pile of trunks and baggage that had been unloaded by more industrious types, sat down on one crate, leaned against another, and tilted my cap so that I looked asleep.

Ah, the perfect cover. From this vantage, I could see the first four cars clearly, and every person that descended those iron steps. I also could watch Anna in her distressed dance, kerchief coiling like a living thing in her fretful hands. Good acting. Good girl. And with a little roll of my eyes, I could even see Holmes moving among the tide of passengers.

He seemed to look toward me in that moment, and the sunlight suddenly flashed beneath the broad brim of his hat to show wide eyes. The effect was almost comical. Holmes turned toward me and began swimming through the tide of passengers, as if he had just discovered something.

Someone tapped the sole of my boot. It was another railroad official, a tall, thin man with a gray uniform and a cruel face.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais? Paresseux! Lève-toi et va mériter ton salaire.
” He, too, thought I was a lazy lout who didn’t earn my keep.

I tried my previous line—
“Liberté, Egalité, Frat-”
—but before I could finish, I recognized that vicious face.

Professor Moriarty plunged a knife into my chest.

I gasped and heard the air rush, bubbling, past the buried blade.

“Thomas, you’re the first to go—bait to capture Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty whispered as he drew out his knife. “Die knowing that you were killed by the greatest crime lord who ever lived.”

CONFRONTATION

Anna felt alone. Thomas lounged on a set of crates near the engine, and Holmes poked about among passengers at the caboose. Meanwhile, Anna was stuck in the middle, watching for Father. There was no sign yet.

A burly porter shouldered his way through the crowd, a heavy trunk on his back. With a groan, he swung the trunk around and let it crash down on the planks beside Anna’s feet.

She glared at him.
“Regardez ce que vous faites!”

He looked at her thickly and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“Il m’a dit de le faire.
”

“Who told you to—?” Anna began. But then she saw the distant man.

Her father, dressed in the blue suit of a conductor, was leaning menacingly over Thomas.

“Father?” Anna took a step toward him, but someone grabbed her arm and yanked her back. It was Holmes.

“You mustn’t,” he admonished, pointing. “Look!”

Her father drew back from Thomas, and a bright wedge of steel glinted between them—a knife tipped in a triangle of blood. Withdrawing the knife into his sleeve, Moriarty turned toward Anna and flashed a triumphant grin.

Anna tried to break free from Holmes, but he held on.

“Wait till I’ve run him off. Then go to Thomas.”

With that, Holmes darted away, weaving expertly through the crowd despite cassock and beard.

Anna’s father laughed wickedly and dived into a mass of passing travelers. He disappeared among them.

Anna rushed after Holmes, but the crowd closed around her. She shoved her way forward.

“Pardonnez-moi,”
a woman snarled as Anna pushed her aside.

Others turned at the ruckus, eyes annoyed and lips brimming with reproach, but Anna shouted, “He’s been stabbed!
On l’a poignardé!”
A path cleared ahead of her, and she charged down the corridor of bewildered faces to reach Thomas.

He lay on the crates and gasped for breath. One hand clutched his chest, and bright red blood foamed out between his fingers.

“Thomas!” Anna set her hand on his. “Your heart.”

“My … my lung,” he managed, coughing. Blood rimmed his gums as he looked up at her in panic.

“Help! We need help!
Un homme a été poignardé
!”

The mob pressed up around them, but no one offered aid. One young man took a look at Thomas, pivoted, and emptied his stomach on the ground. The lady beside him collapsed in a magnificent faint.

“Est-ce que quelqu‘un peut m’aider?”

A man in a pinstriped suit muscled through the line of gawkers, his fleshy fingers gripping the handle of a medical bag. “What’s it? What’s happened?”

Oh, that blessed London accent!
thought Anna. “He’s been stabbed in the lung!”

The doctor set his bag beside Thomas, wrenched it open, and drew out a scalpel. “Pull his hand away.” Anna did, and the doctor sliced the dirty tunic away from his chest.

The wound was a vermilion puncture, two inches wide and very deep, and the skin around it was paper-white.

“Help him!”

Hand shaking slightly, the doctor reached into his bag and drew out a roll of gauze and pressed a wad of it into the wound. Then he held his hand over the spot.

Eyes clenched in agony, Thomas gasped, “I can hardly breathe!” The words rattled in his throat.

“His lung’s collapsed. It’s filling with blood. We have to get him to hospital.” The doctor’s eyes fixed on Anna’s. “I don’t know Paris.”

She swallowed. “The cabbies do. Can you lift him?”

The doctor nodded once, gritted his jaw, stooped down, and hoisted Thomas over his shoulder. Anna staggered back in awe. The doctor seemed almost a bear—so brawny and powerful. “Clear the way!”

“Dégagez le passage! Degagez le passage!”
Anna pushed back the crowd of gawkers. The good doctor marched out behind her. Two young Parisian lads ran ahead of them, taking up Anna’s shout and shoving pedestrians aside.

She broke into a run, heading for the street. A line of cabs waited there, and Anna charged for the first one. “
A l’aide! A l’aide! Nous avons un blessé!”

The cabby looked at her in terror, cracked the reins, and sent his carriage bolting away. Anna stopped, stunned, and then saw, within the compartment, her father’s devilish face leering out at her. The next carriage in line bounded out after it, driven by a priest with cassock and beard.

The doctor trudged up behind Anna. “Quickly now. His life hangs by a thread!”

She ran toward the next cab, fifty yards farther down. “
A l‘aide! A l’aide! Nous avons un blessé!”

This time the cabby, noble soul, drove his coach up onto
the pavement, scattering pigeons and pedestrians and heaving to a stop right in front of Anna. She grabbed the coach door and swung it wide, and the doctor clambered up the steps to dump Thomas on the seat within. Meanwhile, Anna craned up toward the driver. “
A l’hôpital!”

“Les Invalides!”
he replied with a nod.

She squeezed into the carriage beside the doctor and Thomas and slammed the door behind her. The coach lurched into motion, and Thomas nearly tumbled from the seat. He was unconscious now, blood painting his lips.

The doctor said, “Help me bend him over. We’ve got to get some of this blood out.” The doctor pivoted to grab one of Thomas’s shoulders, and Anna grabbed the other. “On three,” he said. “One, two, three—!”

They thrust Thomas forward, doubling him over. He groaned, and a great gobbet shot from his mouth, followed by a red gush. Thomas coughed explosively, and more of the stuff came out.

“Haven’t had many of these, have you?” Anna asked nervously.

“All too many,” the doctor replied. “Bayonet wounds—Afghan campaign.”

The carriage jolted, and Anna and the doctor braced themselves to keep from pitching onto the floor.

Beyond the window, the streets of Paris flew by, people running from the hansom’s path or standing on the pavement and staring openmouthed as they thundered past. There was a tremendous wailing sound like a siren: The driver stood in his seat and shouted the way clear.

“Il y a urgence! Il y a urgence!”

The coach scraped along another cab heading the other way, and the doctor and Anna struggled to hold Thomas in his seat.

“Help me lift him again!”

Gritting her teeth, Anna leaned back and hauled Thomas upright. She and the doctor braced him there. He was breathing again, raggedly, but his face was still slack and unconscious. He looked horrible—blanched except where the blood was.

“Les Invalides!”
cried the cabby as the coach bounded up off the road and clattered down a cobblestone approach. His horses whickered as they passed beneath the first great archway and into the inner courtyard.

The doctor craned his neck out the window to shout, “Take us to admitting!”

“Parlez-vous français?”

Anna yelled up through the trap,
“Le bureau des admissions!”

The coach turned sharply, and the cabby resumed his call of
“Urgences!”

Next moment, the carriage jolted to a stop before a broad double door.

Anna pushed open the carriage door and climbed out as the good doctor hefted Thomas once again on his shoulder and backed from the cab.

Behind them, the double doors swung wide, and nurses in white scrambled out. One took a look at Thomas and ran back into the building. Next moment, a pair of orderlies appeared with a stretcher slung between them. They rushed to the doctor, who gratefully heaved Thomas onto the stretcher. There was a trail of blood down the doctor’s back.

A French doctor bustled out of the doors, his waxed mustache curling above his cheeks.
“Qu est-ce que cest?”

“Urgences!”
blurted the cabby, who had leaped down from the carriage to join in the excitement.

“Il ne peut pas respirer. Il a été poignarde en pleine poitrine—une mauvaise blessure,
” Anna explained.

Apparently the doctor was unimpressed with her French,
for he switched to English. “Hello, mademoiselle. I am Dr. Maison, and I must ask you a few questions. Is this man a veteran?”

“I
am a veteran,” interposed the Londoner, “and a doctor.”

“And this man is a veteran, too,” Anna lied.

“Where are his papers?” Dr. Maison asked.

“Urgences!”
the cabby repeated.

“You’ll get his papers after you save his life!” Anna said.

Dr. Maison rolled his eyes and gestured to his English counterpart. “We will take him if you come within and sign for him.”

The orderlies carried the stretcher with Thomas through the double doors and into a receiving hall. The others followed.

The space was small and book-lined, with the doctor’s desk at one end and a fireplace and armchairs at the other end. The orderlies went through the room to another set of doors that opened into an operating theater. Setting the stretcher down on a table, the orderlies moved back while nurses buzzed about with bandages and alcohol and needles and knives.

“Vous devez attendre a l’exterieur,
” one of them told Anna.

They wanted her to leave, but she lingered at Thomas’s side. He was still unconscious. The rattle in his lung was terrible to hear, and he had room only for the smallest of breaths. “They’ll save you, Thomas,” Anna said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “They’ll save you.”

A nurse tugged gently at her elbow, drawing her away. Anna turned and walked numbly out of the operating theater.

In the book-lined room beyond, the doctor from London leaned over the desk and signed a form that was pinned beneath his hand. Then, turning, he went to Anna. “He’s in good hands. It’s all we can hope for.”

“Thanks for all you’ve done,” Anna told him. “I’m afraid
your suit’s been ruined. I’m sorry to have dragged you into all of this.”

His weathered face twitched with agitation. “Don’t apologize to me. It was my desperate errand, not yours. I fear that you and your friend were merely a diversion to throw me off track.” His eyes dropped to his hands, stained in blood and ink, and he muttered, “Every minute the trail goes colder. Ruddy henchman!” Looking up again, the doctor managed a smile and said, “I must get back to Gare Saint-Lazare. Good-bye, my dear.” He hastily lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. Then he turned and stormed away, calling to the cabby.

“Thank you!” Anna yelled after him as he climbed into the coach. The cabby snapped the reins, and the horses clomped forward in a great curve. The carriage was dwindling in the distance when Anna realized she had never gotten the man’s name.

Turning, she retreated to the receiving room and stared down at the form that lay on the desk. The signature read: “Dr. John H. Watson.”

Anna staggered back in amazement.

Of course, she thought. Watson had been at Reichenbach when all this had happened. Surely he’d looked for the bodies of Holmes and Moriarty, had spent a week chasing someone—a henchman—and had followed him to the Paris Express. Watson didn’t realize he was following Moriarty himself. Father must have hid away from him and then disguised himself as a conductor to be able to make his exit.

Watson was right. Father had stabbed Thomas merely to create a diversion. With one stroke of his knife, he had waylaid Watson, Thomas, and Anna.

At least he hadn’t waylaid Sherlock Holmes.

BOOK: The Shadow of Reichenbach Falls

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