My Sherlock Holmes Read online

  He shrugged. “D’accord. We’re interested in the habits of certain French officers. The artillery officers, their vices and peccadilloes.”

  My mind went again to Holmes’s mysterious appearance and his begging me for information of a Comte in the military. Could this be connected … but how?

  “With an eye to blackmail, Meslay?”

  “Possibly, but more along the lines of bribery,” said Meslay. “We want to know who’s connected to Captain Dreyfus.”

  At that time, Dreyfus, a little known military officer, had been court-martialed and exiled to Devil’s Island. His name was not yet a household name. This was before the infamous article by Zola, J’accuse.

  “This seems difficult,” I said. Theater crew were close-knit, a camaraderie existed in the demimonde, and irreverent humor characterized the intellectuals.

  “A judicious scattering of these will help,” he said, pulling a wad of ten-sou notes from his pocket.

  He had a point and I certainly hoped so.

  “Let’s say your communication with me will be indicated when,” he said, picking up the wine bottle, “the bottle sits on your window ledge. We shall meet here.”

  “Your visits could draw attention,” I said, thinking of my inquisitive concierge to whom I owed a week’s back rent. “Come to the bouillon de Pères, the Pigalle soup canteen run by the good fathers to save wayward souls. At least it gives a respite and something warm for the stomach.” I winked. “The canteen sits between the restaurant de la Bohème and Club Boum-Boum in Place Pigalle. Père Angelo can be trusted with messages in case one of us might not make it.”

  “Aah, a dead-letter drop,” said Meslay.

  Fine, let Meslay define our arrangement as a sophisticated cloak and dagger routine. That bothered me little.

  We arranged our next meeting then he ducked his head under the slanting timbered roof and left. I watched his long-strided gait as he turned into wet slick rue Lepic. He didn’t turn back, though I’m sure he knew my eyes followed him from the window.

  Finding information about this Captain Dreyfus or the Comte shouldn’t prove too difficult, or so I hoped. Once I’d gathered up courage, the actual rounds in Montmartre and Pigalle proved curious. Fearing hoots of derisive laughter, I’d been taken aback at the Gallic shrug and open palm my mission received. To legitimize my quest, I implied the honor of the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VII, a known habitué of night life and certain “houses,” was at stake.

  So far, I’d bribed a crooked-nosed bouncer at the Cabaret aux Assas sins to inform me of officers’ visits, greased the palm of painters’ models in Montmartre ateliers over a bottle of absinthe, enlisting the aid of Rose la Rouge, a streetwalker and occasional cabaret singer, and arranged with a pianist who entertained in an infamous Sentier brothel to keep his eyes out for officers’ preferences.

  I also enlisted my former maid Leonie’s services. Since Esterhazy, a commissioned officer in the French army, worked at the Military ministry, Léonie, frequenting the office on the pretense of seeking work, would keep another eye on him.

  To Leonie’s and my good fortune, she was offered a job cleaning offices and assisting the concierge, who had a bad leg and approached retirement.

  But how to get invited to the gambling den Holmes mentioned? I thought much on the way to rehearsal. I passed the round metal TABAC sign above the dark wood shop at the foot of rue Tholoze deep in thought. I pondered Holmes’s words again and wondered if he and Meslay worked for the same side. Or not.

  But I wondered how to gain Bijou’s confidence. The brick-red moulin visible at the top loomed in the distance, the sails of which had long ceased to turn. I climbed the wide stairs with crownlike dark green gaslights dividing the staircase. Every so many steps grilled landings to the tall apartments and shops branched off from its spine.

  By the time I reached Le Chat Noir, I felt no wiser. I forged my way backstage past clowns, ventriloquists and belly dancers towards Bijou, the revue’s contortionist, limbering up. Bijou lifted her ruffled pantalooned leg straight up and notched the ankle behind her neck. After another vigorous stretch she collapsed into a full-split to my immense admiration. “Fantastique,” I said. “Bijou, you must be triple-jointed.”

  She grinned.

  A bottle of expensive scent sat on the dressing table.

  “Or in love,” I said.

  “Ask my new paramour,” she said, her supple arms in an arc. “He’s a grand mec, an aristocrat, not that you’d know it in the bedroom,” said Bijou, her gap-toothed smile infectious. Bijou’s boudoir philosophy seemed refreshing, if not accommodating. She loosened her dark brown topknot of curls, shook her head, then retied them. She stretched her long legs, then arched her back like a cat. “Enjoys the good life, does he?” I asked, hoping she’d rise to the bait.

  “He likes the tables,” she said.

  “A poker or chemin de fer aficionado?”

  She shrugged. “Both of course.”

  “I’m partial to baccarat.” I let out a loud sigh. “Believe it or not, but I helped many a ‘friend’ at the Grand Casino. We broke the bank at Monte once. Of course, a Moldavian prince kept buying me chips. Blue ones. And I kept winning more. Piles and piles of them. At the end of the night I treated all the waiters to champagne.”

  “But you’re down on your luck now, eh, americaine?” Bijou had street savvy.

  “Let the chips tell the story, but when I feel lucky nothing gets in the way. Bijou, there’s no other way to say it but, I attract good luck.”

  Chill cold emanated from the damp stone walls little dispelled by the small charcoal stove. The smell of greasepaint and fug of bodies weren’t hidden by the cheap rosewater the cancan girls liberally applied.

  “Why don’t you introduce me, Bijou?” I said applying powder in front of the mercury glass mirror running the length of the small dressing room. “I have a gift.”

  “Only one?” Bijou grinned, her ruffled pantaloons frayed in places. “Eh, americaine … he might go for that. He’s got friends who’d like you.”

  Le Chat Noir revue’s curtains opened with a whistler, in a black-and-white Pierrot costume with white face and tears, whose tune rivaled the birds. Strains from an accordion wheezed in the background while Bijou and Frederique, the contortionists, performed. Then followed my skit; a parody of the English. Anglo-French relations had been rocky since the Battle of Waterloo. I pantomimed Napoleon’s famous phrase that the British were a nation of shopkeepers. For the stuffy bureaucrat, I’d pick on the nearest portly gentleman in the crowd, sit on his lap and literally got him to eat peanuts out of my hand. The audiences loved it every time.

  To my disappointment, there seemed no trace of Bijou’s count in the audience. Nor the next day. No sign of Bijou either. Time for me to check in with my informants, loosen their tongues with more sous.

  “Ça va, Anton?” I asked the doorman at the Cabaret aux Assassins, as I trudged through Pigalle the next evening. I joined him under the fan-shaped glass and iron awning.

  “Fine, but the world looks heavy on your shoulders,” said Anton.

  “Nothing some interesting news won’t lighten,” I said, under my breath. Several bearded men emerged from the cabaret door, stamped their boots on the wet cobblestones. Anton motioned me to wait.

  Good, I needed a lead or promise of one.

  Surprised at the men’s refusal of Anton’s offer to hail them a hansom, I watched them trundle down the steep winding street.

  “So those Assassins prefer to walk?” I eyed the rain dancing over the cobbles.

  He grinned and his crooked nose shone in the lamplight. “Just Czechs from Prague with full bellies wanting to work off their repast,” he said. “But they were inquisitive, waited for a friend. A Hungarian officer. A count.”

  “The Hungarian count didn’t show up?” I asked, my ears perking up. The rain beat down and I hugged myself against the chill.

  “This Hungarian’s a commissioned French off
icer. No love lost there, I’d say, from their conversation.”

  Intrigued, I narrowed my eyes. “You speak Czechoslovakian?”

  “My mother was Czech,” he said. “But I don’t share that with many.”

  “Did they mention a Comte Esterhazy?” I said. I knew Esterhazy was a Polish name.

  “Esterhazy?” He tugged his beard. “Ferdinand Walsin was who they mentioned. He came, but I didn’t see him leave.”

  Where had I heard that? I thought hard.

  Of course, from Holmes! Marie-Charles-Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy … Comte Esterhazy. “You didn’t see him leave?”

  “Don’t have eyes in the back of my head when I take my dinner, do I?” I grinned. “But I thought all doormen had another set.”

  At least now I knew that Esterhazy visited and others looked for him as well.

  “Anton, what goes on here besides the cabaret and the food?”

  “And the high-stakes chemin de fer game?” he said, in a low voice.

  I nodded. “Higher stakes than the game above the printing shop in place Clichy?”

  “Many an inheritance has traded hands here as dawn rose over Montmartre.”

  This sounded like the type of game Esterhazy would be drawn to … as the cliched moth to a flame.

  I pressed franc notes in his hand. “If this Walsin shows up, later or anytime. Send a runner, find me, or leave a note with my concierge.”

  But tramping home from Pigalle that sleeting, frigid evening I noticed a stocky side-whiskered man following me. Had been since the Bateau Lavoir, the old washhouse taken over by artists, which fronted the cobbled square. Apprehension filled me.

  Past the small park, and up the steep winding cobbled streets I was followed.

  I ducked into the local alimentaire. The man who followed me waited outside. He eyed the window but I could see his large form, through the letters painted on the shop window, heaving to and fro.

  After selecting a hub of cheese, I paid the amount owing on my credit and scribbled a quick note to the proprietaire. The aproned proprietaire bagged my purchase, rubbed his hands on his stained apron, then gave a quick nod indicating the rear of the shop. And a wink.

  I scooted to the shop’s rear, past the tubs of brined fish, the freshly slaughtered rabbit haunches on ice, leaning flour sacks. Behind rue Lepic, the narrow cobbled street lay ice sheathed and icicles hung from handcarts.

  Relieved to see the narrow street deserted and to have lost the man, I battled the sleet to my oval courtyard in the adjoining street. After paying off my many debts, not enough had remained to find alternative lodging. So I remained, appreciative of my luck in having a warm garret.

  Madame Lusard, the concierge, a wire-haired battle-ax of a woman, thrust a batch of letters in my cold hands. She pulled her shawl tight around her, opened the door of her loge, and returned to a purring cat in front of her glowing grate. My excitement crested as I mounted the grooved worn stairs of the building, feeling the embossed vellum envelopes. Surely, evidence of a wealthy sender.

  Inside, I struggled out of my wet cloak, leaving puddles on the rough wood floor. After sticking scraps of newspaper in the window cracks to block the drafts, I pulled on my one dry pair of leggings and lit the gaslight. The small room warmed up quickly thanks to Madame Lusard’s fire below. I hung the cloak on a peg to dry. Often, I slept by the brick radiating heat and dried my clothing in several hours. Unlike others who shivered and caught pneumonia every winter, I counted myself lucky.

  I opened the thick envelope to find an upcoming audition announcement at Théâtre Anglais.

  Not forgotten … wonderful! A secondary role in a George Bernard Shaw drawing room farce. I knew most of the first act, could learn the rest in a day. Joy filled me. A real part and someone had thought to send it my way!

  I sat down, my back against the warm brick with a glass of vin, the audition announcement, and full of wonder. It was then I noticed the bottle on the window ledge. Turned and indicating a meeting with Meslay. Something I was supposed to do, but he had obviously entered my garret, beat me to it.

  My stomach knotted in unease. The little information I’d gleaned made me an unworthy informant. And the idea of trudging out again in the bitter cold of a dark winter’s night filled me with less than anticipation.

  I drained my glass. Found my nearly dry clothing and the small stone I kept warmed by the brick. For night journeys I slipped the hot stone in my muff and the warmth kept my fingers nimble.

  Meslay may have arranged this meeting, but I would find out the purpose of my inquiries. Or wash my hands of it, I decided. So determined was I to make sense of this covertness that joy at my upcoming audition had withered.

  I noticed Meslay, not sporting his dashing uniform but in a drab over coat, spooning soup at a long table in the bouillon de Peres. Steamed opaque windows gave a faint glow and fairylike appearance to the seedy place Pigalle outside. Père Angelo greeted me, offering a warm handshake and a bowl. I stood in line, with the clochards, tired ladies of the night, and the assorted hungry of Montmartre. Fragrant and hot, the onion soup with thick, runny melted cheese always coated my insides.

  This time I dropped some bills in the donation can, happy to be able to thank the fathers for their help.

  “Why did you go in my room?” I asked, sitting down across from Meslay.

  “And a good evening to you, too, Irene,” he said, sipping the table wine laced with water.

  “No more cat-and-mouse, I need to understand the purpose,” I said. “Or count me out.”

  He grinned. “What about my information?”

  “Good point, I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “Exactement!” he said. “But be a good girl and tell me what your contacts say. Then I can prove how essential yours skills rate to my superior.”

  I knew Meslay wouldn’t be a good contact to alienate. And after all, he paid me. I recounted a list of the informants. “See, that’s all.”

  “But what have you heard … anything unusual?” He leaned forward. “No matter how small.”

  Time to throw in Comte Esterhazy’s nonappearance. I recounted the doorman’s words about the men looking for him.

  His face changed. I saw his knuckles whiten on the spoon handle.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Irene?”

  Everything around us seemed to stop. Fear rose in my throat. He knew I held back things. I remembered the man tailing me. Had Meslay had me watched … followed?

  “It’s Bijou,” I said, “she’s in the revue at Le Chat Noir, too. This Count Esterhazy is her paramour.”

  An odd smile crossed his face. He glanced at our table companions: an old woman who’d nodded out and a clochard attacking his onion soup with vigor.

  “Make contact with Esterhazy,” he said, his voice lowered but distinct.

  “How would I do that?” I asked.

  “But I’ve hired you, haven’t I?” he said. “You figure it out.”

  “I’m sorry, Meslay, I know you’ve got a job to do and the money helps, but unless things get clearer consider my services at an end.”

  “Irene, the less you know …”

  “The less I can find out for you,” I finished for him. “My word and discretion is to be trusted. I think Norton would have told you that.”

  And from Meslay’s look I think Norton had.

  “We know Esterhazy was a traitor.”

  “Who’s we and what did he betray?”

  “He sold military secrets to Germany. Not Captain Dreyfus. What we don’t know is if he copied the Balkan plan and passed it to Germany and Kaiser Wilhelm.”

  “The Balkan plan?”

  “It’s vital,” he said. “If the Germans have the Balkan plan, they’ll have the key to our defense strategy. Everything. But we can still change the plan and implement new strategies … barely. But we must know.”

  But how did I fit in this? And what about Holmes?

  “How can I find out?” />
  “He’s a gambler. In debt.”

  I knew that much from Holmes but listened.

  “We know somewhere he keeps a tally of his losses, his winnings, and the secrets he holds. He’s joked to his colleagues he has a ‘bank of secrets.’”

  “What about Captain Dreyfus,” I asked. “Will the military exonerate him then?”

  Meslay’s dark eyes burned.

  “I can only speak for my section, but Esterhazy will suffer a court-martial,” he said. “But I need your help to furnish the proof whether the plan is compromised.”

  Loath to say his name, I knew no other way but to ask bluntly. “What of the rumor of Sherlock Holmes?” I kept my face blank with effort. “At the Theatre Anglais I overheard a conversation. That’s all. Supposedly he’s in Paris.”

  “You’ve heard that, too, then, about Holmes?” he asked as if this were old news. Meslay shrugged, tore off a hunk of baguette. “He’s sniffing around for the Crown. Unofficially, of course. The British want Holmes to lessen the impact of any files compromised by Esterhazy.”

  So Holmes worked for England and I for France.

  “Does that mean he’s adversarial to your ministry?”

  “Tiens.” Meslay crumbled the white part of his baguette, rolled the piece into small white beads. “It means England’s for England and France for itself in how to keep the Kaiser at bay … like time immemorial. Napoleon read their intentions correctly—selfish!”

  And wasn’t France selfish? But maybe it was self-preservation since their home and hearth bordered Germany.

  Meslay and I arranged another meeting. As I left, my heart weighed heavy. Conflicting emotions crossed through me. Here I was at odds with Holmes! Something I’d never wanted to happen again.

  Yet Holmes hadn’t appeared, and to be frank I had no binding obligation to England. Holmes tried to use my guilt to assist a king and country as they had used my late husband Norton.

  The more and more and I thought the more I realized I had a job to do. Fortified by the hearty soup, I headed towards Le Chat Noir to find Bijou. My calling was acting. Time for me to use my skills.

  “Not seen nor heard from Bijou,” said Vartan, the wire-thin backstage manager, to my query. He looped his wool scarf around his neck. “Far as I’m concerned she doesn’t need to come back. She’s one who gets a luxury ticket and crawls back begging when it expires. Know what I mean?”