The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Gentleman Burglar E-Book

Sam Siciliano

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sherlock Holmes
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 446

Beschreibung

A daring and delightful crossover of Sherlock Holmes and his criminal adversity: Arsène Lupin, the Gentleman Burglar. These superb sleuths will solve intricate riddles and journey across France and beyond to uncover the long-lost treasure of the House of Bourbon. Sherlock Holmes and his cousin, Vernier, have been hired by the Baron of Creuse to find the legendary lost treasure of the kings of France. Trekking from La Belle Époque Paris to a chateau in the rural center of France, Holmes, Vernier and a new companion must employ all their wit to solve the fiendishly difficult puzzle of the Hollow Needle. After deciphering the meaning of the phrase "st. s. 138" and decoding a mysterious document, they realize the answer lies to the north in Normandy near the town of Étretat. Together, they follow a long-buried path to an ancient secret, but fresh mysteries and new complications immediately arise. But other forces are at work, and jealous hands seek to interfere with Holmes's work. He must team up with the notorious gentleman-burglar, Arsène Lupin, if he is to find the treasure and avert an international disaster at sea.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

Part 1 Le Château de L’Aiguille, Creuse

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part 2 L’Aiguille, Étretat

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part 3 The Needles, Isle of Wight

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Afterword

About the Author

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKSTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE DEVIL'S PROMISE

David Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

Stuart Douglas

THE WHITE WORM

Sam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACY

David Stuart Davies

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN

Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE

Stuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE'S CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEY

Carole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER

Stuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOUR

Sam Siciliano

THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH

David Stuart Davies

THE MARTIAN MENACE

Eric Brown

THE VENERABLE TIGER

Sam Siciliano

THE CRUSADER’S CURSE

Stuart Douglas

THE GREAT WAR

Simon Guerrier

REVENGE FROM THE GRAVE

David Stuart Davies

DEATHLY RELICS

Sam Siciliano

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:THE GENTLEMAN BURGLAR

Print edition ISBN: 9781803369440

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803369457

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: May 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Sam Siciliano 2024.

Sam Siciliano asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Maurice Leblanc, creator of Arsène Lupin, a character stillgoing strong over a century after his first appearance

Author's Note

Two iconic French characters, both masters of disguise, first appeared in print early in the twentieth century: the lovable rogue and gentleman burglar Arsène Lupin, and the evil and cruel Fantômas. Both would go on to appear in many novels, plays, and films throughout the century.

Maurice Leblanc published his first story featuring Lupin in 1905 and made a good living off the character for the remaining thirty-six years of his life. Lupin starts out as a clever thief, but over time becomes a wily detective, solving countless crimes and puzzles, and also rescuing unfortunate couples in distress from various monstrous villains. He also distinguishes himself during an interlude in the French Foreign Legion and even spends time working in the French Sûreté trying to catch himself! During his career, he assumes countless identities, often of foreign noblemen.

This novel was inspired by L’Aiguille creuse (The Hollow Needle, 1909), and uses some of the settings, the paraphernalia, and the plot mechanisms, including a mysterious coded document. However, all of Part 3 is my own invention.

Sherlock Holmes appeared as antagonist early on in the Lupin stories, but because of rights issues and the disapproval of Conan Doyle and his publishers, the name was changed to Herlock Sholmès, and Watson became Wilson. Sholmès is older than Lupin and rather cold-blooded. He shows up briefly later in The Hollow Needle and acts almost as the villain of the piece, accidentally killing someone close to Lupin at the conclusion.

I, however, see Holmes and Lupin more as kindred spirits and speculate on what might happen if the two chose to work together on the same enigma, the one portrayed in The Hollow Needle: a search for the great hidden treasure of the kings of France. Readers who know that novel will have a surprise at the end, for the treasure is not where it is to be expected.

My backstory for Lupin comes mostly from Leblanc, but I think my explanation of his prodigious childish exploits is more believable.

I hope my readers will enjoy this encounter between the Gallic and the British titans of detection!

Part 1

LE CHÂTEAU DE L’AIGUILLE, CREUSE

Chapter 1

On a typical late March afternoon in Paris, cold and rainy with dark clouds, the weather more reminiscent of winter than spring, my cousin Sherlock Holmes and I walked along a narrow street on the Île Saint-Louis. The island was in the oldest part of the city, at its very heart, next to the other small island where the church of Notre-Dame stood. We were on our way to the mansion or hôtel particulier of the Baron Frédéric Chamerac to discuss some mysterious business.

Ahead of us, a shadowy figure came out of a side street: a monstrously large black overcoat hid his bent body, a cane tapped at the pavement, and a black country cleric’s hat with a wide brim cast a shadow over two odd smears of blue—the colored glass lenses of his spectacles. Around his neck, a narrow band of white with a notch at the center marked him as a Catholic priest. His tortoise-like shuffle and labored gait were those of a very old man. As he came closer, a mangy white beard and long wisps of white hair curling from under the hat were evident, and on his right cheek was a reddish-brown blotch, either a blemish from birth or from his extreme age.

He came toward us, glanced up, then stopped. Holmes nodded. “Bonjour, monsieur l’abbé.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Sherlock Holmes,” croaked the old man. His hoarseness had a husky crackle like that of a crow or raven.

“Have we met before?” Holmes asked him in French, and the man replied in kind.

“No, but I know you. And I come with a warning: beware the treasure of the Needle. It swims in centuries of blood, and the grievous crimes of the French monarchs have poisoned it. No good can ever come of such tainted wealth. It is cursed. And do not trust the baron! Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, and his greed has swallowed him up entirely.”

Holmes gave him a curious glance, his blue-gray eyes faintly puzzled. We both wore the requisite gentleman’s garb: long black woolen frock coats with striped gray trousers, shiny shoes, gray leather gloves, and black silken top hats. Holmes held the silver handle of an elegant walking stick of ebony wood.

The corners of his mouth rose slightly. “You seem singularly well informed, mon ami.”

The old man nodded. His thin nose had an odd sort of curve at the end, and his long white mustache hid his lips. He raised his cane shakily. “Remember.”

He lowered the cane, then resumed his shuffling walk, passing us by. Holmes and I watched him go. Holmes glanced at me, still smiling faintly. “Quite a remarkable performance.”

I was frowning slightly. “Did you tell anyone that you were coming to see the baron?”

“No, but obviously someone has heard about it.”

We had nearly reached the end of Rue Saint-Louis en l’Île, a street which bisected the tiny island, and we started through a small park. The wooden benches were wet and barren, the tall, pruned plane trees just beginning to leaf out. The sandy gravel underfoot was darkened by moisture. Something made a noise in the bushes, and I turned in time to catch sight of a gray form with a long curving pink tail.

“Lord!” I exclaimed. “How I hate a rat.” Looking more closely amidst the greenery I could make out many more small forms. “This place is crawling with them!”

“No doubt the water of the Seine attracts them.”

We stepped out of the park onto another street which curved round the island, and the gray waters of the river were before and round us. A coal barge puffing smoke was lumbering by, kicking up a white wake in the dark water. To our left rose the facade of the mansion, one of those spectacular old Parisian buildings of tan-colored limestone, probably built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century. Four stories high, with dormers higher still in the dark gray slate roof, the building had many tall white-framed and paneled windows. Across the cobbled way was a curving stone wall with, at intervals, openings to the steps which led down to the walkway along the Seine.

The house’s entrance had huge doors of cast bronze with an elaborate design, and above the curving top was an impressive smiling sun god in relief with some strange dragon-like, fish-like, creatures on either side, winged and yet with odd curving tails. Holmes had to look about to find the small button of the bell on the left side. He pressed it. We waited briefly. Unlike a more common sort of dwelling, you certainly could not hear any sounds coming from behind the thick barrier of those doors. They opened at last, and a thin elderly man in black formal dress peered warily out at us.

Holmes nodded. “Je suis Sherlock Holmes. Le baron m’attend.”

“Ah, oui, monsieur.” He gazed rather sternly at me. “Et ce n’est pas encore un Watson?”

I sighed, wishing again I had a shilling for every time I had been mistaken for Watson. “Mon nom est Vernier,” I said.

“Ah, très bien, Monsieur Vernier. Venez, venez.”

We followed him into the vestibule, and he took our hats, gloves, and Holmes’s stick, setting them aside. We followed him up an incredible stone staircase and down a hallway. The opulence and ornamentation were spectacular, somewhat akin to Versailles or the Vatican palaces. There were no simple bare walls or ceilings. Statuesque maidens in relief lined the hallway; there were framed circular mirrors, curves, and arabesques everywhere of gold, and overhead on the ceiling, painted gods and goddesses lolled about pastures and woods, blue sky occasionally showing through. The floor was an elaborate wooden parquet of different hues of brown, varying from the yellow of oak to the dark shade of walnut.

We came into a sitting room filled with plush furniture of a crimson velvet, chairs and sofas all with carved curving legs, as well as small tables with bronze candelabras or brass lamps. Overhead hung two chandeliers with a myriad of dangling spangles of cut crystal. A young woman sat in a corner near a window with a book on her lap, the blue of her dress clashing with all the red.

She stood up and nodded. She appeared only about twenty and was one of those women whose remarkable beauty made it difficult for a normal red-blooded man not to stare. Her skin was very fair, with a hint of pink at her cheeks, her eyes a clear light blue, and her tightly bound hair was a silvery blond. Her nose was slight, but again, most men’s eyes would be drawn to those full, sensual lips, so warmly and darkly colored for someone of such a pale, cool complexion. Her dress would have cost far more than what a typical lady’s maid earned in a year. It was the latest fashionable cut, with leg-of-mutton style sleeves which narrowed about her slender wrists, and the beautiful azure silk shimmered under the gray-white light coming from the tall window. She looked only about five feet tall, and she had tiny, delicate white hands.

She nodded. “Messieurs.”

Holmes did the same. “Mademoiselle.” He gave a questioning look at the old servant.

The man’s face was carefully neutral, but a couple of vertical creases showed above his nose. “Mademoiselle Chamerac, the baron’s niece. This way, gentlemen. The baron is waiting for you in the library.”

He opened the doors to perhaps the most magnificent library I have ever seen. Rows of leather-backed tomes of different heights lined tall shelves along the walls, and the ceiling was partitioned off into ornately framed sections with paintings within them, while on the floor was a splendid multicolored oriental rug. A massive table stained a dark brown-black dominated the room. Three tall windows bathed the interior with gray-white light. Two men sat at the far end of the table, and they rose to greet us.

A certain haughty air, as well as the finely tailored cut of his double-breasted frock coat, made the identity of Frédéric Chamerac, the Baron de Creuse, obvious enough. He was the shorter of the two, slightly stocky but broad-shouldered, and he had long wavy chestnut hair shiny with pomade and a big mustache waxed to points. His coat had striking ivory buttons, and the soft-looking blackish wool which was probably genuine cashmere, had a hint of blue in it. The coat’s extravagant style and the swooping curve of the skirts made it clearly the work of a French tailor, rather than an English one.

His taller companion might have been younger, but his large, pale, shining cranium—emphasized by the contrasting black hair over his ears and two thick, black, mustache-like eyebrows—made him appear old. Rather than trying to comb his scanty hair forward to hide his baldness, he had swept it defiantly back, and his full but meticulously trimmed black beard and mustache dominated his face. His thin lips were set in a taut line, and he wore a dark gray suit, probably bought off the rack at one of the grand Parisian department stores.

The baron had piercing blue eyes, and his forehead was creased. Staring at Holmes, he seemed to relax ever so slightly. “I see Dr. Watson is not with you.”

My cousin is very fluent in French, and it is my mother tongue, so the conversation that followed was in that language.

“No, this is my cousin and associate Dr. Henry Vernier.”

The baron hesitated, his brow furrowed ominously, his eyes showing a seething anger. “I—I must tell you that I have rarely been so insulted in my life! If we are to do business, I must have your word that I shall never see him again.”

Holmes stared at him, obviously flummoxed. “Of whom are you speaking?”

“Who else? Watson.”

Holmes opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t understand.”

“You do not? He was here yesterday on your behalf, and he demanded an exorbitant sum—twenty-five thousand francs—for you to even consider my case. Twenty-five thousand francs! Is that your usual fee, Monsieur Holmes, or are you merely trying to take advantage of my wealth and position?” The baron’s face had grown quite red.

Holmes raised both hands, spreading his long thin fingers. “Calm yourself, monsieur le baron. I think there is a misunderstanding here. You say Watson was here yesterday, and spoke to you on my behalf?”

“He did.”

Holmes gave his head a slight shake. “And did he speak in French or English?”

“French—with a most abominable English accent.”

Holmes’s smile showed no trace of humor. “That settles it. Someone has deceived you. Watson is no doubt at home, in London. I have not seen him in a very long time. And he speaks no French at all. You saw someone else entirely.”

The baron stared at him. “Is this true?”

“I assure you that it is. He was an impostor. I would never demand such a sum before taking on case.” He shook his head. “Twenty-five thousand francs. That’s a thousand pounds. A tidy sum indeed!”

The baron eased his breath out in a great sigh. He looked relieved, but still slightly suspicious. “This is a relief, Mr. Holmes. I had thought… No matter.”

“I take it you refused such a payment. And what did this supposed Watson do?”

“I did refuse it, in no uncertain terms, and I said perhaps it would be better if we did not meet at all. This seemed to worry him, and he said we two might, after all, discuss your fee at our meeting the next day. I told him he would most certainly not be welcome again under my roof, and that, indeed, I would not meet with you if he were present.”

Holmes’s sardonic smile flickered over his lips. “Well, since that condition has been met, perhaps you can tell me now why you have called upon my services?”

“So I shall. And you may be seated.” He pointed at two of the sturdy wooden chairs by the table and pulled out one for himself. He gestured toward the tall man at his side who was clasping a brown paper folder against his torso. “This is my personal secretary, Monsieur Louis Massier.”

We all nodded, and Massier said, “It is a great honor to meet you, Monsieur Holmes. Your exploits and abilities are well known.”

Holmes smiled again. “Messieurs, I hope your appraisal of my abilities is not based solely upon Watson’s writings. They are… exaggerated, to say the least.”

“You are too modest,” the baron said. “Besides, I spoke with an acquaintance in the Sûreté, a commissaire, and he was lavish in your praise.”

“I am glad to hear it. The detectives in the Sûreté are first-rate, quite the equal of the best of Scotland Yard.”

The baron unbuttoned his coat before he sat, then withdrew a silver case and took out a cigarette. “You may smoke if you wish, gentlemen.” Holmes reached inside his jacket, but the baron offered him his case. “Try one of mine, monsieur. I pride myself on the quality of my tobacco.” Holmes nodded and took one. The secretary withdrew some matches, struck one, then lit first the baron’s cigarette, then Holmes’s.

“Merci bien,” Holmes said to Massier.

The baron said nothing and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. Before him on the table was a thick glass ashtray the size of a soup bowl, which looked to weigh about five pounds. The baron’s hands were sturdy and compact, strong-looking, with brown hair showing below the knuckles. A thick gold band was on the ring finger of his left hand. He peered thoughtfully at Holmes.

“Tell me, monsieur. Have you ever heard tell of a royal French treasure, a secret one, hidden for centuries? That of the Needle of Creuse?”

Holmes gave him a puzzled look. “That of the hollow needle?”

The baron had said “l’Aiguille de Creuse,” the “Needle of Creuse,” but creuse has two main meanings in French. Holmes must have heard l’aiguille creuse, creuse being the feminine variant of the adjective creux which means “hollow.”

I touched Holmes’s elbow lightly. “He said ‘de Creuse.’ Creuse is the name of a river and a département in the midlands of France.”

“Ah. I am not familiar with Creuse. Thank you for enlightening me.” He turned to the baron. “Henry was born and raised in France, so he knows your country far better than I.”

The baron nodded. “That explains why he has no English accent whatsoever. Regardless, do you know of this treasure, Monsieur Holmes?”

He shook his head. “I do not. You are, of course, the Baron de Creuse, so you must be quite familiar with the Creuse region. Is there some formation or landmark called the Needle there?”

“Yes, certainly. Le Château de l’Aiguille, constructed in the seventeenth century, is the family seat of the Chameracs.”

“Ah, and you suspect a vast treasure may be hidden there?”

“Yes. Its existence is a secret which has been passed down from generation to generation.”

“So your father must have told you?”

“No, I don’t think my father even knew about it. My uncle was the prior baron, not my father.”

“But you inherited the title and the estate?”

The baron nodded. “Yes. My uncle had no male heirs, so the title passed to me when he died three years ago. Oh, even as a boy, I had heard vague rumors about a hoard of golden louis and spectacular jewels, but I always thought it was romantic nonsense until I found a certain letter amongst my uncle’s estate papers.”

“Ah!” Holmes sat up very straight. “I trust you brought it along?”

“Of course. Louis.” At a glance from the baron, Massier opened the folder and withdrew a suitably yellowed and ancient-looking sheet of parchment, which he pushed across the table toward us. It was rather old-fashioned French, but I could make it out easily enough:

Within the Chameracs flows the royal blood of France, that shared with the Bourbon kings, and for this reason, the Baron de Creuse has been entrusted with the most sacred duty of watching over the grand treasure of the Needle. Indeed, our good king Louis the Fourteenth has built for us the Castle of the Needle to conceal that secret, and he has made us its guardian. A foul traitor wanted to reveal everything, and for his crime, he must wear a mask of iron and remain in prison for the rest of his miserable life. Begun by our ancestors, the Gauls, continued by the good Count Rollo, the treasure has grown over the centuries and become the legacy of the monarchs of France, passed on from generation to generation, but the true Needle itself is ancient, older than time. The Maiden of Orléans went to the fire rather than tell the English the secret. The treasure may be hidden, but the key is ours to watch over. Whenever the next heir to the barony reaches the age of reason, explain to him the meaning of st. s. 138.

It was signed with a grand flourish, Louis-Philippe Chamerac, Baron de Creuse, and dated July 12, 1699.

I frowned. “St. s.? I wonder… saint something? Saint Sebastian? The one shot with arrows?”

Holmes grimaced slightly. “I think not. Nothing so obvious.” He looked over at the baron. “And have you any idea what st. s. 138 refers to?”

The baron tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and gave his head a brusque shake. “None whatsoever.”

“I see. I would suspect, too, that the ‘key’ is not a literal one of metal. And I suppose you have looked for this treasure?”

“I certainly have. I have had every square inch of that castle searched without success. Louis was in charge, and he was very thorough. Since then I have…” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Holmes said.

He shrugged. “It is not, after all, a great secret. I recently employed someone else to help me with this matter, a supposed young genius by the name of Isidore Beautrelet. He has had some well-publicized successes as a sort of amateur detective who helped solve some mysterious crimes, some spectacular thefts by an infamous, so-called gentleman burglar, name of Arsène Lupin. However, I have dismissed Beautrelet, and everyone says you are the best, so—”

“Why exactly did you dismiss him? Because he failed to find the treasure?”

“There was more to it than that.”

Holmes shrugged. “Meaning?”

The baron eased his breath out slowly. “I supposed it would not hurt anything to tell you. He became quite familiar with my niece and made certain… unwanted advances toward her. I warned him that she was only a young girl, and he was not to trouble her. He would not listen.”

Holmes nodded slowly. “I believe we just saw your niece in the sitting room next door. She is visiting with you?”

“It is more than a visit. My younger brother joined the French Foreign Legion as a youth, and we went our separate ways. He was out of the country, mostly in Algeria, and I never heard from him, not a letter in years. Then the Legion notified me of his death two years ago. You can imagine my surprise when Angelique—hisdaughter—wrote to me last year. I had not even known he was married! Her mother had also died, and she was destitute. I felt a familial obligation to look after her, and so I have taken her in.” He regarded us sternly, even as he drew in slowly on his cigarette. “I should warn you both to take heed from Beautrelet’s example: Angelique is not to be trifled with.”

It took me a second or two to realize what he was saying. “I assure you,” I said, “I am a married man!”

Holmes eased out some cigarette smoke, smiling faintly. “She is certainly far too young for my consideration.”

The baron shrugged. “Perhaps I am being overly cautious, but Beautrelet took me by surprise. My wife and I have no children of our own, and Angelique has become like a daughter to me.”

“It was very generous of you to take in your niece. You said you have only been a baron for three years. Was your family well enough off before, that you might…?”

“Not in the least, I assure you! But I have worked hard for many years, with success, I might add. I made my own fortune long before the barony became mine. As the letter notes, the bloodline of the Chameracs is royal: in fact, one of my ancestors had a certain claim to the French throne. Nevertheless, I do not consider my labor an abasement, but rather a worthwhile usage of my natural intellectual endowments.”

“What type of work did you do?”

“I trained as an engineer, and I have spent twenty-five years at one of the leading ship-building companies in France. I started as an engineer, but advanced to the upper ranks of the company. All the same, I continued to interest myself in all the technical details of our constructions.”

Holmes smiled and pointed at a lone book which lay to one side of the table next to the folder. “That would explain your choice of reading matter.”

Holmes had good eyes to discern the small print of the title on the spine. The baron smiled back, and turned over the book to reveal the cover embossed elaborately in gold, red, and brown. VOYAGES EXTRAORDINAIRES and JULES VERNE were at the top, each block of text forming an arc, and below was the smaller title, Vingt Mille Lieues sous les mers—Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Seas.

“I have read it so many times, and for me, it is almost a sort of… Bible.”

“It is one of Verne’s best.” Holmes glanced at me. “I suppose you must have read it in French, Henry?”

“So I have.”

He noticed a certain lack of enthusiasm on my part. “And yet you did not care for it?”

“Parts were very exciting, but all those descriptions of fish, crustaceans, the ocean flora and fauna… It grew tedious.”

Holmes nodded. “I must confess I skimmed over certain parts. Regardless, it is a favorite of mine as well. And is your shipyard working on a submarine, monsieur le baron?”

The baron smiled. “I’m afraid not, although we have built some ironclad naval warships. The book came out in 1870, more than twenty years ago now, but alas, I fear we are not much closer to Captain Nemo’s submarine than we were when the book first appeared.”

“Yes, but the French have always been at the forefront of submarine research. Le Plongeur built in the sixties was supposed to be Verne’s inspiration for the Nautilus, and one of the latest French submarines, le Gymnote, uses batteries for propulsion, as did the Nautilus.”

The baron stared at him, creases again appearing in his forehead. “Your naval knowledge surprises me, Monsieur Holmes! I would not have expected it. However, those two French submarines—what absolutely feeble efforts, in the end! The batteries on le Gymnote are the right idea, but the actual technology used in their construction is still quite primitive. Neither submarine can begin to compare with Nemo’s magnificent Nautilus. But we are not here to talk about my niece or submarines, but rather the lost treasure of France.” He stubbed out the remnants of his cigarette and left the butt in the ashtray.

Holmes nodded. “What exactly would you like me to do?”

“I want you to go to the Château de l’Aiguille and see if you can get to the bottom of this. If the treasure is not actually at the château, perhaps you can discover the secret of where it is hidden.”

“With little more to go on than st. s. 138. You said you had no clue what that might refer to?”

The baron shook his head. “None whatsoever. I was hoping you could discern its significance.”

Holmes took a final draw on his cigarette, then crushed it into the ashtray. “I suspect the secret meaning which was to be passed on orally amongst the Chamerac heirs was lost a long time ago. All it would take would be a sudden death to break the chain. And of course, with the fall of Louis Napoleon in 1870, there have been no French kings or emperors for over two decades, but only your Third Republic. Your uncle never discussed this treasure or this letter with you before his death?”

“No.”

Holmes set his palms and fingers together, then leaned forward. “Perhaps now would be an opportune time to stress that I am not a miracle worker. However…” He lowered his hands. “I shall do my best. And will you accompany us to the château?”

“No, I am afraid I have some urgent business. I cannot spare the time. I shall, of course, pay you for your efforts, whether you succeed or not in unraveling this mystery. I trust your fee will not be twenty-five thousand francs!” He smiled, but did not appear much amused.

“No, we might begin with perhaps a tenth that sum.”

The baron nodded. “Done! Much more reasonable.”

Holmes tapped lightly at the table with his long fingers. “But tell me, monsieur le baron: I am curious. Should we find the treasure… what exactly do you intend to do with it?”

The baron’s gaze shifted briefly to Massier, then back to Holmes. “Monsieur, I am first and foremost a Frenchman and a patriot. True, we have no king now, but I would return the treasure to the Republic and the people of France. However, I would naturally insist upon some reward for my efforts, a certain commission for finding it, a percentage. You, too, would have your share, your commission. It would not surprise me if the sum greatly exceeded that mentioned by the false Watson.”

Holmes smiled. “Well, that is certainly an incentive to do my best. However…” His fingers drummed again at the table. “You used the term ‘romantic nonsense’ earlier. Your story certainly has all the elements worthy of a romance by, say, Alexandre Dumas—and indeed, Dumas did write a volume about the Man in the Iron Mask. At least, hopefully, your treasure does not involve a secret twin of Louis the Fourteenth, although there in your letter, is the man in the mask himself!—as well as references to Joan of Arc and the ancient Gauls. You must realize that the whole story may be poppycock—that no such treasure exists—that it is indeed, only fiction.”

The baron shrugged. “I realize it is fantastical. However, I wish to be certain. After all, if such a treasure does exist it could be worth millions of francs. There would be nothing even remotely comparable.”

Holmes frowned faintly. “There is something else I should tell you. On our way here, an old man, a priest, accosted us. He warned us to beware of the treasure of the Needle.”

The baron was just preparing to light another cigarette, but it toppled from his fingers and landed on the table. “What?”

“I take it you do not know who this old priest could be.”

The baron shook his head angrily. “Damnation! This must be Beautrelet’s work. I should have known he could not keep a secret, or perhaps he did this to spite me. But an old priest? Why an old priest?”

Holmes raised his shoulders. “I cannot say.”

“I certainly don’t want the Church involved in this.” The baron eased out his breath, took up the cigarette between his lips, and let Massier light it. “There is something I, too, should let you know, although I do not exactly trust Beautrelet. He said he feared that Arsène Lupin had gotten wind of the treasure of the Needle.”

“Who is this Arsène Lupin? The name is not familiar to me.”

“He is a so-called gentleman-cambrioleur, a burglar, who was first heard of three or four years ago. He specializes in thefts of expensive jewels or works of art. However, no one really knows for certain if he exists or not. The thefts attributed to him may be committed by some gang that wishes to confuse the police. Do you know Inspector Ganimard of the Sûreté?”

“I have heard tell of him, but I have never actually met him.”

“He has been investigating the crimes of Arsène Lupin, and he is convinced that the man does exist. Of course, if Lupin did hear about this, such a treasure would be irresistible to him! However, I am not convinced. I think Beautrelet was only trying to drive up the cost of his services.”

Holmes smiled. “He does sound a very enterprising young man.”

A scowl twisted the baron’s face. “I suppose I must grant that. And he is a clever devil, that one. Perhaps too clever for his own good.”

“How old is Beautrelet?”

“He must be about twenty now, but his name first appeared in the newspapers a couple of years ago when he managed to restore the Countess de Gesvres’s diamond necklace.”

“You said Monsieur Massier has searched the Château de l’Aiguille?”

“Systematically, from top to bottom.”

“And was Beautrelet at all involved in the search?”

“No. He has not been to the château. Even early on, I felt a certain wariness. I did not want him there. I entrusted Louis with the search, and a thorough job he did, indeed.”

Massier nodded gratefully. “I can state categorically that there is no treasure at the château.”

The baron smiled faintly. “Of course, if Louis had his way, I would not be employing your services.”

Massier’s eyes narrowed. “That does not mean I do not have the greatest respect for you, Monsieur Holmes! I assure you… All the same, I think I could do a better job investigating this matter than an adolescent prodigy like Beautrelet—a mere puppy! I am not convinced it requires some… wizardry.”

The baron glanced at Massier, his lips still curving upward. “Louis does have a formidable intellect. And he, too, trained as an engineer. All the same, I absolutely cannot spare him just now. The case is yours, Monsieur Holmes.”

“But to sum up, then, the search of the Château de l’Aiguille found nothing?”

The baron gestured at Massier, who answered. “Nothing at all—as concerns the treasure. We did find a secret chamber, and nearby, a secret passageway which led from the castle to a spot in the woods, but nothing was there except cobwebs, spiders, and rats. It must not have been used for centuries.”

“Would you happen to have the plans of the château?”

“Indeed I do. Louis.” The baron nodded toward Massier, who withdrew a large brown envelope from the folder. “You may take them with you. There is also a copy of the letter from my ancestor.”

“Are the rooms…? Could there be some numbering scheme which relates to the 138?”

“That is possible. There are over eighty bedrooms in the castle. Perhaps you can discern something.”

My eyes widened. “Eighty bedrooms? Good Lord.”

Holmes reached across the table for the big envelope. “I shall have a look at them. And I suppose you would like me to go to the château as soon as possible? Very good. I want to make some inquiries here in Paris, and then we can take the train the day after tomorrow.” He must have noticed the subtle change in my expression, for he smiled and grasped my arm. “Don’t worry, Henry, I promise we will get you back to Paris in time to meet with Michelle! If need be, I can carry on by myself.”

I smiled. “Thank you.” I looked at the baron. “My wife is back in London laboring at her medical practice, but she is to join me late next week for a brief Parisian holiday.”

The baron looked faintly wary. “I hope we can rely on your utter discretion, Dr. Vernier. No one must know of this treasure—no one at all.”

I nodded. “My lips are sealed.”

“I can vouch for his trustworthiness,” Holmes said. “You need not fear. He has assisted me in many of my cases.”

“I hope it is understood there are not to be any future volumes of the further adventures of Sherlock Holmes, nor one entitled ‘the Mystery of the Needle.’”

Holmes shook his head in mock dismay. “God forbid!”

“You need not fear that,” I said.

“Very well. All is settled, I believe.” He turned to Massier. “Checkbook, s’il te plaît.”

Massier withdrew a leather checkbook with an embossed fleur-de-lis and handed it, as well as a wooden fountain pen to the baron. The baron squinted slightly as he filled out the check, then scribbled his signature, and gave it to Holmes.

“Thank you.” Holmes folded the check and put it in his inside jacket pocket.

The baron stood first, by way of dismissal, and we all rose. “A great pleasure, Monsieur Holmes. And Dr. Vernier.” Again I was struck by how immaculately groomed and tailored the baron was. His compact hand felt massive, his grip fierce, while Massier’s more slender fingers were moist and faintly limp. “Please see them out, Louis. If you have any news, Monsieur Holmes, telegraph me at once. If it is truly urgent—especially if you were to actually find the treasure—I can dispense with my business and come immediately.”

Holmes nodded. “As you wish. I shall do my best, but there is not a great deal to go on.”

We went through the doorway into the sitting room with its crystal chandeliers, its abundance of furniture, its gilt decor and painted ceilings, and again the beautiful woman seated near the window rose and nodded toward us. She hesitated, then stepped forward. Massier ignored her and went round her, but Holmes stopped. She walked right up to him and stood with her back to Massier. I was just behind them.

Holmes said, “Mademoiselle Chamerac, I believe.”

“Yes. And you must be Monsieur Sherlock Holmes.”

“Indeed I am.”

She stepped to the side and gave me a questioning glance. “And you, Monsieur?”

“I am Dr. Henry Vernier.”

She nodded, “Bonjour, Docteur.” She turned again to Holmes. “I wish you luck in your quest, monsieur.”

“So you know what I am looking for?”

“Yes. A treasure, a grand treasure.” Lines appeared in the perfectly smooth white skin of her brow. “I hope, though… I hope my uncle did not speak too harshly of Monsieur Beautrelet. He meant no harm. And he is, after all, hardly more than a boy.” I reflected that this seemed to be the pot calling the kettle black.

“So you do not share your uncle’s outrage?”

“Not exactly.” Her full lips rose in a faintly ironic smile. “He meant well.”

“I see.” He nodded. “Good afternoon, mademoiselle.”

On the way down the hallway, we passed the doorway to a smaller, plainer sitting room, where on a chair in the corner sat a thin, dour-looking woman all in black. She was staring out of a window, her long white fingers with swollen knuckles resting upon her lap. Her long hair was bound up, and a flame of white amidst the darker brown showed above her temples. The set of her mouth and forehead somehow suggested both weariness and a sort of dull anger. Holmes and I had both halted before the doorway, and she glanced briefly at us, but did not budge from her seat, turning again toward the window, as if to dismiss us. Upon a small table were a beautiful lamp and an antique rococo-style clock of sculpted gold and a face with roman numerals, which ticked loudly.

As we proceeded down the hallway, Holmes said to Massier. “Who was that woman?”

“That was the Madame Chamerac, the baroness.”

“Ah. She must be in mourning?”

“Yes, her mother died some time ago. All the same—” Massier’s smile showed a certain contempt “—she has a great fondness for black.”

We descended the stone staircase and went to the vestibule. Massier’s gaze had changed, his eyes inquisitive.

“Have you something to say to me, Monsieur Massier?”

He shrugged. “Only that I fear it will be as you suspected: you will be wasting your time at the Castle of the Needle, Monsieur Holmes. If the treasure were there, I certainly would have found it. All the same, I suppose since you have been paid twenty-five hundred francs you must earn your fee. There’s little point in trying to dissuade you.” His thick black eyebrows shot briefly upward, and his smile became ironical. “Nor would I wish to contradict my employer’s wishes! May you have better luck than I did.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

The old servant in black brought us our top hats, gloves, and Holmes’s stick, and Massier opened the massive doors for us. The gray light of day set his bald head all aglow. “Good day, messieurs, and, Monsieur Holmes, it has been a great honor to meet you!”

We stepped out in the fading gray light of afternoon, the misty drizzle cold and damp on my face, and I shivered slightly, wishing I had worn my greatcoat. Holmes put on his hat, but not his gloves. He took an envelope out of his pocket, opened it, and unfolded a piece of paper. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“What is that?”

“It is a note from Mademoiselle Chamerac. She hopes to meet with me tomorrow at 11 A.M. at the small café across the street from the Galeries Lafayette. If I cannot possibly come, she asks that I send her word of another possible time.”

“What! But…? She just gave that note to you?”

He laughed. “It was nicely done. Neither you nor Massier noticed. Something of a risk, though, on her part.”

“Why does she want to see you?”

“She says it is urgent but does not explain herself.”

I shook my head. “Skillfully done indeed! She must have been prepared in advance.”

“Yes.” Holmes stroked his chin. “The baron may have told her I was coming. There is another possibility. Perhaps Beautrelet got wind of our appointment.” He shrugged. “Someone obviously knew about our visit—hence that ancient priest and his warning.” He finished pulling on his gray leather gloves, smiling. “Everyone seems to know Sherlock Holmes is in France looking for the great treasure of the kings! Yes, Henry, all quite preposterous—truly the makings of another novel by Dumas, but I fear, decidedly one of the second rank.”

Chapter 2

Holmes and I went through the vast lobby of the Maison d’Or hotel with its comfortable leather furniture and giant potted ferns lavishly leafing, and stopped before the front desk to fetch our key. A large wall clock showed that the time was six thirty. The black-suited attendant set an old-fashioned key and an envelope on the marble counter.

“Une lettre pour vous, Monsieur Holmes.”

“Merci, monsieur.”

I took the key, while Holmes examined the envelope, frowning slightly. He opened it and removed the folded paper. His gray eyes peered intently, even as his brows scrunched together. A smile flickered across his lips. “Better and better,” he murmured.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Have a look.”

It was brief and to the point:

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as one of your most fervent admirers, I was delighted to hear that you are taking on the case of the long lost treasure of the Needle! A little competition is always good, is it not? Nothing better than a contest to sharpen one’s wits and stir the blood! I wonder which of us will find the treasure first? If it were anyone else but yourself, I would give considerable odds on my being the victor, but with Sherlock Holmes, I would say the chances are fifty–fifty. Forward then, and as you English say, may the best man win!

Cordially,Arsène Lupin, gentleman-cambrioleur

I shook my head. “You were certainly right that everyone in Paris seems to know you are here looking for the treasure. Interesting that he calls himself a gentleman-cambrioleur and not a gentilhomme-cambrioleur. Granted the French have adopted the English word into their language, but the English variant does seem a trifle pretentious.”

“A forceful handwriting this, and his English is quite good. Of course, he may have had a friend write it for him.” Holmes folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “I think we shall stop at the Sûreté headquarters tomorrow and see if we can speak with Inspector Ganimard. I am most curious about this Lupin, especially now that he has so forcefully thrust himself into our business. But come, Henry, I think we have more than earned a before-dinner drink. Normally I might have a whiskey and soda, but in Paris, one must emulate the natives—only a Cognac or Armagnac will do.”

We started toward the adjoining restaurant. A young man in a big leather chair was watching us, and he leaped up and bounded forward to cross our path before we reached the doorway. He was of medium height, with a slight stoop, the typical bad posture one sees in the young. His hair was a nondescript light brown, cut very short, and his brownish suit of coarse wool was ill-cut, obviously cheap. Behind the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles, his dark amber eyes were opened very wide, which gave him a perpetually startled or apprehensive look. He seemed to stiffen, his face contorting briefly.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” His tenor voice had a kind of awkward quaver.

“Yes?”

“You do not know me. That is to say, I do not think you know me, but perhaps, perhaps by some chance, you have indeed heard of me—I hope you have!—although if it was through the baron…” He gave his head a quick shake. “In that case, it is doubtful you have heard the truth. Who knows what calumnies he may be spreading! I beg you to let me defend myself.” He spoke a very proper, formal French.

Holmes and I stared at him, but Holmes spoke first. “Your name, monsieur?”

“Beautrelet. Isidore Beautrelet.”

Holmes smiled. “Of course.”

Beautrelet raised his hands, his fingers spread wide apart. “You have no idea what a great honor it is to see you—to speak with you—to be under the same roof with you. I have followed your career with such interest, and I have tried, with my feeble efforts, to emulate your work! And to actually meet Dr. Vernier as well! That, too, is an honor.”

I stared at him incredulously. Always, I was mistaken for Watson, and to have someone actually acknowledge me! “How did you know my name?”

“Oh, I have done my research, I assure you! As soon as I heard that Sherlock Holmes was coming, I made certain inquiries. John Watson craves the spotlight, but you are obviously a much more modest man.”

I shook my head, smiling. “You certainly know how to flatter a person, Monsieur Beautrelet.”

He was staring at Holmes. “I have only one desire, monsieur: to work with you, the master. Together, our forces united, it should be child’s play to find the treasure of the Needle!”

“Your zeal is admirable, Monsieur Beautrelet, but I believe the Baron of Creuse decided to dispense with your services.”

Beautrelet stiffened slightly, his upper lip curling. “What do I care for his approval or disapproval? He is the worst sort of aristocratic snob! Nor do I care for his dirty money! My only wish is to work with Sherlock Holmes—and I shall gladly do it gratis. I have made some discoveries which I wish to share. Together, what might we not accomplish!”

Holmes sighed softly. “I’m afraid it is quite out of the question, Monsieur Beautrelet. I always work alone.”

He glanced at me. “But is not Dr. Vernier your frequent companion and collaborator?”

“Yes, but Henry—”

“Why not two companions instead of one!”

Holmes shook his head. “Again, I’m afraid that is not possible, but—” he gestured toward the doorway “—why don’t you join us for an aperitif, Monsieur Beautrelet?”

A broad smile transformed the young man’s face. “Gladly, gladly! But you should know, I never give up. I can help you—I promise I can help you.”

We went into the dining area, which was mostly empty as the French didn’t generally sup for another two hours or so; closer to nine than seven. The waiter in his black suit and black vest nodded and told us to seat ourselves. Holmes went to a small table in the corner with a view of the entire room and the bar. He sat, then glanced at Beautrelet. “What will you have?”

Beautrelet looked briefly puzzled. “Whatever you and the good doctor are drinking.”

The waiter had arrived at our table. Holmes raised the fingers of his right hand. “Trois Armagnacs, s’il vous plaît.”

“Bien sûr, monsieur.”

Beautrelet was sprawled in the chair, hands clasped before him, a certain lunatic grin on his face. “I cannot believe I am actually sitting here with Sherlock Holmes himself! It is something I have dreamed of, in certain idle moments, but I never imagined my wish could really come true. Let me explain to you, Monsieur Holmes, why you should accept my assistance. I have been working on the case for nearly a month and have uncovered a great deal. I suppose the baron gave you a copy of his predecessor’s letter?”

Holmes stared closely at him, but did not reply.

Beautrelet shrugged. “That, of course, is a given, and I’ll wager you have the plans for the château as well. However, while digging about ancient tomes in various libraries, I came across reference to a certain brochure written during the reign of Louis the Fourteenth. The author printed one hundred copies which were immediately seized by the king and destroyed, and the writer was imprisoned and forced to wear—” he paused, his eyes opening wider even as a twitch of a smile appeared “—a mask of iron! The booklets were all thrown onto a bonfire, but the head of the king’s guard was an enterprising fellow, and he swiped one, which was passed down in his family. He used it, apparently, to find the treasure and snitch a few jewels, but he was set upon by robbers and died under mysterious circumstances. I could not find the actual copy, but I discovered a pamphlet published early in this century discussing the contents. The author was a royalist during the time of Napoleon who longed for the return of a Bourbon king. Once we have an agreement, I shall be happy to share it with you.”

I could see that Holmes was tempted. “And are you certain it is genuine?”

“Yes, I had it looked at by an expert, and he said the paper, the binding, and the ink were consistent with those of the empire.”

The waiter arrived with a small circular tray and set the three glasses before us. Each had a short stubby stem and a wide bowl. The Armagnac was a warm reddish-brown color, different from the paler amber of most Cognacs.

Beautrelet eagerly seized his glass, took a big swallow, gasped, coughed several times even as he clapped his hand over his chest. He gave his head a shake. “I’m afraid I am not used to strong drink.”

“It is meant to be sipped.” Holmes gave a brief demonstration, then set down his glass. “It is very good, as one might expect of a hotel of this quality. It has a certain age.”

I had a swallow. It was more pungent than Cognac and burned slightly on the way down, but delicious all the same. “Excellent indeed.”

Beautrelet took a very small sip. “Yes, it’s better this way, rather than gulping.” He set down the glass, curved the fingers of his right hand lightly about the bowl. “And what reason did the baron give you for my dismissal?”

Holmes shook his head. “I really do not feel I can discuss a private conversation with you.”