“Have you read it?” I asked.
“I said I would.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What do you think? Is it true?”
He squinted at me through his thick glasses and scratched at his head, as if trying to understand the question.
“How would I know? I wasn’t there.”
“But your mother…”
“My mother was Tania Chessal before she married Jules. What does that prove?”
But of course it proved quite a lot.
I returned home to find a letter from Kevin James. I had written to him asking him to send any information he had regarding Holmes’s progeny. The letter was mostly tongue-in-cheek, but it did present several facts about Holmes’s relationships, none of which were inconsistent with anything in the manuscript. I’d been slightly bothered by the initials S. H. on Lupa’s watch, but Kevin assured me that individuals who used aliases often kept their own initials.
I became angry with myself. After some weeks of translating, I’d become convinced of the manuscript’s authenticity, with no more proof than its evident age and its conformance to Hugo Arrowroot’s pet theory. There was only one thing to do to finally satisfy myself. Accordingly, I spent most of the next few months tracking down and interviewing anyone who might have known or worked with the man who had been Auguste Lupa for the year he lived and worked in Valence during World War I. Those interviews laid to rest my every doubt.
In translating, I have tried to use contemporary Americanisms wherever possible, though in places where the meaning is clear from context, I have retained the French.
Finally, I apologize for the prose style in this prologue. I am not a prose writer by trade, and if I had not come to believe in the importance of this manuscript, I would certainly have left it where I found it, gathering dust in a wine cellar.
1
It was embarrassing, but with a war going on, embarrassment was a luxury I couldn’t permit myself.
The deep gray and cold of dawn were burning off into a pleasant morning as I walked along the Rue St. Philip in Valence, trying to piece together all I’d heard about the man I was to meet and solicit, Auguste Lupa.
We hadn’t made an appointment, but I knew where he would be, since every morning he followed a strict routine: up at eight a.m., a walk through the town garden, then a corner table at La Couronne from nine thirty until noon, drinking beer and reading newspapers, nearly always alone. During the afternoons, he would disappear for five hours-no one seemed to know where. He’d then reappear just before six, prepared to work as chef at La Couronne, where he was reputed to be a genius even in this land of chefs sans pareille. What was embarrassing was that we needed him, and I was chosen to meet him because of a weakness we shared for beer. We needed him, a chef not yet turned twenty-five, because he was the best spy in Europe.
May 18, 1915. The Huns were having a heyday, plumbing the depths to which humanity could sink. They’d already shown their disregard for treaty and commitment by marching across neutral Belgium last August, but the events of this month surprised even those of us who were supposedly inured to their perfidy. Two weeks ago, they’d torpedoed the ship Lusitania, killing hundreds of civilians, and on the battlefield at Ypres, they’d just introduced a new element into warfare, the heretofore-outlawed poison gas.
The streets of Valence were filled with red-eyed women whose sons, fathers, and brothers had left for the front, determined to repulse the German invaders.
At ten o’clock this Tuesday morning, I arrived at La Couronne and sat opposite Lupa, whom I’d never before seen. There are some men who can sit in a corner or in a room and simply disappear, blending into their surroundings. If such men make good assassins, this Lupa could never be one. He didn’t blend in at all. In fact, he very nearly commanded the entire street, sitting at his table, quietly drinking his beer.
Of course it was he-the high forehead and dark brown hair, combed straight back; the eyes not quite open and yet missing nothing; the heavy lips puckering after every swallow. I, too, had a paper, and settled back to watch him. He was a big man and looked immensely strong, even dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit. His yellow shirt, which would have been garish, or-worse-memorable, on an assassin, was tight across his middle, but didn’t bulge at the waist.
The garçon came out to his table with two more beers, removed the two empty glasses, and was returning when I stopped him for two of my own. Lupa had set the paper down and was leaning back with a beer. He let the foam settle slightly, then took a deep swallow, draining the contents of the glass in a single gulp. As he lowered the glass to the table, his eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned suddenly downward.
The garçon came with my beer. It was still a bit early, and Lupa and I were the only people there. He looked at me briefly when my beer arrived, and I nodded, the informal recognition of two people sharing the same type of moment. His head inclined a mere centimeter, then turned back to the newspaper.
I reached for the beer and took a small drink, making an elaborate face of disgust. Crossing my legs, I sat back and picked up the paper, stopping every two or three minutes to continue my little charade with the beer: a sip, a look of distaste, meant of course only for myself but obvious to anyone, especially to Lupa. I set the first glass down when I’d finished, and with a little flourish pushed the empty glass as far from me as the table allowed. I then stared down the street, glaring.
Lupa finished his third glass and leaned back with his eyes closed, drumming his fingers methodically on the edge of the table. After a few seconds his fingers came to an abrupt halt, and he glanced over at me.
“Mal,” I said with a weak smile.
“Insupportable!” He took the other glass and poured it slowly to the ground. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward, and he watched me. “J’en ai marée. I’ve had enough.”
I took a gamble and decided to make a scene.
“Garçon!”
When he arrived, I spoke too loudly. “This beer is horrible. It is possibly the worst beer in France, and at any rate it’s the worst I’ve had. This gentleman”-I nodded in Lupa’s direction-“has just poured his to the sidewalk, where it belongs, and I only refrain because I deplore waste, especially during wartime. Take this glass, remove it, and give its contents to the plants or the pigs, then bring me a glass of wine.” I looked at Lupa. “Sir, would you join me in a glass?”
He nodded. “Thank you, I would. And Charles,” he said to the waiter, “don’t pour it on the plants or use it in the mustard. Perhaps it wouldn’t completely destroy the pork.”
He crossed to my table and bowed, more an inclination of the head than a bow.
“Auguste Lupa,” he said.
“Jules Giraud.” I motioned to the empty chair.
We sat, and he began to talk.
“I, too, sir, deplore waste, though I could argue that there was no waste involved in pouring that beer to the ground. That beer was waste when it arrived, and what pains me is that I’ve been putting up with it for months now. I am indebted to you, Monsieur Giraud. Sometimes I need a nudge to act, though I generally decide instantly on matters of taste; but I have an inordinate fondness for beer, and since good beer cannot be purchased here, I’ve allowed my integrity an unforgivable laxity.” He closed his eyes and sighed, and there was, indeed, a burden of sadness around him. “It will be hard without beer, but my taste applauds yours, sir.”