I nodded, immediately recognizing the truth in what Holmes said. The infamous crime had rocked France, unleashing long simmering hatreds. After Dreyfus's conviction for treason, powerful factions in the Army and Church had unleashed blistering verbal attacks on the Jewish population of France. The virulent race baiting had turned brother against brother, friend against friend. The whole country trembled on the brink of revolution. Once Holmes explained his reasoning, the inexplicable became transparent. "But, you mentioned a trip, Holmes?"
Holmes turned and his piercing eyes stared at the French police official. "Monsieur Girac's note demanded privacy, Watson. He wanted to meet at night, in secret. Not normal conduct for a member of the Sûreté. Besides, though his mission involved the Dreyfus Affair, that matter had already been settled in military court. The officer was pronounced guilty and sentenced.
"He has been sent to Devil's Island to serve the rest of his life in hard labor. Despite some doubts to the validity of the charges, the case is closed."
Holmes paused dramatically. The theater had lost a great thespian when my friend chose to become a detective. "Whatever aspect of the case Monsieur Girac wants me to investigate, it is definitely not a minor matter. Since the government refuses to conduct further investigations into the Dreyfus Case, the Inspector's business must concern possible repercussions from the affair. Since he does not trust his colleagues among the Sûreté, it seems logical he requires our assistance in their stead. Such investigations are best conducted at the scene of the crime. Girac comes from Paris, so I assume we are to travel there to pursue our case."
Girac, his features pale, nodded. "I need for you to return with me to Paris immediately, Mr Holmes. I dare not trust any of my assistants. No one knows who has been corrupted by this scandal. Treason walks at the highest levels of the government and the military. Disaster approaches and only with your help can I prevent it from happening."
"Pray tell," said Holmes, raising his pipe to his lips, "what is the nature of the catastrophe?"
"Assassination," whispered Girac, his tone low, as if afraid of being overheard. "I have from reliable sources that a group of Jewish anarchists have hired Jacques Huret, the Boulevard Assassin, to murder the new President of the Republic in retaliation for Dreyfus's imprisonment. I am resolved not to let that event take place."
"With the assassination of President Sadi Carnot just months ago," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "a second murder could quite possibly plunge France into civil war. I find it difficult to believe a group of Jewish intellectuals would embark on such a risky venture. Are you sure that they are the ones who hired Huret?"
"Who else has a motive?" declared Girac. He waved a hand in the air, dismissing Holmes's doubts. "The villains behind the crime are unimportant at present. What matters is the deed itself. In the past five years, Huret has been responsible for the deaths of nearly a dozen men. The few clues we've found indicate that he's a man of wealth and breeding. We don't know why such a man would be a killer, as he certainly doesn't need money."
"Perhaps," I said, choosing my words carefully, "he kills to prove his mental superiority over his peers."
Holmes shook his head. "For the true intellectual, such
games are unnecessary. This flaw in Huret's character will be his downfall."
"Let us hope so," said Guret. "The man is a master of disguise. No one knows his features or his methods. He strikes like a snake then disappears without ever being seen. Only his victims serve as evidence of his skill.
"You are famous as a solver of crimes, Mr Holmes. However, the challenge faced here is much greater. Can you, without clues or evidence, prevent a murder from taking place? Can you stop Huret, Parisian man-about-town and professional murderer, from crippling my country?"
My friend's eyes glistened with excitement. He lived for such moments. "Your assessment of the difficulty of the case is correct, Inspector. Preventing a crime verges on the impossible. Outguessing a dedicated assassin requires genius. The criminal can pick his time, his spot, and his method of execution. There are too many variables to prepare for every possibility. And, from what little I have read about Huret, he is the best of the breed. In the past, he has proven unstoppable. But," and there was more than a hint of arrogance in my friend's voice, "never before has he been confronted by Sherlock Holmes."
2
The next morning, Holmes and I set off for Paris. It was a dull, uneventful trip. For secrecy's sake, we traveled on our own, without Girac. Holmes remained deep in thought the entire journey, his eyes closed in concentration. Knowing better than to disturb, I kept myself busy by reading the accounts of Huret's previous crimes left with us by Inspector Girac.
The more I read, the worse I felt. Holmes had faced many challenges in his illustrious career, but never before had he faced a criminal without a face. Huret was no street Apache roaming the back alleys of Paris. The assassin was a gentleman rogue who mocked the police over their inability to stop him.
Though he was responsible for nearly a dozen murders, Huret remained a complete enigma to the Sûreté. He could be anyone, a fact gleefully picked up by the newspapers who dubbed Huret "The Boulevard Assassin". As the journalists had it, the murderer could be the gentleman walking the boulevard at your side. He could be your neighbor or your best friend. He could be anyone.
In one instance, Huret disguised himself as an Earl's footman. Having killed the real servant, Huret took his place, and several days later, murdered the nobleman on the way to the opera. Clearly, Huret's disguise had been so masterful that he completely fooled the Earl, a man who had employed the footman for twenty years.
Perhaps worse, on another occasion, Huret assumed the identity of a chef in one of Paris' leading clubs. In a private room, an elderly Viscount and his three sons were dining. Huret cooked an elaborate dinner – red mullet with Cardinal sauce, turtle soup, oyster patés, fish, sweetbreads, stewed beef, fruit, chocolate creams: ten full courses in all. Huret was seen by the owner of the club and the servants who waited on the diners; all were convinced that Huret was the chef they'd known for the past sixteen years. By the time the servants left the kitchen with the desserts and sherry, Huret was long gone. But the sherry killed all four men.
The only fact known about Huret was that he was a man of tremendous vanity. He delighted in baiting the police. After each crime, he sent a letter to the leading newspapers claiming responsibility for the assassination. According to his statements, he wanted no innocent bystander blamed for his deed. Oftentimes, Huret mentioned sharing a drink with his victim shortly before their death. In his closing, the assassin never failed to state that after posting his letter he would raise a glass of champagne, paid by his ill-gotten gains, in a farewell toast to his victim, then down it with a dish of currant pudding.
That audacious act of knavery elucidated Holmes's only remark on the crimes during our entire trip. We were in a cab speeding to the house Girac had arranged for our use while in Paris. "You noticed, Watson, that Huret in each of his letters never once fails to describe his farewell toast," said Holmes, breaking long hours of silence.