Evening, 19 November 1922
Alarmed but focused, LeRocque drives through the streets of Paris as if it were 1918 and he were behind the wheel of his ambulance. He arrives at the 36, launches from the car, tears through the courtyard and up the stairs to the 4th floor where the Sūreté has its offices.
“Holmes, thank God you’re here. I’ve lost her.”
Holmes is seated at a desk, eyes closed, chin resting on his steepled fingers, organizing his thoughts and compiling possible lines of inquiry. He has been sitting just so for almost an hour, mentally sifting and sorting the facts from his day long inquiries, first at the crime scene, expanded to include the yard and back alleyway, then the surrounding neighbourhood, Mr. Girard’s place of work, the laboratory (to see for himself the samples taken from the crime scene), and finally at police headquarters, where he’d placed a lengthy telephone call to Mycroft. Other than an offer of coffee and food, both of which sit cold and untouched on the table, he has been left blessedly alone with his thoughts. Until now, that is, with the thunderous and out of breath arrival of the Lieutenant. At LeRocque’s announcement, he opens his eyes, but remains motionless, looking straight ahead through the window to Paris at night, a sea of lights crisscrossed by the Seine and canals. He responds, “Lost her? Russell? More likely she abandoned you.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. But I’m worried. She left a note. ‘Tell Holmes’.”
“Tell me? Tell me what?” asks Holmes mildly, paying only half attention.
“I don’t know. That’s all I found in her bag – just a note saying, ‘Tell Holmes’.”
Holmes drops his hands to the table and turns to look at LeRocque directly. He notes that the Lieutenant appears, once again, frantic and a bit lost. Questioning LeRocque’s ability to accurately evaluate the urgency of a situation, but not yet willing to discount the man’s evident distress, he raises an eyebrow and states his question, “Her bag.”
LeRocque, realizing he just told the Great Detective that he’s been rifling through his wife’s handbag, stammers, “Yes, er, she left it in the bathroom.”
Holmes rises to his feet, straightens to his full height, and looks down his nose at LeRocque. “In the bathroom.”
LeRocque knows he’s acting imbecilic but can’t seem to help himself. He’s acutely aware that he spent the better part of the day, including a meal out at a café, with this imposing man’s wife. Furthermore, he had been surprised and charmed by the young, strong, smart and thoughtful woman. She had been utterly disarming in her open and honest manner with him and they’d seemed to fall into the easy familiarity of long-time friends. Feeling the need to explain himself to Holmes, that there had been nothing untoward in his actions, he tries to explain. “We were done in after the morgue and, well, you can imagine, Mary was famished, and”
Frustrated at the Lieutenant’s inability to succinctly convey the necessary information, Holmes fills in the blanks. “LeRocque, you are telling me that you”, pausing here to say very precisely, “and Mary,” another pause, “were in a café.” Holmes notes LeRocque’s blanch as the Lieutenant realizes that he’d used Miss Russell’s first name, and knows he’s achieved the desired effect of intimidation. Holmes continues, “She excused herself to the lavatory and failed to reappear. After some ridiculously long period of time, especially since she took her coat and handbag with her… She did purchase a coat, correct?”
Relieved that he can reassure Holmes that he had done right by Miss Russell, LeRocque says “Yes, yes, of course, first off, on the way to headquarters.”
“So, after a ridiculously long period of time, during which you failed to suspect her intention to leave, you overcame your reticence and went to investigate, probably enlisting the aid of a woman to enter the hallowed sanctuary. To your astonishment, the woman returned to report the room was empty but that she found a handbag. Unsure that the handbag belonged to Russell, even though you had spent most of the day with her, you searched the contents to find a note with the words ‘Tell Holmes’. Let me see it.”
LeRocque pulls the crumpled note from his trouser pocket and hands it to Holmes. Snatching the note from LeRocque with irritation, Holmes growls, “The bag, LeRocque. Let me see the bag.”
Feeling like a child called before the school principal, LeRocque stammers “It’s, it’s in the car.”
Holmes takes a cursory glance at the note to confirm the hurried scrawl is indeed Russell’s before looking back to LeRocque. The two men stand looking at each other, LeRocque with wide-eyed vacancy and Holmes with obvious impatience. Seeing that LeRocque is rooted in place, Holmes silently gestures with his arm toward the doorway, jolting the Lieutenant into action. LeRocque bounds down the stairs and exits to the car park with Holmes close on his heels. At the car, Holmes snatches the bag, dumps the contents to the car seat, and notes the absence of hairpins, cash and firearm, but finds no other missive or clue.
Now convinced of the urgency to locate Russell, Holmes commands, “Take me there.”
Without a word, LeRocque springs around the car and into the driver seat, setting the car in motion practically before Holmes has time to scrape Russell’s items back into the bag, climb in, and close the door. During the ride, Holmes learns the details of LeRocque and Russell’s movements since they had left him at the crime scene. LeRocque explains how he and Russell searched the missing child reports to no avail and then proceeded to the city morgue in search of a potential guardian of the murdered child among the unidentified bodies. There, they found two candidates, both women between 25-35 years of age, who bore the physical signs of prior childbirth. One, according to the reports on file, had been struck by a motor lorry as she walked along a busy shop-lined street of a working-class neighbourhood. The other, who had died from a traumatic blow to the head, had been found in the Cimetiere de Montmartre, although she had not died there. Once Russell concluded her inspection of the bodies at the morgue, she and the Lieutenant proceeded to a nearby café to get something to eat while they decided on next steps. It was just after they had finished eating that Russell disappeared and LeRocque rushed to headquarters to find Holmes.
LeRocque drives skillfully and aggressively while responding clearly and concisely to Holmes’ detailed questions about their movements during the afternoon and what Russell’s inspection of the bodies in the morgue had revealed. Holmes is impressed with this new and improved version of the Lieutenant and, suspecting that the policeman is drawing on prior experience and professional training, concludes that LeRocque had been an ambulance driver during the war. As LeRocque pulls the car to the curb in front of the morgue, but before they disembark, Holmes asks one final question. “Have you ever done any playacting, Lieutenant? Undercover? In school, perhaps?”
Shocked, LeRocque looks at Holmes incredulously. “Do you know, Mar…, Miss Russell, asked me the very same thing while we were eating.”
“And?”
“What? Oh, no. Never went in for that sort of thing and LeMarc thinks despite my French being fluent, my American accent won’t do.”
“Lieutenant, I fear Russell has put herself in considerable danger. She’s armed and formidable, but she has ventured, alone, into areas with which she has little prior experience. It’s essential we find her.”
“What? Where has she gone?”
“Pigalle.”
LeRocque blanches. “You can’t be serious? Alone? Now? In the dark? But why?”
“Think about it! The murder of the Girards was a premeditated crime. The murderer’s plan required a child, possibly any child or maybe that specific one. If you wish to snatch a child, why would you choose a busy street or rely on a chance opportunity, say a passing lorry, to dispatch the guardian? Too random, it just doesn’t make sense. But the second woman in the morgue had been quickly killed and dumped. That’s a plausible lead. From what you told me of the cadaver – thin, abused, the markings of habitual drug use, it suggests a woman living on the margins of society, vulnerable and not quickly missed. The Cimetiere is located near one of the more notorious neighbourhoods in Paris. Russell knows we need to confirm that the murdered child is this woman’s daughter, and if so, everything about her and her death. That kind of inquiry, where the potential informants are pimps or drug dealers, is best achieved in disguise and at night. Russell is quite accomplished at this, but you, Lieutenant, have no experience. Hence Pigalle, now, alone, in the dark.”
“And Miss Russell figured all that out?
“And more, no doubt. She was confident enough in her deduction to warrant the risk.” Silently, Holmes wonders whether Russell’s inexperience, self-reproach and need to redeem herself may have skewed her assessment, but there is nothing he can do about that now except find her. Out loud to LeRocque he continues, “She knows I would come looking for her after speaking with you. She’s depending on it.”
With that LeRocque and Holmes climb out of the car. While LeRocque starts in the direction of the morgue, Holmes looks about him in every direction? “Where’s the café?”
“What? Oh, around the corner there.” After a confused pause he continues, “I thought you would want to examine the women’s bodies for yourself?”
With an exasperated shake of the head, Holmes says, “Of course not. We can safely trust in Russell’s observations, but not in yours, so we will begin our search at the café.” With the focused gleam of a hound on the scent, Holmes launches in the direction of the café, calling over his shoulder, “We need to see if Russell left any other clues.”
Rounding the corner, Holmes heads directly into the café with LeRocque close behind. “Where did you sit?” demands Holmes. LeRocque points out the table, and Holmes, completely ignoring the couple now sitting there (who are too dumbfounded to protest), steps to the table, scans its surface, leans over to run his fingers along the underside of the table’s edges, and crouches down for a cursory look underneath. Just as abruptly, he leaves the table and heads to the back of the café where the lavatory is located. With a perfunctory knock, and quick announcement in French, “Pardon, cleaning” he enters the currently empty room. A scuff mark on the wall beneath a small awning window indicates how Russell escaped. Taking no more than 20 seconds to scan the remainder of the room, he leaves the café to pick up the trail outside the window.
Outside he sees the mark of Russell’s boot in the dirt below the window, but little more. Knowing Russell’s knowledge of the city is limited and that she wouldn’t want to arouse attention, he surmises that she would have taken a cab to a tourist landmark near where she would commence her inquiry. Turning to LeRocque, who has been silently watching from a discrete distance, Holmes quickly considers the relative advantage of an armed accomplice with local knowledge and a car, over the inevitable encumbrance the Lieutenant would bring.
“Lieutenant, we can pick up the trail at the Moulin Rouge.” Holmes chooses to ignore yet another look of utter bewilderment from LeRocque. To his credit, the Lieutenant simply accepts Holmes statement and obediently plays the part of driver. Back in the car, Holmes explains to LeRocque what would be required of him.
“You’re going to need to do a bit of play acting, Lieutenant. We have no costumes and I cannot train you in the finer points of stagecraft, so we will present ourselves in a manner that won’t arouse suspicion, but that is as close to truth as possible. In your case, you will play the part of a young American tourist behaving poorly; generally good natured but loud, completely unaware of his own stupidity, drunk and looking for the entertainments of Paris’ underbelly.”
“Loud and stupid” repeats LeRocque with a grimace, “Think that highly of me, do you?”
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. There are very few people of whom I have a high regard.” After driving for a few moments in silence, Holmes attempts a softening of tone before continuing with his instructions. “It’s just a characterization, Lieutenant. It’s nothing to do with the man underneath. You have spent some time with my wife. The fact that she has granted you the intimacy of the use of her first name counts in your favour.”
“I’d have thought that would rather count against me,” replies LeRocque.
“What, jealousy? A foolish sentiment of the pathologically insecure. No-one could accuse me of a lack of confidence. Besides, I trust her judgement.”
“Some would say trust is just as foolish.” says LeRocque provocatively.
“Blind trust, yes. But trust in one who’s worthy of it shows wisdom, not weakness. I am not blind. I observe. Even setting Russell’s opinion aside, I’ve seen enough to know goodness and depth lie hidden beneath your incessant blather.”
To that unexpected and veiled compliment, LeRocque reacts with raised brows and a quiet ‘Huh’, but otherwise keeps his eyes on the road. Clearing his throat, Holmes continues. “Most people don’t look past first impressions, so we’ll exaggerate the superficial for our purpose; hence loud and stupid, or more precisely, oblivious. It’s easiest if you pretend to be someone you know, perhaps yourself as a younger man, or some unruly tourist you arrested for drugs or prostitution. Try not to speak, but if you do, speak in English or at most heavily accented French. We’ll scrape up your knuckles and splash your coat in spirits. You’ll have to remove your watch, pen, hat and holster – anything identifying you as Sūreté. Keep the belt buckle though, it’s perfect.”
“Lenny. That’s who I’ll be,” answers LeRocque. “It was his buckle. Best man you could ever know, if not the best behaved. My Mama used to say he was ‘A sinner with the soul of a saint’ and she loved him for it despite all the trouble he caused.” He shakes his head and continues thoughtfully, “Stupid in his own way, I suppose. Stupid enough to get himself killed saving me.”
Holmes watches LeRocque quietly as he continues to negotiate the car through the mayhem of Paris traffic. “In my experience, LeRocque, a man who’s willing to give up his life for another is usually a pretty good judge of character. In the case of your man Lenny, who seems to have lived his life with exuberance, that’s high praise indeed.”
LeRocque keeps his eyes on the road, but a smile curls the corners of his mouth. “You might just be worthy of your wife, Mr. Holmes.” This time it was Holmes’ chance to smile. “Just. But not if we don’t find her quickly.” Turning his attention back to business, “Your gun, LeRocque, it’ll mark you as police. You’ll have to keep it well hidden but easily accessible.”
“And what about you, Mr. Holmes. Who will you be?”
“An old and cunning street thug. I’ve spotted you as an easy mark and am sticking with you just long enough to relieve you of your money and throw you to the wolves. Once we find Russell, it’s imperative that you let us do the talking and follow our lead. We’ve put on acts like this many times before.”
LeRocque pulls to the curb outside a dark and coarse looking club about a block from the Moulin Rouge. While LeRocque works on changing his appearance, Holmes orders two double drinks from the bar and brings them back out to the curb. He hands one drink to LeRocque, sticks his fingers in it and then flicks them at LeRocque’s coat, face and hair. “Go ahead, drink up, it’ll put you in the mood.” LeRocque looks from Holmes to the ¾ full tumbler he just stuck his fingers in and back again, shrugs, and knocks it back in two great gulps and a shudder. Holmes chuckles, takes a single gulp from his own glass, and then proceeds to splash the remainder on LeRocque’s trousers and shoes.
“What now?”
“Now we pick up the trail. Where’s the Cimetiere from here? She knows I’ll be looking for her and for once she’ll make it easy. This time she wants to be found.”
Pointing in the direction they need to go, LeRocque says half under his breath, “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
Holmes responds with a grunt, nothing more, and crosses the street in the opposite direction the Lieutenant had indicated. Before LeRocque can call out his question, Holmes holds his hand up, first with 5 fingers spread and then just his pointer finger indicating quite clearly to LeRocque that he is supposed to stop, shut-up, and wait a moment. Holmes reaches the other side of the street, spins around and surveys the scene in a methodical 180-degree scan. He then crosses back across the street, walks right past the waiting Lieutenant until he reaches the first street lamp. He crouches down, picks up a hairpin and shows it to LeRocque. “Gretel’s bread crumbs. Look sharp.”
After another two blocks, Holmes waits for LeRocque to draw alongside him, and points to a vagrant sitting just inside an alleyway across the street, and quietly asks, “That coat, do you recognize it? Could it be the one Russell purchased?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. But…”
“Russell needs a disguise. Her new coat would be like a beacon in this neighbourhood.”
The two cross the street to the alley. Holmes approaches the vagrant but waves LeRocque off toward the street lamp. Holmes attempts to speak with the vagrant, a woman, bundled from head to toe in dirty, smelly rags, except for one high quality grey woollen coat, but she quickly rises and scurries away down the alley, the coat tightly clamped around her. LeRocque immediately spots a hairpin beneath the street light, this one bent and dirty. He calls over to Holmes who quickly comes over, “A hairpin. But by the look of it, probably not hers.”
Holmes reaches down to pick it up with his handkerchief. “Wrong. ‘By the look of it’” he mimics, “most assuredly hers and a clue to the role she has assumed. Look at the tip, it has blood on it. I’ll wager Russell used it to make marks on her arm, tracks, as if she’s been injecting. And there, those grooves in the dirt. She’s making herself look dirty or bruised, matching her appearance to the corpse you examined. She’s acting a friend or sister to the deceased; looking for her. What do you know of the establishments in this area? We’re looking for a place a prostitute or addict could do her business.”
“You mean a legal brothel, a ‘maisons de tolerance’? Not around here.”
“Something meaner than that, I should think.”
“A maisons d’abattage? A ‘slaughterhouse’ like Le Moulin Galant? They’re plenty mean, serving the everyman.”
“They’re more like factories, aren’t they, shift workers? I think smaller. And catering to addicts. Remember the woman’s body had the markings of a user.”
“There’s more than one den around here to get all the services you mention. Not as well marked. Clustered within a few blocks between us and the Cimetiere.”
“Russell would have targeted the street corner prostitutes for information. They’re the eyes on the street. As long as she can convince them she’s not interested in stealing their marks, they would make excellent informants. But with us, they’ll be all business. And information is just as costly as their other wares. We’ll continue until we’re approached; your job is to be loud and drunk. Too drunk to negotiate for their services yourself. I’ll do the talking. The act starts now.”
With that, Holmes throws his arm across LeRocque’s shoulders and, clutching tightly, causes the two of them to stagger slowly down the street as if drunk. He calls out in broken English, with enough French mixed in to be understandable to the locals “Lenny, I’m telling you, this is better than Le Moulin Galant. Beautiful women, ready and willing, and for as long as you want. You leave it to me.” LeRocque, warming to the act and remembering his friend Lenny, starts to bellow the words from one of the classic songs from Mademoiselle Mistinguett, ‘Mon Homme’.”
Just a block down and around the corner, the men see three ladies of the evening. “Ah, a pretty voice and a lot of leg. If that’s your taste, it’s your lucky day.” Holmes makes a scene of propping LeRocque against a building across the street from the women as if his comrade couldn’t manage without support. He says quietly to LeRocque, “Stay. Sing.” LeRocque leans back against the building and takes up another song, ‘Ca c’est Paris’, while Holmes stumbles off the curb and approaches the women. Staggering slightly as he walks, Holmes calls out churlishly over his shoulder so all can hear, “Just you wait Lenny, while I see if these tarts are sweet enough for you.”
LeRocque can’t hear what Holmes says to them but sees him exchange banter with the women and even open what little protection from the cold they wear as if assessing their wares. Awfully convincing, thinks LeRocque. After just a minute or so, Holmes pulls one whore in close under his coat and calls over to Lenny with a licentious leer, “Eh Lenny, this one looks promising. I just need a bite to be sure.” To laughter and catcalls from the other women, Holmes leads her away and out of earshot, into the dark of a recessed doorway, blocking the view of her and what they’re doing behind his great coat. The remaining prostitutes now turn their attention to LeRocque, beckoning him over to get some of what his mate’s up to. LeRocque responds by playing up his drunken act, leaning against a building and listing a bit to the side, picking up bits of another song as if in serenade, but keeping his distance as instructed.
Within five minutes, Holmes returns the whore to her co-workers, handing her a wad of bills and buttoning his trousers as he walks. Continuing on towards LeRocque, he again calls out in the broken English-French hybrid, loud enough for all to hear, “Ah, she’s a nice, warm titbit, she is, Lenny, but the room’s a bit cold. Better we continue on for a higher-class establishment.” Offended at the slight, or more likely, the loss of business, the whores turn harsh and vulgar. Ignoring their insults, Holmes takes LeRocque back by the shoulder and the two continue their unsteady way down the block and around a corner.
As soon as they are out of sight LeRocque rounds on Holmes in anger, fists clenched, “Tell me you didn’t just screw that woman. I’ll not have Mary disrespected that way.”
To that Holmes responds with a loud bark of laughter. “I’m glad you found my performance so convincing.” LeRocque continues to glare at him with suspicion. “Don’t be daft, LeRocque. Information, nothing more. Your concern for Russell is admirable, but what of those women? Have you no respect or compassion for them? No one chooses such a life. They are merely surviving the best they can. I’d not take advantage of their desperation any more than I’d dishonour Russell.”
Feeling equal parts relieved and chagrined, LeRocque gives a curt nod and moves on. “Information then, what did you learn?”
“A great deal, it turns out. That particular Madam has not seen Russell. Business, it seems, has been good. She did, however, offer that a truly desperate woman might find her way to Le Choc. This is no maisons de tolerance, LeRocque, or even a maisons d’abattage. This kind of ‘slaughterhouse’ lives up to its name, at least for the women that end up there. They are little more than slaves – a bite to eat, a drug fix to keep their addiction raging, in trade for their bodies.”
“Le Choc. The Knock. Descriptive. And you think the woman, at the morgue, was that desperate?”
“Not enough information to be sure, but it follows. She was an addict. A mother trying to feed her child would have been vulnerable to a place like that. At least that’s what Russell would have thought, not willing to accept a mother could behave otherwise.”
“So where is it?”
“Three blocks from here, and just a block from the Cimetiere.”
Holmes and LeRocque set off at once, maintaining their personas but moving with more purpose, pausing only to look for hairpins under streetlights. They find two, one per block. On the third block, Holmes notices a glint just beneath a first story window of a corner building, above the entrance to an alleyway. With a harsh tsk, Holmes admonishes angrily under his breath, “For God’s sake, Russell, I’m not a dolt.”
LeRocque looks at him in surprise. Holmes steps quickly to the building, jumps up with his arm outstretched, but falls short of the window. Scanning the empty street, Holmes whispers, “LeRocque, give me a boost.” Getting no response, Holmes turns to see another blank look on LeRocque’s face. “Russell’s left another breadcrumb. Only this time to her folly.”
“What, up there?”
“Yes. Her knife. Unmistakably hers. She wanted to be sure I’d find her, so she threw it where I would see it but nobody else would take it. Reckless! And just as she enters the lion’s den!”
“Tough target. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” snaps Holmes with extreme annoyance. “She has an extraordinary talent for precision throwing. Quick! Give me a lift. She may have need of it before this is over.”
LeRocque knits his fingers together for Holmes to step into. Using him as a launching pad, he leaps up and swings at the knife to knock it from the wood, throwing his other arm over his head and collapsing over LeRocque’s shoulders to protect them both from the falling knife that clatters to the ground. Holmes snatches it up and tucks it under his sleeve, and the two men proceed quickly to the doorway. Holmes clutches LeRocque once again about the shoulders, and with a mutual nod at one another, the two enter the vile establishment.
The door opens into a single large room with four wooden posts supporting the low ceiling. Along the wall to the left, there’s a bar that extends almost the length of the room, ending at a doorway for deliveries. The remainder of the room has a random assortment of rough tables and battered chairs alongside crates and barrels serving the same purpose. Litter, everything from rags, broken glass, and used condoms, is piled in corners, and spit, spills and bits of food stuff cover the floor. It’s dark, smoky, and stinks of spirits, rotting food and overripe bodies.
There are about a dozen people seated in the room, two copulating against the wall in the far back corner, another five at the bar, and a bartender. Men outnumber women by two to one. Holmes spots Russell immediately. She’s about halfway back in the room, seated at a very small table, with a view to the door, and to the left of a child of about 9 years of age. The child is wearing an old, dirty and oversized coat, surely the one Russell had traded for from the vagrant. His wife is divesting herself of a remarkable number of coats, thinks Holmes. Russell looks dirty and dishevelled, her sleeve is torn, and she has a rising bruise on her left cheek. She casts a vague, disinterested look at Holmes and LeRocque before touching her cheek, looking from the child, to the couple ‘in flagrante’ behind her and back to Holmes.
Without dropping his act Holmes meets Russell’s gaze with a momentary flash of rage, letting her know he’s understood her completely. Her gesture to the bruise, the child and the couple was all he needed to deduce that the man is the owner of this establishment, he threatened the child, struck Russell and is now currently violating the mother. Which makes him violent, exhibitionist, sadistic; exactly the sort of character capable of perpetrating the heinous crime they were investigating. He also understands that Russell will not abandon the child next to her, or the child’s mother, and that they need to extract not only themselves but these two as well. He knows Russell would not leave the pair at the mercy of the owner regardless, but he suspects she thinks there is more to learn from them related to their investigation.
Holmes steps further into the room, nudging LeRocque towards the bar as he sidles slightly to the right giving them both a clear view and a tactical advantage. Loudly enough for everyone to hear, Holmes calls to LeRocque, “See Lenny, what did I tell you. Some right popular girls here, and you won’t freeze your balls off like I near did.” Giving the women in the room a lewd scouring with his eyes, Holmes points first to one and then another, “What do you think, Lenny? She’s a might short, and that one’s already got a queue.” Approaching Russell, “But this one, wholesome enough looking for your American tastes, and legs up to her eyes I’ll wager.” As he says this, he leans over, blocking the view of the patrons, and lets Russell’s knife slide silently to the table. Russell smoothly takes the knife beneath the table and slides it into her boot. She then flashes a look toward the child, or more specifically to the pocket of the coat the child is now wearing, indicating to Holmes that her gun is hidden there.
LeRocque has just now recognized Russell, transformed and diminished in her appearance compared to when he last saw her at the café. He’s concerned for her and outraged by what he sees; the bruise on her cheek, the waif at her side (a child in such a place!), the harsh bump and grind from the corner. He starts across the room towards them, all business and bristle, looking all the world like Sūreté.
Holmes sees that LeRocque has completely forgotten the ruse and moves with the lurch of a drunk to intercept him. With a loud guffaw, and a few lewd sniggers Holmes calls out in English, “Slow down there, mate. You’ll get your snatch soon enough.” Turning back toward Russell, his eyes roving over her, he says, “A pretty bird she is. And tall enough to climb.” Shocked at the crude comments Holmes made about his wife, LeRocque staggers to a halt and remembers himself, what he’s supposed to be doing. Embarrassed at his gaff, his cheeks burn red as he chokes out his own guffaw, and then stands swaying in place. Nearby patrons nudge one another and laugh at his expense, thinking the naive Yank’s blushing at the vulgarity.
By now the owner’s attention has been drawn and after a final, rough thrust of the hips, pushes himself away from the woman, tucks his member back in his pants and calls over to the newcomers. “Watch it, gents, she’s a feisty one. Could use another good knock, she could.” Advancing towards them, he laughs like a jackal at his own pun before continuing, “Doubt you’re up to it, old man” he says pointing his chin at Holmes, “And the kid’s more his size,” pointing a finger at LeRocque. There is laughter again from a scattering of patrons and the owner is clearly pleased with the success of his jokes and the attention he’s drawn to himself. The mother, petrified, pushes her way past the owner to stand by her daughter protectively.
The owner is a mountain of a man; tall, wide, powerful, brutish. He saunters up behind the women and girl clustered around the small table and assesses the two newcomers with a greedy gleam. Seeing LeRocque’s unsteady stance and oblivious grin, he identifies Holmes as the man in charge and locks eyes with him to do business. Without warning, the owner abruptly grabs both Russell and the child by their hair and drags them to their feet, the mother sandwiched between them. Holmes and LeRocque both tense to pounce as he pins Russell to his right side and the child to his left. Holmes knows Russell is hindered; being left handed, there’s little she can do from this position to help herself or the others. She’ll bide her time and wait for an opportunity; an opportunity Holmes plans to provide.
The owner pulls Russell’s head back and licks her cheek. “You want a taste of these, you’ll have to deal with me.” Fearing for her child, the mother cries out a sob, but quails from the owner’s bark in her ear to “Shut it.”
Holmes continues to play his part. He ogles Russell, the mother and the child in turn, as he replies slowly, “What’s your price then?”
Thinking he can make a lot of money from these drunks, the owner shakes the child’s head by her hair as he replies, “Well now. This small one, she’s new, hasn’t been plucked yet.” Then, shaking Russell’s head, “And this tall one, she hasn’t been broken yet. Either one will cost you double” snickers the owner.
Holmes continues his lewd perusal, “And all three? What’ll that cost?”
The owner was practically drooling at the prospect, but was suspicious too, calculating.
“Oh ho! That’s a tall order for a Yank and an old man. My best merchandise and it’ll cost extra for a room. Show me you’ve got the money.”
Holmes steps over to LeRocque, throws his arm around him and says, “Lenny, you heard the man, time for your wallet.” As LeRocque reaches into his coat, Holmes leans and whispers directly into his ear, “No guns.” LeRocque isn’t sure whether he means the owner is unarmed, Russell is missing hers, or he shouldn’t use his, but there’s no time to ask. Given the number of people in the room, he’d only pull his gun as a last resort anyway.
Holmes returns to the group, this time drawing alongside the table, so it no longer stands between them. Reaching to his side, he lays a generous sum down piece by piece, so the owner can count it, “This should cover it.”
Holmes can practically see the wheels turning as the owner considers his next move. The owner wants the money, badly, but enjoys grandstanding his cruelty just as much. He’ll have to give up one to get the other, and Holmes plans to seize the moment when he does.
“Tell you what,” says the owner as he yanks Russell more tightly back against him and pushes the child and mother in front of him, “You and your mate can start with these two, while I get this one ready.”
Holmes slams his hand down on the money, and slowly drags it across the table away from the owner. He sees the internal struggle this causes and also when the owner relaxes into a decision. His mouth smiles at Holmes for a moment while his eyes stay cold. Then in a burst of movement, he simultaneously releases Russell’s hair and uses his shoulder to shove her hard against the bar. He pushes the mother and child roughly toward Holmes, and grabs for the money from the table. The child trips over the long coat and falls into Holmes, causing him to stumble backwards. Russell regains her balance against the bar, whips her knife from her boot, and raises her arm above and behind, winding up to throw the knife with all her might towards the owner.
Just as Holmes recovers his footing, there is the explosion of a firearm and a terrible shriek. The room erupts in pandemonium. Patrons leap up screaming to scatter out of the way. Holmes looks first to LeRocque but sees him looking around just as frantically. Holmes grabs the child in front of him, with Russell’s smoking gun in her hand. He hugs her close as he twists the gun out of her grasp. In one fluid movement he spreads his arms wide and shepherds the mother and child towards LeRocque, giving the gun to him and hissing to get them out of there. He whirls to find Russell in the mayhem and sees the bartender’s hand clenched around Russell’s wrist, her arm wrenched awkwardly behind her.
Holmes pulls his own gun and points it at the bartender, meeting his eyes with murderous ferocity. The bartender releases Russell to duck and run for the exit. Russell’s knife clatters to the floor as she first drops to her knees, face white as a sheet, cradling her left arm in front of her body, before folding in half and slumping to the side. Holmes lunges toward her, only to be hit and knocked to the floor by a crate thrown by the owner. Russell sees Holmes go down, scrabbles for her knife with her right hand, and tries to get to her feet beneath her but is knocked back to the floor by a savage kick to her side from the owner. Holmes rolls to his back and points his gun at the owner’s abdomen, but before he can release a shot, the room explodes with another crack, this time from LeRocque’s firearm. The owner drops to the floor quite dead, a red stain rapidly expanding across his chest. Patrons stream out of the building, scattering in every direction. While Holmes rushes to Russell, he yells to LeRocque to retrieve the mother and child. LeRocque runs from the room, fires a second shot into the air, and then brings the two back into the room, directing them to a far corner away from the dead man.
Holmes is crouched at Russell’s head, frantically trying to see where she’s hurt. “Russell, Russ! Please God, not again!”
LeRocque has joined the pair and hears her staccato response through clenched teeth, “Not shot. This time.”
With an agonized laugh Holmes responds, “Well then, an improvement.”
“This time?” repeats LeRocque. Not waiting for a response, he rushes back to the horrified mother-daughter pair to reassure the stricken child that she didn’t accidently shoot the lady who had tried to protect her. Leaving the two relieved and huddled in each other’s arms, he returns to crouch down beside Holmes and hears Russell say with strain and shallow breaths, “A. Bit. Broken.”
“Holmes, I can help. Mary, where does it hurt?”
She tries to move, to look at LeRocque directly, and cries out in pain. Looking at Holmes she manages, “Ambulance”. Directing her eyes back to LeRocque, “Shoulder. Ribs.” Her eyelids flutter and her eyes roll up into her head.
“Merde, she’s passed out. We need to lay her flat, raise her feet.”
Holmes responds immediately to LeRocque’s authoritative tone and, seeing the logic of his command, does as he’s been told. The movement revives Russell. Groaning, her eyes open and search to meet Holmes’. He resumes his spot at her head, looking down directly at her.
“I need to see her injuries, may I?” asks LeRocque, indicating Russell’s blouse.
Without breaking eye contact with Russell, Holmes waves his hand, “Quickly, man”.
LeRocque uses both hands to rip her shirt to expose her neck and chest. Russell manages two words through clenched teeth. In reference to the deal brokered with the owner, she says “Martin. Paid.”
Pausing, LeRocque looks from Russell to Holmes, and sees him respond with a bemused expression. “What? Joking? Now?” With a wane smile, Russell lets her eyes close to submit to the examination. Looking back to Russell’s neck and shoulder, he draws in a sharp breath at the scar he sees at her right clavicle, and another at the back of her neck to the left. Understanding now, he says under his breath, “This time”. He then recites, loud and clear, “A flattening of her left shoulder and a lump beneath her collar bone. Her shoulder, it’s dislocated. It’s a horrifically painful injury, Holmes, but she should get instant relief as soon as its reduced.” He then proceeds to gently work his hands down Russell’s torso, along the sides and around to her back. “Two broken ribs, maybe three, also on the left side. With luck, they won’t have punctured a lung.”
LeRocque stands up and moves to Russell’s left side, while Holmes pulls Russell’s torn shirt back together. Crouching down, LeRocque wraps his hand around Russell’s upper arm and takes her hand in his, as if in a handshake. Without pausing what he’s doing, he says to Holmes, “The police, they should be here any moment. You can accompany her in the ambulance to the hospital. I can stay here for the inquiry, ask the mother and child about what they know.”
Overhearing the plan, Russell speaks up. “No. Holmes. Sisters.”
Holmes looks at her. “Russell, your injuries. You need medical attention. LeRocque can manage.”
LeRocque holds Russell’s upper arm more firmly against her side and starts to very gently pull, while slowly rotating her arm out to the side, palm up. Russell uses her right arm to reach for Holmes, clutching him by the coat, to try and raise herself up. She cries out in pain before dropping the attempt, panting.
“For God’s sake, Russell, lie still,” cries Holmes, mirroring her distress.
LeRocque switches hands and resumes his efforts, using his thumb to apply pressure to the top of her shoulder while very slowing sliding her bent arm up as if to reach over her head. Russell stares into Holmes’ eyes and repeats herself. “No. Holmes. Sisters.”
Holmes stares back, concentrating, and then comprehension creeps into his expression. “Sisters. The murdered child had a sister.” The enormity of this news, the horrible implication, is written across Holmes face as he looks down at her with concern.
“Russ, she may already be dead. The first murders, the Wilsons. It may have been the same, the police could have missed…”. Russell cries out again, this time as her shoulder pops back into place. Holmes watches as Russell slips back into a faint, her eyes rolling back into her head.
LeRocque and Holmes look at one another, LeRocque with relief and Holmes with indecision.
“The worst is over now,” says LeRocque. “Her shoulder will be quite sore for a few days. And she’ll need a sling. I can’t do anything here for the ribs, they need to be taped.”
Holmes looks at the Lieutenant, his jaw working, his eyes conscience-stricken by what he’s about to do. “LeRocque. If there’s any chance the sister’s alive.”
LeRocque looks back at him thoughtfully. He doesn’t have the keen observation skills of the detective, but he’s good with people. Holmes’ expression, a mix of torment and resolve, spoke volumes of his love for his wife and his strict moral code, the burden of responsibility he carries.
“You’re the sister’s best hope. I know. Or more to the point, Mary knows. She expects nothing less of you.” says LeRocque.
Russell starts to rouse, her eyes blinking as she tries to refocus on her surroundings. She finds her mark and looks to Holmes, pleading with her eyes, “Sisters, Holmes, she had a sister”.
Holmes brushes his hand ever so lightly across her bruised cheek. “Russell. I know. I’ll talk to the mother and child. Learn what they know. I’ll examine the Wilsons’ bodies, their wounds. Go to the scene. Whatever it takes.”
Russell’s features relax in relief. Letting her gaze drop and gloss over, she mumbles, “Good. Go.”
Holmes takes LeRocque’s elbow and the two men rise, stepping a short distance from Russell. “The dead man, you’ll need to stay here for the inquiry. Is there someone you can trust to patch her up?”
“Surely she should go to the hospital,” says LeRocque, surprised.
“Appearances, LeRocque! They’ll see nothing more than a wanton addict, and consider her wounds expected and well deserved. Callous cruelty is what she’ll get, or at best indifference.”
“The blokes I know could do a field dressing – but no, there’s no one I’d trust to do it properly.”
“An escort, then. Someone who could accompany her, be her advocate. Someone from the Sūreté? Your wife?”
LeRocque doesn’t respond immediately; looking at Russell and then back to Holmes. He replies slowly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “The blokes at the Sūreté, they’re competent enough as far as it goes. But for something like this? No. It’ll have to be my wife. She won’t be pleased but she knows right from wrong and will do right by Miss Russell.”
This time it’s Holmes’ turn to pause, looking between Russell and the Lieutenant, assessing the options. LeRocque can tell Holmes is dubious about his less than glowing recommendation. He also has no doubt Holmes picked up on the subtext, the estrangement between he and his wife and wonders just how much Holmes has surmised about the cause of their current difficulties.
Holmes decides, “It’ll have to do. I ask that you check on her as soon as your duties allow. And LeRocque, Russell may be temporarily out of commission, but not for long. Try not to lose her again.”
With that admonishment, he turns on his heel and heads for the corner to interview the mother and child.