Sherlock Holmes and the Boulevard Assassin by John Hall Read Free Book Online

Holmes would not say any more, and I turned back to the glass, which reassured me that I looked as great a miscreant as any in the Newgate Calendar.
    ‘All done?’ said Holmes, consulting his watch.
    ‘I am ready,’ said I, and followed him down the stairs and along the street to the little bar.
    On the way, I had the uneasy feeling that we were being followed. I glanced behind me more than once, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. The events of the day – and, perhaps more to the point, the prospect of what the evening might bring – had conspired, I told myself, to make me more nervous than is customary with me.
    Lefevre emerged from the doorway as we approached. He still betrayed not the least indication of familiarity with soap and water, but he had enlivened his shabby costume with a rose in his buttonhole – a red rose, appropriately enough. I wondered if it might be some secret signal to his fellow anarchists, and whether Holmes and I should not visit the florist’s. Before I could put my thoughts into words, Lefevre glanced up and down the road before giving his habitual nod of greeting, then set off without a word, with us at his heels.
    I had flattered myself that I had gained some general knowledge of the area that afternoon, but Lefevre led us through streets and alleys of whose existence I was in complete ignorance. In the growing dusk we passed little, ill-lit bars, gambling dens, and yet more dubious establishments, until Lefevre at last took us into a tiny court, and pulled up abruptly before a door slightly more battered than its fellows.
    ‘All ready?’ asked Lefevre.
    ‘Ready,’ said Holmes.
    I nodded.
    Lefevre told us, ‘If we are separated – and, Lord knows, that is likely this evening – ask for “Marcel” at the pension , and you will find me. En avant !’ He straightened himself, as if to prepare himself for whatever might befall, then pushed open the door. We followed him inside, past an open door which showed us a glimpse of tables and chairs, with some half-dozen men and women sitting around talking. To this day I cannot say if it was a restaurant, or a drinking club of sorts, or just what it might have been. But by the door stood a man in a greasy apron, a waiter, or the owner, perhaps, and he gave a piercing look at Holmes and myself before exchanging a nod with Lefevre.
    Lefevre continued down a narrow, dirty passage, and up a flight of stairs which had not the slightest vestige of carpet or paint. We stopped on a little landing, which at first seemed deserted, but then a large, rough-looking man emerged, and planted himself firmly in our path. I wondered if this was Ugly John – his face certainly qualified him for the sobriquet.
    ‘Comrades from Corsica,’ said Lefevre, nodding at Holmes and myself.
    The large man scrutinized the two of us with some care, then at last gave a grunt of approbation – I think it was Holmes’s two-toned shoes which finally tipped the scales – and stood to one side to let us pass.
    Lefevre pushed open a door and led the way inside. The room in which we found ourselves was bigger than one might have expected from the premises downstairs – ‘deceptively spacious’, as the house-agents might well have said – but, large as it was, it was crowded. We were evidently the last to arrive, and there seemed no empty places left, but Lefevre begged a couple of chairs from a man who was acting in some sort as an usher, or steward, and we settled ourselves next to the door. The large man who had inspected us on our arrival came in, closed the door behind him, and sat down near us, and I assumed that the business of the evening was about to begin.
    The steward, a fussy, self-important little individual, made his way to the front of the room – for there was no pretence at any sort of platform or stage – to announce the first speaker, ‘The comrade from Lyons.’
    There were three or four of these speakers, all much alike in appearance –