Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts by Steve Hayes Read Free Book Online

blinking or breathing. Besides, from what I saw of your husband last night, I believe it will take considerably more than that to slow him down. He is the very personification of durability.’
    ‘It is kind of you to say so,’ she said graciously. ‘And I appreciate it.’
    ‘Has there been any word of Gaston?’ asked Holmes.
    Her face clouded. ‘I sent a wire to his father, Paul, late last evening, and received a reply within the hour. He said thatGaston had somehow managed to escape from the sanatorium where he was being treated a little less than a week ago.’
    ‘And his father did not see fit to inform you of this at the time?’
    ‘He did not wish to worry us. Besides, he fully expected Gaston to be recaptured within a matter of hours.’
    ‘And yet he was not,’ muttered Holmes. ‘Forgive me if I appear to speak out of turn,
madame
, but I sensed from your reaction upon seeing him yesterday that you have little love for Gaston.’
    She gave a shrug that was typically French. ‘He had just shot my husband,
m’sieur
.’
    ‘You were certainly not pleased to see him before you knew that for a fact.’
    ‘Let us just say that he is not an easy person to like. Too serious. Too … intense.’
    Holmes nodded his understanding, but a glint in his grey eyes suggested that he believed there was more to it than that. ‘Thank you,
madame
. Perhaps we could call again later today?’
    ‘Please do,’ Honorine said. ‘It will do Jules good to have visitors . This matter has quite understandably left him shaken.’
    ‘I have just one favour to ask before we leave,’ Holmes added as Watson picked up his hat and cane. ‘Would you be so kind as to provide me with a letter of authority so that I may speak with Gaston?’
    Her face darkened again. ‘Why must you do that,
m’sieur
?’
    ‘As you know, crime and its motives are my stock-in-trade, if you will. I hope that I might be able to learn something of both from Gaston.’
    ‘And
I
beg you to leave the matter be,
m’sieur
, if only as a favour to Jules. There has, I fear, been an unhappy history between them. Best to let it lie.’
    ‘As you wish,’ Holmes replied. ‘Please forgive me for asking.’
    Outside, Watson said: ‘Well, that rather scuppers your investigation ,doesn’t it? The police won’t allow you to see Gaston without the necessary permission.’
    Holmes shrugged vaguely, his mind elsewhere. ‘No matter,’ he replied after a moment. ‘There are more ways than one to skin a rabbit, old friend.’

    The stooped, bookish old man with the cracked leather writing-case folio tucked under one arm turned onto the Rue de la Republique and stopped briefly at a corner flower stall. After some deliberation he plucked a single blood-red rose from a vase of water and deftly slid the stem into his buttonhole . He then paid for his purchase, nodded his thanks to the vendor and hurried on his way.
    He was a fussy-looking man in his sixties, with dusty grey hair, a heavy moustache and a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez hanging from a ribbon around his neck. He wore a double-breasted frock coat, a grey shawl waistcoat, black trousers that were baggy and stretched at the knees and two-colour, button-up ankle boots.
    When he arrived at the central police station all was quiet and Sergeant Gabriel Bessette, who was manning the reception desk at the time, was trying to catch up on some long-overdue paperwork. The bookish, hunched-over man went directly to the desk and rapped his knuckles sharply against the scratched counter to get Bessette’s attention.
    Bessette looked up, irritated at being disturbed. He was a brawny forty-year-old with a hard, humourless face and thinning brown hair that was already losing its colour. There was nothing of welcome in his manner when he snapped:
‘Oui?’
    ‘Excuse me,’ said the newcomer, his voice a high-pitched crackle. ‘I am here to see Gaston Verne.’
    Bessette scowled. ‘And who are you?’
    ‘I am Lucien