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

Menard, of Desmarais, Brun et Chevalier. We have been appointed legal representatives to M’sieur Verne.’
    ‘Upon whose authority?’
    ‘Upon the authority of the accused’s uncle, M’sieur Jules Verne.’
    ‘You have papers to this effect?’
    ‘We have only just received his instructions,
Sergent
. The necessary papers are presently being drawn up. I have been sent to take preliminary details of the case.’
    Bessette studied the lawyer’s clerk a moment, then growled: ‘Come back later, when you have the necessary authorization.’
    Menard’s rheumy eyes widened. ‘Do you know what you are asking of me?’ he demanded, indignantly fixing the pince-nez to the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you know how long it has taken me to walk all the way here from Rue de Mercey? And me with my rheumatism?’
    Bessette raised his hands, showing Menard palms that were curiously red. ‘All right, all right, keep the noise down.’
    ‘
Non
,’ said Menard with a fervent shake of the head. ‘Do you know who Jules Verne
is
? He will not take kindly to your obstructive attitude,
Sergent
. Let me see the officer in charge of the case! Perhaps he will take a different view!’
    ‘No need for that,’ Bessette said. He considered for another moment, then looked over his shoulder and called: ‘Trudel! Take this man down to see Verne – not that he’ll get much out of him.’
    The
gendarme
nodded and led the lawyer’s clerk down a short flight of cold stone steps to a basement area. From there they hurried along a narrow, ill-lit corridor between two rows of sturdy strap-iron doors, into each of which was set a small, covered eye-hole. They stopped before one particular door and the
gendarme
gestured that Menard should submit to a search. The clerk cooperated fully.
    When the constable was finished, he unlocked the door, opened it and said: ‘Visitor for you, Verne.’
    As the door closed behind him, Menard looked around the small cell. The only light came through a narrow barred window at the very top of the wall, which was at pavementlevel when seen from outside. Gaston sat on the edge of his small mattress, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He looked thoroughly preoccupied with other matters, and unmistakably fearful.
    The lawyer studied him for a few moments. Then, after glancing once over his shoulder to make sure they were not being watched through the eye-hole, he underwent a curious transformation. He straightened from his bookish hunch until he stood much taller than he had outside. And when he spoke now, his voice was stronger, more authoritative – the voice of Sherlock Holmes.
    ‘Gaston?’ he said softly.
    No reaction.
    ‘Listen to me, Gaston.’ Holmes set his folio down and dropped to one knee before the young man. ‘You are in serious trouble. Very serious trouble. And I am here to help you.’
    Gaston didn’t answer; didn’t even seem aware of his presence.
    Slowly, deliberately, Holmes removed the rose from the buttonhole in his lapel. Gaston looked at the flower, watching it with the slightest frown.
    Holmes held the rose up in front of Gaston’s face. Then he placed the forefinger and thumb of his free hand around its neck. Carefully, he slid his fingers down the length of the stem, avoiding the thorns and squeezing gently as he went. The water the rose had previously absorbed in the vase at the flower stall now gathered at the end of the stalk, and under Holmes’s gentle pressure began to drip to the floor.
    The effect it had on Gaston was dramatic. His eyes grew large and fearful. He swallowed hard and shook his head several times. Then he backed up against the wall as if to get away from it, and tucked his legs up in front of him.
    ‘
Non
…’ he whispered.
‘Pas à nouveau!’
    Holmes held the blood-red rose closer to him. The movement dislodged another drop of water. Gaston’s eyes saucered and he flattened fearfully against the wall.
    As Gaston watched in undisguised horror, Holmes slowly