Son of Holmes | страница 37

Lupa leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. “That’s everyone.”

“Except Fritz.”

“No, not except Fritz.”

“You have something on him,” I asked, “some connection?”

Lupa shook his head. “I was loath to consider him because of his cooking. He is so sympathetique. Still, that is a flaw in my own method.”

“But you just said you have nothing on him.”

“Nothing definite, Jules, but certainly something. It stretches the bounds of coincidence that every one of your guests has some foreign connection. Until I have satisfied myself with Fritz’s references in Germany before the war began, I have to include him among the suspects. I have a man working on it now.”

“But what possible . . . ?” I began.

“Jules, please. I must suspect everyone.”

“Even me?”

He was young. A look of ineffable sadness crossed his countenance. “I’m afraid, my new friend, even you.”

I stood up. “The beer is terrible, but it isn’t that. I must be getting on home. Would you like me to have Fritz send up a case of my beer, if it wouldn’t spook you?”

“That would be excellent,” he said, lifting the corners of his mouth in what perhaps he thought was a broad smile.

“Meanwhile, I’ll get some sleep and then try and contact everyone and see what I can find.”

Lupa seemed to consider something, then stopped me from leaving by raising his hand. “Jules,” he said, “a small point, but in English the word ‘contact’ should never be used as a verb.”

“Au revoir,” I replied with dignity, then turned on my heels, left him, and began walking home through the gray and dismal afternoon.

Stones crunched noisily under my feet as I trudged homeward, the sound a somber coda to the theme playing over and over in my mind. Lupa had said, “I must suspect everyone,” and he was right. I walked slowly, hands deep in my pockets, head down.

Everyone . . .

I thought of the word as a sledgehammer pounding into the wall of reluctance I had built against suspicion of my friends. And they had been my friends, every one of them. Now, until this was all over, they would not be friends, and they might never be again.

I remembered how it had all begun, with Paul Anser. It had been in Paris around 1911. What had he been doing there? Ah yes, publishing something. He did actually publish poetry. I had two or three of his bound collections and even an autographed manuscript at the house. There had been a party, I recall, with lots of young men from London taking the Grand Tour, as well as several charming young women. I had the feeling that I’d been asked to chaperon, but that suited me. The crowd was lively and intelligent, a far cry from the stultifying soirees held by the wives of military men to further their husbands’ careers.