Chapter 1
On a typical late March afternoon in Paris, cold and rainy with dark clouds, the weather more reminiscent of winter than spring, my cousin Sherlock Holmes and I walked along a narrow street on the Île Saint-Louis. The island was in the oldest part of the city, at its very heart, next to the other small island where the church of Notre-Dame stood. We were on our way to the mansion orhôtel particulier of the Baron Frédéric Chamerac to discuss some mysterious business.
Ahead of us, a shadowy figure came out of a side street: a monstrously large black overcoat hid his bent body, a cane tapped at the pavement, and a black country cleric’s hat with a wide brim cast a shadow over two odd smears ofblue—the colored glass lenses of his spectacles. Around his neck, a narrow band of white with a notch at the center marked him as a Catholic priest. His tortoise-like shuffle and labored gait were those of a very old man. As he came closer, a mangy white beard and long wisps of white hair curling from under the hat were evident, and on his right cheek was a reddish-brown blotch, either a blemish from birth or from his extreme age.
He came toward us, glanced up, then stopped. Holmes nodded. “Bonjour, monsieur l’abbé.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Sherlock Holmes,” croaked the old man. His hoarseness had a husky crackle like that of a crow or raven.
“Have we met before?” Holmes asked him in French, and the man replied in kind.
“No, but I know you. And I come with a warning: beware the treasure of the Needle. It swims in centuries of blood, and the grievous crimes of the French monarchs have poisoned it. No good can ever come of such tainted wealth. It is cursed. And do not trust the baron! Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, and his greed has swallowed him up entirely.”
Holmes gave him a curious glance, his blue-gray eyes faintly puzzled. We both wore the requisite gentleman’s garb: long black woolen frock coats with striped gray trousers, shiny shoes, gray leather gloves, and black silken top hats. Holmes held the silver handle of an elegant walking stick of ebony wood.
The corners of his mouth rose slightly. “You seem singularly well informed,mon ami.”
The old man nodded. His thin nose had an odd sort of curve at the end, and his long white mustache hid his lips. He raised his cane shakily. “Remember.”
He lowered the cane, then resumed his shuffling walk, passing us by. Holmes and I watched him go. Holmes glanced at me, still smiling faintly. “Quite a remarkable performance.”
I was frowning slightly. “Did you tell anyone that you were coming to see the baron?”
“No, but obviously someone has heard about it.”
We had nearly reached the end of Rue Saint-Louis en l’Île, a street which bisected the tiny island, and we started through a small park. The wooden benches were wet and barren, the tall, pruned plane trees just beginning to leaf out. The sandy gravel underfoot was darkened by moisture. Something made a noise in the bushes, and I turned in time to catch sight of a gray form with a long curving pink tail.
“Lord!” I exclaimed. “How I hate a rat.” Looking more closely amidst the greenery I could make out many more small forms. “This place is crawling with them!”
“No doubt the water of the Seine attracts them.”
We stepped out of the park onto another street which curved round the island, and the gray waters of the river were before and round us. A coal barge puffing smoke was lumbering by, kicking up a white wake in the dark water.
