Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Read Online Free PDF Page A

protester swore and tried to push Watson away. But Watson refused to relinquish his prize. He drew back his fist and punched the Frenchman flush on the jaw. The protester’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell back, stunned.
    A moment later several dark-clad, kepi-wearing
gendarmes
poured into the area. Intimidated, the crowd became respectfully quiet. They knew the
Gendarmerie Nationale
were free to deal with any public gathering of more than a dozen people in whichever way they felt appropriate.
    As one officer knelt to examine the dead man, Watson dragged the groggy protester to his feet and gestured to a nearby police sergeant.
    ‘Over here!’
    ‘What is going on here?’ the sergeant demanded, stamping over.
    ‘This man was part of the group responsible for that poor fellow’s murder,’ Watson explained, breathing hard. ‘It’s possible he may be able to give you the name of the devil who actually wielded the knife.’
    Some nearby onlookers nodded to confirm Watson’s story.
    ‘The killer’s first name, at least, is Rémy or René,’ called Holmes. ‘Immediately after the fight one of his companions called to him, but unfortunately I did not catch it clearly enough to tell you which it is.’
    Holmes, who had gone to retrieve Watson’s cane, now came back and handed it to him. ‘The man you are looking for,’ he informed the
gendarme
, ‘is about five feet four inches – let us say, approximately one point six metres – and some fifty-seven kilos in weight. He has an olive complexion and dark features, short black hair, large brown eyes, a long nose, a heavy brow. He is wearing a well-worn, tan-coloured sack coat, grey twill trousers and elastic-sided brogans, the left heel of which has recently been replaced. You can see that quite clearly by the tracks he left in the muddy ground. He is also missing the tip of his left little finger and has a small beverage stain upon his right sleeve, just above the cuff.’
    The sergeant stared at Holmes in amazement. ‘H-How do you know all these things,
m’sieur
?’
    ‘I have eyes,’ said Holmes. ‘I merely
used
them.’
    Recovering from his surprise, the sergeant grabbed the protester, roughly turned him around and handcuffed him.
‘Merçi, messieurs
. I will, of course, require statements from you both.’
    ‘Naturally.’
    As Watson brushed himself off, he muttered: ‘Perhaps I should emulate your methods in future, Holmes. It is considerably less strenuous than the alternative.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Never mind.’ Watson looked up, and noticing the expression of admiration on his friend’s face said: ‘What? What’s the matter?’
    Holmes gave one of his rare smiles. ‘You never fail to amaze me, old friend. One moment you are as meek as a lamb, the next as fearsome as a lion. You truly
are
the most redoubtable of companions.’
    It was high praise indeed, coming from Holmes.
    Watson flushed, embarrassed. ‘Yes, well … that’s enough excitement for one afternoon, I think.’
    But the excitement, as he was just about to discover, was only just beginning.

CHAPTER FIVE

Murder is Attempted
    A fter giving their statements to the sergeant, they wearily made their way back along Boulevard Longueville. The broad street was filled with the dispersing crowd and revellers from the park and they were bumped and jostled by people hurrying past. They had almost reached their destination – Verne’s house on Rue Charles Dubois – when Holmes noticed a stocky man in a long, navy-blue overcoat and peaked cap walking towards them on the other side of the street. ‘I believe that is our man,’ he said softly.
    ‘Verne?’ asked Watson.
    ‘Verne.’
    Watson looked more closely at the fellow. In his late fifties, he had a full grey beard, walked with a sailor’s rolling gait, and resembled an old sea-dog.
    As they watched, the man turned right into Rue Charles Dubois. A second man, one of Verne’s neighbours, waved to him from the