Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

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      As I passed the next landing, the door on the floor above opened behind me with a soft click. Having discounted our mysterious pursuer’s existence, I ignored this for perhaps a second or two. I became aware of the lack of footsteps behind me.

      Had someone entered the stairwell and remained standing, in the doorway above? Strange, I thought, and was turning to look when I was struck a sudden hard blow to the legs by a large figure shrouded in grey and wearing a low hat – and wielding an umbrella! I tumbled down the marble staircase like a child’s toy thrown in a fit of pique.

      With a thud I slammed into the rails at the next landing, and lay there, my breath knocked out of me. A sharp pain in the ribs stabbed into my consciousness and I groaned. I heard the door on the landing above click shut. And then I blacked out.

      When I regained consciousness I was lying on some sort of couch. The face of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, floated hazily above mine with an expression of fearful concern.

      ‘Watson! Watson!’ he entreated. His hand patted mine, as he tried to rouse me.

      My eyes focused and I took in the scene. Behind Holmes were two security guards. We were in someone’s office. I blinked a few times.

      ‘I am fine, Holmes,’ I managed to say. ‘It was a small tumble.’

      ‘You were pushed down a steep flight of stairs,’ he said.

      ‘Well, yes.’

      ‘But you did not see your attacker?’

      ‘It happened too quickly,’ I replied, attempting to sit up. ‘I only glimpsed a hat. And an umbrella.’

      Holmes snorted.

      ‘I suppose I did not believe you,’ I admitted sheepishly.

      Holmes brusquely dropped my hand and whirled on the guards.

      ‘I shall ask you again! Who entered the stairwell?’ demanded Holmes of one of them, whom I now recognized as the guard who had shown me the stairwell.

      ‘Not a person,’ said the guard, in a defensive whine. ‘I go. I see nothing.’

      ‘No one?’ Holmes stared at him. ‘Idiot!’ he muttered under his breath, and then turned back to me. ‘Are you well enough to walk, Watson? We must get you to the hotel, and perhaps to a doctor.’

      I sat up with a lurch, feeling a wave of nausea and some sharp pains in my legs, rib, and the back of my head. But taking stock, I realized that nothing was broken, and that I was probably no more than badly bruised.

      ‘I won’t need a doctor,’ I said, ‘but I could use that cup of tea. And perhaps a bit of rest before tonight.’

      Holmes smiled with relief. ‘Good man, Watson,’ he said.

       CHAPTER 5

       Les Oeufs

      fter a brief rest at our hotel, my headache abated and I was left with nothing more than sore ribs. We changed into our evening clothes, stopped briefly for something called oeufs mayonnaise and proceeded in a cab towards Montmartre. A light dusting of new snow lit by golden gaslights gave Paris a sparkling mystique.

      ‘You begin to realize, of course, that this case is more complex than it initially appeared.’

      I could read from my friend’s expression that this did not altogether displease him.

      ‘Who do you suppose pushed me down the stairs?’

      ‘Ha! Our “imaginary” follower no doubt,’ he said with a smile.

      ‘Yes, but other than our client, and this expert at the Louvre, who knew we would be in Paris?’

      ‘From those two, and Mycroft additionally, stretch many possibilities,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But most probably it was the person at Mlle La Victoire’s apartment who was “not Bernice”.’

      ‘Do you have any theories?’

      ‘Four. No, five. But I believe my primary suspect will reveal himself tonight.’

      I was not unaware of the keen pleasure my companion took in the increased danger of our situation. His eyes burned with the excitement of the chase.

      I fingered the revolver, cold and reassuring, in my pocket. Against my better instincts, I found the thrill of adventure rising inside in me like an unwanted fever.

       CHAPTER 6

       Le Chat Noir

      ur cab gradually left the Grands Boulevards as we made our way once again through the increasingly narrow and hilly streets towards Montmartre, home of colourful Bohemians and the centre of the art world in Paris. The ramshackle houses, crowded with trees and vines, gave the area an air of a country village gone mad.

      Until relatively recently, this area had been on the very outskirts of Paris. I wondered if the windmills were still in the service of grinding grain.

      One surely was not. Le Moulin de la Galette was now a beacon for one of the most famous nightclubs in the world, a scene of wild evenings – where Parisians and visitors from many lands gathered to hear beautiful women in arresting attire sing of love, despair and, through thinly veiled references, more intimate matters.

      There, too, strange clowns cavorted in wild acts calculated to disarm and shock, and rows of shapely dancers performed the famous cancan, revealing glimpses of more than propriety would bear. Not that I had ever seen such things.

      But I held out hope.

      We passed the Moulin de la Galette and I was drawn to the colourful posters, glistening in the cold evening light, harbingers of this rich entertainment. They depicted swirling skirts, bright colours, strings of electric lights.

      We were certainly far from London in every respect. I smiled at the thought of Mary at home and what she might think of this colourful locale. It would fall into her ‘I will just enjoy the postcard’ category.

      Our cab pulled up outside 68 Boulevard de Clichy. A bold sign announced that we had reached our destination. The building itself looked like a country home, crowded in between two larger buildings, which leaned in like overly solicitous relatives. It was the famous cabaret Le Chat Noir, or ‘the Black Cat’.

      I took a deep breath and willed myself to be on the alert. As we stepped down from our cab, I glanced up and down the street, but no СКАЧАТЬ