her clear as day. She was wearing a white apron and carrying a tray. She was working as a waitress.”
I could not suppress a murmur of astonishment.
“How long did she remain?”
“All evening, sir. I stayed outside till past Eleven. When she came out, she walked steady as you please, hailed a cab and gave her home address. Still no limp, and no crutch. I called for Robins immediately.”
Holmes rose slowly from his chair and went to the mantle. He selected a pipe with deliberate care, filled it, and struck a match. For a moment he stood motionless, the flame poised, his thin face intent. Then he lit the tobacco and sank back into his chair, the first blue coils of smoke wreathing about his head.
“So,” he said softly. “Our helpless cripple is no cripple at all, but a working waitress in a high class French restaurant. And yet, subtly she can play her part by day for the benefit of those who must be deceived.”
He drew deeply at his pipe and closed his eyes.
“This,” he added after a pause, “is our first real break in the case.”
He rose suddenly and turned to Robins. Holmes paid in full and added an extra Guinea for Hawkins, thanking them for all their work but their services were no longer required.
When the boys had gone Holmes resumed his seat.
“Tomorrow evening, Watson, we shall dine in Knightsbridge.”
“Indeed?” “Yes, i find that French cuisine stimulates both digestion and deduction.”
And with that he fell into thoughtful silence, smoking steadily, while the winter fog thickened against the windows and the mystery of the poisoned chocolates seemed to be moving at last from conjecture toward some sort of revelation.
The following evening found us stepping down from a hansom in the narrow, well lit street just off Sloane Street where the restaurant stood.
The establishment presented an air of discreet elegance. Tall windows glowed with warm lamplight, and through them I glimpsed white tablecloths, polished glassware, and gentlemen in evening dress conversing over their wine. The sign above the door bore the gilded eagle of France.
Holmes paused a moment before entering.
“Observe the clientele, Watson. Wealthy, fashionable, and above all concerned with reputation. The very sort of patrons who would shun an establishment at the faintest whisper of scandal.”
“Indeed, Precisely the sort who also indulge upon Mr Upton’s confectionery.”
Holmes’s eyes twinkled.
“Just so.”
We entered.
The interior was richly furnished with dark wood panels and crimson drapery. The low murmur of conversation blended with the gentle clink of glasses and the subdued strains of a violin somewhere toward the rear. Waiters in black coats moved with practiced efficiency among the tables.
We had scarcely removed our coats when Holmes’s gaze shifted toward the far side of the room.
“There she is.”
I followed his glance.
A young woman, looking strikingly similar to Orietta, stood near a table bearing a silver tray. She wore the white apron Hawkins had described, and her dark hair was arranged neatly beneath a small cap. There was no trace of a limp in her step as she moved swiftly between the tables.
“Gigliola Lombardo, I presume,” I murmured.
Holmes gave a small nod.
“She plays her part well.”
A maître d’, a thin gentleman with a waxed moustache and a grave expression, approached us and conducted us to a small table near the wall. Holmes ordered dinner with the calm deliberation of a man who had no care in the world.
During the course of the meal he spoke little, but I noticed that his eyes were rarely still. They travelled the room, observing the waiters, the guests, and more than once the movements of Miss Orietta Lombardo’s sister.
“She carries trays with a steady hand,” Holmes remarked softly. “Not the least tremor.”
“You recall Mr Upton said her hands shook when he met her.”
“Indeed I do.”
When we had finished our Desserts Holmes beckoned over the maître d’.
“I would like a word with Monsieur Dubois, if he would be so good. Holmes gave him his card.”
The man bowed and departed. Within a few moments a stout gentleman approached our table. He was perhaps Fifty years of age, the restaurant owner, who was well dressed though somewhat pale, with the air of one whose mind was troubled.
“Mr Holmes,” he said politely, “I am Henri Dubois. I received your Telegram earlier today. You said that you have some important information for me.”
“Yes, and let me introduce Dr Watson. I have come about the Blackmailer.”
The effect was immediate. Monsuier Dubois’s eyebrows rose sharply and a look of astonishment crossed his face as it had mine too.
He drew in a slow breath and seated himself opposite us without invitation. “How did you know, Mr Holmes, not even my Wife knows. Since two weeks now,” said he continued in a low voice, “I have received two typewritten notes. They say that unless I pay £4000 my restaurant’s reputation will be destroyed beyond repair.”