Locker Number 115

„Late fall'n himself from heav´n, is plotting now/the fall of others from like state of bliss/ by violence, no, for that shall be withstood/ but by deceit and lies"

Paradise Lost

The arms of the big clock at St. Lazare both pointed at the number „3" when we dashed into the concourse, Holmes first and I with a little delay, hands pressed into both my sides. I had a stitch and regretted having handed the small silver key over to him - had I insisted on keeping it, he would no doubt have shown some more regard for our difference in speed. But there was no time now to feel vexed. So I wrung a final jog from my exhausted body that brought me level with him again, and soon, we were standing in front of a row of lockers, each inscribed with a three-figure number.

Holmes rushed down the row like a staghound, counting under his breath. „118….117…116…"

He stopped abruptly to thrust the key into the lock of number 115.

Breathing heavily, I raised myself onto the tips of my toes so as to be able peer past him into the opening of the deep locker. There, in the back of a space that was intended to accommodate large valises, I could glimpse at some vaguely outlined object. It looked like a small pile of rags, or a tattered pouch.

Holmes' arm quickly dived into the aperture, brining the object to light: It was a bundle, made of brown wrapping paper, about the size of an apple, just as the cabbie had said. We traded a significant glance.

„Holmes…!"

„Wait." He paused to take a look around and ensure we were not being watched. Then, we shifted into an ill-lit corner, and with a deft movement, Holmes removed part of the wrapping. The clear, glassy shine of precious stones blinked beneath our hands.

„Goodness me!" I whispered, reverentially. But my eyesight was bereft of the beautiful object within the moment: Holmes tucked it in with the paper again, and shoved it into the pocket of his coat.

„That's it , Mr. Holmes!" I spluttered in my excitement, „that is the King's Orb! I cannot believe we found it!"

„SHH!" He laid a finger over his lips, still scanning his surroundings with idiosyncratic alertness. „Don't name it. It isn't safe yet. We must hand it over to M. Simon of the Sûrété as soon as possible. Come along!"

„Awright…." I trudged after him, a little disappointed I had not been allowed to look at the gem to my heart's content. On a rational level, I knew Holmes was right to insist we bring it to the police at once, on the other hand…I had had a hand in recovering it. Surely he ought not to forget that!

Thus, I maintained a sullen silence, keeping behind him on our way out of the station and into the general direction of the river Seine. The Sûrété, now that I had confided all I had been trying to conceal to Holmes, had lost its power to scare me, and yet I was not too keen to go there again. Unknowingly, I slowed down as we walked along the river on the promenade. He turned around without stopping, ever impatient and eager to fulfill his task.

„What's the meaning of this dawdling, Fanny? You did not get a footsore, did you?"

„No", I conceeded, disgruntled. „It is jus' that I don't cherish being hurried along. If you feel you are better off by yerseln, ya should jus' say so, an' rid yerseln o' me."

„Fanny!" He turned around with fluttering coat tails, and took me by the shoulders with a hearty grasp that was totally unexpected. „How can you say so? You have been a brick these past hours! I do in all sincerity not know what I would have done without you. Probably, I would have had to slip into a cabman's guise to get this fellow's confidence!"

„Oh…well…thank ya!" I replied, rather surprised by the cordiality and good humour that came with our success. „I…That was nofink. You did very well, pointing out the necessity ter seek out the man and talk wiv him!"

His keen eyes lit up with the compliment, and we continued, a little slower, but visibly elated. Holmes even started twirling his cane, thus creating a sphere around us where nobody else would dare to walk. He whistled the Marseillaise.

I turned my face away and toward the river, so he should not see me smiling. „I say! `opefully, all this means that the constant calling of the police at my plaice of work will find an end. Madame is quite unnerved by `em."

„I can understand. But I agree, this should be over now. As for the remaining question of what happened to Madame Zhao, you have already told them what you know. There is nothing more you can do to set them on the right trail."

„Le's hope so!" I turned my head back to look at him. „In any event, I'd be grateful if André Dulage did not make further appearances in the boutique. The girls are beginning to snigger behind our backs."

„They…? Oh!" He nodded his appreciation. „Well, this is human nature, Fanny. The fact that two young people are suddenly seeing each other a lot seems to indicate -„

„I know what it seems to indicate! But we are not `seeing each other`; he pesters me with questions that appertain to an abduction! I fail ter see even a hint of romance under such circumstances. Foolish girls!" I snapped angrily, but he tried to appease me.

„You mustn't blame them. With young women occupied with rather tedious tasks all day, a handsome man like Monsieur Dulage in my experience is apt to stimulate the imagination."

„You fink him handsome, then?" I considered that.

„He is what would commonly be subsumed under this description. He has a figure, a pleasant face, and there is still hair aplenty on his head", Holmes returned with a matter-of-fact sound that seemed irrefragable.

I laughed out. „That may be so, but he is rather shy, and surely, that is not to everybody's taste. Same fink goes for `is pigeon-toed walking."

The swirling cane came to a sudden halt. Holmes stopped, staring ahead of us as if there were something to be seen there, something beyond the river, the steam barques and the pedestrians. He remained like this for maybe five seconds, then he turned toward me sharply.

„He walks pidgeon-toed? Dulage walks pidgeon-toed?"

„Ya knows he does", I returned, slightly irritated by his erratic demeanour. „Ya must `ave noticed it before."

„Not as such, no…." He muttered, and his gaze drifted away again, toward the horizon.

I suffered it for another ten seconds, then I set my arms akimbo. „Mr. `olmes, if ya feels the lack o' sleep upon ye, `ere is not the plaice to maike amends. I am afraid we are taikin' up quite a lot of space `ere. What now? Are we goin' to the Sûrété, or not?"

He was back before I had finished talking, and blinked a couple of times, as if, indeed, he had just woken from profound sleep. „No - no Frances, we are not."

He straightened himself, and set in motion again. „Come on."

„What - Mr. `olmes - what in blazes?" My question whether we would be going to the Sûrété had first and foremost been a rhetorical one, and his decision not to was confusing me considerably. „Where are we goin' then?"

„We will lock up the artifact for now", he stated firmly, in a tone that made it clear my opinion was not desired. „There is a safe in my hotel room. It should be secure enough in there tonight. And tomorrow, we shall see."

„What?! Why?" I felt completely shut out, and that angered me to a degree where all our previous good comradeship crepitated. „Wha, all `o a sudden?"

„Just - come, Frances!" He urged me, but I vividly shook my head.

„To yer `otel? No, Mr. `olmes. There's quite many circumstances maikin` me loth to go there, all of which you seems ter `ave completely forgotten."

„Fanny - „ he stopped, gripping his forehead with one bony hand. „I can't - I can't have discussion now! If you are afraid of what a scandal-mongering little concierge may think, perhaps there is more bourgeois narrowness in you than I would have credited you with. Yes, I said bourgeois! Don't bring up your oh-so-proletarian origins, pray! You were done with that a long time ago. Speaking plainly, what you have become is a lady respectable enough to drive one up the wall, with your pettifogging concerns!"

I gasped. It had been a long time since somebody had felt authorized to speak to me in that tone. „How can you say such a fink? Remember I broke into a church with you last night, and walked through a blasted dungeon with you! Do I really deserve such haranguing?"

He gave a dismissive gesture. „Do what you will. I must see to the security of a national heirloom, and have no time to quarrel with you. Maybe I had been hasty in thinking you could provide succor. Maybe I am really better off by myself, after all!"

And he left me there, standing by the riverside, biting back tears as I watched his back melt into the crowd and finally disappear.

oooOOOooo

My return to my flat was gloomy and cheerless. The atmosphere, due to the fact that I had not been home in two days, was stuffy, but at the same time freezing cold. Nobody had seen to the airing or heating. I sat down on my bed, acutely aware of the newly repaired blind in the window above my head.

Staring ahead of myself numbly, I detected that I had a letter, there on the door mat. Of course, there had been nobody home to pick up the post, either. I felt heavy, and it seemed hard to decide whether to start the oven first, or to open the window, or to pick up that letter. Everything appeared equally difficult to perform in my current state of inertia.

For a moment, I wondered whether my Uncle John had ever been exposed to this sort of treatment, and whether it had made him feel equally incapable and superfluous. It was quite possible….Holmes had never been famous for his sympathy, and uncle John reportedly had made many blunders in his time. But then of course, the situations were not comparable. He had not been expected to impersonate, to replace somebody irrevocably gone, which I felt I was.

But there was no use in crying over spilt milk. Being of a practical turn, I decided to push my dark musings aside. I would either freeze to death or suffocate if I just continued sitting here, and that would not do. My fingers stiff with the cold, I put some coal briquets into my small stove and lit them with a match and an old gazette. Next, I opened the window. The cold draught enlivened my small fire, and the flames began to dance. I closed the hatch, filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Remained that letter on my door mat.

I bent down half-heartedly to get it, expecting some bill or other. But the sender indicated on the envelope made my breath hitch with joy - it was from Uncle Jonathan! I all but ripped the letter open. No conundrums, no mysteries, no melodrama: His curt, but affectionate writing was what I needed now!

My dear little Fanny!

I was glad to hear about your and your life in Paris, about the friends you made and the fun you have. And already there is a suitor! Forgive me, I still think of you as a little girlie sitting on my knee. Soon, you will be engaged to some fortunate man, and I won't be able to be there! It is too bad.

But if that marriage business can wait a little (you are, after all, very young still!) I really think you should come and join your old Uncle on the reef! Australia is a splendid place and very civilized today. Many people are making a fortune on the gold fields! It is not at all what it used to be. You ought to come to Brisbane and bring the unfortunate ladies there Parisian fashion styles! It would give them something to do, as well as provide an opportunity to spend their gold.

But of course, you don't want to leave such a jolly place, and there are your friends to consider. Well, well! I still hope we can see each other again some day not too far in the future. For myself, you need not to be worried. When on Papua, I hardly ever get down from my ship, on even when I do, I don't leave Port Moresby, which is a wretched enough place, but not at all dangerous.

The sun is particularly brilliant today and from where I sit, I can see some flying fish out in the water. I didn't find more starfish, but if I do, I'll send you one with my next.

With all my love,

Your Uncle Jonathan

I smiled into the page, besmeared with the imprints of several dirty thumbs as it was, and would have continued doing so, when the kettle started to pipe. My head jerked up, and I swiftly took it from the stove.

oooOOOooo

Ling Zhao could not go on. She felt it, although they had fed her back to a condition where her body would be able to last for a considerable time. But the same was not true for her mind. Abandoning physical cruelties, they had settled for torturing that, and it was worse, worse, worse. She cried out in desperate frustration when the men told her in a low, almost confidential tone what had happened to her relatives - when a part of her rationality told her that they were safe, far away in Canton, out of the enemy's reach.

Only, how could she be sure? How? How?

She could not recite a sutra uninterrupted anymore, neither aloud not in her thoughts. They were there, always. They invaded her conscious, her sub-conscious even, painting disturbing scenes in soft tones. She was shown photographs, old ones, she knew it was not impossible to get at them in Paris. For every family member in the pictures, they had a story ready, and they knew the details. They undermined her certainty step by step, and when she crumbled, when she could not take it any longer, the most painful thing was the knowledge they were telling lies; probably just telling lies.

But a human being can take only so much, and Ling Zhao sensed it when she fell forward onto her face, giving up, giving in, her nose only inches from the tips of the patent leather shoes. The high falsetto voice - she had heard it only a few times - rang out, and made her hair stand on end.

„Well, Madame Zhao? Where is the KIng's Orb?"

She sobbed, sobbed her defeat right into the ground.

„Ah! But I can't hear you, Madame Zhao", the high, cold voice admonished her.

With what strength remained, she raised her face, wet and dirty, an inch or two from the ground.

„Francoise - the girl - she has it!"

Hi guys!

Aha! Now we are getting somewhere. The gem has been found. And Fanny is clearly in danger. And so, by the way, is Madame Zhao! We can imagine what would happen to her, should the Orb fall into the hands of the fiend…argh.

Ok. Next chapter will see a little bit of action, maybe a little bit of further development, too. Maybe even a bit of a surprise, unless my plot twists are too transparent ;-)

Whatever! See you next time!

Love, Mrs. F