Author's Note - Warning! Anti-Semitism and ableism. Although, since this story is set in Nazi-occupied Paris, I suppose you expected that already.

21 Rue Le Sueur

Chapter 2

Marcelle quaked with fear as she pushed open the door to allow the Commandant inside their fashionable Parisian townhouse. Although there had always been a chance, however slight, that I could be caught, this was quite out of the ordinary. If they intended to lock me away in some internment camp as they had with other Allied citizens, surely they would have just sent the Gestapo or even the local Parisian police. Why would the Commandant himself be darkening my door?

"What can I do for you?" I asked blandly, pushing my wheelchair to a stop and regarding him coolly from where he stood in my foyer. He was a dull-looking man, pale and commonplace, past middle-age but too young to be considered elderly. He stood before me, his chest jutting out arrogantly as though he had every right to be there. He seemed to take up more space than a human body had any right to. "Perhaps you have come to discuss my treatise on infectious diseases?"

"Let's not be coy, Mr. Holmes," he replied, pushing past Marcelle and letting himself into the parlor. I wheeled after him, waving my hand at my nurse in dismissal. She didn't need to be told twice before fleeing the room. "Or, no, I suppose you are going by the name of Jean Moreau now," he continued. "Or is it Altamont?"

It amused me thoroughly to know that my efforts during the Great War were still a matter of embarrassment to the Germans. "Come now," I cajoled. "I'm hardly that spry young man of sixty. Do you truly believe I am a spy?"

The Commandant graced me with an affable smile. "No. You're hardly the Sherlock Holmes that I had read so much about: the great detective, boxing champion, the master of disguise... That author, John Watson, had certainly built you up. I suspect half of what he wrote wasn't even true, but even if it was I doubt you would be much of a danger to anyone now."

I smirked at that. It was never my physicality that made me dangerous.

"So, what is it that you intend to do with me?" I asked. "I'm sure capturing the double-agent Altamont would earn you great recognition from your Führer."

"I thought about that," the Commandant admitted. "But that was twenty years ago and the problem I'm facing now is a bit more immediate. I could use a man of your expertise, that is if the ravages of time haven't addled your brain."

"I am still sharp enough," I said with false modesty. "Though I am hardly inclined to help you."

"Really? I would think you would jump at such a chance; figuratively, of course." He eyed the chair with a smirk. "A man of your age and health could hardly be expected to survive an internment camp, especially when so many of the guards were veterans of the Great War. Not to mention your little nurse would be facing a far more serious punishment for harboring you. After all, she doesn't have the luxury of hiding behind a foreign citizenship."

It was only because of the decades I had spent in the company of criminals that allowed me to keep my rage from showing. "What is the case then?"

The Commandant smiled as though he had just single-handedly won the war. "Several high-profile suspects have recently managed to breach our security and flee the city, most notably a husband and wife by the name of Langer. We know there are several underground escape routes, but as you can imagine it is difficult for one of our Gestapo men to infiltrate such clandestine activities successfully and the local police have been less than enthusiastic in stopping such crime. I would like you to track down the Langers and expose any escape routes that you happen to discover."

"That seems like quite job," I drawled out dully. "If the local police could not provide you with answers, what makes you think I can?" I could only imagine how Lestrade would have reacted if I had ever said such a thing to him.

"Don't sell yourself short, Mr. Holmes," the Commandant chided good-naturedly. "After all, you possess a remarkable intelligence, despite looking like a Jew. I would have expected more Aryan features from a man of your caliber, but I suppose all sorts are possible even if unlikely. Besides, if you did fail to turn up anything within... oh, say a month... then I suppose there would be no reason to continue protecting yourself or your little nurse. I'll send Commissaire Fournier over to help you in your investigation. Oh, no, don't get up, I'll see myself out," he mocked, giving a little bow before sweeping out of the house.

I tapered my fingers together and dwelled on the problem before me. I had made mistakes before, even if my biographer never cared to dwell on them they were still numerous nonetheless. Marcelle was an appalling companion, a woman who could drive me insane with her shallow irrationality, but I would die before I would willing allow any harm to come to her. At the moment, I could see no alternative but to do as the Commandant had ordered and bide my time.

"Viktor Langer is a German-Jew from a wealthy family and the former leader of a group of resistance fighters. He had a highly prolific career back in Germany: blowing up trains, smuggling weapons, bombing buildings. His wife, Elza, is the daughter of a rabbi and originally from Wilno, Poland. After the Germans and Soviets divided Poland up in 1939, Elza and her parents were shipped off to a gulag in Siberia with several thousand other 'enemies of the state': artists, clergymen, intellgentsia. The usual suspects. She somehow managed to escape because the next time she appears on record, she is Viktor's wife and right-hand. A few months before the invasion, their resistance movement was betrayed, most of its members were sent to camps, and the Langers fled to Paris. After the fall, we have several reports of them making inquiries about safe passage out of France and then... nothing."

I looked up from the files Fournier had brought with him and regarded the man with a look that no doubt belied my exasperation with his complete ineptitude. It was a look that used to set Watson's teeth on edge and the inspectors from the Yard bristling with indignation. What else could I do when faced with such incompetency? Instead of bothering to use logic, these commonplace detectives would invariably fall back upon "there was nothing" or "he just disappeared" or "it was like magic." As though believing in fairy tales would absolve them from doing their jobs.

Although, taking in the man's drawn face and stooped shoulders, it looked as though Commissaire Fournier had given up on more than just the case. He was tall and thin, though he hadn't always been as gaunt as he was now. His clothes fit him lengthwise, but they sagged on his frame like he had once been a much heavier man. His uniform was worn, though his tie and shoes were new and black. He had bought them recently, most likely for a funeral. This was the picture of a man who was utterly beaten.

"That ring," Fournier nodded to one of the photographs that prominently displayed the lady's left hand. "Was given to her by her husband. From descriptions, it appears to be an heirloom piece, set with rubies and diamonds. There are reports of her wearing it in Paris and it appears to have been the only finery they possessed. We've been checking a few of the local pawnshops to see if she might have hawked it to fund their escape." He gave a little shrug, as though he didn't particularly care one way or the other how this case might go.

I smiled wryly at the man's supposition. "If the lady hadn't sold it by the time she got here, then I seriously doubt she would have willingly parted with it now. A wedding ring is a very sentimental object to the female sex."

Fournier barked out a laugh that sounded anything but amused. "Oh, really? You don't know much about women, do you? My wife's wedding ring was the first thing she sold when we needed to buy medicine off the black market for our daughter." He sighed and shook his head. "To be honest, I'm thinking of just telling the Commandant that they fled to Casablanca and be done with it."

"That sounds like the plot to some horrible American film."

This time Fournier's laugh was genuine.