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puzzled. “The schedule for the Moscow-Peking, please . . .”

      “Of course, Monsieur, allow me to go consult the Bradshaw’s at reception . . .”

      He returned less than ten minutes later—this was one of the horribly expensive little services offered by large hotels—with a piece of paper on which were written the upcoming departures of the incredible train that had linked Europe and Asia since 1891.

      “The next leaves in three days,” said the server, “which will not leave you time to make a reservation, unless you already have your visas in order. Still, you’ll have to get to Moscow. The next departs in two weeks, on February 15^th, which would be more reasonable. If you wish, we can arrange your voyage for you.”

      Holmes was delighted, but he shot a questioning glance toward Grimod.

      “I’ll thank you to take care of it,” said the latter. “There will be four of us. I will find you again in a little while to go over the details.”

      When the waiter was gone, Holmes noticed that Canterel looked preoccupied.

      “What’s wrong, my friend? Do you think we’re not making the right decision?”

      “Of course not,” replied Canterel. “It’s a good lead, but today is the . . .”

      “The fifth of February,” said Grimod.

      “That’s what I thought. I’m concerned that there won’t be enough to fill my trunks. I have some shopping to do, you see . . . My whole wardrobe is still in Biarritz.”

      The next day, Holmes drove Canterel to Savile Row, the street with the best tailors in London. The Frenchman left behind a small fortune at Gieves & Hawkes in exchange for several suits, and almost as much at Hardy Amies for shirts and accessories. Still more checks cut the fittings down to three days, a period during which Holmes used his connections to obtain the necessary visas for their trek. As for Grimod, he was sent to Eilean Castle to tell Lady MacRae of their departure. He was to gather their things and bring them back to London along with the car.

      Canterel never stopped thinking about the message that was sending them off to the end of the earth; one of the words kept bothering him. He opened up to Holmes. “The diamond and its reflection . . . Why word it like that? Doesn’t that have to mean that there was something else in the safe?”

      “I would lean more toward a simple figure of speech,” said Holmes. “That fits the exuberance of his persona, Chung Ling Soo was not one for discretion, if I am to believe what we saw of his show.”

      “Certainly not, but still. I hardly see the use of such a phrasing in this instance . . .”

      “Come now, Martial, don’t go looking for things that aren’t there, our situation is complicated enough as it is, let’s not add any more riddles. In any case, now that your wardrobe is replenished, I suggest you stop by and visit my friend James Purdey, a gunsmith. It would be well not to disregard the dangers that await us.”

      Making it clear that he believed he had all he needed in his luggage, Canterel acquiesced. They went to 57 South Audley Street, where they were received in the “Long Room” reserved for “serious” clients. The meaning behind this word: those rich enough to spend the exorbitant sums of money that transform a simple aesthete, astonished by the beauty of a weapon, into one of those exceptional men capable of buying it. With Holmes seeming uneasy, in Grimod’s absence, at the prospect of making pecuniary decisions, Canterel came to acquire a Whitworth double-barreled rifle, which had narrowed chokes and jasper trim that read Best Bouquet & Scrolls, allowing the bearer to honorably face any wildcat in the real or figurative jungles he had to roam. He finished his shopping with a Mauser C96 and its holster, and insisted on presenting his friend with a 9mm Luger Parabellum that he was salivating over.

      Once Grimod returned from Scotland, the car was delivered to The Langham, London’s garage; Miss Sherrington looked after getting all the purchases from the last several days packed up and transporting them to Victoria Station.

      Perhaps you will have formed a rather poor picture of Canterel, of a contemptible father wholly occupied in frittering away his fortune without sparing a thought for the child he had never seen? That would be a mistake, as he expressed his desire to go to Glasgow before their departure, just long enough to embrace his daughter; it was Grimod who dissuaded him: the Nord-Express from Paris to St. Petersburg was going the next day, on Saturday the 9^th of February at 2:15 P.M. It would not arrive at its destination until Monday at 3:00 P.M.; they would then have to catch a connection on the 12^th to get to the Russian capital the evening of the 14^th and hope to make the Transsiberian on the 15^th.

      They had not counted on the unknown quantities that accompany all journeys of this scale. After a brief night, shortened by important reflections on the chase they were undertaking—but even more by Holmes’s tendency to top up his glass of scotch before sharing the slightest opinion—all four of them clambered into a cab around noon. Ever since the reopening of the coalmines and the return to coke in all fields of industry, a thick fog had been pressing down on the metropolitan centers of Europe. The once-renowned “London fog” had easily regained its past acclaim, so much so that at that hour of the day it reduced the streets to dismal canyons populated by vague shapes. From the orangey dome that covered the city fell a snow of carbonaceous particulates that oppressed the throat and irritated the eyes.

      Their cab was turning onto Grosvenor Place, a few hundred meters from the station, when a huge explosion forced the coachman to rein in his team. Part of the façade of a department store had collapsed in the blast, flinging massive stones into the street and showering down a hail of glass shards. A terrified young woman came out of the haze, carrying a baby covered with blood, then came a carriage drawn by a panic-stricken horse that had taken the bit between its teeth, followed by a man who was walking slowly, his head split open. Canterel was about to open the door to go help the wounded who were streaming toward them, when a second explosion, then a third lit up the sky in different places, though it was impossible to pinpoint them exactly.

      “Bombings,” said Holmes. “We have to get out of here quickly!”

      At that moment, swarms of young people emerged from the fog, running. Ragged little kids, for the most part, who were fleeing with their arms full of the fruits of their looting: hams, cashmeres, gleaming copper pots, ratafia, porcelain dolls, clocks, dried cod, cellos, armfuls of umbrellas, sewing machines, chandeliers, mattresses, glass globes, cobblers’ anvils, andirons, preserves, boiled leather mannequins, brass candlesticks, wheelbarrows brimming with marshmallows and gilt buttons, even a cast iron stove carried like a cumbersome corpse by four teens whose faces were black with anguish and smoke. Radiant Hermès scarves began to billow out above them, looking like the last shreds of a snuffed-out dream.

      After this vision came the tramping sound of a stampede, then the arrival of several mounted policemen. Holmes quickly gave the coachman an order, and they managed to sneak in behind the mounted guard that was launching into pursuit of the looters.

      Twenty minutes later, they narrowly managed to leap onto the Golden Arrow that was threatening to leave for Paris without them.

       X

       A Bit of Fog on the Lenses of His Glasses

      Perhaps her daily dose of hormones, or her age, though more likely her overindulgence in candied fruit and her lack of physical activity have made her into a woman who is rather more than chubby; not obese but plump, with the advantage of having curves where they are needed, but also cascading flab in places that are repellent. A Venus by Rubens, not yet a Botero. Louise Le Galle knows this without wanting to admit it. She imagines herself more as a priestess at the Crazy Horse Saloon, with a name that crackles and allures: Nouka Bazooka, Choo Choo Nightrain, Bertha von Paraboum . . .

      Since she became a woman, men have shown zero interest. She signed up

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