Island of Point Nemo. Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

Alexander calculated that he had drawn the Persian cavalry far enough, and as it was preparing to attack, he abruptly turned his horses half around, revealing the corps of slingers that his advance had concealed. Leaving these skilled warriors to pelt the Bactrian cavalry with their stones, he rushed into the breach and galloped off toward the center of the opposing army, right at the Immortals protecting Darius. An excellent opening! A line of red ink between the paragraphs of the battle! In the sandy dust raised by the combat, thousands of men are gutted in the terrible melee; swords and Macedonian javelins send blood spurting into the air, splatter the yellow robes embroidered with lavender, split hooded heads, rend wicker shields; axes and curved swords descend on the hoplites, smash crested helmets, slice, kill, mutilate unrelentingly. Caught up in a parallel fury, the men butcher one another, their disemboweled mounts gnashing their teeth. The dying continue to advance; they choke on pink foam, stumble, entangled in their own entrails. A single cry of pain seems to emanate from the mounds of the dead and wounded, whose bodies cushion their assailants’ steps. The Immortals are as resurrected as they can be, they are not renewing themselves fast enough to scatter the Macedonian wave. And suddenly, behold, they are disbanding, the Persian center is broken, Darius is fleeing. It is at this moment, as Alexander sees his opponent’s motley chariot disappearing in the dust, that a messenger reaches him: on the left flank, Parmenion and his Thessalonian cavalry are faltering before the Persians; without reinforcements they will not last long.

      It was at this moment that Miss Sherrington chose to shake her master’s shoulder: “Monsieur, please, Monsieur Canterel . . .”

      Martial Canterel was stretched out on a bed that had been imported at great cost from an opium den in Hong Kong. The battlefield was spread out across the floor, occupying almost the entirety of the parquet surface; twenty-five thousand lead soldiers, which he had spent several days positioning in order to reproduce this pivotal moment: should Alexander go after Darius, or rescue Parmenion?

      “Miss Sherrington?” he said, raising glassy eyes to hers. “I’m listening.”

      “You have a caller,” she said, holding out a card to him. “And, if I may, you should stop smoking that filth. It’s not good for your health.”

      “It’s medicinal, Miss Sherrington. You can address any commentary to Dr. Ménard.”

      Canterel took a look at the card and sat up immediately.

      “By the Holy Candle of Arras, Holmes! Holmes is here, and you didn’t tell me! Why haven’t you sent him up?”

      Miss Sherrington raised her eyes to the heavens, as if she were dealing with an imbecile.

      “I’ve been trying to wake you for ten minutes . . .” And, indicating the opium kit that was lying on the bed: “I’ve brought your medication, or do you need even more?”

      “Out of here, please, and spare me the sarcasm.”

      Martial Canterel was forty-five. Imagine a thin face, hair slicked back and sticking up in all directions—the hair of a man who sends for his barber each morning and gives him as a model a portrait of Louis II of Bavaria at the age of eighteen—big green eyes with lashes so thick that one would have thought him naturally made-up, a nice nose, and—between a French mustache and a tuft of hairs forming a fan under his lower lip—a fleshy little mouth with a disconcerting pout. His mustache was no less bizarre: very thick beneath the nose, it rippled out horizontally, stretching to an uncommon length before rising up, and then fading into tawny whiskers. Canterel maintained it obsessively. Add to this a braided frock coat over a waistcoat of quilted silk, a white-collared shirt with a double bow tie the color of a Périgord truffle, cashmere trousers, and gray beaver boots, and you will understand that the figure whom we are examining cultivated the appearance of a dandy.

      Canterel inspected his attire in the mirror. He was adjusting his collar when Holmes entered, followed by a black man whom he did not know.

      “Hello, my friend!” Holmes said, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. “Just what are you playing at, Martial, having me wait at your door like some common delivery man?”

      “Stop, not another step!” said Canterel, flatly.

      “What’s the matter?” asked Holmes, worried, tottering on one foot.

      “Look in front of you, old chap, you were about to trample Cleitus the Black’s squadron!”

      “By Jove!” he said, seeing the armies of lead soldiers that covered the floor. “Have you gone mad, my dear friend? What is the meaning of this?”

      He put on his spectacles and carefully squatted down for a closer look.

      “Very nice, a splendid collection! I’ve never seen a set so complete . . . Alexander and his companies! The Immortals, Darius on his massive golden chariot!”

      “Mine’s only gold-plated . . .”

      “Regardless, Canterel, it’s absolutely extraordinary!”

      Holmes stood up in order to take in the whole scene, waved his hand vaguely as he deliberated, and grimaced. “At first glance, this looks like the Battle of Issus, but there is something that doesn’t quite make sense in the left wing . . . I’d say the Granicus or . . . No! Of course, it’s Gaugamela, right as Darius is turning to run from the attack of the Macedonian center!”

      “Splendid,” said the other man, “it’s quite easy to visualize the nasty position that Parmenion’s troops have found themselves in, and how Alexander could still lose the battle . . .”

      “And whom do I have the honor . . .?” asked Canterel, allured by the shrewdness of this remark.

      “Allow me to introduce Grimod, my butler,” said Holmes.

      “Delighted,” said Canterel, eagerly shaking his hand. “Grimod?”

      “Grimod de la Reynière,” continued Holmes, noticeably embarrassed. “It’s a long story, I’ll tell it to you one of these days. But I am here regarding a more important matter. Would it be possible to discuss it while not standing on one foot?”

      “Forgive me,” said Canterel. “I will find us a more suitable place. Miss Sherrington,” he called, guiding them toward an adjoining room, “tea for me, and a Longmorn 72 for our guests, please.” He turned to Grimod. “I know Shylock’s tastes, but you may also have tea, if you prefer . . .”

      “Not to worry, the Longmorn will be perfectly fine,” said Grimod with the smile of a connoisseur.

      They took a seat in a parlor that overlooked the Atlantic through three bay windows, through which they could see nothing but the dividing line between the blue of the sky and the blue of the ocean, as if the chateau were at the back of a frigate.

      “So,” said Canterel, “what brings you to Biarritz?”

      Before letting Holmes respond, it would be well for us to dispel any misunderstandings about the man. Although he bore the name of the illustrious detective, John Shylock Holmes had inherited nothing from that line besides a questionable sense of humor and a strong confidence in his own expertise. Former curator of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, he worked at Christie’s in Art Restitution Services; his talents and contacts sometimes enabled him to assist Lloyd’s in negotiating certain delicate cases. Gifted with a prodigious memory, he was a man of sixty, and neither his excessive portliness nor his devotion to aged malts prevented him from traveling the world in search of rare objects. A habit that explained, without excusing, his propensity for wearing suits that he ought to have thrown out long ago. A receding hairline; a crown of curls that were too jet-black, in all honesty, to be anything but dyed; grizzled side-whiskers that descended to his chin; round, thin-rimmed glasses with smoked lenses that pinched the end of his nose; and a hint of rosacea on his cheekbones: all these features combined to give him an ever so slightly grotesque appearance.

      As to the man who has been presented to us under the name of Grimod, it will suffice, for the moment, to say that he stood two heads above either of them. A tall, strapping man the color of burnished metal, whose muscles strained