Son of Holmes by John Lescroart

meters of land on the eastern edge of the city, bounded by what must have been a tributary of the Rhone that carried away much of the waste. When the day was clear, and the wind from the right direction, you could see the smoke from the stacks as far away as Valence; a thick, sulfurous cloud usually hung over the structure. Brick chimneys to a height of nearly thirty meters had been built to lift the smoke so that it wouldn’t settle on the nearby houses. The entire structure was surrounded by a fence of barbed wire and guarded every twenty-five meters or so by troops. The building itself was made of a kind of adobe, which was originally white, but even in the short time since its opening had turned a sickly, dirty yellow.
    We went first to the delivery area, where Georges presented his papers and unloaded his supplies. Then we drove to the main gate, parked, and approached the sentry box.
    “Yes, what do you want?” said the guard.
    “We’d like to visit, if we may,” Georges replied.
    The guard laughed heartily. “Impossible.”
    Georges and I looked helplessly at one another, and he began again. “But I’ve been delivering here since you’ve opened. We’d just like to look around inside.”
    The guard stopped laughing and blew on his whistle. Within seconds, four other guards had run up, weapons at the ready. I decided to speak.
    “I’d like to see Monsieur Ponty.”
    At the mention of the director’s name, the guards looked at one another indecisively. Finally one of them went into the building. After about ten minutes, which seemed much longer because of the heat and the circumstances, the guard returned with a short, round, cheerful-looking man.
    “You asked for me? I am Monsieur Ponty.”
    “Yes. I am a friend of Tania Chessal. She’s spoken so much to me about your operation here. I’d hoped to be privileged with a look for myself. Jules Giraud is my name.”
    There was a hint of recognition in his eyes, and he nodded to the guards, who started back to their posts.
    “And this man?” he asked, indicating Georges.
    “Georges Lavoie, monsieur. He has been delivering your medical supplies for some time, and is a personal friend.”
    He stared for another moment. “Come with me.”
    We crossed the wide yard of gravel, and I couldn’t help noticing the scrutiny with which we were observed from every direction. There were sentries posted at the gates, along the fence, at selected bunkers in the yard, and on the roof. Ponty seemed to notice my interest, and smiled.
    He led us through the large glass doors and down a long corridor to his office, the second room on the right. I was surprised to find it so well furnished. There was a bright rug covering the floor, and several prints on the walls, including Van Gogh’s The Field at Arles which I thought a very strange choice for the director of an arsenal. To the right, behind his desk, were filing cabinets of a light, drab wood; and, to the left, an elegant bar. His desk itself was a flat and large slab of oak which rested on unfinished timbers, although the joints were perfectly matched. It was an efficient office, though not without personality.
    We were seated.
    “So, you are Jules Giraud. Tania speaks of you often.”
    I inclined my head slightly. “She’s quite impressed with you and this place, you know? Have you known her long?”
    “Oh, quite some time. I knew her husband before they were married. A fine man. You knew Jean?”
    “Yes, he was my neighbor.”
    “Ah, yes, yes. Of course.”
    I didn’t wish to speak of Jean Chessal, especially to a friend of his. My conscience was not completely clear regarding him.
    “And how is Tania?” he asked.
    “Quite well,” I said, not entirely truthfully. “She sends her best.”
    He smiled. “Do ask her to come by soon. She is a welcome guest anytime. She doesn’t visit nearly enough.”
    “I will ask her, though I somehow didn’t think you solicited visitors here. The guards . . .”
    We all