Post by wildfire on Jan 31, 2005 12:33:02 GMT -5
The Last Case of Henri Latour
Henri Latour was to France what Sherlock Hohnes had been to England. Only, Henri Latour was real... a real-life detective who seemed always to get his man. So hailed was he, in this respect, that Latour even while he lived was a legend.
If the legend has been enhanced, embellished in the years since his death . . . no amount of truth- stretching could be more remarkable than the hard, cold facts surrounding his last case.
Master sleuth Henri Latour was called to the scene of the crime.
A suspect had already been taken into custody.
Instinctively, supersleuth Latour said, no ... the authorities had arrested the wrong man.
How could Latour be so certain? police wanted to how.
It was a matter of simple deduction, the detective assured them. Pieces were missing from the puzzle. He, Latour, would find the pieces . . . would unravel the tangled clues. He, Latour, would lead them to the true criminal.
So began what some described as the most brilliant track-down in the history of France. Carefully, Latour assembled the fragmented evidence, one piece, one step, at a time.
It was a heinous crime which Latour was investigating, and somewhere in the darkened pathways of a complex maze a particularly heinous criminal waited.
An elderly couple had been robbed, brutally murdered. Citizens, from behind their locked doors, were comforted to hear that Latour was on the case .. that Latour was closing in.
And Latour was closing in.
Perhaps, one day, it would be the trace of blood on a scarf . . . and the next, a chip of knife steel extracted from human bone.
The days became weeks . . . until enough evidence was accumulated to clear the suspect who was in custody. The proof was positive, declared detective Latour. The man police had apprehended . . must now be set free.
Shouldn't he be held a while longer, authorities asked, just in case? Just in case the master sleuth, if for the first time, this time was wrong?
But Latour was not wrong, he assured them again. An innocent man had been charged, and no innocent man should be forced to pay for the crimes of the guilty.
The search continued.
More evidence was gathered . . . one piece . . . one painfully slow step at a time.
Perhaps now it was a torn patch of tweed . . . or a smudge on a railing . . . but Latour was closing in.
One day, the search ended. The puzzle pieces had fallen into place. At the end of a long road ... a long and arduous journey ... Latour found his man.
The trial was not a lengthy one, for the case was ironclad. Latour was on hand personally to reweave an amazing web for the jury . . . and the verdict was "guilty."
The judge commended Latour for his tireless effort . . . for his brilliant detective work. The newspapers applauded.
But with that verdict—abruptly—without explanation—Latour retired, went into seclusion.
Everyone agreed that last track-down had been his greatest triumph.
Yet the Sherlock Holmes of Paris would live the final twenty-five years of his life ... as a hermit ... as a recluse in a lonely little cottage in a remote French village.
Only after his death would the carefully guarded secret come to light—and an admiring nation learn the whole truth about Latour’s last case.
For the innocent stranger whom Latour had set free was—alas—but an innocent stranger.
When the last piece of the puzzle was in place, the dedicated detective was himself trapped by his own uncompromising sense of justice.
For he had by then been led, by the evidence he had so arduously collected, to the arrest and conviction of . . . his own son.
Henri Latour was to France what Sherlock Hohnes had been to England. Only, Henri Latour was real... a real-life detective who seemed always to get his man. So hailed was he, in this respect, that Latour even while he lived was a legend.
If the legend has been enhanced, embellished in the years since his death . . . no amount of truth- stretching could be more remarkable than the hard, cold facts surrounding his last case.
Master sleuth Henri Latour was called to the scene of the crime.
A suspect had already been taken into custody.
Instinctively, supersleuth Latour said, no ... the authorities had arrested the wrong man.
How could Latour be so certain? police wanted to how.
It was a matter of simple deduction, the detective assured them. Pieces were missing from the puzzle. He, Latour, would find the pieces . . . would unravel the tangled clues. He, Latour, would lead them to the true criminal.
So began what some described as the most brilliant track-down in the history of France. Carefully, Latour assembled the fragmented evidence, one piece, one step, at a time.
It was a heinous crime which Latour was investigating, and somewhere in the darkened pathways of a complex maze a particularly heinous criminal waited.
An elderly couple had been robbed, brutally murdered. Citizens, from behind their locked doors, were comforted to hear that Latour was on the case .. that Latour was closing in.
And Latour was closing in.
Perhaps, one day, it would be the trace of blood on a scarf . . . and the next, a chip of knife steel extracted from human bone.
The days became weeks . . . until enough evidence was accumulated to clear the suspect who was in custody. The proof was positive, declared detective Latour. The man police had apprehended . . must now be set free.
Shouldn't he be held a while longer, authorities asked, just in case? Just in case the master sleuth, if for the first time, this time was wrong?
But Latour was not wrong, he assured them again. An innocent man had been charged, and no innocent man should be forced to pay for the crimes of the guilty.
The search continued.
More evidence was gathered . . . one piece . . . one painfully slow step at a time.
Perhaps now it was a torn patch of tweed . . . or a smudge on a railing . . . but Latour was closing in.
One day, the search ended. The puzzle pieces had fallen into place. At the end of a long road ... a long and arduous journey ... Latour found his man.
The trial was not a lengthy one, for the case was ironclad. Latour was on hand personally to reweave an amazing web for the jury . . . and the verdict was "guilty."
The judge commended Latour for his tireless effort . . . for his brilliant detective work. The newspapers applauded.
But with that verdict—abruptly—without explanation—Latour retired, went into seclusion.
Everyone agreed that last track-down had been his greatest triumph.
Yet the Sherlock Holmes of Paris would live the final twenty-five years of his life ... as a hermit ... as a recluse in a lonely little cottage in a remote French village.
Only after his death would the carefully guarded secret come to light—and an admiring nation learn the whole truth about Latour’s last case.
For the innocent stranger whom Latour had set free was—alas—but an innocent stranger.
When the last piece of the puzzle was in place, the dedicated detective was himself trapped by his own uncompromising sense of justice.
For he had by then been led, by the evidence he had so arduously collected, to the arrest and conviction of . . . his own son.
