: Robert Barr
: The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont
: Dead Dodo Classic Press
: 9781518300264
: 1
: CHF 0.70
:
: Historische Romane und Erzählungen
: English
: 362
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
When I say I am called Valmont the name will convey no impression to the reader one way or another. My occupation is that of private detective in London but if you ask any policeman in Paris who Valmont was he will likely be able to tell you unless he is a recent recruit.

 

The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont (1906) brings together tales of the multifarious exploits of Robert Barr's elegant and cunning sleuth, Valmont, a brilliantly ironic parody of Sherlock Holmes. Exhibiting the crucial combination of realism and imagination that characterizes the finest crime writing, the stories exude playfulness and wit, blending mystery and quasi-Gothic thrills with humorous detours and romantic adventure. A notable figure in turn-of-the-century literary London and a friend of Conan Doyle, Barr was acutely aware of style as a form of statement and the stories are full of literary effects, commentary on the detective mystery genre, and Valmont's disparaging reflections on English values. From the hilarious satire of sensationalism in 'The Siamese Twin of a Bomb-Thrower' to the bizarre and operatic melodrama of 'The Ghost with the Club-Foot', Barr's stories delight the reader with their skill, variety, and never-abandoned sense of spirited fun. This edition also includes Barr's two rare pastiches of Valmont's rival, Sherlock Holmes.

2. THE SIAMESE TWIN OF A BOMB-THROWER


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THE EVENTS PREVIOUSLY RELATED IN ‘The Mystery of the Five Hundred Diamonds’ led to my dismissal by the French Government. It was not because I had arrested an innocent man; I had done that dozens of times before, with nothing said about it. It was not because I had followed a wrong clue, or because I had failed to solve the mystery of the five hundred diamonds. Every detective follows a wrong clue now and then, and every detective fails more often than he cares to admit. No. All these things would not have shaken my position, but the newspapers were so fortunate as to find something humorous in the case, and for weeks Paris rang with laughter over my exploits and my defeat. The fact that the chief French detective had placed the most celebrated English detective into prison, and that each of them were busily sleuth-hounding a bogus clue, deliberately flung across their path by an amateur, roused all France to great hilarity. The Government was furious. The Englishman was released and I was dismissed. Since the year 1893 I have been a resident of London.

When a man is, as one might say, the guest of a country, it does not become him to criticise that country. I have studied this strange people with interest, and often with astonishment, and if I now set down some of the differences between the English and the French, I trust that no note of criticism of the former will appear, even when my sympathies are entirely with the latter. These differences have sunk deeply into my mind, because, during the first years of my stay in London my lack of understanding them was often a cause of my own failure when I thought I had success in hand. Many a time did I come to the verge of starvation in Soho, through not appreciating the peculiar trend of mind which causes an Englishman to do inexplicable things—that is, of course, from my Gallic standpoint.

For instance, an arrested man is presumed to be innocent until he is proved guilty. In England, if a murderer is caught red-handed over his victim, he is held guiltless until the judge sentences him. In France we make no such foolish assumption, and although I admit that innocent men have sometimes been punished, my experience enables me to state very emphatically that this happens not nearly so often as the public imagines. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred an innocent man can at once prove his innocence without the least difficulty. I hold it is his duty towards the State to run the very slight risk of unjust imprisonment in order that obstacles may not be thrown in the way of the conviction of real criminals. But it is impossible to persuade an Englishman of this. Mon Dieu! I have tried it often enough.

Never shall I forget the bitterness of my disappointment when I captured Felini, the Italian anarchist, in connection with the Greenwich Park murder. At this time—it gives me no shame to confess it—I was myself living in Soho, in a state of extreme poverty. Having been employed so long by the French Government, I had formed the absurd idea that the future depended on my getting, not exactly a