Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 620 Our Detective Has Been Kidnapped! (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

On the other side of the Channel, unlike the almost unanimous jubilation and anticipation in Paris, London's public discourse was rife with complex and indescribable emotions.

On October 15th, Henry Browitz's story occupied a significant portion of the third page of The Times.

The title is restrained and understated—"A Deduction Game on the Orient Express".

The content is also quite restrained. Henry Browitz simply describes how Lionel distributes cards in the salon carriage, with passengers playing detectives and suspects, and a French detective named Hercule Poirot finding the real culprit in the game…

He also failed to provide a complete reasoning or answer. Finally, he concluded with this sentence:
Mr. Poirot's deductive reasoning skills are no less than those of Sherlock Holmes.

Therefore, the interesting stories from the maiden voyage of the Orient Express are no longer a secret.

A French detective named Hercule Poirot uncovers a complex murder case on a luxury train traveling across Europe.

This ignited public opinion throughout London.

That afternoon, The Daily Telegraph changed the front page of its next day's edition three times.

The first edition was about the concession negotiations for the Northwest Railway in India. After reading Browitz's report in The Times, the editor-in-chief immediately withdrew the article.

In the final draft, the new front-page headline, in the largest font size, took up three entire columns—"Our Detective Has Been Kidnapped!"

A commentator using the pseudonym "Cato" devoted two entire columns to venting his dissatisfaction:
In 1880, Mr. Sorel gave Sherlock Holmes to the magazine "Good Words." We accepted it, like accepting a normal cultural import.

In 1882, we banished Mr. Sorel from England for writing a novel that insulted the Queen. Now we are surprised to find that he has returned with a new detective.

But this detective isn't called Sherlock Holmes; he's called Hercule Poirot. Poirot was French.

We've handed this detective and his story to the French. This isn't a literary affair; it's a diplomatic scandal!

The following morning at 10:00 AM, the Palmar Gazette was also delivered to every reader.
We laugh at the French for not having their own detective novels, like we laugh at a cripple for not being able to run. Now the cripple stands up and runs faster than us.

Sorel said nothing. He simply placed Poirot on the Orient Express, under the watchful eyes of journalists from all over Europe, and in the presence of two thousand people welcoming him at the Gare du Gare de l'Est.

This is not retaliation, this is a demonstration of power!

Two years ago we expelled Sorel on the grounds that 1984 defamed the empire.

Now we know that the empire truly needed to be denigrated—otherwise it wouldn't be so weak as to be afraid of a novel!

On October 16, the day the Orient Express returned to Paris, a reporter from the Evening Standard visited seven bookstores in London.

Thomas Hanz, owner of Hanz Bookstore, said, "This morning, six customers asked, 'Where can I see Hercule Poirot and Murder on the Orient Express?'"

I could only say no, and when I recommended "A Scandal in Bohemia" to them, they said they'd already read it—even Conan Doyle doesn't send back new stories!

Six copies of "A Study in Scarlet" were displayed on the counter of Smith & Sons Bookstore, their covers covered with a thin layer of dust.

The boss, Old Smith, said, "Now Sorel has written a French detective story, and the British detective stories haven't been updated in so long that nobody mentions them anymore."

One customer, who declined to be named, told a reporter, "I subscribe to 'Good Words' just to read Sherlock Holmes. As for what happened with '1984' last year, I don't think Sorel was wrong."

The Queen got a scratch on the forehead, and he'd have to get out of Britain. Now they're writing detective stories about their own people—what can you do? Serves him right.

This is what makes British readers most upset!
Sherlock Holmes once made them proud, proving that British reason and insight could conquer the most intricate puzzles.

But now, a detective who is comparable to him is French—how can he be French? Even if Poirot speaks French, he could at least be Belgian!
There was once a view in British critics that only British calmness, rationality, and rigor could match the literary image of the "detective detective."

Even Lionel Sorel admitted that Sherlock Holmes was inspired by "an English doctor".

Some radicals even argue that it wasn't Sorel who created Sherlock Holmes, but rather that Sherlock Holmes chose Sorel.

But things are different now. Sorel created another detective—and nobody thinks this "Hercules Poirot" is any worse than Holmes.

After all, the two detectives are by the same author, who is still young and far from being at the stage of creative decline.

It feels like watching a rose that could have bloomed beautifully in your own garden, but instead it's blooming in your annoying neighbor's garden.

A publishing house owner complained indignantly: "Whose fault is this? It's all because of those stupid things last year! They expelled a genius writer from the country because of just two books!"
And then there were those ridiculous lawsuits and attacks! The cabinet and those inflammatory newspapers are nothing but a bunch of short-sighted brutes! They've successfully pushed Sorel away!
Now look what's happened! He gave the French a Poirot, a detective destined to be remembered like Sherlock Holmes. And what about us? What have we gained?
A series of diplomatic blunders, and an immeasurable loss to literature!

A silence fell over the club where he was; the gentlemen smoked cigars and drank whiskey, their thoughts drifting back to a year ago.

This sense of loss, that "it should have belonged to us," is not limited to the club; editors and reporters in the editorial departments of major newspapers are also having heated debates about it.

A senior contributor to The Daily Telegraph yelled at the editor: “We have to face this sentiment, sir! The letters from readers are pouring in, all complaining.”

"—They complain that we British messed things up! They miss Sherlock Holmes, they're heartbroken about 'losing' an equally great detective series!" The editor could only rub his forehead: "So we need to channel this sentiment, criticize last year's overreaction, and at the same time... well, emphasize our openness..."

But remember, the wording shouldn't be too humble, lest it sound like we're begging.

The editorial office of The Spectator magazine was filled with an atmosphere of self-reflection.

One editor said at a program selection meeting: "Were we too harsh on Pirates of the Caribbean at the time? Did we unconsciously join in the criticism?"

Now, we may have lost forever an author who consistently provided British readers with top-notch detective fiction; at the very least, he no longer prioritized us!

This frustration even spread to higher social classes. At salons and dinners, more than one member of parliament heard similar private complaints:
"Look at Paris now, what is it cheering for? It's cheering for the literary glory that was 'stolen' from us!"

Of course, not all Britons were filled with regret. Some, driven by a sense of imperial honor, attempted to denigrate Poirot and "Murder on the Orient Express."

"A clumsy imitator," "a counterfeit Sherlock Holmes," "the deliberate pursuit of elegance only makes him seem hypocritical"—such criticisms have appeared in some tabloids.

But these voices were quickly drowned out by the pervasive sense of loss.

Most critics and readers are eager to read this mystery, especially since Lionel tells it in such a magical way.

This expectation only intensified the bitterness of the "loss".

What baffled all London publishers was the Cabinet's and the Queen's attitude toward Sorel—strictly speaking, his only completely banned work was "1984".

All of his older works published in the UK, except for "Pirates of the Caribbean," were not "removed from shelves" in the UK.

But what about new works? At least "The Sinking of the Titans" wasn't published in the UK.

It's not that publishers haven't consulted the Metropolitan Police's censorship department about this issue, but the answers they received were all ambiguous—

"At the institutional level, the Empire does not conduct any pre-screening of any books to be published. We are only responsible for conducting a careful evaluation of the content and impact of the books after publication before deciding whether and how to implement the penalties stipulated by the Empire's relevant laws, including but not limited to banning sales, destroying inventory, recalling sold copies, imposing fines, and prosecuting authors or publishers."

After hearing this, even the most daring publishers dared not dream of it anymore, and could only watch helplessly as the gold mine was within reach, yet they could not make a move.

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Lionel did not keep his Parisian readers waiting long.

In late October, Charpentier's Bookshelf announced the publication of "Murder on the Orient Express," with posters plastered everywhere.

In late November, "Murder on the Orient Express" was finally released to readers amidst much anticipation.

On the morning of November 30, 1883, while Paris was still shrouded in frost and fog, crowds began to gather at the crossroads where the "Charpentier Bookshelf" was located before dawn.

The first to arrive were some enthusiastic young literature enthusiasts and students, wrapped in thick coats, shuffling their feet to ward off the cold, their eyes fixed on the tightly closed door and the transparent shop window.

Behind the glass of the shop window, a beautifully designed poster for "Murder on the Orient Express" occupied the most prominent position:
The background is a dark red train silhouette, with the words "Murder on the Orient Express" in large, cursive script above and the profile of a detective wearing a top hat and sporting a neat mustache below.

Next to it is a line of smaller text: "Hercules Poirot - the embodiment of French wisdom".

Around the poster, stacks of brand-new first edition novels were piled up, their spines gilded, like an alluring gold mine.

As dawn broke, the crowd surged in like a rising tide, completely blocking the area by 8 a.m., with the line of people repeatedly circling the street.

Well-dressed middle-class people, veiled ladies, curious office workers... even housewives carrying shopping baskets stopped in their tracks, attracted by the unusually long queue.

The public carriages had to slow down, and the drivers shouted and even cursed in dissatisfaction, while the passengers in the carriages all craned their necks to look.

"It's today! Lionel's new book! The detective named Poirot!"

"Can we get off the bus and grab the first batch?"

"You idiot, don't you have to go to work?"

"Mom, is that detective really as smart as the newspaper says?"

"I heard there was more than one killer in the end? God, how can we guess?"

The sounds of conversation, speculation, and excited shouts mingled together, dispelling the winter chill.

At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, the heavy doors of "Charpentier's Bookshelf" finally opened...

(Two chapters finished. Thank you everyone, please vote with your monthly tickets!)
(End of this chapter)