INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  Arnaud heard a soft, throaty chuckle. He peered further into the chamber. She was as pale as the candle wax. A sheen of phosphorescence on her skin. She had a wasp’s nest of white blond hair. Her eyes were green and feral. A cruel mouth, despite her full, moist lips. She was dressed in a green satin wrapper that might slide off her shoulders at the slightest provocation. She was scrutinizing him, waiting, perhaps, for him to speak. Despite her appearance, was she not a lady, after all? He was not so sure of it, but he dared not take the chance of insulting her.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said making a little bow.

  She came to him. Stood directly in front of him. Close enough he could smell her. She held out her hand. Arnaud took it and pressed his lips to her fingers. Her skin was cool, moist.

  “Monsieur Arnaud, my father tells me you intend to kill a man and you wish me to assist you. That I will do. When you return with our book you will have your Émèraude absinthe and your poison. You will not be suspected, Monsieur, but you must make sure he drinks the Émèraude to the last drop.”

  “He will drink it all. I need not be there to know this.”

  “You are not understanding me, Monsieur. The Émèraude must be consumed all at once for the poison to work.”

  Arnaud gaped at her. “Impossible! He will be unconscious before the bottle is gone.”

  “It will take time. All night perhaps. But it must be done so.”

  Arnaud stared at her in consternation. “If I do not drink, he will be suspicious.”

  “It is simple enough. Drink wine.”

  “It will not do, Mademoiselle. At the green hour, no one drinks wine.”

  “Well then, you must drink with him.”

  “And poison myself!”

  “Three glasses, Monsieur. I will make extra. Three will not kill you. And Didier will still have the full dose.”

  “The poison will not hurt me?”

  “I did not say that. I said it will not kill you.”

  Arnaud’s skin prickled. “What will it do to me?” Where was his little voice? He needed its counsel, and yet it had been strangely silent throughout this bizarre encounter.

  “You will see things, hear things, feel things that may or may not be real. You are familiar with that, are you not, Monsieur?”

  Arnaud shifted uneasily. They had been conversing for some time and this strange woman had not offered him a seat. Arnaud had also lost track of the old man. Her father, she’d said. Horrifying! His feet hurt, and all this talk of absinthe had given him the thirst.

  “Mademoiselle, if you please, I must sit down.”

  “But of course.” She clapped her hands once, twice. “Papa, bring Monsieur Arnaud a chair.”

  The old man materialized from the shadows of the room like a wraith. So, he’d been there all along listening to them. Now he scuttled about like a spider, dragging a chair for Arnaud.

  “Now sit, Monsieur. We will speak of this no more.” With a coy tilt of her head she said, “Perhaps you would like to join us in a little indulgence, yes? So you know what you are paying for.”

  Arnaud’s heart skipped a beat. “The Émèraude absinthe?”

  “Oui, the Émèraude absinthe.” She laughed a sultry laugh, a knowing laugh that filled Arnaud’s mind with fantasies of ostrich feather fans and naked skin the color of cocoa. The heat from the candles had become oppressive, coating his body in a glaze of sweat.

  She reached beneath the tapestry-covered table and brought out a crystal bottle sculpted like a twist of smoke on an autumn evening. The liquid within was a startling, luminescent green.

  “The Émèraude’s color does not change even after you add the water. Nothing can dim this green jewel.”

  Arnaud watched intently as she withdrew three exquisitely etched glasses from a cache, poured the absinthe, set a silver filigree spoon on each. Tiny skulls, molded from sugar—some white, some black—were next. Then the water. “Monsieur.” She handed him a glass.

  Arnaud gazed into the green depths.

  “Do not look too long, Monsieur. The Émèraude has other abilities ... it is an ancient formula created when men knew more of the world than what is easily seen.”

  Arnaud sipped. Green fire spread through his veins. If asked, he would swear he could see it. Pleasure spread through his loins, to his heart, then his head. He froze mid sip, staring, ecstatic.

  Arnaud watched the greenish waters of the Seine. If one sat long enough under a bridge, one could see all manner of things float by. Bodies mostly, but other things, too, furniture, hatboxes, bottles. Tonight, under the light of a full moon, a boat had come drifting out of the mists that hung above the water, carrying a couple in full wedding dress. The bride’s jewel-embroidered veil was thrown back, the groom’s top hat rested in his lap. As they drew across from him, Arnaud saw they held hands and, with their free hands, lifted empty glasses to him. It was then he realized the antiquity and deterioration of their attire and saw their faces, as wizened as dried apples and as deeply wrinkled. The boat spun in a circle, steadied itself, then, pulled along by the current, sailed on out of Arnaud’s sight.

  Arnaud shook off the memory. The day was dawning, but what day? In the catacombs there was no time. He might have been there a day or a week, longer, for all he knew. The old man had finally brought him back to Monmartre. Had told him where to leave a message. Arnaud had no doubt now that he could dispose of Didier. With the Émèraude absinthe, the thief had no chance. He must get the book from Rene. But how? He did not know how to crack a safe. The old man had suggested he kill Rene. Preposterous! If Rene were dead, he still could not open the safe. What then?

  Think, you idiot! He would have to return to the bookstore and go about his business as usual. He would have to wait for a chance. Who knew when Rene would open the safe again and for what reason? When he did, Arnaud would have to be ready. If stealing this book would give him the means to destroy the devil Didier, then he would get the book.

  He, Arnaud was a clever man, one might even say cunning. And what was Rene to him, after all? Yes, he gave him a place to stay and asked no rent. But who would ask rent for a cot in a dusty corner of a storage room? Yes, Rene fed him. But Arnaud barely survived on a breakfast of one coffee, a crumb of cheese and a slice of unbuttered bread for lunch, then a single hard-boiled egg and glass of wine for his supper. The few francs Rene paid Arnaud hardly allowed him to live. A few cigarettes was all he could afford on his pittance. Rene published the works of outlaws, but refused Arnaud’s book. To hell with Rene.

  Arnaud peered through the shelves of books. One of Rene’s customers had just paid for a rare volume with cognac. Rene walked the old gentleman out and locked the door. Cognac was the bookseller’s weakness. Soon he was drinking and bragging. “That book is medieval,” he said, “written by the Templars. It reveals all the secrets of Chartres. This cognac,” Rene held the bottle aloft, “is two hundred years old.”

  “And you do not offer even one glass to your old friend, Arnaud?”

  Rene sputtered. “Old friend! I found you nearly frozen to death in my doorway. Another would have kicked you into the gutter. I am a Christian; I took you in, brought you back to life. You have a place to sleep; you eat; I even pay you for the little you do. I do not see you for weeks and then you return. When the sun shines and the birds sing, you are in the streets day and night. When the north wind blows, you begin to cast about for someone to take you in. The least you could do is write well, but you will not do even that.”

  Arnaud was beginning to feel quite sour. He thought of punching Rene. Instead, he said. “The book you just sold, where did you get it?”

  The bookseller’s eyes narrowed. He sat up straight in his chair. “What are you babbling about?”

  “It is said that these books,” Arnaud waved his arm at the stacks, “are stolen.”

  “Who says this?” a red-faced Rene demanded of Arnaud. “They are liars.”

  “Envious gossips,” Arnaud said, enjoying his pretens
e of placating the bookseller. “Troublemakers. I did not believe them. I said so to the others.” Arnaud chuckled to himself. Rene would be beside himself for days, fuming over the affront.

  Rene poured himself another cognac, swallowed it in one gulp, and poured another. But this time he poured cognac for Arnaud. Together they moved closer to the fire, warming their hands and their glasses.

  Arnaud awoke in darkness on his cot. He did not remember going to his bed. He lay on his back listening to the moonlight that entered through the window high up in the wall. He tried to hum along, but the tune eluded him. In the shaft of light, specks of dust floated and sparkled. They made a whispering sound when they moved, a louder tick when they collided. There, too, the sound of mice scrabbling through the walls and doves cooing in the rafters. These noises were a comfort to him, made it possible for him to stay in his bed, but now he heard another sound—creaking, something moving over the ancient floorboards. Arnaud sat up, rubbed himself against the chill, and then slipped out of the storeroom. He stood in the doorway, listening. They’d had intruders before. As he tiptoed past the fireplace, he took the poker with him. Arnaud peered through a shelf of books; the light of a single candle illuminated the back of the bookseller, crouching in the closet he called his office and picking out the combination to his safe.

  Arnaud clutched the book concealed beneath his coat. It was a slim volume, bound in gray cloth with a single black stripe, frayed at the corners. Its ink-smudged, stained pages were covered with numbers and ciphers written in a cramped script. Arnaud could make no sense of it; a code of some sort. He did not fear walking openly on the street. Rene had friends, yes, but none who would inform the gendarmes. The bookseller did not even have a legal shop. His business squatted in a condemned building in an all-but-abandoned street. Who, Arnaud asked himself, would discover the bookseller’s body? The rats. Only the rats. He had nothing to fear from rats. The old man was another matter.

  They were to meet beneath the Pont Neuf. Arnaud did not like having to wait. He watched the piles of rags half hidden in shadows. Thus far they had remained still.

  “Where is the book?”

  A bolt of fear nearly stopped Arnaud’s heart. Where had the old man come from?

  “Waiting for you,” the old man said as if reading Arnaud’s mind. “Show it to me!”

  Arnaud slid the book from beneath his coat. The old man reached for it, his claw-like fingers flexing in anticipation. Arnaud retreated to the river’s edge. He held the book over the water.

  “What are you doing?” the old man snarled.

  “You will have this when I have the Émèraude.”

  The old man’s mocking smile unsettled Arnaud, but he did not allow himself to show his unease. The old man turned and disappeared in the shadows. Arnaud’s heart raced. The faster he concluded this transaction and got away from this place the better. For all he knew the old man had thugs waiting out of sight to take the book from him. He saw the old man returning. He was alone and carried a small cardboard box. He stopped where he’d been standing before and stared malevolently at Arnaud. Arnaud did not withdraw his arm.

  The old man placed the box on the ground and shoved it with his foot.

  “Closer.”

  The old man walked to the box and shoved it again until it slid within inches of Arnaud. Arnaud squatted beside the box without taking his eyes off the old man. He lifted the bottle.

  “This bottle is sealed,” he said angrily. “How do I know it is not just green water?”

  “Does green water glow?” The old man’s sarcasm scalded Arnaud like acid. He flushed. When he held the bottle in the moonlight it glowed with a green luminescence that seemed to pulsate. Arnaud could barely stand to look at it.

  “It cannot be unsealed until you are prepared to drink every drop. If you have forgotten her instructions, then I pity you.”

  Arnaud ignored him. There was a jar of sugar skulls in the box, but he saw nothing else.

  “Where is the poison?” he cried. “You think you can cheat me?”

  The old man gave Arnaud a pitying look. “There is one drop of evil on each skull.”

  Arnaud stood up.

  The old man took a step toward him. “Listen to me, you must ...”

  Arnaud flung the book at the old man’s head. It struck him between the eyes. The man shouted and stumbled backward, falling hard on his ass. Arnaud snatched the box and ran as if the devil were on his heels.

  Arnaud stood in shadows that grew deeper and darker as the sun proceeded in its descent. Already the street lamps were lit. He had been waiting nearly an hour for the arrival of Didier. It was the green hour at the Café Lumière, and those who courted the green fairy had already filled the booths. Where was Didier? If he did not come soon, the cold would force Arnaud off the street. He heard a sound, distant, but coming nearer. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He could not see who or what approached; he didn’t need to. He could hear the sound more clearly now—a flat, tuneless whistling that grated on the ear. The dry, cold air amplified the noise. Arnaud waited. Moments later, Didier came into view, muffled to the ears in his winter coat and scarf, his cap pulled down. Arnaud stamped his feet. Didier strolled down the center of the boulevard, whistling. From time to time, he stared openmouthed at the sky as if he had never before seen stars. A black, low-slung Avions Voisin, its silver wings flashing, tooted at him to clear the road. The driver lowered the window and shouted, revved the powerful engine, forcing him onto the sidewalk. Didier dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Finally, he drew near. Arnaud stepped from the shadows.

  “Bon soir, Monsieur Didier.”

  Didier stopped abruptly. Arnaud saw panic in his eyes an instant before Didier realized who he was.

  Didier’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Arnaud?”

  “My manuscript, Monsieur.”

  “Have some patience, man.”

  Bile rose bitter and scalding in Arnaud’s throat. Didier lied through his teeth. At the reading in the catacombs he’d said the book would soon be published. Did he think Arnaud would not find out? That he could do nothing? Was Arnaud nothing? No better than trash blowing about in the streets? Who would believe him anyway in the face of Didier’s lies? Arnaud knew better. Didier was a slave to the green fairy. Maybe his words were gold and diamonds at one time, but no more. Perhaps they had never been. Had Didier stolen all his books? Arnaud forced a smile. He must ingratiate himself yet again with this monster. He bowed his head a little as if in deference. He must make this turd believe him an innocent, ignorant scribbler begging for crumbs of praise at his feet.

  “No, no, Monsieur. Forgive me, I do not wish to take advantage. It is too much to ask of you. In the heat of the moment. My excitement in your presence. I did not consider. Please, Monsieur Didier, allow me relieve you of this burden.” Arnaud crossed his fingers behind his back. Had he been subservient enough? It was all he could do to keep his rancor concealed. Arnaud was struck dumb when Didier patted his shoulder as if he were a child.

  With a wave of his hand Didier dismissed Arnaud’s request. “Nonsense! It is not so much. It will give me a good laugh no doubt. I am in need of a laugh.” He turned and made for the Café Lumière.

  Arnaud snatched at Didier’s sleeve and caught it. Didier turned abruptly and shook him off. He raised his arm as if to strike. Arnaud cringed and held up his hands in supplication.

  “Please, Monsieur, I mean you no harm. I am in your debt. I had thought to give you this gift in apology, but now it is in gratitude for what you do for me.” Arnaud slid the bottle of Émèraude from inside his coat.

  “It is the fabled Émèraude,” Arnaud whispered. He moved closer to the café so the bottle caught the light. The absinthe glowed like a green star.

  Didier took a step back. He stared with the awestruck look of a simpleton. “It cannot be.”

  Arnaud laughed to himself. Didier knew! He knew! “I tell you it is. I know the woman—some say she is a witch
—who makes this elixir.”

  Didier reached for the Émèraude. “Give it to me.”

  Arnaud slid the bottle inside his jacket. “Let us go inside. There is a special way it must be prepared. I will show you.” He could sense Didier’s reluctance. “It is important that it is prepared just so. You have heard of its powers?”

  Didier nodded. “Tell me.”

  Arnaud shook his head. “It must be shown.”

  Didier snatched Arnaud by his jacket. “Come, then, before I freeze to death.”

  Arnaud allowed Didier to hustle him along. He felt Didier’s fingers plucking at the buttons of his jacket. He kept a tight grip on the absinthe.

  “Keep that bottle in your coat,” Didier said before opening the door of the Café Lumière. Once inside, he called to the man at the bar. “Henri!”

  Wrapped in a long, wide apron, Henri held a bottle of cheap wine, ready to fill the glasses of a pack of young men lounging at the bar. They resembled the Apaches of years past with their striped shirts, fancy jackets, and shiny, sharp-toed boots. Henri set aside the wine, wiped his hands on his apron, ran thick fingers through his thinning hair, then hurried from behind the counter amid protests from the young men who shouted and pounded empty glasses on the bar. Henri cast them a contemptuous look.

  “Monsieur Didier, it is an honor as always. Your room is prepared. What may I bring you?”

  “My usual meal, s’il te plait.”

  “And your bottle?”

  “Not tonight. Monsieur Arnaud has brought me a special bottle.”

  Henri smiled. “As you wish, Monsieur.”

  When he turned to Arnaud the smile disappeared. “And for your ... friend?”