Napoleon's Gold: A Jack Starling Adventure

by Guy Roberts

  ‘Come quickly Jacky, I need your help.’ Not just a demand for help after all. David had given Jack a message, a reminder of their childhood past – a hint of where to go if he arrived too late. Jack stood up and slipped silently to the far wall, kneeling down by the old wainscoting. He spread one hand against the wooden panel closest to the wall, marvelling for a moment at the smallness of the panel. His childhood memories remembered it as a magical little doorway. Now the piece of wainscoting barely reached halfway up his thigh and his hand spread across its whole breadth. He pushed the wooden panel back to its full extent, then blinked once, in cautious surprise. An old-fashioned revolver lay in the alcove. Jack recognised it as his father’s Webley Mk VI, a memento of youthful service in the Korean War. Beside it was a slim black cell phone. The revolver and the cell phone were both resting on top of a broad manila envelope. Senses sharp, Jack reached in and extracted the items. A quick check showed the revolver was unloaded, though carefully oiled and maintained. The mobile phone was turned off. Aware of the capabilities of modern surveillance, Jack left the phone inactive, slipping it inside his jacket pocket next to his own cell phone. Jack moved back to the light, put the gun on the ground and examined the envelope. Three words were written there in his brother’s handwriting.

  ‘To Jack Starling.’

  Eyes narrowed, Jack turned the envelope over, pausing for a moment as he read two more words scrawled across the sealed flap.

  ‘Trust Andrew.’

  Jack frowned. Who was Andrew? He had no friends by that name and he found it difficult to believe that his abrasive brother had had any friends at all. Jack thumbed open the envelope and pulled out a single page of handwritten text. He held the paper in front of the desk lamp and scanned the page quickly. The words left him dumbfounded – a long page of nonsensical poetry divided into five separate stanzas. The text looked more like a madman’s scribblings; awkward poetry about war and monsters, yet his brother had left it hidden beneath a working, well-oiled revolver. Jack read the lines through quizzically, flipping the page over to see if anything was written on the back. There was nothing. Jack winced. There were clues here, obviously, but a pistol, a cell-phone and a page of strange poetry made no sense to him at all. He shook the envelope once more and a last item slid out into his hand. Jack blinked in surprise and examined it closely. It was a slender lapel pin, about two inches in length and seemingly made of solid gold. The tip was a tiny rosette with the letters B and B entwined together. Jack looked at it curiously. Try as he might, he was unable to comprehend how the pin related to either the poem or the revolver. Jack shut his eyes in frustration and stepped back into the darkness in the corner of the room. There was little more he could think to do. He had flown from New York to London and found his brother murdered – and the secret message left for him by David was utterly confounding. Jack shook his head. He was exhausted, bitter and angry. No doubt the authorities would dismiss the poem entirely, arresting Jack without a moment’s hesitation. Perhaps the mysterious, trustworthy Andrew could help – if there was any way of finding the man. Jack shook his head in frustration. Slipping the pin into his pocket, he took a deep breath. No matter the consequences, it was time to call the police.

  There was the slightest scratch from one of the windows overlooking the square.

  Jack’s ears twitched and his eyes narrowed to a slit. There was a long silence, then the scratch repeated itself. The muscles in Jack’s arms and legs coiled into preparedness, adrenalin surging through his body. He picked up the Webley revolver and held it loosely in one hand, then moved smoothly upward from his haunches. A moment later Jack’s ears caught the sound of a catch giving way and then the window was swung open in one firm movement. Cool London air flowed into the room. Jack remained still, realising that the desk light was obscuring the view of the room from whoever was outside – hidden behind the glaring light he was nothing more than a shadow in a shadow. The curtains twitched slightly and Jack tensed, ready to spring into action.

  A black patent leather high heel slid backward through the open window. Jack’s eyes opened wide for a moment then narrowed once more. This was not what he expected. The heel was followed by a gently curving leg, lithe and strong, joined a moment later by its mate. Both paused in the air for a tantalising second, then lowered smoothly to the floor. A black-clad derrière levered elegantly into the room. Jack watched silently as the woman slid into the room with the stealthy grace of a panther. She arched her back in a languid stretch, framed by the window, then turned and froze, startled by the debris scattered across the room. Jack stared silently, carefully appraising this unexpected arrival. She was tall, over six feet tall in the heels and her athletic figure was enhanced by the stylish knee-length cocktail dress that emphasised the length and curves of her legs. She had the broad shoulders of a swimmer and long blonde hair that framed a strong but expressive face. A faint perfume reached his nostrils. She had the scent of a beautiful woman; powerful and promising. Even though it had been drizzling when Jack entered the townhouse, her hair appeared dry and she seemed untouched by the natural elements – a luminous phantom in the battered gore of the study.

  Jack watched her react to the murderous scene. Her eyes glanced around the room and settled upon David Starling’s beaten corpse. She gasped, a hand covering her mouth for a long moment.

  ‘Oh David,’ the woman sighed long and deeply. Jack could hear sadness and regret catching at her throat. She bowed her head for a moment.

  Jack stepped forward from the shadows in one fluid silent motion and thumbed back the hammer of the Webley. The snick-snick of metal on metal rang out in the cold room and the woman looked up to see the nearly 12-inch-long revolver pointing close to her face. Startled, her deep green eyes stared at Jack with surprise and fear. He kept the revolver aimed at the point between her eyes – he knew just how hypnotic and terrifying the revolver’s barrel would appear to this mysterious intruder. She would not dream of the possibility that the weapon was unloaded.

  ‘Who are you?’ His voice was rough.

  The woman slowly pulled her eyes away from the gun and focused them on Jack’s face.

  ‘Your name,’ Jack growled.

  ‘Did you do this?’ she demanded back, the green in her eyes fierce despite her fear.

  He was taller than her and imposing, dark hair and grey eyes in a stern face. He met her gaze and she flinched, though she tried to cover it.

  ‘Wait,’ she spoke suddenly, eyes wide with surprise. ‘You’re David’s brother.’

  Jack did not reply.

  ‘You are,’ she marvelled for a moment. ‘You’re James Starling.’ She swallowed for a moment and shut her eyes in relief. ‘I thought you were from Deschamps.’

  ‘Your name,’ he snapped.

  ‘Cleo,’ she spoke slowly and calmly, as if to a child, ‘Cleo Draycott…. I worked for your brother.’ Jack slowly relaxed, though the gun did not waver. Her dress was tight enough for him to know she was unarmed, but he kept a careful distance – who knew what other skills she had, apart from climbing through rooftop windows in the dead of night.

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ Jack demanded, ‘and who is Deschamps?’

  ‘I’m Cleo, I worked for your brother,’ she repeated, ‘and Deschamps… he’s the man who did that.’ She pointed across to where David’s body lay and stared at the sight grimly, without shirking from the signs of torture.

  ‘David told me you were coming, that you would be able to help.’ She spoke with quiet sadness. ‘If only he had contacted you sooner.’

  ‘Why did he want to contact me?’ Jack demanded, unsure if she was telling the truth or bluffing. She had known his name, at least, but that did not necessarily mean she had been a confidante of David. She looked at him coolly.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Jack kept the gun level.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘James…’

  ‘It’s Jack,’ he snapped
the words off brusquely. ‘Why is my brother dead?’

  ‘Jack…’ She took a deep breath, then looked at him uncertainly. ‘This will sound strange…’

  Jack glared at her. ‘Quit stalling.’

  Her eyes widened still further as she saw his finger tightening on the trigger of the revolver.

  ‘All right,’ she swallowed nervously, ‘you asked for it.’

  ‘Jack.’ She looked at him directly, her face open in an entreaty for understanding. ‘What if I told you that somewhere in Europe is a stash of gold stolen by Napoleon and hidden from the world since 1815.’

  Jack’s face was unreadable, the light of the LED lamp throwing sharp and dangerous shadows across his face.

  ‘That gold is now worth over a billion dollars. Your brother was hunting for that gold. He had nearly found it. That’s why he wanted your help. That’s why he’s dead.’

  She paused, looking at him to see his reaction.

  ‘That’s it?’ Jack’s voice was unreadable.

  ‘That’s it.’ Cleo confirmed. ‘Hidden gold, David dead.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Jack shook his head calmly. The revolver remained steady. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

  Cleo shook her head, eyes flicking from the revolver to his face. ‘That’s exactly what I thought when David told me.’ Her expression firmed. ‘But it’s true.’

  ‘Enough.’ Jack shook his head, dismissing her words. ‘Whoever you are, Cleo, you’re part of the reason my brother is dead...’ He stared at her coldly. ‘And you’ve got ten seconds to tell me what’s going on, or I’m calling the police.’ He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and waved it at her warningly. The revolver in his other hand stayed firm, not wavering a millimetre.

  She stared at him impassively for a moment.

  ‘Well?’ Jack’s voice was brutal.

  ‘I was working for your brother,’ Cleo began. Jack’s face resumed the mask of cold impartiality, staring at her with eyes that seemed to pierce into her soul and find her wanting. It was more fearsome that he would ever have believed.

  ‘He sent me to France,’ she explained breathlessly, a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead. ‘I had to investigate a man there, a criminal.’

  ‘So this time it’s about a man, not gold?’

  ‘I’m trying to explain,’ her eyes pleaded with him. ‘You’re his brother. You know David was fascinated by the Napoleonic Wars. He was doing some private research and found references to a hidden cache of Napoleonic gold. He tracked down what information he could find, then two weeks ago he realised that someone else was on the same trail – a Frenchman, Pierre Deschamps. David sent me to Paris to find out what Deschamps knew. I came here tonight to tell David everything I could, to warn him.’

  Jack flicked the revolver toward his brother’s body.

  ‘The same night he ends up dead?’

  Her eyes darted across to the corpse and she shrugged her shoulders in a minute gesture of helplessness.

  ‘I have no idea.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘He worked in spy craft. Perhaps he crossed someone in the British Government.’

  ‘The British Government doesn’t kill.’ Jack’s voice was harsh. He wondered why he had said the lie so loudly.

  ‘Someone killed him.’ Cleo looked past the revolver to Jack’s eyes. ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course,’ Cleo squared her shoulders. ‘If it had been me, why would I have come back – and through the window, at that?’

  Jack frowned. She had a point – but it was far from enough to make him lower the revolver.

  ‘So you don’t know about anything else that David was doing?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He did a lot of government work.’ She spoke levelly. ‘But he recruited me as a personal helper. The hunt for the gold was a strictly private affair – at first. I don’t think he expected the gold would ever really be found; perhaps someone else thought differently.’

  ‘You said he sent for me?’ Jack persisted. ‘How do you know that? What did he want?’

  ‘I told you, I was working for him.’ She shrugged. ‘But I can see you don’t believe me, so why should I waste my breath?’

  Jack pursed his lips in frustration. ‘Spin bullshit to me all you want, but the police will demand to know why you were creeping through the window of a dead intelligence officer in the middle of the night.’

  This time a spark of fire flashed across her eyes.

  ‘I’ll say David and I were having an affair and you killed him out of jealousy.’ She shifted her body slightly and suddenly her breasts were distractingly prominent. ‘I think they would be more interested in the fact that you were here too. You’ll have a tougher time answering that one than I will.’

  Jack paused, nonplussed.

  A sudden crash echoed through the empty house as the chair was knocked back from the front door far below.

  ‘Well, that resolves the issue.’ Jack thumbed down the hammer on the Webley and lowered it to one side. ‘You’ll answer to the police, if not me.’

  ‘The police?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  Jack could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. He stared at her, a sneaking suspicion coiling up his spine. ‘Who else would it be at this hour?’

  ‘I don’t know… I certainly didn’t call for them.’ She sighed, then stepped backward to lean against the window. ‘But answer me this.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘Don’t the police usually announce themselves before kicking down a door?’

  She was right. Jack felt the blood rush through his veins. Footsteps pounded up the staircase and the door was kicked open a moment later. Jack had a glimpse of a dark-suited figure holding a pistol. He moved on instinct, flicking the Webley across the room like a missile as he ducked forward. The heavy old revolver, two and a half pounds of well-built British steel and iron, smashed like a hammer against the man’s face. He cursed, firing his pistol blindly. The discharge was a deafening sound in the wood-panelled attic, but the distraction had given Jack enough time to move forward into close combat, sweeping the weapon aside and pushing him back through the doorway of the study. The man bounced against the far wall and grappled with Jack, the pair struggling at the top of the staircase. Pistol shots rang out from below and Jack felt plaster and panelling chip and splinter around them. He glimpsed another figure in a shooting stance at the bottom of the stairwell, more bullets chewing up the landing around him. Jack got enough space to deliver a well-executed punch into his opponent’s chin, knocking him back into the line of fire. The man stiffened, face arched upward in surprise and then Jack knew he was fighting a corpse. He shoved the body away, launching it down the narrow stairwell to collide with the second gunman, then leapt back into the study as more bullets sang upward.

  ‘I told you it wasn’t the police.’ Cleo stood calmly by the opened window, one long leg raised to step through. ‘Why didn’t you just shoot him?’

  ‘It wasn’t loaded,’ he declared shortly.

  She looked at him in surprise, then smiled. ‘Well, there you go. Better follow me then, if you don’t want to hang around.’ She ducked out into the night before he could reply.

  Jack cursed, but the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairwell convinced him he had no other choice. He clambered out of the window, then glanced back into the room one last time. His brother’s body lay amid the debris, bloody and alone. Jack stared at the scene, imprinting it in his memory. He and David had been brothers always – and friends once. David’s death would be avenged, Jack swore.

  ‘Come on!’ Cleo’s voice rang out in the night. Jack leant out into the cold night air, looking out over a considerable drop. A van was visible in the street below, parked directly in front of the townhouse. His ears picked up the sound of police sirens in the distance.

  ‘Come on!’ Cleo’s voice urged him onward. She had climbed up a drainpipe by the window and was now loo
king down at him impatiently. Jack grabbed the drainpipe and clambered upward carefully, scrabbling for purchase as one foot swung loose over the three-storey drop below. A bullet shattered the window by his ear and then he was scrambling up the drainpipe like a monkey. He ignored Cleo’s outstretched hand at the top and pulled himself up onto the roof. That she had climbed up the same drainpipe in heels was testament to her athleticism, Jack had to admit.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, his feet inching along the stout guttering of the building, his hands leaning against the rain-slicked tiles of the roof.

  ‘I told you,’ she said, working her way along in front of him. ‘There’s a huge pile of gold hidden somewhere in Europe. Your brother was close to finding out where it was hidden, but it looks like Deschamps and his men want to find it first.’

  ‘Who?’ Jack snapped. ‘Who is Deschamps?’ A single police car rolled around the corner, lights flashing as it drove up next to the van.

  She paused for a moment and looked back at him carefully, completely ignoring the flashing police lights in the square below. ‘A Frenchman. Without scruples or honour. More dangerous than a cobra. David sent me to investigate Deschamps, but the man is far more dangerous than either of us realised.’ She spoke quietly, but the words were carried to him on a chill of understated fear. ‘Perhaps he is the one who killed David. In fact, I’m sure he is responsible. David underestimated Deschamps and now David is dead. Please don’t make the same mistake.’

  Jack paused. Something in the way she spoke conveyed great fear and caution. He knew she was telling the truth.

  There was a sudden crackle of gunfire from the Square below and both of them ducked their heads instinctively. The siren of the police car was cut off as a handful of men burst from the townhouse entrance, guns blazing. A moment later and the van accelerated away into the night, leaving the police car riddled with bullets. A single voice could be heard shouting for backup over the police radio. Jack looked across to Cleo in confusion. He had half suspected the police might have been involved in David’s murder, but the shooters in the van were clearly operating outside the law.