A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1)

by William Scott

  *

  The sound of instruments and revellers slowly faded as they walked up a staircase that branched off from the hotel lobby. Pierce kept a straight face as a couple quickly descended past them. From the satisfied look on the man’s face and the slightly embarrassed one on the companion, Pierce could tell they were returning from a secret assignation in one of the rooms above.

  The footman led him to a hallway on the second level that overlooked the lobby, much less populated than when he and Jane had first arrived. Presumably the hour was late enough that people no longer had to wait to make an entrance to the ballroom.

  “I don’t understand it,” the footman looked around slightly confused. “I followed the man you’re looking for when he arrived. He came up the same stairs as we did and was smoking a cigar from this very balcony.”

  “Well he’s not here now,” Pierce replied, deliberately putting the gold coin in his hand back into his vest pocket.

  “But I was only gone for a moment when I went to fetch you,” muttered the footman to himself. “The only place he could really go from here is the manager’s office further down the hall.”

  Pierce looked down a hallway that ran perpendicular to where they now stood, unsure on how to proceed. It was not very long and appeared to only have two doors leading off it, providing no cover in case Bufford were to emerge. Despite being confident he’d discovered Bufford’s goals in Marseille, Pierce knew he couldn’t risk discovery at this stage. There might be something he missed and needed to monitor the Colonel as covertly as possible to be sure.

  However the footman could only think of the gold coin that was in Pierce’s pocket, so he took off down the hall. Before Pierce could stop him, he’d tried the door handles at each door. Both were locked and the footman’s shoulder’s drooped in disappointment.

  “The night is not over,” breathed Pierce with faked weariness. “That coin is still yours if you can direct me to the American.”

  Encouraged to know there might still be more money coming his way, the footman straightened up and started to lead Pierce back out. But before they could make it back to the balcony a loud bang rang out from behind one of the doors, quickly followed by a scream.

  The footman ran back to the door and immediately started yelling questions through the door while desperately trying to open it. Pierce ran up behind him, and then dropped to his knees to see if he could look through the keyhole. He’d seen this done in movies before and figured that the door was old enough to require a large key.

  Amazingly Pierce found that he could see quit clearly through the keyhole, but that feeling vanished once he focused on the scene beyond. Colonel Bufford had a portly gentleman pinned to a desk, one hand around his throat and the other with a pistol to his head. He was red in the face, quietly threatening the man for something.

  “What do you see?” the footman asked urgently as he continued to try and open the door. “I can hear voices inside.”

  “Leave the door alone,” Pierce ordered, placing his hand on the footman’s arm. One of Bufford’s hounds had taken notice of a presence at the door and had started walking over. Pierce watched him turn around and presumably say something to the others before retuning his glance at the door. Smiling, he swiftly removed a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the door. “Down!”

  Pierce was just able to pull the footman away before the door splintered from the passage of a bullet. Both men fell against the opposite wall, their hearts pounding from the near miss. The door opened a second later, as the shooter checked his handy work.

  “What are you doing here?” the hound from the Grey Pack asked them in rough French as they slowly stood up from the floor.

  “What is the meaning of firing a pistol indoors?” Pierce countered back, trying to display the right amount of indignation. He was hoping his costume would be enough to disguise his identity from the gunman. He also hoped that going on the attack would throw the man off enough to ignore his possible identity.

  “What are you doing here? Why were you trying to open the door?” He repeated, eyeing them both closely.

  “I am the Count of Monte Cristo and this footman was giving me a tour of the hotel, as I‘ve never been here,” Pierce began haughtily. “We heard a noise and a scream from inside this room and came to offer assistance.”

  “This is true?” the Hound asked the footman gruffly.

  “It is as his Grace says,” the footman replied, still shocked from his brush with danger.

  “Very well, you may leave.”

  “I may leave?” Pierce shot out indignantly. “How dare you order me about like a common servant, especially after taking a shot in my direction. I have half a mind to call the gendarme and have you locked up, unless you can explain yourself.”

  “My apologies your Grace,” the gunman muttered, simply wanting these two men to disappear. “I am part of the security for the ball and we discovered a thief in the manager’s office. A pistol went off accidently while apprehending him. The gendarmes are actually already on their way.”

  “I see, in that case we shall leave you to your work,” Pierce gallantly agreed before leading the shaken footman back to the hotel lobby. The noise of the party had seemingly hidden the sound of the pistol shot, as they didn’t pass anyone rushing up the stairs and found everyone in the lobby as they had left them.

  The pair walked over to a quiet corner after Pierce had grabbed a large scotch at the bar. He took a shot before handing it to the footman. The servant quailed from the offer, embarrassed at being served by a noble. But Pierce needed the man calm, so he made him take it.

  “We were just under fire together. That makes us comrades in arms. What’s your name?”

  “Pierre, your Grace.”

  “Tell me Pierre, what does the hotel manager look like?” Pierce asked as the footman settled himself, his hands clenched around the cut crystal tumbler.

  “Monsieur Dubec? He’s tall with a balding head, long nose and glasses.”

  “The man I saw in there was well dressed and slightly overweight, probably about your height. Do you know who that could be?” Pierce asked lowering his voice slightly as a group of waiters walked past them.

  “Did he have a round face with dark hair?” the footman checked, receiving a nod from the Count. “That sounds like the hotel owner, Monsieur Lafayette. What’s going on here?”

  “I’m not sure, but I fear for his safety. Quietly summon a small group of the staff, the tougher the better, and then fetch Monsieur Dubec. You need to go back up to the office.”

  “What are you going to do your Grace?”

  “I’m going to check on my wife, make sure she’s not dancing with any scoundrels or soldiers,” Pierce lied with a smile. When the gunman had talked to them in the hallway, Pierce had momentarily seen more of the scene within the hotel office. He’d counted the men inside and had come up one short. One of Bufford’s hounds, Ivan to be specific, was unaccounted for and Pierce had a good idea where to find him.

  Chapter 30