A flash of red and white, heading south. Remus followed swiftly. As the smells of the market faded, he began to scent something else—something sickeningly sweet. They traded in drugs in Tangier, too, and hashish was popular.
Once inside the old city, it was harder to navigate. The streets were labyrinthine, and it was only when he found an open courtyard and could sometimes see the mosaic minaret of the Sidi Bou Abid mosque that he got his bearings. He went for some while without catching another glimpse of the red and white burnous, but he finally did see the man slipping down one of the many narrow, twisting streets that led toward the Petit Socco, the other market at the south entrance of the old city.
“Beautiful silks!” a voice called in French as he hurried by. And when Remus did not respond, the merchant added in Spanish: “I make you a very good price.”
Remus ignored him. He had been in this part of the world before, and he knew from experience that a polite refusal only invited further cajolery. He tried not to deal with local merchants too often. By and large, the sun had baked their bodies and their brains. Their narrow thoughts and bigotries had hardened into uneducated bricks that could not be reshaped, only worn down by the imbecility of old age, which would turn their minds back into sludge, assuming they weren’t first smashed open by a sledgehammer—sometimes literally.
The crowds gradually thinned. The market was left behind and the street grew twisted and ever more dark. The place became so silent and so deserted that one might think a plague had struck and carried off every living soul.
Or that everyone had been warned away because something bad was about to happen.
Remus turned a corner cautiously, and at the end of the street he caught a glimpse of a white robe disappearing down an alley. The man had some sort of heavy bundle flung over his shoulder that looked suspiciously like a body. There was no sign of the red burnous, though.
Remus walked cautiously and quietly, sticking to the middle of the cobbled alley, his eyes scanning the scene quickly. The blank plaster walls on either side were broken only occasionally by barred windows and narrow doors that guarded the occupants’ privacy. The alley was grim. The houses wouldn’t be dark inside, though. As was the custom in Arab homes, there would be a large courtyard that the houses looked out onto. Courtyards where no one would see or hear anything distressing, like an English detective being murdered.
The acoustics in that part of the medina were odd. In some places, like near the giant mosque or the marble columns of the Kasbah, one might hear the whisper of some other person speaking one hundred yards off. In other places, the sound was dead. An assassin might steal right up behind his victim and never be heard. Remus was walking in just such a street, and it occurred to him that it might not be entirely by accident.
Second thoughts were irritating. Remus tried not to have them. On the other hand, you didn’t survive long as a cat burglar unless you paid attention to your surroundings.
As dead as the acoustics were, smell traveled just fine, and it was this that alerted him to the other’s presence a moment before the red-burnoused figure sprang from one of the narrow doorways with a knife upraised.
The Chameleon’s reflexes had not abandoned him when he left the name and career. He twisted around with the speed of a hunting cat, dodging the knife that cut downward, and caught at the man’s thick wrist. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the second slim blade in the man’s other hand until it was flashing upward. Remus slashed downward with his other hand, blocking the blow that would have landed in his side, but a quick splash of hot fire told him that his arm had been cut.
Fighting a man who used a knife was bad. Fighting a man who used two was suicidal. Especially if one was unarmed.
Remus and his attacker were of similar weight, though the Arab was shorter by half a head. Remus, however, had two advantages. He could see the superstitious fear in the man’s eyes. Had he not tried to kill the detective once already? And yet somehow the Englishman had survived two bullets to the heart. Also, the Arab had likely been hired as an assassin by someone who didn’t dare approach the great detective directly. Remus’s attacker was fighting for a wage. Remus was fighting for his life.
With that fact clear in his mind, Remus slammed the Arab up against a door, carved and ornamented with sharp bits of wrought iron that would stab like dull knives. The Arab grunted as his skull bounced off the wood, and he nearly fell. In fact, the bludgeoning worked so well that Remus did it again. The knife in the Arab’s left hand dropped as he gasped in pain.
At that moment, it occurred to Remus that this time he was the victim of a crime—a person out on legitimate business with no need to fear the law—and so he did something he had never done before. He gave a loud shout, hoping to summon the police so he wouldn’t have to commit murder.
Surprisingly, a yell answered him immediately.
Remus glanced in the direction of the shout and saw a gentleman of portly stature and mature years tottering toward him. He was brandishing a cane in a reckless and ineffectual manner. So much for aid from the outside. Remus turned back to his attacker.
“Who sent you?” Remus asked in French, again slamming the Arab against the cruel door. He was grateful to the elderly man who was rushing so recklessly in their direction, but he wanted some answers before there were any witnesses. “Who dares to think that they can kill the great detective?”
The Arab’s eyes were beginning to lose focus.
“El Grande,” he slurred. A little more pressure on the wrist, and the second knife fell to the ground. “But he did not say that you were immortal.”
Remus hesitated. Though he abhorred violence, he knew that he should kill this man. The creature had murdered, and breaking his neck would doubtless be a service to the entire world. However, Remus doubted that it was what the great detective would have done. Particularly not when there was a witness.
Remus slammed the man against the door a last time and then let the unconscious body fall to the ground.
His would-be rescuer arrived at that instant, face the shade of boiled ham and wheezing alarmingly. His white linen suit was dark with perspiration.
“Steady on, old chap,” Remus said, his voice and inflection absolutely perfect. He would have taken the old man’s cane away since it was still occasionally flailing about, but the poor creature obviously needed it to lean on between gesticulations.
“Thought you were a goner,” the man puffed, leaning against the wall. “These market thieves are getting bolder every day.”
“Bloody street rats,” Remus agreed, in the great detective’s voice. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against the cut in his arm. Half of his mind was on what the would-be assassin had said before collapsing. Someone called El Grande wanted the great detective dead.
“Good God, sir!” exclaimed the elderly man. “You are bleeding. Here. Best let me have a look at that. I’m a physician. Dr. Watson Travers, at your service.” He didn’t offer to look at the man in the red burnous.
“Remus Maxwell. It isn’t a deep cut,” he said reassuringly. He didn’t offer to shake hands, though; the bleeding wasn’t profuse, but it was steady enough to be of concern.
“But there is always the danger of infection,” Dr. Travers answered, straightening. His color was still alarming. “Come with me to my hotel. It isn’t far from here, and I shall have you patched up in no time.”
“You are too kind.” Remus didn’t hesitate. The doctor was probably going to need help to get back anyway. His breathing had barely settled, and he seemed in danger of collapsing. Remus said tactfully: “It is fortunate for me that you were out and about this morning.”
“Not at all. You had the matter well in hand. It’s just this way,” the doctor said, pointing toward the south entrance to the medina. They began walking slowly in that direction. “I fear that this is the end of your coat, though. What a damned shame.”
“Yes, I fear it is beyond saving.” It had been a damned unluck
y suit anyway. “This climate is hard on one’s clothing.”
“I know a good tailor, if you need one. The fellow is quick and not too outrageous in his charges. He could probably do something for you right away.”
“Thank you. I shall have to do something.” Remus could well believe that Dr. Travers had a quick tailor. He was betting that the doctor was a heavy perspirer even when he wasn’t rushing down dark allies brandishing his cane, and white linen was entirely impractical for him. It would get a single day’s wearing but no more.
Remus paused at an intersection and inhaled. He could smell the faint scent of hashish. That brought to mind the man in the red burnous’s companion. Should he let it go? He was tempted—the cut in his arm was a painful reminder of what could happen if one got too close to these rats. On the other hand, it might do to make a clean sweep of things so he didn’t have to spend his time watching his back.
There was also the matter of that bundle. Criminals’ bundles were usually worth investigating.
“Travers, wait here a moment. I think I hear someone calling for help.”
“But, old chap!” Travers protested. Remus didn’t wait. He followed his nose down the small side alley where the smell of hashish was strongest.
The atmosphere of this dank little crevice was oppressive, as though evil deeds and ill will had been accumulating for a very long time. Remus moved quickly, but he could hear the doctor stumbling along behind him, puffing and wheezing like an overheated engine.
Remus was about to turn back and spare the doctor a heart attack when he rounded a curve and saw his quarry up ahead. Once again Remus shouted, quite enjoying the fact that he could make as much noise as he liked. There were definite benefits to being on the right side of the law.
The man with the bundle twisted around and, seeing who was bearing down on him—a man they had thought dead, probably twice since red burnous had had a second go at it—as well as a second large European in a white linen suit, he gave a small squawk and dropped his burden. Much lighter, he fled on unhappy but swift feet.
A part of Remus felt that he should chase the man down, but his arm was bleeding again, and the bundle had begun to moan and thrash. It was a soft, female moaning.
Remus knelt down by the carpet bag—a tapestry, actually—and using his good arm, set about unrolling its prisoner.
The woman who spilled out the other end was a surprise, as golden as any treasure he had ever stolen, and reeking of perfume. Dark eyes the color of blueberries blinked up at him.
“Thank you,” she gasped in English. “I thought I should suffocate.”
Remus nodded and tried not to recoil from the floral scent that rose up in an invisible cloud.
“They kidnapped me in the perfume market,” she explained, though Remus had gathered as much from the smell and the two empty vials she had clutched in her hands. Following his line of sight, she looked down at her clenched fists and then dropped the two perfume bottles. “My name is Thomasina. Thomasina Marsh. I’m Senor Diego-Vega’s personal secretary.”
“Remus Maxwell,” The Chameleon answered, offering his good hand to her and noticing how her eyes widened at the name. “And this is Dr. Travers,” he added as Travers arrived, looking more than ever like a boiled ham basted in cherry sauce. His white suit was now a dirty gray and very damp under the arms.
The hand that grasped Remus’s was delicate. He also liked the way concern darkened her eyes when she saw his wound.
“Did they do that to you?” she asked, appalled, as she regained her feet. She obviously meant the kidnapper. “I am so sorry that you should have been hurt rescuing me.”
“Think nothing of it. It’s just a scratch,” Remus answered, resisting the urge to help Thomasina Marsh smooth the dust off her frock as she pulled the skirt back into a modest position, hiding the white lace garters that held her stockings in place. He didn’t correct her incomplete understanding of what had happened. And since Dr. Travers could still barely breathe, the older man didn’t correct her misapprehension either.
“Are you hurt, too, Dr. Travers?” Thomasina asked, looking more concerned than ever as she saw his face.
“Not. A. Bit.” He gasped gallantly. “We’ve just had a smidgen…of a run…trying to catch up with you. Brutal stuff, this heat.”
“Yes, indeed!” Thomasina agreed readily. “You must both rest immediately and have some tea.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Remus agreed, preparing to leave the dismal alley, though truthfully he was more in the mood for a gin and tonic.
“Wait,” Thomasina said. She knelt down and started to gather the tapestry.
“That’s very heavy,” Remus pointed out, eyeing her actions with misgiving. “And it will only add to the heat exhaustion we all feel.” He said we because he had a sinking feeling that Thomasina wasn’t going to be able to carry the heavy wall hanging alone. It was also clear that Dr. Travers, between his fractured breathing and his cane, wasn’t going to be of much assistance. Tactfully, Remus didn’t say anything about the tapestry choking them with the reek of rose and patchouli perfume.
“It’s also fifteenth century. And stolen. The thieves took it from Senor Diego-Vega’s villa. That’s why I confronted them in the market,” Thomasina added. She turned her large blue eyes upon him. “I know that you’ll want to do what is right.”
Remus kept his left brow, the one that tended to shoot up when he was skeptical, firmly in place. If she knew who Remus Maxwell was, then her conclusion was probably a correct one. How fortunate that she was there to tell him what was acceptable behavior.
He looked again at the tangle of threads with an appraiser’s eye. That bit of fabric probably cost about five hundred times what those men had been paid to kill him. He wondered which failure they would regret more.
“That’s one of El Grande’s tapestries?” Travers asked, shock stopping his ragged breath long enough to ask a question. “Well, of all the bloody cheek!”
The name registered—it was one he had heard before, and not in church.
“Yes!” Thomasina affirmed. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. They must have stolen it right out of the grand salon while the painters were working, though I don’t know how they managed it. There are guards at the estate.”
“El Grande’s, is it? Then it must be returned to him,” Remus agreed, finally kneeling down to assist Thomasina. He made his voice light. “I shall take it to him personally. As soon as I’ve had my arm stitched up, of course.”
“Of course,” Thomasina agreed, smiling at him with approval. “Senor Diego-Vega will be very surprised and grateful.”
Surprised? Remus was inclined to agree. Grateful? That seemed rather doubtful. If the would-be assassin was in his pay, then the arrangements for the tapestry and Thomasina’s abduction would hardly come as a shock.
Alex put aside his pen. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. Millie was far too spoiled anyway. A little suffering in the line of duty wouldn’t hurt her.
As though guessing that he was taking her name in vain, his gray-haired secretary appeared in his office doorway, arms full. Her posture was stiff as an ironing board as she crossed to his desk. Around her the air danced with little orange spikes. Ever since his change, he’d been able to see auras around people when they were experiencing strong emotion. He knew now that it had something to do with an alteration in his magnetic resonance, but back when he had first noticed it, all he had been able to understand was that his body wrought a strong effect on compasses, and he sometimes saw bright colors around people when he was drinking. Had he been a sailor, the trouble with a compass would have been inconvenient. However, that wasn’t exactly a problem he faced daily back then, so he had viewed it as a sort of parlor trick. However, as the world of electronics came into being, his capacity for wreaking havoc on equipment had grown. So had his ability to “see” into people. And it had gotten stronger each time he had gone back into the fire to renew himself. It was a gift that
most days he would rather not have.
It wasn’t until after his second electrocution that he had acquired the ability to “hear” people’s thoughts. Not all thoughts, and not in all people. But enough to be sometimes entertained, embarrassed, and even disconcerted by his companions. Unlike seeing an aura, “hearing” took effort and only worked when a person had formed his various chaotic impulses and desires and mental images into an organized flow of thought that resembled an inner monologue. The ability to tune out people’s prattle made the gift bearable. If he could hear every thought in everyone he passed, he would surely go mad.
Experimentation had taught him that people with untrained psychic abilities were usually the easiest to “listen” to. They seemed to broadcast their feelings like a radio, and he could tune in with little effort. Many times their thoughts sounded about as clear as if someone was actually speaking. Their auras were also easy to read. They were a sort of color code of moods—at least in the living—that told about the state of a person’s well-being. Though he had never stopped testing his abilities, exercising his talents, it was only in the last decade that he had found a way to influence others’ thoughts and to suggest things to the people he sometimes eavesdropped on. It wasn’t true mind control—not even close. But if their auras were a certain color, and a person was inclined in a certain direction anyway, he could sometimes nudge them into action. Especially with physical contact. The simple radio in his brain had become a walkie-talkie.
A pity he hadn’t had the ability back when he met the great detective. It would have been useful then, and also when he was spying on the Germans later in the war.
Millie shook her head sadly as she unloaded her postal burden onto his writing table and began the routine nagging. Alex would listen for about five minutes and then send her away. He liked Millie, but her voice could cause brain damage with prolonged exposure.
Divine Night Page 3
