The Hunt for The Red Cardinal

by Bradley Sinor

  It occurred to Barnabas that there were several things that might be interesting to ask the Frenchman about concerning the events in that book, but the look on the man’s face suggested that this might be a good time to let those questions lie.

  “I obviously owe you my life, Monsieur D’Artagnan. If there is any way in which I can repay you, do not hesitate to say so. Had you not come along I suspect I would have ended up face down in the canal,” Barnabas said.

  “Thing nothing of it,” said D’Artagnan.

  “Actually,” said Aramis, a thin smile on his face, “I think that you can help us.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  “I take it you have a plan?” D’Artagnan said in a whisper to Aramis.

  In the time that D’Artagnan had known Aramis, he had learned that the small man had a sharp sense of strategy and planning, not to mention the ability to think on his feet. That skill alone had saved both of their lives on more than one occasion.

  They spoke quietly because while their newly acquired Italian companion was most probably Catholic, they definitely did not know his political bent. So the fact that the two Frenchmen were in the service of Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, Cardinal Richelieu, the first minister of France, was a piece of information best kept to themselves.

  “It isn’t a plan, exactly, just a way that young Marcoli can be of assistance,” he said. “Most of it we will have to make up as we go along.”

  The two Frenchmen had been in Venice for just over a week. In that time D’Artagnan had begun to feel somewhat frustrated. He preferred direct action; give him a sword in his hand and an enemy to face, and that was the best of all possible worlds. Aramis, on the other hand, preferred to wait in the shadows, unseen until he was ready to act.

  Three months before, late one evening, D’Artagnan had been summoned to the Louvre by the cardinal. Once there he found himself waiting near the door, while at the far end of the gallery that served Richelieu as an office, the churchman spoke at length with a woman in dark colors who had a Spanish look about her. D’Artagnan presumed that, given the circumstances, she was another one of Richelieu’s agents rather than a supplicant come to beg some favor from the most powerful man in France.

  When she departed, the woman had smiled briefly at D‘Artagnan but had not spoken. As she passed him, D’Artagnan had inclined his head toward her and said simply, “Good evening, milady.”

  “When necessary, that woman can be quite as dangerous as you, my young friend,” said Richelieu.

  “I shouldn’t doubt it,” D’Artagnan said. “If there is one thing besides the use of the blade that my uncle taught me, it was to be wary of certain women, and I think her to be one of them.”

  “Indeed. He sounds like a most wise and practical man. I think you may take after him in some ways,” said the cardinal. Richelieu had made use of the young swordsman several times since, on impulse, taking him into his personal guard. While the results had not always been what he would have preferred, D’Artagnan’s performance had been enough to keep him keenly aware of the young swordsman.

  “That is why I am going to trust you with a most delicate mission, one that I think will fit your skills quite well.”

  From a drawer in his desk, the cardinal pulled out several sheets of paper and passed them to D’Artagnan. One of them was a travel warrant, giving the bearer priority access to transport anywhere within the boundaries of France. The other bore a highly detailed sketch of a face. This was followed by two small bags of gold. Expense money, no doubt, speculated D’Artagnan. There was one thing that came with working for Richelieu: he was definitely not ungenerous with the state’s money.

  “You are to go to Italy. Venice, to be exact. I need you to locate the man whose face is on that paper. His name is Ramsey Culhane. He is the nephew and principal heir of one Jameson Culhane, an Irish Catholic gentleman whom I would appreciate having in my debt,” said Richelieu.

  “I take it he is not in Venice of his own accord.”

  “Indeed not. There is a matter of a rather large sum of money owed to one of the trading houses in the form of a gambling debtI don’t have the specifics as of yet. They’ve demanded payment from his uncle or they will kill the wastrel. Under other circumstances, I would just pay the ransom myself. However, there are certain alliances that might be put in jeopardy if that were discovered. So we must resort to your unique skills, Lieutenant.”

  “It shall be done, Your Eminence. If you have no objections, I will take Aramis with me.”

  “Take him. He is useful, but at times gives me a headache,” said Richelieu. As D’Artagnan left, he saw the churchman spreading several maps of the French-Spanish border areas across his desk.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  A goodly portion of the far western districts in Venice were devoted to docks and warehouses. In the time since he had come to the city to apprentice as a metal worker with his uncle, Antonio Marcoli, Barnabas had become quite familiar with the area.

  From the shadowed corner where the three men had stopped, Barnabas could see lights from a few torches and lanterns that marked where some people worked, even now.

  The streets were never completely empty, even at nearly midnight. It was just quieter as businesses awaited the coming of the tide to bring in more cargo, and daylight to guide transports that would carry the contents of the warehouses away.

  The farther they traveled from the center of the city, the more Barnabas' urge to repay his guardian angel had faded. Not a small portion of his mind wondered if the two Frenchmen would turn around and help themselves to his purse and pick up a few extra coins selling his body to a medical school.

  “I have a feeling that my uncle may not be all that pleased at my involvement with whatever you have in mind,” Barnabas said. “Tell me truthfully, is this thing you want me to do legal?”

  “Truthfully, no,” said D’Artagnan. “It is also more than likely going to be dangerous. But I say this without a doubt: should we succeed, it will not cause any harm to the reputation of the Marcoli family.”

  From under his jacket, the tall Frenchman produced a single-shot pistol that he passed to Barnabas. The weapon weighed no more than a few ounces. Barnabas had fired muskets while hunting, but never at another person. He was more at home with the long knife that hung on his belt, although he preferred not to use it unless there was no choice in the matter.

  “I hope that I won’t find a need for this,” he told the Frenchman.

  “True, but isn’t it better to have something and not need it that to . . .”

  “. . . need it and not have it. You sound like my cousin, Giovanna.”

  “The one whose friend gave you the book about me? A wise woman,” said D’Artagnan.

  “Barnabas, do you know this place?” Aramis asked, pointing at a small two-story building just down the way. Barnabas stared for a few minutes. Just past it were the burnt remnants of another warehouse. According to some of his cousins, the place had been set afire four years ago under rather odd circumstances. And, just as oddly, no one had taken over the property, even though it was quite valuable because of its location.

  “Yes, I do. As far as anyone knows, it is supposed to belong to Roberto Salvatore. But, according to my uncle, old Salvatore sold the place a few months back to the Kurtz brothers. They’re Austrian, I think, and may even have some Russian connections,” said Barnabas. “What are we here for?”

  “Nothing too difficult,” Aramis said. The small man had a slight smile on his face as he spoke that gave Barnabas a chill. It occurred to him that this was the sort of fellow who could as cheerfully slit your throat as share the latest gossip with you. “I just want you to get us inside by telling the men behind that door exactly who you are. The Marcoli name carries weight, even at this ungodly late hour. With any kind of luck, that should get us inside the place without things getting too messy.”

  As outrageous as it sounded, Barnabas could actually imagine that sort of bluff working with some
people. He’d more than once seen his uncle push his way through situations by doing just exactly that.

  “You did say,” he repeated, “that this whole matter would not reflect badly on my family.”

  “It shouldn’t, if things work out, but you never know,” Aramis said. “Besides, if things go wrong, there is a chance that none of us will have to worry about who gets blamed, since we might all be dead.”

  Barnabas was overcome with an urge to run, but he blocked that by reminding himself that he did owe his life to the tall Frenchman. Instead, he drew a deep breath and headed toward the warehouse, moving quickly in order to not give himself time to think of reasons why he shouldn’t be involved in this whole matter.

  Things had already gone wrong when Barnabas reached the warehouse’s main door. It was open and there was no sign of any watchmen or other sort of guard. From the look on his two companions’ faces, Barnabas was certain this was a discovery that neither of them had expected.

  Once they were inside, a short narrow hallway led into the main part of the warehouse. The smell of the canals and the sound of splashing around the warehouse pilings mixed into the darkness.

  There were several dozen bales of cloth blocking off one corner of the room where a table with bottles of wine and mugs sat, along with a bowl filled with cheese and a half loaf of bread.

  A movement to one side of the room caught Barnabas’ attention. A moment later a man emerged through a door and came charging forward with a large, rather nasty-looking ax in his hand. Barnabas attempted to step backward, but found his feet tangled among a couple of chairs, and it was only a miracle that kept him on his feet.

  D’Artagnan came from behind one of the bales of cloth and threw himself hard against the stranger. That was enough to make the man drop his weapon and give the Frenchman a chance to fire two quick blows to his opponent’s stomach and chin, putting an end to the fight and the man on the floor.

  “Do you always attack a man with an ax with only your fists?” asked Barnabas, not even sure that he had seen what he had seen.

  “It worked, didn’t it? Do you know this fellow?” D’Artagnan held his lantern close to the unconscious man’s face.

  Barnabas stared at the prostrate form for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do know him. I think his name is Brouila, Mordaunt Brouila. He works for the Quinniaros; they are rivals of the Kurtzes.”

  “I wonder if they discovered that the Kurtzes were holding Culhane and decided to cut themselves in on the matter. The ransom that the Kurtzes were demanding was going to be a tidy sum,” said D’Artagnan.

  “Possibly. There are two bodies over at the other end of the warehouse, and given the circumstances, I suspect they worked for the Kurtzes,” said Aramis. “I’m guessing that the Quinniaros got what they came for, meaning Culhane. This leaves us at a loss as to where they have taken him, unless our friend there would be willing to give us the information we need. It is possible that if we can wake him up he can be persuaded to tell us where they went.”

  “I would presume,” said Barnabas, “that we are not going to be informing the authorities of what has happened to him.”

  “Indeed not,” said D’Artagnan.

  “Wait, we might not need Brouila. Wouldn’t they want to get off the streets as quickly as possible?” Barnabas asked. The Quinniaros had interest in several ships, but that was all that Barnabas knew for certain. But he had heard that they had an interest in a nearby business.

  “That would be what I would do,” said Aramis.

  “Then I may have an idea on where to find them,” said Barnabas.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Barnabas and his companions found their way through the streets of Venice quickly. Their goal was a building only a few streets from the docks. Sandwiched between two warehouses, it looked like nothing more than offices for the various businesses that operated in the area. Were it not for the single lantern hanging in front of the heavy oak door, it would have been easy to miss the dark green door.

  “Welcome,” said a woman dressed in emerald and crimson velvet, her long hair hanging in ornate curls, after the three men were admitted.

  That she was mistress of the house there was no doubt. She was not young, and according to the tales that Barnabas had heard, Madam Paulette and her establishment had been a fixture in Venice for many years. Her careful makeup and the room’s lighting took at least a decade off her age. The serious look in the woman’s eyes showed that she was no common street whore, but rather a woman who had learned to make her way in the world and indulge in a taste for finer things.

  D’Artagnan rubbed his chin and studied the place. That it was a brothel was obvious, but Barnabas had already told them that. The windows were masked with heavy curtains. In spite of the hour, there seemed to be a brisk business going on, some sailors and a mixed lot of workmen. There were perhaps a half dozen men there, some with drinks in their hands, others talking to women in revealing gowns.

  “You would be Madam Paulette?” asked Barnabas.

  “Indeed I am. What can I do for some fine gentlemen like yourselves?” she said. On Madam Paulette’s shoulder was a highly intricate butterfly brooch, the stones on it reflecting different colors each way that she turned. D’Artagnan suspected that while it looked valuable, it might be nothing more than paste. On more than one occasion, he had seen that skill and craftsmanship could make paste look like the most valuable jewels in the world.

  “I suppose it is your years of experience that tells you we aren’t just sailors out moving from one tavern to another, seeking various entertainments,” said D’Artagnan.

  “I’ve learned to recognize those who are in need of the services that we offer here. I do have customers from the lower decks of many of the ships that make port here, but also the ranks and officers have been known to hang their hats in my parlor. From the look of you, your manner and attitude, in spite of the plainness of your dress, you are gentlemen,” she said. “So how may I help you? I presume you are interested in some female company this evening?”

  “Were the evening ours, I am certain that passing it in the company of one of the young ladies you employ would be quite enjoyable,” said Aramis. “However, the night is not ours to do with as we would please. Instead, we are seeking some . . . acquaintances we think might have arrived here in the last several hours.”

  Madam Paulette smiled, suppressing a slight laugh. “You would have to be a good deal more exact about who it might be that you are looking for. Business has been good this evening; a number of gentleman callers have come through the door. Besides, why should I tell you anything about who has come and gone? My customers, even the lower ranking ones, expect a good deal of privacy. They certainly don’t expect to have their names shouted by the crier in the town square.”

  “And they will not be, Madam Paulette,” said Barnabas. “I know that there are members of my family who might be grateful for any aid you might render us.”

  “And your name would be?”

  “Marcoli. Barnabas Marcoli.”

  The woman arched her head slightly to one side as she weighed the possibilities.

  She turned and headed toward a door at the side of the room. From the smells that were coming from that direction, Barnabas suspected that there might be kitchens somewhere close. Once they were away from the parlor, she turned to face the three men, staring at them, and then looking upwards toward the ceiling for a moment before she spoke.

  “Gentlemen, I’m sorry to say this, but there is nothing that I can do to assist you in this matter. I run a quiet house; my girls and I try to stay out of anyone else’s business. I can think of seven reasons that should remain true. I trust that you can find your own way out. Please convey my respects to your uncle, Signor Marcoli.”

  With a turn, she vanished through the door into the back part of the house.

  It bothered Barnabas that Madam Paulette seemed to be more familiar with his family than he had expected. He sincerely hoped that
in the months to come he would not regret telling her his name.

  “This is no time to linger,” said D’Artagnan as he motioned for the others to follow him up a stairway at the end of the hall.

  Two lanterns lit the narrow hallway, and from behind several doors D’Artagnan caught the sounds of moans and other noises that proved the rooms were being well put to use.

  “I should think . . . this one,” said D’Artagnan, as he came to a door at the far end of the hallway. Barnabas noticed that it was the seventh door.

  That was when they heard the sound of something crashing onto the floor from inside the room.

  D’Artagnan’s sword slid into one hand, a dagger in the other. Then he kicked the door open. The wood cracked under his heel with a sharp sound, but it was almost masked by the sounds within.

  “Stay here,” the tall Frenchman said over his shoulder to Barnabas, who was only a few steps behind him. “Let no one pass.”

  Barnabas let out a sigh; with his heart pounding wildly in his chest, Barnabas was more than happy to obey the Frenchman’s instructions.

  In the dim light, D’Artagnan could see two large apparitions, one wearing a cape and the other a long jacket. A smoking pistol was in the hand of the first man, the other had his arms around a smaller struggling man with sandy hair, who was presumably Culhane. An overturned chair with ropes twisted around it suggested that he had managed to free himself, to the surprise of his captors.

  The Frenchman let fly with his dagger. It creased the head of the man holding Culhane, gouging his ear and sending blood flying. The man responded with a yelp and a string of curses equal to those of some sailors.

  The other man threw himself at D’Artagnan, using his empty pistol as a club. The Frenchman twisted, hit his opponent in the stomach, and then drove his knee into the fellow’s crotch. Before the first man had gone to the floor, D’Artagnan whirled about and sent the pommel of his sword slamming squarely into the other man’s face, the sound of a nose breaking confirming its effectiveness. Two more blows with the same part of this sword put the man on the floor at D’Artagnan’s feet.