I had myself gone to visit the famous cathedral. I wore a new suit from an excellent English tailor, with a black velvet cape and silver-headed cane. I was able to feel myself that day after being for too long in mufti. I was freshly barbered, every hair in place, my mustache meticulously trimmed and waxed. I am, I confess, obsessive about the neatness of my person, even if my profession sometimes forces me to temporarily adopt less fastidious habits.
The proper enjoyment of Paris begins on the Ile de la Cite in the midst of the Seine, I am convinced. This is where the city began, five hundred years before the birth of Christ. The island has been a place of ritual for more than two millennium, with the cathedral now occupying ground that is fairly soaked with history and mystical importance. Who knows what unhallowed acts took place on the Ile in the darkness of pagan times, when Druid priests sacrificed human victims to the gods of the forest. The ancient cathedral itself took two hundred years to complete after construction started in 1163—a long time for men to keep their gaze fixed upon a common goal; the human arrow seldom flies so straight.
But then, the miraculous cathedral was built because the archer was not man but God. After all I've done—and witnessed—I still have my faith, sinner that I am.
Notre Dame is a building of strange contrasts. The shimmering lightness of the stained glass seems to defy the density of the rock that cradles it. And yet the stone itself breathes with life. Like Michelangelo, who believed a statue lies sleeping within every rough-hewn block of marble brought down from the quarries in the mountains, the master masons of Notre Dame were blessed with the God-given talent to fashion buttresses and spires in a way that transcended the material's ordinary essence.
My favorite part of the cathedral is the west facade, with the statuary above the three arched doorways. Over the centermost, from which I had just stepped that day, is the Last Judgment Tympanum. Christ is in the middle, surrounded by the cross and symbols of his passion, sitting in judgment of the quick and the dead. At Christ's right foot is an angel—St. Michael, I think. Queuing up behind him are the faithful elect, their reverent faces upturned. Beneath Christ's left foot is Satan—misshapen, hideous, his scorn and hatred of Creation evident in his carved face. Behind the Enemy, a subservient devil drives the fallen into Hell. There could hardly be more contrast between the expressions of sorrow on their faces and the bliss seen in the faces of the chosen.
There is no escaping the evil, not even in the City of Light. I fear I will carry it with me always, now that it has brushed me. I pray it will not claim my life, but if it does, let me have a moment, God, to repent my many sins. My eyes lifting to the battlements, I saw the gargoyles, reminders of the fate that awaits the damned in Hell—and to the unfortunate victims of the others who walk the earth, their existence unknown to most mortals.
I turned from the end of the square and looked back at the incomparable Rose Window, which serves as a multicolored halo statue of the Madonna and Child. There was still time to repent my sins—but not before I saw Italy and Greece. There would be time to fully atone once my travels were over, after I had seen Florence and Athens and Egypt. Then I would buy a house in Tuscany and devote myself to good works, and collecting art.
I went to Le Bernardin, a cafe across from the Palais de Justice with a view of the Seine, as previously arranged. I found a table next to the window, where I could watch people coming over the Quai de la Tournelle from the direction of the Sorbonne. I had originally planned to go from London to the Netherlands, where I would spend as much time as I needed to view the Flemish masters, looking for one or two affordable but worthy intaglios for my collection. I only agreed to come to Paris when Sir Basil Worthy announced he would be in France on business and requested a meeting in a way that would have made it awkward for me to decline without damaging my prospects to do business with him in the future. Through our correspondence, Sir Basil told me he had spent the past five years in Africa looking after his mining interests. Now he wrote in a cable that he was interested in branching off into several other promising enterprises. That, needless to say, is where I came in.
I checked the time and slid my watch back into my vest pocket. I doubted my guests would be on time. Sir Basil would be prompt, of course, since he was British and had made his first fortune in railroads, where punctuality is not only a virtue but a necessity. However, the man he was bringing with him, Claude Bernard, was a French aristocrat. In my experience, the French have their own sense of time.
I was pleasantry surprised when Sir Basil and Monsieur Bernard appeared only a few minutes behind schedule. The Englishman presented me to Monsieur Bernard. We shook hands, exchanged cards, and took our seats. I sent the waiter for three glasses of wine. After a suitable period was devoted to pleasantries, Sir Basil asked me to outline for Monsieur Bernard the investment opportunity I had been telling him about in our correspondence.
And so I told Monsieur Bernard the story of the Anglo-American Transatlantic Cable Company. I spent some time describing the quality of our board of directors—"impeccable"—and the expertise of the firm's engineers—"without parallel." Monsieur Bernard appeared duly impressed with my news of the scientific breakthrough that would allow hundreds of telegraphic messages to be transmitted over a single strand of copper wire. The real importance of the new technology, I explained, would be realized when these capacious single strands were woven together into a thick cable that would be strung across the Atlantic, thus assuring our syndicate a virtual monopoly on transatlantic telegraphy for decades to come.
People say time is money, I said, but in the twentieth century the equation would change and information would be money—information about markets, business, politics, wars.
"We have the patent and own the technology lock, stock, and barrel," I told him. "No one will be able to compete with us when it comes to communicating across the Atlantic, first, and then within Europe and the United States. What we have is a virtual license to print money."
After that I sat back and waited for the possibilities to blossom in my two guests' minds. I motioned the waiter over and ordered mussels steamed in white wine. I had not eaten since breakfast and was famished. Unlike London, Paris is an excellent place to gourmandise. I'd already picked out the restaurant near the hotel where I would have supper at nine o'clock. I even knew what I was going to order To start, poelon de douze escargots aux noisettes. For the entree, confit de canard aux pommes forestières. And for dessert, crème brûlée à l'ancienne.
"How many positions remain in the syndicate for investment?" Sir Basil asked after a bit.
"At this point, I'm afraid none remain."
"Good God, man!" he sputtered. "Then why have you been leading us on?"
"I certainly didn't mean to do that," I said with a little shrug. "You're a businessman. You know how things are. When I began corresponding with you…"
I had been writing Sir Basil in Africa for six months, after hearing about his penchant for aggressive investments. I'd sent regular dispatches—scientific reports, surveys of the sea floor, forecasts on copper prices, important because of the cost in making the cable.
"… the syndicate was only just forming. I would have been honored to have you on board, although I would never be so crass as to try to sell you on the project. Now, unfortunately, the syndicate is complete. The last share was subscribed only last week. I only wish we could have met together sooner to discuss the opportunity."
"Then there is no way to get a taste of this, Monsieur Raphael?" the Frenchman asked. "The proposition is sweet as the crème vanillée."
That reminded me of the gastronomic experience to come that evening, making me smile.
"Perhaps there is a way," I said.
The waiter delivered my mussels. An aromatic steam redolent of wine and garlic rose from the bowl, making my mouth water.
"One of our directors, a Mr. Hampton, suffered a recent financial reverse in the United States bond market," I said. "I think he could be pers
uaded to sell his share in the syndicate. I must warn you, though, that it will not come cheaply."
Sir Basil asked me to suggest a figure.
I plucked a mussel from its shell and regarded it on the tip of the silver fork for a long moment. I mentioned a number and popped the morsel into my mouth. I closed my eyes and chewed, thoroughly enjoying the experience, which I knew would be diminished by the astonished, even angry stares from the other men at the table. This is the decisive moment, I thought. I could almost hear greed prowling around the table, working its way into the men. And whichever way it worked out, I knew it did not matter. I had done far better than I ever expected in London. I could pay to go around the globe several times and still set myself up fashionably in a warm part of Italy when my wanderings were over. Besides, there were other fish in the sea besides Sir Basil and Monsieur Bernard. I had been sending the same bogus technical reports and dispatches to other potential investors.
"The figure you mention is astonishing."
I nodded to Sir Basil, agreeing he was right and pretending to be interested mainly in the mussels.
"Might we divide the share down the middle?" Monsieur Bernard asked.
"I suppose the papers could be drawn up, if it is also agreeable with the two of you to split the profit."
"An excellent point," Sir Basil says.
"But still, mon Dieu, the sum is quite extraordinary."
"I agree wholeheartedly," I said. "Fortunately, I was able to invest early on, when shares were much more reasonably priced. I could sell now and multiply my money almost a hundredfold."
Monsieur Bernard picked up his wineglass, turned it in his fingers, then put it down without drinking. "Such an arrangement would be agreeable with me, if it is with you, Sir Basil."
Sir Basil thought about it a moment, swallowed dryly, and nodded.
Monsieur Bernard took a wallet fat with bank notes from his coat. "You will accept a thousand francs in—how do you say?—earnest money until we can make arrangements to transfer the full amount? You can arrange the sale, I presume."
"That's unnecessary," I said, waving away the money.
"Please," Monsieur Bernard insisted, "I would feel better knowing we have an agreement."
"Very well, then," I said, and took the money. I was slipping it into my own pocket when Sir Basil grabbed my wrist.
"I'll take that, if you don't mind," he said. "These francs belong to Her Majesty's government."
I allowed the Englishman to take the bank notes from my hand.
"I am Inspector Charles Witherspoon of Scotland Yard."
"I thought you seemed a mite overanxious," I said. "And you, Monsieur Bernard? What is your real name?"
"It is Bernard—Inspector Bernard."
"And Sir Basil?" I asked. "I trust he is well?"
"He is very well, and I am sure he would thank you for asking," Inspector Witherspoon said. "Sir Basil hired the Pinkerton Agency to verify your bona fides in New York when you first contacted him. The matter was eventually turned over to Scotland Yard. You've been corresponding with me for the past few months, Mr. Raphael. Or should I call you Mr. Buffet, as you were known in New York?"
"Why don't we stick with 'Mr. Raphael,' " I said amicably. "That's the name on my passport. It will make things less complicated. I was only Mr. Buffet for a short while. I've changed my name so many times that I'm not sure I can remember anymore who I really am!"
"I suppose we could even call you Professor Abraham Van Helsing," Inspector Witherspoon said acidly.
"I suppose you could," I replied.
* * *
29
The Arrangement
HOW DOES IT feel to be bested at your own game?" Inspector Witherspoon asked.
There was something telling in the policeman's smile. And why were they not already dragging me off to jail? My highly developed intuition smelled opportunity.
"You have reason to be pleased with yourself, Inspector Witherspoon," I said, knowing policemen like to be appreciated. "I will not pretend it is at all pleasant to have you find me out. I may be a criminal, but I consider myself a professional."
Inspector Witherspoon glanced at Inspector Bernard, beaming.
"How ever did you connect me to Van Helsing? I thought I had pulled the wool over everybody's eyes."
"That was a bold stroke," Witherspoon bragged. "The police in New York were looking for a Mr. Buffet, who swindled J. P. Morgan out of $100,000. They had reason to believe Mr. Buffet, posing as a Mr. Rembrandt, booked passage to London aboard the HMS Imperious. But Mr. Rembrandt's baggage was sent to a hotel room booked by a Mr. Raphael, which was exceedingly curious."
"Indeed," I said, savoring the last of my mussels, insurance against the possibility that I might miss my supper.
"Even a more curious stroke was when a trunk was dispatched from Mr. Rembrandt's suite to lodgings in an altogether disreputable hotel belonging to a certain Dr. Van Helsing."
"I shall have to tip the porters more generously in the future," I said with genuine regret. "I presume you found Mr. Raphael in a similar fashion, working in the opposite direction."
"Just so. Van Helsing's trunk was delivered to a ship in Dover that had no passenger on its manifest by that name. My first thought was to look for a Mr. Rembrandt, but you were too clever for your own good when you decided to switch from Rembrandt to Raphael."
"I have a weakness for art," I admitted. "That is the real reason I came to Europe—to see the great masterpieces."
"Then the sensibilities of your criminal mind are not entirely depraved," Inspector Bernard said.
"I wired Inspector Bernard, my counterpart with the Parisian police, the moment I knew you were headed for Calais," Witherspoon said. "It did not surprise me to learn that Mr. Raphael had been in contact with a wealthy Frenchman, as he had been with Sir Basil. I will give you one thing, old boy: You are a planner."
"Thank you for the compliment," I said, and covered my mouth with the napkin. Knowing how easy it had been to follow my travels had given me indigestion. The ability for police to send telegraphs flying around the planet, requesting information about baggage and ship's passengers, had made the modern world a difficult place for those in my profession to do business.
"Let us return for a moment to the matter of your interest in art," Inspector Bernard said with a frown.
"I do not have a professional interest in art, Inspector. My love of paintings, sculpture, and architecture is entirely innocent, I assure you. I am, if I dare say so myself, a specialist, and rather good at what I do in my profession, the present circumstances notwithstanding."
"Is that what you call cheating people—a profession? Do all swindlers put on such airs in America?"
"Your distaste is understandable, Inspector Witherspoon. You are, after all, a policeman. I prefer to think of myself not as a swindler but an illusionist. I create illusions for wealthy people who are greedy enough to want to add to their superfluity of riches. I've never hit anybody over the head, held anyone at gunpoint, or jimmied a door lock. Furthermore, my illusions are educational. The people who give me money profit from a valuable lesson."
"You were hardly playing on people's greed in London," he said, and glowered.
"I admit I had no idea what I was getting myself into there," I said with an inward shudder.
"I have yet to meet a criminal who fails to concoct an elaborate justification for himself," Inspector Witherspoon said. "What of the dustmen and cooks you took money from in London for protection against the vampires? What sort of lesson were you teaching them?"
"Les vampires?" It was obvious this was the first Inspector Bernard had heard of the subject. Inspector Witherspoon had not given his colleague a full briefing, I realized.
"A pound here, a pound there," I said with a small shrug. "It is a small price to pay to be able to sleep at night. At the beginning of the sorry affair, when I did not believe in vampires any more than Inspector Bernard, I thought I was doing them
a favor. Paying a quid to be told a garland of garlic hung over your bed will protect you from the vampires is cheaper and safer than drinking a draught of sleeping powder or sitting up all night, too terrified to shut your eyes. Besides, it wasn't the servants' money I was after but that of their masters and mistresses. Those were the real prizes."
I did not mention the gold Prime Minister Disraeli had paid me to consult with the government. If Inspector Witherspoon didn't know about that, I wasn't going to be the one to tell him. It would not have been in my interests.
"Are you saying, monsieur, that the people of London have a fear of les vampires?" Inspector Bernard asked, looking from me to Witherspoon and back. "I did not know the English were subject to foolish Eastern European superstitions."
I exchanged a look with Inspector Witherspoon, but as he showed me no sign that I should proceed, I elected to withhold further comment for the time being.
"It was good of you to let me finish my meal," I said. "I assume it will be a while before I eat so deliciously."
"That is a matter over which you have a certain degree of control, Mr. Raphael," Inspector Witherspoon said.
Bernard gave Witherspoon a questioning look, but there was nothing tentative about the English detective's manner. To broach such an offer, and with such authority, could only mean he was acting on behalf of his government. He knew of the committee's work, and he probably also knew that I had swindled the Prime Minister out of a fat trophy. Yet the fact that we were still sitting in the cafe, chatting almost amiably, meant I was not yet out of cards to play in this hand. Perhaps I knew something, or Witherspoon thought I knew something, of value to the government. Of course, it was also possible Witherspoon was merely concerned about keeping people from finding out how easily the British government had been gulled. It was amazing how often the wealthy and powerful preferred losing money to being embarrassed in public.
"What is it you wish to know, Inspector Witherspoon?" I said, raising the ante. "I will tell you anything."
The London Vampire Panic Page 17
