The Arnifour Affair

by Gregory Harris

  CHAPTER 20

  By the time we got outside again we discovered that the sky had finally begun to let loose its watery burden, which meant that we were well wet by the time we reached the Bulgarian embassy. Though he’d managed to flag a carriage without too much trouble, it turned out to have a tear in its roof the length of my hand, which had allowed the pelting rain access throughout the entire fifteen-minute journey. When we finally reached the embassy and I took proper refuge under the building’s huge stone portico, I turned back just in time to see Colin thrust his hand up through the gash in the roof to hand the driver his fare.

  We hurried inside the colonnaded foyer and I was struck at once by its grandeur. Massive inlaid teak panels stretched all the way to the ceiling two floors overhead and wide swaths of jade green marble lay beneath our feet. Freedom from Turkish rule had clearly done the Bulgarians some good.

  “We are here . . . ,” I heard Colin addressing a dark-eyed beauty behind an ornate counter across from the entrance, “. . . to speak with one of the ambassador’s diplomatic couriers. A Mr. Vic—” His voice abruptly wound down.

  “Vitosha Harlacheva,” I filled in as I came up behind him.

  “Do you hev an appointment?”

  “Colin Pendragon and Ethan Pruitt.”

  The young woman’s eyes drifted up and were as black as the waves of hair falling about her shoulders. “Vot?”

  “Our names . . . Are we in the appointment book?”

  “You do nut know yourselves?”

  “Would we have come all this way on such a dreadful evening without an appointment?” Colin smiled easily.

  The woman glanced over at one of the two apathetic young guards posted on either corner of her desk, but neither returned her gaze. I wondered if indifference was a Bulgarian trait before realizing that it was likely neither spoke much English.

  “Vot is your nem again?” Exasperation had crept into her voice.

  “Colin Pendragon. I’m with Her Majesty’s Foreign Ministry Office. I investigate accusations of improprieties at the embassies. I’m sure we’ll have no such issues here, unless there’s some problem with my addressing Mr.—”

  “Harlacheva,” I quickly piped in.

  The woman flicked her eyes between Colin and me before finally saying, “You vill vait here.”

  “As you wish.”

  She exited through a door behind her desk, leaving us to slowly accumulate small puddles around our shoes. I tried to figure out where he meant to go with this ruse and then wondered if he even knew himself. I shot a quick glance at the two guards and decided it was safe to press him while we waited. “What are you going to say to this man if she lets us in?” I said in a sort of half whisper just to be sure. “You can’t just walk in there and accuse him on the word of Mademoiselle Rendell.”

  He shrugged. “Something will come to me. It always does.” He turned to the guard standing closest to him. “Might I trouble you for the time?” The man’s eyes slid to Colin’s face, but there was no comprehension in them. “No?” He glanced at the other man. “How about a pistol? Am I allowed to bring a pistol in with me?” Again there was no response, the second guard not even bothering to shift his gaze.

  “They can’t be much use if they don’t even understand what anyone’s saying.”

  “All they need to understand . . . ,” Colin smirked, “. . . is that if you make a move to go through that door uninvited, you are to be stopped.”

  “That’s all good and well, but didn’t you find Mademoiselle Rendell too eager in confessing her sins?”

  He looked at me. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “She took your word on Mr. Harlacheva without much of a fuss.”

  “Why would she trust him? It’s all a dirty business.”

  “She earns her keep with her cunning.”

  “She earns her keep on her back.”

  I shook my head and chuckled. While he had a point, he could be sorely mistaken if he presumed that truth made her imprudent. Maw Heikens was living proof of that. I considered reminding him of that fact even though I knew he would curl up his nose at the mention of her name, but the receptionist suddenly popped her head out from behind the door.

  “You vill follow me,” she said before barking a harsh, guttural command at the two guards. The men stamped their feet in unison, bounced the butts of their rifles off the floor, and stepped back from the desk to allow us to pass.

  “Nicely trained.” Colin snickered.

  We followed the young woman down several plain corridors, the embassy’s budget clearly having been exhausted in the foyer. A series of short, squat guards stood at loose intervals along the hallway, making me suspect that as the budget for the building went, so did the dimensions of its soldiers. We were led through successive halls until I began to fear that we were about to be ushered right out the rear exit, but to my relief, the receptionist made an abrupt right turn and brought us into an empty conference room.

  “You vill vait here,” she said without further explanation, gesturing us to seats around a table at the room’s center. As soon as we settled in, she took a practiced step backwards and pulled the door shut, leaving us on our own.

  “Well . . . ,” I glanced at him, “at least we’ve made it this far.”

  “We’ve got quite some way to go yet,” he answered distractedly. “Do you have a notebook with you?”

  “Don’t I always?” I passed him the little leather folio I carry about with its small nib of pencil. “What are you going to do?”

  “I have a thought,” he answered smoothly as he began to scribble something onto several sheets.

  “Is that Latin?”

  “Very good.” He smiled cannily just as the door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing full military regalia. As he strode in I realized he was not Vitosha Harlacheva.

  “Zer is no Pendragoon at ze British Foreign Ministry Office,” the towering man informed us as he scowled from across the room. “Who are you and vot do you vant?”

  Colin stood up but made no effort to move toward the man, a wise choice since he was easily half a foot shorter than him. “My apologies to the great and honorable nation of Bulgaria for having used subterfuge to gain entry.” The man’s brow furrowed with noncomprehension. Colin smiled. “I did indeed fabricate that story, but only because there is a most urgent and personal matter that I must discuss with Mr. Harlacheva.”

  “All matters vit Mr. Harlacheva must go through me.” He bit the words harshly.

  “Of course.” Colin nodded. “I did mention that it is of a personal nature?” he said, letting his voice trail off and giving me a sudden inkling as to what he was up to and why he’d written in Latin.

  The giant man flicked his eyes between us, his great bushy brow furrowing deeply. “You vill see nothing but ze alley unless you discuss your matters vit me.”

  “Very well . . .” And now Colin did step closer to the man. “We’re from the London Lock Hospital and Rescue Home on Harrow Road and your Mr. Harlacheva came to our offices the other day. He was complaining of some discomforts. . . .” He gestured below his waist and then flipped open my little notebook and thrust it under the man’s nose. “You can see from the results of the tests we’ve run that Mr. Harlacheva is suffering from the French disease. The syphilis. And—” He got no further before the man stepped back, unconsciously dropping his hands in front of his nether regions.

  And then he uttered two words I would never have dreamed I’d hear: “Mademoiselle Rendell,” he gasped.

  “It’s a misnomer, you know,” Colin barreled on. “It doesn’t just strike the French.” He glanced at me and chortled in a way that urged me to do the same. “Be that as it may, we will need to retest Mr. Harlacheva to see if there’s been a mistake. That does happen from time to time. And we’ll need some information regarding the possible genesis of his condition.” Colin eyed the man. “Who was that woman you just mentioned?”

  “Vait,” was a
ll the great bear said before disappearing out the door with a dexterity that would have rivaled a prima ballerina.

  “How did you ever come up with that?!” I shook my head as Colin tossed my notebook back at me.

  “It seemed like a good way to get a man’s attention.” He shrugged.

  I started to laugh but quickly turned it into a cough as Vitosha Harlacheva came stomping into the room. It was obvious by the rapidity with which he joined us that he’d been hovering close by. I wondered if he hadn’t suspected meeting with us was likely to be unavoidable. It was hard to say, and his heavily bearded face gave little away.

  He had broad shoulders and was of average height, much like Colin, but the similarities ended there. Mr. Harlacheva’s eyes were dark and rooted deep within his broad, flat face, and his expression truly was nearly impenetrable, buried as it was within the wiry hair that seemed to spring from his cheekbones to the collar of his shirt. And while Colin’s frame is solid, revealing no softness or paunch, Mr. Harlacheva had a layer of fleshy padding that covered the circumference of his frame. While I did recognize him from his tête-à-tête with Mademoiselle Rendell, if pressed I would have said he was taller, handsomer, or at the very least more presupposing than this square ape of a man. Nevertheless, he permeated a gravitas that I could not deny.

  “Vat is this about?” he growled.

  “It’s about an abomination.” Colin remained where he was, his shoulders squared and his chest puffed out in his own rite of domination.

  “You haff no authority here. You are standing in Bulgaria just now.”

  “That may be. But this Bulgaria is in the heart of Her Majesty’s England. And I happen to have a great deal of authority here. I would be happy to demonstrate if you’d like.” He flashed a humorless smile.

  “I have done nothing.”

  “Seven young girls have been handed over to you by a woman . . . a whore. She goes by the name of Rendell.”

  “You haff me confused with someone else. Good day.”

  The man turned and made to leave before I spoke up. “I saw you. I followed Mademoiselle Rendell two nights ago to that pub by the Russian embassy. You told her your business with her was over for now. That you were leaving the country for a time.”

  He stopped but did not turn back. It was as though he was trying to determine how best to react in order to effect the quickest end to the conversation. “You are a liar,” he finally said. Which was not the best choice.

  With barely an intake of breath Colin hurled himself down the length of the table and punched Mr. Harlacheva in the kidneys, dropping him in a gasping heap before the man even realized what had happened. “You will never speak to Mr. Pruitt that way again,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “Nor will you waste our time one second more or else I’ll tear your ruddy kidneys out with my bare hands.”

  “Help!” the man gasped in a pitifully small voice.

  “Allow me.” Colin stepped over him and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed it over his mouth and pulled the door wide to reveal the towering military officer standing just outside, clearly waiting to be summoned if the need should arise. “This man is contagious!” Colin shouted into his face. He stood back and gestured with his free hand. “Quarantine. Kapahtnh! Now!”

  The security officer nearly tripped on his feet as he stumbled backwards, his eyes as big as a fawn’s. He only kept himself upright by virtue of some gravitational anomaly that I would have bet against, spinning on his heels and disappearing down the long hallway with all due haste.

  “Ka-pat-nah?” I repeated as Colin slammed the door.

  “It’s Russian. I don’t know any Bulgarian.” He dropped down beside the panting Mr. Harlacheva and whispered into his ear, “In about four minutes that officer is going to return with a phalanx of guards whose sole function will be to keep you locked in this room until I can have you properly hauled away. Or maybe they’ll just come in here and shoot you and put an end to the whole feral mess. It makes little difference to me. Unless you start talking. Now.”

  To his credit Mr. Harlacheva squeaked out, “I spit on you.”

  “Unless that’s a Bulgarian custom meaning you’re about to purge your conscience”—Colin fished a small knife wrapped in a bit of cloth from his breast pocket—“then we shall have an issue.” He leaned forward and waved the knife over the man’s lap. “Seven little girls,” he said.

  “Go to hell,” came the wheezing reply, a thin film of sweat shining on his forehead like a grease slick.

  Colin’s hand flashed like a striking serpent and for a moment I didn’t know what he’d done. Mr. Harlacheva gave a short, high-pitched yelp and my heart rocketed as I tried to see if Colin had actually stuck him.

  “I shall cut your bits off one at a time,” Colin seethed into the man’s closest ear, “and then fix it so you have to squat to piss. That’ll teach you to mess with children.”

  My eyes shifted south and I finally spotted the knife tucked up between the cowering man’s legs, the point obviously being driven home in a most convincing way, since Mr. Harlacheva was not moving a hair. Colin gave another quick jerk and sheared through the crotch of the man’s slacks and undergarments, releasing his cowering genitals.

  “You are devil,” he started to blubber.

  Colin poked the scalpel up against his tender flesh. “I won’t ask again.”

  “They are gone. They vent on ship.”

  “What ship? To where?”

  “St. Petersburg. Ve make papers for them and they go vork for Russian nobles. Not bad life.”

  “I’ll bet. What’s the name of the ship?”

  “Ilya Petrovina. But is too late.”

  “It’s never too late. I’m bloody British, we don’t believe in failure. Nine hundred years of squabbling royals have taught us that much.” He leaned directly over Mr. Harlacheva and twitched the hand wielding the knife just slightly, but it was enough to make the Bulgarian release a fresh torrent of sweat. “We shall take our leave now.” Colin spoke slowly. “And you will take your leave of this kingdom.” I saw his hand twist almost imperceptibly and thought for a moment Mr. Harlacheva was going to swoon. “And should I ever see your face in this city again, I shall make good my threat by whittling pendants of your bits. Do you understand?”

  The man blinked his eyes and I realized he was too afraid to speak.

  “Excellent.”

  It took only a second more for Colin to move his hand away and spring to his feet. Vitosha Harlacheva scrambled to cover himself as best he could, the color slowly returning to his face. He looked beaten, desperate, and I should have recognized that fact sooner than I did, but I was unnerved myself and didn’t realize what was bound to happen.

  Colin sneered as he started for the door, but before I could even begin to follow, Vitosha Harlacheva leapt to his feet and threw himself fully at Colin’s back, colliding hard and sending the two of them careening into the nearest wall. I threw myself forward to try to pull the burly man off Colin, but he’d already half-twisted around, and then I heard Mr. Harlacheva cry out, and just that fast it was over.

  The bearish man fell to the floor like a gutted fish, his hands covering his exposed crotch as a river of blood flowed through his fingers. It took another moment before I spotted the small dark lump of fuzzy flesh on the floor near Colin’s shoe and realized what it was.

  “Come on!” he barked at me.

  I didn’t need to be told twice as I hopped over the man and fled out the door, slamming it shut behind me. We were well down the hallway when he suddenly barked at me, “Put your handkerchief over your mouth!” doing so himself.

  I heard the drumbeat of quickly approaching men as I clutched my kerchief to my mouth and nose just as the security officer came jogging around the far corner with three men on his heels. They looked wary and not at all happy when they spotted us. “Vat is happening?” The officer slowed down, staring at our handkerchiefs.

  “It’s bad.” Colin ke
pt up a brisk pace, forcing the man and his troops to fall in behind to hear what he had to say. “His flesh is dying. Falling away. You mustn’t touch him or go near him. Stay away. We’re going to get help.”

  “But ze ambassador . . .”

  “The ambassador will be fine!” Colin shouted. “Just keep everybody away from him until we get back.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course.”

  The officer and his soldiers gradually slowed as we bolted back out to the foyer. The receptionist looked startled as we rushed out, handkerchiefs pressed tight against our faces. “Too much cologne,” Colin muttered as he tucked his away. “Nasty business.”

  “Nasty,” I repeated absently, already vexed about how we were ever going to stop the Ilya Petrovina from reaching St. Petersburg.

  CHAPTER 21

  The sky was as dark as pitch, a layer of brooding clouds obscuring all signs of the moon and stars. The storm of the night before, the night spent grilling the vile Vitosha Harlacheva, was returning. It was only a matter of when.

  Colin and I were sitting deep within the confines of a hansom cab. We had a blanket across our legs and my collar was turned up, but even so, the night’s incessant cold was beginning to worm its way through to my flesh. Colin’s right hand was bare as he absently spun a crown through his fingers, and I couldn’t imagine how the metal wasn’t freezing his skin. We’d been sitting like this, well back in the thickets down the road from the Arnifour estate, for over an hour. I couldn’t imagine how the driver was tolerating the dense chill from his perch above us. We would need to slip him an extra wage at the end of the evening.

  “How long do we have to sit here?” I asked, fearing that he meant to spend the whole of the night. “It’s just that I’m worried we might get a return communiqué from the Foreign Ministry Office tonight . . . ,” I started to say, but I could see by the look he flicked at me that he knew better.

  “Let’s give it another ten minutes and then we’ll call it a night. Given the storm that’s coming on I doubt any reasonable person would be going anywhere, including Victor Heffernan.”