by Joan Smith
“You threatened to throw Feydeau out, as I recall, when he told you his story. Places to stay are difficult to find in Vienna. Then too the story convinced you the jewels were here, in the city, and he wanted to keep us all convinced of that.”
“Ah, it is so easy to believe what you want to believe. He was wise to keep us confused, for if we had sat down and thought straight for two minutes, we would have realized how flimsy was the evidence that this great collection was in the city at all. One ruby and one pair of old diamond earrings is what the pair actually possessed.”
“Plus a great deal of imagination and nerve.”
“One cannot but allow them a grudging admiration for that. Have a glass of brandy,” Kruger offered, pouring a healthy dollop into a glass, while he regarded Moncrief in a bemused fashion. The man was not quite so dull as most Englishmen, he decided. “I began work on my lavender jade this afternoon,” he said, in a conversational spirit, as he lifted the stone from his desk. “I have changed my mind again—quite a lady in that respect. I am carving a head for a cane for Hermione. A dragon it will be,” he said, and laughed as if at some private joke. “She will require the use of a cane when she is able to walk.”
“I was very sorry to hear of her accident.”
“A tragedy,” Kruger said, but could not quite hold back the contented smile that would peep out at the corners of his lips. “Every cloud has a golden lining, however. I refer to our engagement.”
Moncrief looked at him and blinked. Observing it, Kruger rushed on with his news. “I have this day had the honor of receiving an acceptance to my long-standing offer to the Countess. It will not be the sort of marriage to appeal to a younger man, but at my age, you know . . ." he said, with a deprecatory toss of his lecherous head.
“Quite,” Moncrief replied blandly. “May I offer congratulations to you? Your news makes my own easier to convey. It never serves to have two ladies in charge of one household. I am come to ask you for Maria’s hand.”
“Indeed! Well, this is a surprise!” Kruger said heartily. “But you English—one never knows what goes on inside your heads. You show less than you feel, and say less than you mean. Different from us in that respect.”
For a civil quarter hour they complimented each other with cordial insincerity, while Moncrief breathed a vast sigh of relief that he could carry the daughter off to England with no fear of a slightly disreputable father joining them, and Kruger quite simply bathed in a glow of finally having his life set in the track of a wealthy, assured future, without the necessity of making love to his ugly wife. He even adopted some notion of total celibacy, in honor of his bride. It was a merry fifteen minutes, despite the two untouched glasses of brandy on the table at the meeting’s end. It was interrupted by Maria’s joining them, to call them to dinner.
Kruger’s chef did him proud, though no one did justice to the feast. As soon as it was over, he said, “I shall run up to Hermione, and let you two—ah, attend to that matter we spoke of, Moncrief.” The luxurious smile that accompanied the words gave his daughter a hint of what had passed, though what form the meeting had taken filled her with apprehension. If Papa had asked Moncrief to marry her, she would refuse for a certainty.
“I wonder what he can be talking about,” Moncrief said, with a little quizzing smile, as he showed Maria into the saloon, where he closed the door behind them.
“I’ve no idea. Should we not be leaving for the theater?”
“We really should begin the four block’s drive at least an hour early,” he agreed, sitting down and lifting his trousers at the knee to prevent creasing them. “We would not want to miss our twenty-ninth chance of seeing Dorothée, Talleyrand’s niece, make a cake of herself on stage. They are regaling us with a tableau mouvant and a ballet this evening. Also a comedy called Old Love Affairs. Quite a full night. A pity your Papa and the Countess must miss it, with such an appropriate title.”
“I am delighted with the match.”
“Very appropriate. It was not old love affairs I wished to speak of, however,” he said, with a certain meaningful look that sent her into a perfect fit of shyness.
“Oh.” She waited for three seconds that seemed like thirty, then could stand the silence no longer. “How is your arm?” she asked, on a breathless note.
“Demmed annoyed to be out of commission at this time.”
“It is vexing, with all this business of Napoleon . . ."
“Now what other irrelevancy could you raise, I wonder, when I am trying to propose to you. We have had your father and the Countess, the evening’s entertainment at the theater, and Napoleon. Let us by all means settle the matter of the diamond while we are about it. It is a pity anyone ever heard of it. And now, Fräulein Kruger . . .” he said, moving in to seize her with his one operable arm. “Ah—one item I must mention myself, which I sincerely hope has dwindled into another irrelevancy. About Rechberg—your approaching solvency with your father’s marriage may rekindle the gentleman’s love. Have you cured yourself of him?”
“I wouldn’t have him as a gift!”
“Good. Anyone who would offer a lady such a gift deserves to have it flung in his face.” His arm tightened around her. He lowered his head to kiss her, and was interrupted by a peremptory knocking at the door. A footman entered, puffed up to a size of enormous importance.
“A message from Baron Hager. Most urgent,” he said, his eyes popping with curiosity. He strode across the room and thrust his envelope into Moncrief’s outstretched hand, disappointed that it should be received with such reluctance.
Moncrief tore it open, glanced quickly down the sheet. His body tensed noticeably. He read it again, then muttered softly to himself, “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“What is it?” Maria asked:
He was already arising. “I am extremely sorry, my dear, but I cannot take you to the theater tonight after all. I must dash. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“But—where are you going?”
“After Chabon and Feydeau. What luck!”
“But your arm . . ." she said helplessly, in an effort to detain him.
He was already entering the hallway, with Shutz holding his coat to help him into it, putting his cane and hat in his hand. “Wish me luck,” he said, and left, with a smile playing on his lips, and his eyes shining with anticipation.
He retrieved his gun from the pocket of his carriage and had his driver stop a few blocks from his destination. He did not mean to announce his arrival by the sound of wheels. Am I wrong? he asked himself. No, such sharp opportunists as that pair were not likely to miss out on the golden opportunity that had suddenly opened before them. They were not going into the wilds of the Lowlands, with armies gathering for war. Their game was not espionage or anything of the sort, but quite simply making money by the use of their wits. Madame had posed as a Bonapartist supporter all these months. Now Boney had escaped, and she would surely join that faction. She knew them—had been to that quarter of the town where they hung out, to add a patina of veracity to her story, if anyone were checking. Hager’s note telling him some of the marked bills had shown up in town confirmed it. They were back.
Chabon could hardly return to Talleyrand, nor Feydeau to Kruger’s house. Where could they possibly go in this crowded town but to the Bonapartist headquarters? They would make up a story about having tried to raise huge funds for the cause, and be accepted as failed heroes. Yes, they would be there. The singing in his blood told him so. Chabon would have some explaining to do, but could claim to have been acting as double agent. He might even have some bits of useful information for his new friends.
He wondered how many people would be there. Many of the supporters had moved out, he knew, but surely some would remain in this important spot. He could not go alone in any, case, with one arm out of commission. Better go to Hager. The Baron gave him a dozen men, but did not personally accompany him due to the pressure of other business. “You will be
there to identify Chabon?” Hager asked him.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Excellent. We prefer arrest, not a shooting. There is no saying what Chabon could tell us, working for Talleyrand as he was. You know where to go. Best to approach it from the alley. You can gain access to it most secretly from the baker’s shop on the opposite street. Go through it and out the back door. It will take you into the rear yard of Bonapartist headquarters. The baker lives over his shop. He will be happy to let you in.”
The group approached the baker’s shop in three sets of one, two and three men, to alleviate suspicion if anyone were watching. They were slipped quietly into the rear yard, from whence they crept under cover of darkness to the back door across the way. The building was in total darkness, silent. After considering a moment, Moncrief, who was in charge of the little expedition, put out his hand, very stealthily, and turned the knob. The door opened inwards. He listened for a long minute, then took a dark lantern from one of Hager’s men, lifted the metal door to swing the beam to and fro. He looked into a perfectly empty chamber. There was a table with several chairs around it, two of them overturned, indicating a hurried exit.
“Gone,” the man at his elbow said. “They have all fled—gone to join their Emperor. It is to be expected.”
Moncrief felt a great wash of disappointment engulf him. He couldn’t be wrong. They had to be here. Even if all the loyalists had left, those two had to be back. The marked bills—where else could they possibly have come from? “Let’s go in and have a look.”
Knowing the place was deserted, they did not bother with either silence or darkness. Six lanterns were uncovered, six pairs of noisy booted feet tromped about, six unlowered voices exchanged bored comments to the effect that they had stripped the place bare.
“What shall we do?” the officer in charge under Moncrief asked.
“Go back to headquarters, I guess. I’ll stick around awhile. If anything turns up, send me word at the Court Theatre. I’ll go on there.”
With a click of heels, the officer bowed his agreement, and headed his men off.
Moncrief sat on a corner of the table, one foot on a chair. The men had taken all their lanterns with them. The room was dark, but for a faded moonbeam that struggled through the dusty pane, high above his head. Was he wrong then? Had they not come back to the city after all? They might have spent the bill, and someone else have carried it back to Vienna, while they went on north. He got up and walked slowly through a passageway into the next small chamber. There were a pair of cots against the wall, the beds unmade. Lifting a pillow, he shook it perfunctorily. A goose feather shook loose and floated down to the floor. Glancing down at it, Moncrief saw a square corner of paper protruding from under the cot, three-quarters hidden by a hanging blanket. He bent down, picked it up, and felt an involuntary thudding of his heart in his chest. It was the size of an English pound note. He ran into the next room, to look for a tinder box. There had been one on the table. The flame leapt, and there on the back corner of the bill was Wragge’s little black mark. They had been here then. And they would be back—to sleep, eventually, if not sooner.
Patience was not one of Moncrief’s stronger virtues. His obstinacy, however, was great. His jaw squared as he carried a chair behind the door, tilted it back, drew his pistol, and sat down to wait for as long as he had to.
His mind was happily occupied with thoughts of Maria Kruger, so that the seventy minutes passed rather pleasantly. When he heard the approach of cautious footfalls and lowered French voices, he arose and came to attention. The pair were nagging at each other as they entered, like any old married couple. Their recent failure was the subject under harangue.
“A thousand pounds,” Mademoiselle complained. “It might as well be a thousand sous. Nothing can be done with such a pittance.”
“It will let us wait out this demmed war at least, and see where the chips fall,” Chabon answered, in a consoling way.
“It might have been fifty thousand. If I had that maudit anglais here, I would stick a knife in his belly.”
With a smile of pure delight, Moncrief stepped forward, his pistol leveled between her eyes. “Your wish is my command, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Or is it Madame? Monsieur and Madame Castonguy, peut-etre?” he asked, in a polite, conversational tone, including Chabon in his quick glance.
They exchanged a swift, furtive look, there in the shadowy room, each standing stock-still. “No further pranks, s’il vous plaît,” Moncrief begged. “This finger of mine is not at all reliable. It has taken an unaccountable urge to pull the trigger. A hair trigger. Shall we just step into the yard and proceed in an orderly manner into the street? I feel sure help will be forthcoming. For me, that is to say. Hager has his men roving the streets in packs, to prevent mayhem, after keeping the peace so beautifully all through the Congress.”
“My good man,” Chabon began. “Let us talk business."
“A thousand pounds ain’t enough to bribe me, Chabon. Or is it Castonguy? You did not answer my query last time.”
“Yes, yes, I am Castonguy. Cécile is my wife. You know a man must protect his wife. Let Cécile go—I will hand myself over gladly.”
“You don’t really deserve him, you know,” Moncrief told the lady.
“How did you find us?” she, asked, ignoring his jibe.
“It was your eagerness to spend the marked money that accounts for it.”
“But we have not spent a sou! You think I did not notice the marks, placed so clumsily a child could see!”
“Blanchard!” Chabon exclaimed. “She was given her share before we discovered it was marked. She must have come back too.”
“Of course she has!” Mademoiselle exclaimed. “Her son was here. She must have come back looking for him, and left again when she found they had disbursed.”
“Another one of your dupes, was she? You really should tell the truth once in a while, you know, just for variety’s sake. Shall we be going?” he asked, shoving them out of the door.
“You first, Madame,” he said, feeling a lady less likely to pull any stunts. He stuck the gun muzzle firmly into Chabon’s back as he followed behind. “Hair trigger,” he reminded them happily.
* * * *
It was not till they had been under lock and key for a few hours, in separate cells to prevent collusion, that their whole story had been patched together. Though it was late by this time, Moncrief drove around to Kruger’s, to judge by the number of lights burning that the household was still up.
“Where on earth have you been?” Maria demanded at once. She was alone downstairs, playing the piano in an effort to soothe her nerves before retiring.
“Rounding up the loose ends of our little diamond-dealer affair,” he said, with a satisfied smile.
“Chabon and Feydeau?”
“Alias Mr. and Mrs. Castonguy. It was their marriage certificate we found in the lady’s writing case. There must be one sentimental bone in her body I suppose, to have kept it.”
“Was Feydeau really her maiden name?”
“Yes, but she is no relation to Colonel Feydeau—a coincidence. She was widely known as Mademoiselle Lise duBois, late of the Comedie Francaise. I felt in my bones she was a talented actress. Quite famed for her powers, or so she says. It was a fear of being recognized that kept her glued to that room she rented from your Papa. I bet it blistered her to have to sit out the gayest party ever assembled anywhere.”
“Dear me, yes. And to be deprived of her husband’s company as well. She always used to ask me whether he chased the girls, and whether he made love to me.”
“Did he?”
“Of course he did, just as you made love to her.”
“What agonies we are forced to endure for our country,” he sympathized.
She lifted her chin and tossed her head. “She always had a very theatrical streak in her, now I come to think of it. Acting a new role every day—a nun one time, a burning patriotic zeal
ot the next, and God knows what when she was with you. A good sense of costume too. She suggested a few style changes to me, to win admiration. And who exactly was Chabon, other than being Mr. Castonguy, I mean?”
“A talented scoundrel who had done a bit of touring, and was playing gigolo to some aging French lady when Feydeau met him. I shall continue using her most easily recognized name. It seems he got the ruby from his mistress as a gift for services rendered. I assume he must render some extraordinary service to be paid so highly. It was also from her, an old aristocrat who escaped the guillotine, that he heard of the collection of French crown jewels. Opportunists, pure and simple. They skipped France when Boney was recruiting a new army after one of his lost battles, and have lived from hand to mouth around Europe since then, with Madame dancing and singing for their supper, while the husband gambled and so on. Talleyrand took him on as a sort of clerk, but found him clever in ferreting secrets out of the various delegates, due to his many languages, and of course his famous way with the ladies. I don’t believe he trusted the fellow though. Chabon required cash to put up a good appearance, and of course to house his wife separately, so he sold the ruby. Which is where you entered the picture, Maria.”
“She told me it was paste.”
“Peter Kruger’s daughter should have known better. Oh, and it was Blanchard, their bruiser housekeeper, who inadvertently blew the gaff on them. She was really a patriot, you see, which probably gave rise to Feydeau’s notion of being one. Hedging her bets, in case Boney came back triumphant. Blanchard’s son was left behind here in Vienna when the Bonapartist followers moved out, but Chabon thinks mother and son took to their heels in case of criminal charges as a result of this diamond swindle business. I don’t believe Hager will bother chasing them. Blanchard spent some of the marked bills, which led me to think Chabon was back. And he had, in fact, returned, so—all’s well that ends well.”
