by Robert Thier
I thought for a moment. I didn’t know French, but surely I could get one single point across?
‘Monsieur Ambrose!’ I snapped at the boy. ‘Dépêche-toilette!’
He blinked—then his eyes flickered to my gun again. Without a word, he turned and ran. Hopefully to get the right person. I would have kept my fingers crossed, if I hadn’t needed them for the handle and the trigger.
I hardly had to wait a minute before the sounds of rapid footsteps met my ears. An instant later, Mr Rikkard Ambrose rounded the corner, thunder and lightning in his eyes. If my dear friend the saboteur had looked scared of my gun before, it was nothing compared to what he looked like in the face of Rikkard Ambrose’s wrath. Sweat was running down his face, and his knees trembled. Although that might also have been a side effect of my triple bollocks blaster.
‘Monsieur Lamarque,’ Mr Ambrose said, coming to a stop only a few yards away. ‘As I recall, you were begging for this job a few years ago, when you had nothing but the rags on your back. Interesting how you chose to repay me.’
‘Please, Monsieur Ambrose, Let me explain—’
‘You don’t need to explain things to me.’
The saboteur blinked, taken aback. ‘I…I don’t?’
‘No. You need to explain things to him.’
Mr Ambrose snapped his fingers—and from around the corner emerged a giant figure armed with beard, sabre and turban, striding towards us with determination. Or maybe I should say towards me?
‘Six days!’ Karim’s voice was like the rumble of a volcano. The saboteur jerked back and cowered behind me, not realizing that he wasn’t the object of the bearded mountain’s wrath. ‘Six whole days I had to rot in that Rōṭa dē mōrī[29] of a prison cell before they let me out!’
In prison? That was the first I’d heard of it. But then…it did explain why he had taken so long to appear.
‘You were thrown in chokey?[30] What did you do?’ I asked, curious. ‘Kiss a statue of the queen? Decapitate someone important?’
‘I was observed,’ the big bodyguard ground out between clenched teeth, ‘running after a young man, shouting and apparently armed too heavily for the liking of the English police. They put me in a cell to, as they put it, “cool off”.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Do you have any idea what indignities I’ve had to face? What kind of dregs of society I was forced to tolerate, and—’
He was cut off abruptly when I threw my arms around him and squeezed.
‘I missed you, too.’
The only answer I got from Karim was a kind of gurgling noise you’d expect from a suffocating porcupine. Somewhere in the background, Mr Ambrose cleared his throat. That seemed to rouse Karim from his shock-induced paralysis, and made him realize he was in the arms of his Sahib’s intended, in front of the aforementioned Sahib, and at least one other witness.
‘What are you doing, woman? Release me!’
I smirked up at him. ‘I thought you had already been released six days ago? Or are you only out on probation?’
‘I…you…that’s not what I…!’
‘Don’t worry.’ I patted his beard. ‘I’ve been on the inside, too. We’re fellow jail birds now. Isn’t that sweet?’
In response, he only uttered an incomprehensible Punjabi curse.
Taking pity on the poor man, I squeezed him one last time, patted his furry cheek, and stepped back. Instantly, Karim grabbed the saboteur, and gave him a if-you-ever-repeat-what-you-saw-I’ll-kill-you look.
‘You! You dare to go against the Sahib and injure those in his service?’
The doorman fainted.
Turning towards Mr Ambrose, Karim stood as straight as a drill sergeant who had swallowed a ruler. ‘Fear not, Sahib. I shall squeeze every last bit of information out of him. When I’m done with him, we shall know every detail of Dalgliesh’s plans, and we will be able to move against him.’
Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Indeed.’
A moment later, Karim had disappeared, and we were left alone in the room, scrutinizing each other.
‘I do not appreciate,’ Mr Ambrose told me coolly, ‘your throwing yourself at other men.’
‘Oh, come on.’ I couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. ‘You have to admit it was worth it, just to see the look on his face.’
Mr Ambrose was not in the habit of admitting anything, just in case a tax collector happened to be nearby. But the non-expression on his face told me everything. He took a step towards me. I took a step towards him.
‘We did it,’ I whispered. ‘The saboteur is caught. Out of pure dumb luck, true, but what the heck? We did it.’
‘Indeed.’
Another step.
‘I never thought it would be over this quickly.’
‘Neither did I.’
And another. We were almost close enough to touch.
‘Now all we have to do is wait for the King to accept your gracious invitation, and we’ve won.’
A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Reaching up, I caressed his cheek with the back of my hand. ‘The expense will be worth it.’
‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’
‘Well…’ Smiling cheekily up at him, I sidled closer until our lips were nearly touching. ‘How about if I make it worth it?’
‘Ahem?’
At the sound of another voice, we jerked apart. Whirling around, I saw Claudette standing at the end of the corridor, her eyes twinkling.
‘I…we…errr…were just…’
‘Not worry.’ Winking, she hustled over towards us. ‘Your secret is safe wis me, mon ami.’
Under my hand, I felt Mr Ambrose stiffened. He stared at me intently and mouthed, ‘She knows?’
I simply nodded and prayed to God he never found out what it was she knew, or thought she knew, about me, and now, by extension, about him. Oh dear. If he ever found out…
Best not think about it.
At all.
Never.
‘’ere.’ Claudette handed me a folded piece of paper she’d been carrying. ‘A messenger boy arrived at se front door with sis for you when I was passing by. It sounded urgent.’
I reached for the paper, but—surprise, surprise—Mr Ambrose snatched it out of her hand before I could get there. Flipping the paper open, he started to read…
And he froze.
Not stiffened. Froze. Under my fingers, he became a statue of ice, burning with cold fire. Fear surged inside me.
‘What is it?’ I demanded. ‘What does it say?’
He said nothing. He just handed me the note which, thank heavens, was written in English!
A moment later, when I saw what it said, I wanted to take that back. I wish the note had been in French, or better yet, Bellarussian or Cechua, so I would never ever understand it.
Dear Mr Ambrose,
His most August Majesty, Louis Philippe, King of the French, regrets that he cannot accept your generous invitation. We have already received a similar offer from Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh, and have accepted in the hope of fostering better relations between our two great nations. His Majesty extends his invitation for you to join us in his permanent box at Lord Dalgliesh’s opera house, where he will be happy to receive you into his royal presence.
Yours Truly
M. Blanchard
Royal Secretary
Offence is the Best Defence
‘What now?’
It was about an hour after the receipt of the note. Mr Ambrose had sent it off to his Paris headquarters, to have its contents confirmed. A few minutes earlier, the answer had arrived: the note was genuine. The signature was indeed that of the royal secretary. So now Mr Ambrose and I sat around a small table in my attic room, while one floor down, oil was being mopped off the floor of Mr Ambrose’s office, and a few floors farther down, Karim was mopping the floor with our own personal traitor.
‘What now?’ I repeated.
Mr
Ambrose stroked one long, powerful finger along his chiselled jaw. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then he said something that took me completely by surprise. Something that, for the first time since we’d discovered the swamp of plots and secrets we’d stumbled into, gave me hope for the future.
‘What do you think?’
He was asking me.
He was trusting my opinion.
And I had no intention of letting him down. Taking a deep breath, I met his cool gaze—then plunged forward. ‘I say we take the battle to Dalgliesh!’
One eyebrow lifted infinitesimally. ‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’ My eyes flashed. ‘I’m sick and tired of always being on the defensive. That bastard is a killer and a tyrant, and he deserves to go down for what he’s done—not to mention what he’s planning to do! If we can save millions of lives, we have to try!’ I flashed him a grin. ‘And if we also could destroy your biggest business rival into the bargain…who can say no to an offer like that?’
Mr Ambrose reached across the table, something shining in his dark eyes that made me feel all warm inside.
‘I always knew there is a reason why I love you.’
Taking hold of his hand, I held it fiercely for a moment, then lifted it to my lips and gently kissed his open palm. ‘Likewise.’
‘But the question remains, how do we proceed?’
I considered the question for a moment.
‘Can we warn the king?’
Mr Ambrose gave me a look. ‘Warn him that a Member of the British House of Lords is about to assassinate his foreign minister? If he’s in the right mood, that alone would be cause for war. That would rather defeat the purpose, correct?’
Biting my lip, I nodded. He was right, dammit! But what else could we do? Our hands were tied. If we didn’t warn them, the king and the foreign minister would be inside Lord Dalgliesh’s building, surrounded by his men, blissfully ignorant of the lion’s den they had entered.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, an idea struck me. It was like the spark that started a bushfire.
‘Lord Dalgliesh doesn’t know we’re here…’ I began slowly.
‘Yes. We already established that, Mr Linton.’
‘But,’ I continued, ‘the King does.’
Reaching for the unfolded message on the table, I tapped the words His Majesty extends his invitation for you to join us in his permanent box.
Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally.
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Linton?’
Slowly, a wicked grin spread across my face.
‘This. Listen closely…’
I told him my idea. Just when I was finished, the door opened and Karim entered the room, his face grim.
‘He confessed to his misdeeds, Sahib, and to the identity of his employer. But I failed to obtain any useful information about Dalgliesh. I fear I cannot provide a feasible option to stop whatever he is planning.’
Mr Ambrose and I exchanged looks.
‘No matter,’ Mr Ambrose told him. ‘We have a plan. But we’re going to need some help.’
*~*~**~*~*
‘Bon Dieu, this is exciting! I’ve never been to the opera before.’
‘You go to the opera every single day,’ I reminded her.
Claudette waved that little unimportant detail away. ‘Taratata. Sat is just business. I’ve never gone for my own amusement, c’est frai! And I certainly have never gone out clothes shopping just for such an occasion. Oh, what shall I wear?’
‘You do realize that an evil genius is planning an assassination to start a gigantic war, right? Fashion is probably not that high on the list of most important things right now.’
Another unimportant detail Claudette dismissed with a wave of the hand.
‘It is always important to look your best, Monsieur Linton.’
‘But people won’t even realize it’s you! You have to dress up as…you-know-what.’
‘Even more reason to look my best. I never disappoint an audience when I perform.’
We were heading towards the exit of the opera – now lacking one doorman – when quick, light footsteps approached from behind. I started to speed up, but too late.
‘Mr Linton! Mr Linton, wait. It’s me!’
I know, blast it! That’s why I’m running!
I turned to see a smiling ‘arse rushing towards me. Taking the last few steps, Miss Emilia reached out and attached herself to my hands like a fashionable limpet.
‘Have you heard? I’ll be singing my first performance tonight! Just a small role, because Monsieur Joyal wants to see how I do on stage, but I’ll be singing! In front of hundreds of people!’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I told her and tried to detach my hands. It didn’t work. They were stuck. Darn! How did she have this much strength in those tiny little fingers? ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’
‘Will you be there? Will you watch and be my good luck charm? Please say yes! Please, please.’
I considered how to answer that diplomatically. No, thanks, I have to go stop a bloody murder and prevent the end of the world as we know it?
That probably wouldn’t go over well.
‘I’m sorry.’ Once again, I tugged on my trapped fingers—to no avail. ‘I, um…err…’
‘Mr Linton has promised to help me pick out new costumes for a performance we are planning to stage soon,’ Claudette cut in, giving the girl a broad smile. ‘There will probably be a very interesting part for you, too.’
Emilia let go to clap her hands in delight. I immediately wrenched mine back and hid them safely behind my back, out of her reach.
‘Will there? Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you!’ She threw her arms around Claudette, and hugged her—and before I could leap back, she submitted me to the same horrific torture. ‘And thank you, too, Mr Linton! All my good luck is due to you, I’m sure.’ Love-struck eyes gazed up at me. ‘I’m more certain than ever that fate has brought us together.’
Fate can go kiss my generous feminist ‘arse!
Behind me, I heard Claudette snort, and I sent her a look that told her all too clearly what I thought of her. Finally, I managed to disentangle myself from my destined lady love, grabbed Claudette by the arm and rushed out of the door. I didn’t slow down until we were at least three streets away.
‘Phew!’ Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I sagged against the closest wall.
Claudette took up a position beside me, one eyebrow lifted in curiosity. ‘So…when are you going to tell ‘er you’re actually a girl?’
I nearly fell on my butt.
‘You…you know?’
The prima donna rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please! I ‘ave been playing pants roles in se opera for over a decade! You don’t really suppose they leave the acting of boy roles to actual, pimply little boys, do you, mon amie?’[31]
‘But…you asked if I was…and when you saw Mr Ambrose and me together, you said….’
She grinned. ‘A girl ‘as to ‘ave some fun now and again, non?’
To that, I replied with some inventive language I’d heard from one of the janitors who squashed his thumb in a door. Claudette listened and, when I was finished, nodded appreciatively.
‘Not bad, mon amie, not bad. Your French is improving.’
‘I’m glad to think so! Maybe you can help me and tell me what “You’re a bloody devious witch and I hope you burn in hell!” means in French?’
‘That would be “Ma tête est une pomme de terre pourrie”.’
‘Ma tête est une pomme de terre pourrie!’[32]
She gave me a grave nod. ‘I’m sure it is, mon amie.’ She patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t ‘old it against you.’
Deciding to take her translations with a pinch of salt from now on, I strode down the street towards our goal. We still had an assassin to catch and a war to prevent,
I spotted the building we were heading towards at the end of the street.
‘Claudette! There
! Is that it?’
‘Yes, mon amie.’
The place was a luxurious three-story building with large, arched windows, pretty columns and gilded decorations. It almost looked like a small palace. And to judge by the sumptuous gowns, tailcoats and coats displayed in the shop windows, its owners considered themselves to be the kings of Parisian fashion.
‘Mon Dieu!’ Claudette gave a longing sigh at the sight of some of the dresses.
‘Don’t get any ideas, Claudette. You know what we’re here for.’
‘Oui, but your beau is quite well-to-do, n’est-ce pas? And he loves you very much. Couldn’t we just put it on the bill, and…’
Taking a step closer, I took a look at the price tag. ‘Trust me—he doesn’t love me that much.’
Claudette gave me a pat on the back. ‘Ne dis pas de bêtises! You are underestimating your attractions, mon amie. I’m sure if you went about persuading him the right way….’
I gave her a look. ‘I have no interest in persuading him. I have, however, an interest in stopping a megalomaniac from plunging Europe into war. Could we concentrate on what’s important here?’
She gave an impish smile. ‘It’s all a matter of perspective.’
‘Yes. And my perspective is: war is more important than clothes.’
‘Ah, you English! Philistines, the ‘ole lot of you!’
‘Come on. Time to get down to business.’
As we stepped into the shop, the doorbell above our head tinkled like a fairy’s laugh. Not surprising, considering the room we stepped into looked like something straight out of fairyland. Gold, silver, brocade, jewels, silk, satin—everything that was soft, sumptuous or sinfully expensive was gathered all around us, beckoning and whispering: ‘Buy me. Buy me. I might not be on sale, but your soul is, and it’ll surely be worth it to part with that annoying little thing to pay for me.’
‘Bienvenue! Bienvenue, Monsieur et Madame, à Leclercq et Lacroix, les meilleurs modistes en France.’[33]
A short, wrinkly man came hurrying around the closest rack of clothes, his eyes alight with the glitter shared by hunting sharks and sales assistants who have just spotted a new customer.
