The Pimpernel Plot tw-3

by Simon Hawke

  “The important thing for you to do is to wait here,” said Finn, “and watch that house. Use your own judgment. If he hasn’t done anything after several hours or if Jean hasn’t come to see him, get over there and see if he’s still inside.”

  “And if he’s not, I will break in,” said Andre.

  Lucas nodded. “But be very careful. If he’s clocked out from inside that apartment, it’ll mean one of two things. He’s either clocked out with the plate, or else he’s programmed it to remain behind and clock him back the moment he activates the remote control unit. If that’s the case, you can be sure he’ll have taken steps to protect that room.”

  “There are several systems he might have used,” said Finn.

  “I’m familiar with them,” Andre said.

  “I didn’t finish. You’re familiar with standard equipment. The TIA uses a different system,” Finn said. “Cobra gave us a brief description of it. It’s a more extreme defensive system than those used by the Corps and the Observers. Now pay attention…”

  A little over half an hour had passed since Finn and Lucas had departed for Valmy, leaving Andre to watch the safehouse, when she saw Fitzroy leave by the front door. Despite the fact that there was no reason for him to suspect that he might be followed, Andre still took great precautions to trail him discreetly. She gave him lots of room, keeping back as far as she could, only closing the distance quickly when he turned a corner or was momentarily lost to her sight. Mongoose, if he was really Mongoose, seemed oblivious to her presence as he walked purposefully through the city street, heading toward the center of the city.

  Abruptly, he turned into a side street that led into a small cul-de-sac, through an alley strewn with garbage. She quickly moved in when she saw him pass through a doorway into what turned out to be a small tobacco shop marked only with a crude wooden sign. A name had been carved into the sign and then the grooved carvings had been filled in with black paint. The sign had grown so dark that it was difficult to read the name painted there, but once she came close, she could see that it said, simply, “Lafitte’s.”

  Cautiously, Andre peered through the grimy window. She saw a small room, crudely furnished with several tables and benches, where customers could sit and drink wine while they sampled tobacco from the jars upon the shelves on the left side of the room. On the other side of the room was a large workbench upon which some carving tools were scattered around. She could see some clay pipes stacked and ready for the kiln at the back of the shop, as well as several meerschaums in various stages of completion. Some wooden pipes, a novelty in Paris, had been carved from apple and cherry wood and hung by the bowls on nails driven at angles into the wall. The door was wedged open and Andre could smell the pleasant aroma of strong tobacco wafting out from the interior of the shop.

  Fitzroy stood at a shelf like partition at the back of the shop behind which was a heavy curtain that separated the shop from some back room.

  “Lafitte!” he called out.

  An old man with a leathery face and shaggy, unkempt gray hair pulled back the curtain and came into the shop, wiping his hands upon his dirty leather apron. A large, egg-shaped meerschaum, colored so deeply that it was almost black, was clamped between his teeth. He seemed to recognize Fitzroy.

  “Where is that worthless nephew of yours?” Fitzroy said.

  The old man shrugged, turned around and pulled back the curtain. “Jean!” he yelled, his voice sounding like a death rattle.

  The boy came out after several minutes, holding a broom. Upon seeing Fitzroy, he propped the broom up against the wall and joined him at one of the tables. The old man went back behind the curtain, but Mongoose, for it was obviously he, spoke with the boy in low tones and Andre could not make out what they were saying. After a short while, Mongoose rose from the table and Andre quickly got out of sight before he came back out of the shop. She followed him back to the apartment.

  She waited another half an hour to forty-five minutes, watching the house from across the street, then she went up to the door and went inside. Moving slowly and quietly, she made her way up the stairs. She paused just outside the door, her back pressed against the wall, her head cocked as she listened intently for any sound coming from within. There was none. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a length of wire. Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, she shaped it carefully, then slipped it through the crack in the door, maneuvering it so that it bent itself around the wooden bar on the other side and then poked out through on her side again. Very carefully, she grabbed both ends and slowly, using gentle, steady pressure, worked the bar back bit by bit. When she was done, she replaced the wire back into her pocket and took a deep breath. Crouching on her knees, away from the front of the door, she reached out and quickly pulled it open, then jerked back.

  A beam shot out the door at about the level her chest would have been had she been standing. It began to burn its way through the thick wall opposite the door. She had perhaps a few seconds in which to act. Staying very low, she dove through the door beneath the beam, spotted the assembled chronoplate in the center of the room and quickly moved toward it. She didn’t know the failsafe code for this particular unit, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t need it. She kicked at the control panel, then ran out the door as the defense system shut itself off. She knew she had only seconds left before the failsafe was triggered. She was at the top of the stairs when the force of the explosion picked her up and threw her into the wall just above the landing. Stunned, she managed to pick herself up and get down to the first floor, then out the door.

  A crowd was beginning to gather, attracted by the noise of the explosion and the smoke pouring through the hole in the wall on the second floor. Andre pushed her way through, grateful for the fact that none of her bones seemed to have broken. Her face was bleeding from her having struck the wall and her chest and head hurt. Perhaps she had sustained a slight concussion. Mongoose, however, had more serious problems.

  If he was lucky, he had not been able to react to his alarm quickly enough to activate his remote clockback unit. Otherwise, he had either been caught in the explosion when he materialized or else he would never materialize anywhere, being trapped forever in the limbo soldiers called “the dead zone.” For the sake of agent Cobra, Andre hoped that Mongoose was still alive. Personally, she did not much care one way or the other.

  The Comtesse de Tournay was an elegant old woman who conveyed no impression that she had narrowly escaped France with her life. To look at her, one would not think that her husband still remained behind in Paris, a hunted enemy of the state. She arrived in Dover attired in the height of fashion, carrying her elaborately coiffed white head high and sniffing with disdain at the fishy smell of the seacoast town. Her son, the young vicomte, was barely eighteen years old and, like his mother, he carried himself in a grand manner, back ramrod-straight and shoulders thrown back. He walked with a cocky swagger and kept his left hand casually resting on the pommel of his sword. Suzanne de Tournay, on the other hand, seemed markedly unaffected, by comparison. She spoke English better than either her mother or her brother. While they had been content to remain in their cabins on the Day Dream during the crossing, she had kept company on deck with Andrew Ffoulkes. With her hat held in her hand, she had allowed the wind to play havoc with her hair as she breathed in the salty air and gloried in their newfound freedom while, at the same time, she shared her concern for her father with Ffoulkes, her rescuer, who had become totally captivated by her.

  As they entered the Fisherman’s Rest together with Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, Jellyband seemed to be everywhere at once bowing, wringing his hands anxiously, looking to their comfort and barking orders at his serving staff.

  “Well,” said the comtesse, speaking English with a thick French accent, “I must admit, this is not quite the hovel I imagined it to be when I saw it from the outside. Still, I trust that we will not be remaining long?”

  “Only long enough to have a bite to eat and arrange for
a coach to London, Madame la Comtesse,” said Dewhurst.

  “In that case, the sooner we can dine and be on our way, the better,” she said, haughtily. “We have been subjected to quite enough indignities. Please do not misunderstand, Lord Dewhurst; I am most grateful to you and this gallant Scarlet Pimpernel for delivering us from persecution. However, if I had to spend one more night in that frightful, smelly little shack, I think I would have gone quite mad.”

  “It was not so bad, Mama,” Suzanne said, a bit embarrassed by her mother’s remark. “Anyway, all that is behind us now. We are in England! Soon we shall be meeting many others like ourselves, who have found new homes here.”

  “Indeed,” the old woman said, adding another contemptuous sniff. “I am quite sure that it will not all be entirely uncivilized. Still, there is one recent emigre I hope that I shall never meet. Have you gentlemen ever heard of a woman named Marguerite St. Just?”

  Dewhurst and Ffoulkes glanced at each other uneasily.

  “Everyone in London knows Lady Blakeney,” said Andrew Ffoulkes. “She and Sir Percy are the leaders of London society. Everyone admires and respects her.”

  “Well, I, for one, do not admire and respect her,” said the comtesse, stiffly. “What is more, if she is the type of person you enshrine in your society, I fear that I cannot say much good about it. We knew each other, once. She and my Suzanne attended school together. However, it seems that she preferred to learn her lessons at the hands of the Revolutionary tribunal. While our world was collapsing all around us, she helped to pull it down.”

  “Really, I’m sure that Lady Blakeney-” Ffoulkes began but the comtesse interrupted him.

  “Your Lady Blakeney was responsible for the death of the Marquis de St. Cyr. If you prefer to forget such things here in England, I can assure you that I recall them quite vividly. We are in England now and we are grateful for your English hospitality. We shall try not to abuse it. However, should I encounter Marguerite St. Just, I shall refuse to acknowledge her existence.”

  Ffoulkes leaned close to Dewhurst and whispered in his ear. “This is a most unfortunate turn of events, Tony,” he said. “Lady Blakeney is due to arrive here at any moment. Percy’s ridden out to meet her coach.”

  Dewhurst nodded. “With any luck, we can get them upstairs to refresh themselves and then try to head Percy off. It wouldn’t do to have-”

  At that moment, a coach was heard pulling up outside. Seconds later, the door to the Fisherman’s Rest opened and Marguerite Blakeney entered.

  “Lord, I’m famished!” she said. “The air in here smells quite delicious.” She saw the others and her eyes widened in surprise. “Andrew! Tony! What a delightful surprise! And is that…? It is you, Suzanne! Whatever are you doing here in England?”

  “Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said the comtesse, pointedly looking away from Marguerite.

  For a moment, Marguerite looked both stunned and hurt by this rejection; but understanding quickly dawned and she recovered, albeit a bit shakily.

  “Well! What bug bit you, I wonder?” she said, attempting to sound casual.

  The young vicomte stood up, drawing himself up to appear as tall as he possibly could. “My mother clearly does not wish to speak with you, madame,” he said. “We have no desire to socialize with traitors!”

  “See here, now,” Ffoulkes began, but at that moment, the door opened once again and Finn walked in, shaking the dust off of his coat.

  “Begad, what have we here? “ he said, taking in the momentarily frozen tableau.

  Marguerite smiled a bit crookedly. “Oh, nothing very serious, Percy,” she said, lightly, “only an insult to your wife’s honor.”

  “Odd’s life, you don’t say!” said Finn. “Who would be so reckless as to take you on, my dear?”

  The young vicomte approached him, taking a jaunty stance with his hand upon the pommel of his sword. “The lady is referring to my mother and myself, monsieur,” he said. “As any apology would be quite out of the question, I am prepared to offer you the usual reparation between men of honor.”

  Finn stared down at the boy, putting a look of astonishment upon his face. “Good Lord! Where on earth did you learn to speak English? It’s really quite remarkable. I wish I could speak your language as well, but I’m afraid that the proper accent is quite beyond me!”

  The lad looked at him with irritation. “I am still waiting for your reply, monsieur.”

  Finn glanced at Ffoulkes and Dewhurst in a puzzled fashion. “My reply? What the devil is this young fellow talking about?”

  “My sword, monsieur!” the vicomte said in exasperation. “I offer you my sword!”

  “Begad,” said Finn, “what good is your sword to me? I never wear the damned things, they’re forever getting in the way and poking people. Damned nuisance, if you ask me.”

  “I believe the young man means a duel, my husband,” Marguerite said.

  “A duel! You don’t say! Really?”

  “Yes, a duel, monsieur,” said the vicomte. “I am offering you satisfaction.”

  “Well, I’d be quite satisfied if you went back to your table and sat down,” said Finn. “A duel, indeed! This is England, my dear chap, and we don’t spill blood quite so freely here as you Frenchies do across the water. Odd’s life, Ffoulkes, if this is an example of the type of goods you and that Pimpernel import, you’d be better to dump ’em off mid-Channel. A duel, indeed! How perfectly ridiculous!”

  Marguerite chuckled. “Look at them, Tony. The French bantam and the English turkey. It would appear that the English turkey has won the day.”

  “You are wasting your time, young sir,” she said to the vicomte. “My husband, as you can see, is far too sensible a man to allow an insult to his wife to make him do anything so foolish as to risk life and limb in its defense.”

  “Please let the matter drop, like a good fellow,” Dewhurst said to the vicomte, placatingly. “After all, fighting a duel on your first day in England would hardly be the proper way to make a start in your new homeland.”

  Looking a bit taken aback, the vicomte looked from Finn to Dewhurst and then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, since monsieur seems disinclined to accept my offer, I will take it that honor has been satisfied.”

  “You may take it any way you wish,” said Finn, with a wave of his handkerchief, “but take it over there somewhere. This whole incident has been frightfully annoying. It would be best for all if the entire matter were forgotten. Indeed, it’s already passed from my memory.”

  “Come, children,” said the comtesse. “We have yet to reach our final destination and we would do well to take some rest. We shall dine up in our rooms,” she said to Dewhurst, “where the atmosphere might be more congenial, although I daresay that it won’t be a great improvement.”

  Suzanne was about to speak to Marguerite, but her mother spoke a sharp command and, with an embarrassed, apologetic look, Suzanne left the room to go upstairs.

  “Well, I can’t say that I care much for her manner,” Marguerite said. “That was quite a narrow escape for you, Percy. For a moment, I actually believed that young man would attack you.”

  “I daresay I would have given a good accounting of myself,” said Finn. “I’ve raised the fists in the ring with some success on a number of occasions, although brawling in a tavern would not be my idea of sport, you know.”

  As they spoke, there were a number of other patrons in the Fisherman’s Rest, some of whose idea of sport was precisely that, they had been watching with some interest when it appeared that there might be an altercation between the young French aristocrat and the older English dandy. When the two would-be combatants disappointed them, they went back to their meat pies and ale, all except three men who sat on the far side of the room in a dark corner. These three all wore long cloaks and huddled together, as though in private conversation, although they did not speak. Instead, they listened very closely. One of them, his black hat with its wide brim pulled low
over his eyes, nodded to himself with satisfaction. When the young vicomte came back downstairs briefly to tell Ffoulkes and Dewhurst that his mother was quite tired and had elected to stay the night and travel to London the next morning, he smiled to himself.

  “Excellent,” he said softly, in French, to his two companions. “It would seem that several opportunities are beginning to present themselves.”

  One of his companions nodded. “If we strike tonight and strike quickly, we can seize the aristos and bring them back to Paris for their just desserts!”

  “No, no, mon ami,” said the first man. “Put the de Tournays out of your mind. They no longer matter. We are after bigger game. Those two have proved my theory. I am convinced that this Scarlet Pimpernel is an English nobleman and they will lead us to him. Now listen closely, this is what I want the two of you to do tonight…”

  Captain Briggs, skipper of the Day Dream, owned a small house overlooking the harbor in Dover. On this night, rather than sleeping in his own bed, he was staying aboard the Day Dream at Percy Blakeney’s request, so that Armand St. Just and his sister could have some hours of privacy together. Finn had conducted Marguerite to the tiny, whitewashed house with its neat little garden and then returned to his room in the Fisherman’s Rest. After an affectionate greeting, brother and sister sat down to the table for a few cups of tea.

  “I feel as though I have snuck into England like a thief,” Armand said, smiling. “I hid in Captain Briggs’s cabin during the crossing, fearing to venture out. I can well imagine how the Comtesse de Tournay would have reacted upon seeing not only a St. Just, but a member of the Committee of Public Safety aboard the boat that was taking her to freedom!”

  Marguerite looked at her brother and felt an overwhelming sadness. At first glance, he was still the same youthful-looking charmer, but on closer inspection, she could see that his hair was now lightly streaked with gray. There were bags under his blue eyes and his face had a tired and haggard look.