My lanky guide turned in his seat and pointed to my left. “La chapelle.”
I squinted into the darkness and just made out the faint outline of a cross against the sky. I sprang down from the carriage, clutching the Gladstone, and thanked the driver, though I could have said “cat spit” for all the reaction I got. These foreign types should learn to speak English. It might improve their service. In any case, the fellow drove away and within a minute I was standing alone in the street, gazing at the piles of bricks, stones and timber that would one day be the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.
The chapel was located at one corner of the construction site with an entrance facing the street. I trotted round the building and found myself at the edge of a vast complex. Piles of brick and stone dotted the ground, and planks and beams were stacked high. I would have no trouble finding a hiding place that afforded me a view of the rear of the chapel. But then neither would anyone else. With that thought in mind I scurried back to the front of the chapel and began a slow, cautious circumnavigation of the grounds. The site for the basilica was massive and it took me a good long while to skulk around the perimeter. I stopped every few steps and listened, but the only thing I heard were the faint sounds of barking dogs and the rumble of a cart wheel in the distance. Now and then, some small animal scurried away from my approaching footsteps. I hoped it was a wayward tom, out for a night of action, and not a rat. I’m not fond of rats. Indeed, I abhor rats. I did not relish the prospect of waiting for French, hunkered down with a troop of rodents roaming about. I pushed my apprehensions away and turned my attention to my reconnaissance.
I sidled up to the chapel by a circuitous route, moving stealthily among the crates and piles of materials until I had satisfied myself that I was quite alone. I found a dandy hiding spot behind a stack of timber and a pyramid of barrels that afforded me a clear view of the rear of the chapel. I dragged a keg of nails over to sit upon and positioned it just so. I took the Tranter and the pepperbox from my bag and settled them in my lap. Then I waited.
The bells of Paris had just pealed the hour of four o’clock when I heard the creak of a leather harness and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves climbing the hill. I’d spent enough time in that particular conveyance to recognize the slight squeak in the right wheel as it turned. French and Cutliffe had arrived.
They came slowly into view. Cutliffe was still handcuffed and he walked in front, with French following warily behind. He carried a bull’s-eye lantern which cast a sickly glow across the cleared area behind the chapel and raised phantom shades against its walls. French set the lantern on the ground and retreated to the shadows, dragging Cutliffe along by the elbow. They did not speak.
Then I heard the sound of a second carriage approaching. The horses halted at the curb and the brake rasped as the driver set it. I leaned forward, eager for my first glimpse of Horatio Harkwright. There came the sound of heavy tread on the pavement, then muffled footsteps as Harkwright and his custodian stepped onto the earthen courtyard at the rear of the chapel. There were only the two men. The guard was a tall fellow with the ramrod bearing of a soldier. It was difficult to discern his features in the dim light, but I detected a sweeping mustache and side whiskers beneath the brim of his hat. He carried a lantern and mimicked French’s earlier movement by setting it on the ground.
I couldn’t see Harkwright clearly, but I confess I was a bit disappointed at his appearance. He was a short, podgy character, with tiny feet and the girth of a circus elephant. He certainly hadn’t suffered any privations during his captivity and he did not fit my image of a bronzed, lithe agent of the British Crown, surviving by his wits on the Central Asian frontier. A set of irons was clamped round his wrists and he chafed his hands as though he were anxious to have them removed.
His captor spoke. His accent was thick, but his English was precise. “Please step forward, Mr. French, and bring Mr. Cutliffe with you.”
Harkwright squinted at the two men. “I say, French, is that you?”
“It is, Harkwright. Are you well?”
“I’m a damned sight better than I was, now that you’re here.”
Harkwright’s Russian guard waved his hand impatiently. “Let us forgo the pleasantries, gentlemen. Are you prepared to turn over Mr. Cutliffe?”
“I am.”
“Then let us release our respective prisoners. Mr. Harkwright, may I see your hands?”
Harkwright dutifully turned toward the guard and Cutliffe presented his outstretched arms to French.
And that is when it all went pear-shaped, for just as French unlocked Cutliffe’s cuffs and the traitorous bastard was massaging his wrists, Harkwright turned around with a bloody great revolver in his hand and aimed it directly at French. The Russian took a step to the right and pulled a pistol from his coat pocket. It happened so quickly that I had to blink, just to be sure I hadn’t imagined the sequence of events I’d just witnessed. Cutliffe had frozen in place. French looked calm, as befits an agent of Her Majesty’s government, but I knew his mind would be racing with schemes to extract himself from the situation, just as mine was racing now.
“What’s this, Harkwright?” asked French.
“A smart fellow like you should be able to figure it out. I’ve gone over, French.”
“Gone over?” French repeated. “But why?” I’m sure French was surprised at this turn of events, but he was keeping a cool head and buying time by engaging in conversation while he and his accomplice (yours truly) could come up with a plan that did not involve ending up dead. So far, all I had managed to think of was the straightforward maneuver of shooting Harkwright and his Russian accomplice. Now, French has often accused me of jumping the gun and acting in haste, so I thought that I’d give it a moment and see if another alternative presented itself and French just needed some time to put the pieces in place. Perhaps he wanted to take Harkwright alive and haul him back to England for a thorough interrogation, in which case he wouldn’t want the fellow riddled with bullet holes. I hesitated, keeping an eye on the tableau before me.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, French. I may have an English parent, but I’ve a Russian soul. England is a little land, black with the smoke of industry and full of petty conceits. ‘A nation of shopkeepers,’ as our old enemy, Napoleon, once said. Great Britain does not deserve its empire and I’m damned if I know why I should help keep it. Now Russia is a country of grandeur. We follow the old religion, the only true religion. Our authors and musicians are the finest in the world. They write epics and sagas, while your artists piddle away their talents in music halls and the pages of cheap magazines. And it is time that Russia took its rightful place upon the world’s stage.”
Harkwright waved the pistol in his hand. “I do apologize, old man. This is most unsporting of me, but I know how useful you’ll be to us in Saint Petersburg.”
“You intend to take me to Russia?”
“Yes. You’ll find us congenial hosts. All you have to do is share what you know about British espionage operations against Russia and we’ll see that you’re treated well.”
“And what about Cutliffe?”
“Oh, Cutliffe. We’ve no interest in him.” Harkwright stared at the little fellow, who was looking most uncomfortable. “Run away, Cutliffe. Take the carriage you came in and make a new life for yourself.”
“But, I—”
“Go now.” Harkwright’s voice betrayed his impatience. “Or you’ll find out just how little value we attach to you.”
“You should do as he says,” said French. “I believe they have more interest in me than you.”
Harkwright gave a short bark of laughter. “It’s true. Cutliffe hadn’t produced much of interest to us until after the Russians announced they had ‘arrested’ me. Then his information became much more intriguing. We began to suspect that he was being developed as an asset for exchange, for me. That is what you were doing, w
asn’t it? I’ll wager that was your idea, French. You always were a clever devil. Cutliffe, it’s time for you to disappear.”
Cutliffe did the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life: he ran. His frantic footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the chapel as he bolted for the street. Horses whinnied in fear as he jumped onto the driver’s seat of the carriage and the reins cracked as he urged the horses on. The carriage rattled loudly as Cutliffe careered off down the road.
I could wait no longer. I seized my weapons, sprang up from my hiding place and darted into the circle of lamplight brandishing both pistols.
“Drop your weapons,” I cried.
I’ve been in a gunfight or two and it’s deuced odd how time slows down during the exchange of fire. From the corner of my eye I saw French’s hand sweep back his coat and go for the Boxer in its holster. I was looking directly at Harkwright and the Russian and I had time to notice the expressions of surprise that formed on their faces, which turned almost immediately to calculation. The Russian, being the military type, reacted first. He swung his revolver in my direction. I could swear I saw his thumb rake the hammer back and cock the pistol. But he was too slow. I steadied myself and pulled the trigger of the Tranter. The sound of the explosion was deafening in the silence of the Parisian night. A flock of pigeons that had been nesting in the eaves of the chapel took flight with a rush of wings.
The Russian staggered backward and clutched his side.
“Look out,” shouted French. Harkwright had me in his sights. I pirouetted on my toes and took aim but French’s Boxer barked and Harkwright screamed a curse as he dove into the shadows.
“Take cover,” cried French, which is just the sort of obvious advice the poncy bastard tends to utter in moments of crisis. I had already done so, dodging back behind the pyramid of barrels which had provided my original hiding place. French bolted in my direction, followed by a succession of shots from Harkwright. I watched in horror as French vaulted a pile of lumber and flew headlong into my fortress. As it was not a particularly large fortress and I already occupied the majority of it, French had little option but to cushion his landing by slamming into me.
“Confound it, French,” I said, when I could draw breath. “This bloody place is full of cover. Why the devil—”
Harkwright put an end to the conversation by peppering our location with a fusillade of shots. We ducked our heads from the flying splinters. French put an arm around me and his lips to my ear.
“He’ll have to reload soon. When the firing stops, I’m going to work my way around to his rear. Please provide a distraction.”
“Right-o. But don’t dawdle. I’ve only a few shots left in the Tranter.”
“You’ve got the pepperbox.”
It did not seem like the appropriate time to discuss my lingering concern about using such an inadequate firearm, so I merely agreed that I had the pepperbox. The desultory fire from Harkwright died out and French pressed my hand. I nodded and leaned around the barrels and aimed in Harkwright’s general direction. I let off the first round and French scampered up and over the stack of lumber and out of view. I counted a slow three seconds and then fired again. In between shots I could hear French scrabbling through the building materials piled around the chapel. I deduced that if I could hear him, then Harkwright could as well, and so I stepped up the rate of fire to cover French’s advance.
Harkwright was a cagy chap. During my attack on his position, he would occasionally return fire, but he was deliberate about it and I assumed he too had a limited supply of ammunition. With any luck, French would roust him out of his hole just as his ammo ran dry. And then I heard a sound that froze my blood.
Voices. And not the kind of voices I might have welcomed, like that of a French policeman wondering what all the hullabaloo was about. No, these were Russian voices. Reinforcements had arrived. There must have been three or four of the Slavic fellows. One shouted to Harkwright and he answered in Russian. A single figure darted into the shadows where Harkwright lay concealed. Footsteps pounded around the other side of the chapel. My heart sank. They were trying to outflank us, and would succeed if we didn’t beat a hasty retreat. The only problem was that my partner in this ill-fated expedition was somewhere out there in the dark. Should I stay or go without him? I knew what French would do. He’s a gentleman and he would wait there for me until icicles formed in Hades. Thank God I am not a gentleman. I had gathered my skirts and was preparing to fall back when French rolled over the wall of timber and dropped into my lap. He was breathing heavily.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. I told you he was a great one for stating the obvious.
“How many are there?”
“Three, I think, besides Harkwright. Damn it, I was almost on the fellow when those Russians arrived.”
“Never mind about that. Two of those chaps are circling, trying to cut us off.”
“And there’s one with Harkwright. So we’ve two in front and two behind us.”
“If they stay together. They might separate and come at us from four directions, rather than two. In which case, I suggest we stop wittering like two old pussies and get the hell out of here.”
“Follow me, then.” He peeked cautiously over our barricade, then turned, crouched and crept away, picking his way through the detritus that littered the building site. I struggled after him, the Tranter in my right hand and the pepperbox in my left. It was slow going, what with having to dodge trenches and step over foundations and skirt the piles of construction materials. There hadn’t been time to discuss a strategy but I trusted French wouldn’t make a hash of our retreat. I didn’t take my eye off him for a moment, for fear I’d lose him in the darkness. I fixed my gaze on his back and followed him through the shadows. He’d pause now and then to listen. Once I thought I heard footsteps scuffling along behind us, and once I heard the crash of falling stone and the muffled Russian oath that followed. Those Slavic thugs were close, too damned close, and I feared they would draw even closer, for as you can imagine, a shootout at the site of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart had drawn a bit of attention from the neighbors. Shouts rang out in the distance and all around us I could see the gleam of lanterns bobbing about in the darkness. The Russians would have to move quickly if they wanted to take us alive.
We staggered over a mound of bricks and hurtled a heap of planks, and we were free, standing on the pavement of a narrow street. The uproar had roused the natives; a few men had congregated in front of the shops across the way. One caught sight of us and set up a cry.
“This way,” said French. He seized my elbow and swung me round. We cantered off at full gallop through the twisting maze of streets that surrounded the basilica.
“Where are we going?” I gasped.
“Away from that bloody chapel. We’ll find an alley and duck out of sight until the fuss dies down.”
But this scheme was doomed to failure. There were more shouts behind us, and some of them were Russian. The sound brought a chill to my bones. A revolver barked and a bullet struck the wall beside me, showering me with bits of plaster. Another pistol roared and this time French ducked as the bullet whistled by his head.
We wheeled and returned fire as we dashed across the street. French’s Boxer was belching flame and the Tranter bucked in my hand as I pulled the trigger. French fled into the safety of a shadowed archway and I was hot on his heels. We pulled up for a moment, panting with our exertions, and leaned up against the wall.
French fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a handful of bullets. He slung open the cylinder of his Boxer and hastily reloaded. “How many bullets do you have left in the Tranter?”
Trust French to ask a question like that. He might be able to keep his head in the heat of battle and remember how many shots he had fired. Being of a more impetuous nature, I had no idea. I thrust the pepperbox pistol into French’s hand and opened the cylinder o
f the Tranter. Bloody hell. Every cartridge was empty. There wasn’t a single bullet in the revolver. I gave French the news and tossed the pistol aside.
“Blast. Well, we’ve still got the pepperbox.” He handed that ungainly weapon to me. “Take this. We’ll split up. I’ll draw their fire and you run like blazes.”
I balked at that. “Hold on, French. Where am I going? And what am I going to do when I get there? I’ve no money and I don’t speak Frog. Anyway, we stand a better chance together than alone. Now stop being honuorable and let’s scarper.”
We were standing in some sort of arched entrance, which had offered a place of refuge. Now we considered our options. French poked his head round the archway to suss out the situation and drew it back quickly. Without a word he shoved me through the entrance and into the darkness beyond.
“The Russians?” I hissed.
“Yes. Right behind us. Quiet now.”
We slunk furtively through the darkness. French had a hand around my wrist, guiding me gently. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, but I sensed the presence of damp walls nearby. The air was moist and fetid, and my heel slithered on something soft and wet. French stopped abruptly and I bumped into him. We’d been moving so slowly that the contact was gentle. He leaned close to me, and the words he whispered filled me with black despair.
India Black in the City of Light (Novella) (A Madam of Espionage Novella) Page 5