by Adrian Speed
“My dear Walter,” Sir Reginald dropped a hand onto Walter’s shoulder. “Tell me about Professor Sotheby.”
I watched with glee as all the colour drained out of Walter’s face.
Chapter X
Sir Reginald rounded on Walter as the man spluttered. Sir Reginald had put the tablet down and was now playing with his cane, rolling it from one hand to another, waiting for Walter to crack. I itched to know what Sir Reginald had discovered on the phone.
“Come come,” Sir Reginald said. “The game is up.”
“Nu-uh,” Walter shook his head, gaining back his confidence. “If you had something you’d say. You wouldn’t let me run my mouth off. You’d call the gendarmes.” Walter crossed his arms and sat tight.
Sir Reginald simply smiled.
“June of 1965,” Sir Reginald said. “The University of Ohio had a break in. The alarm was confounded, the locks carefully picked, and yet not a single article was lifted. It would have gone undiscovered entirely had campus police not seen a shadowy figure fleeing the scene. It perplexed the police utterly. Poor fellows never suspected that what was stolen had infinitely less and infinitely more value than any currency.” Sir Reginald twisted his cane until it cracked against the desk in front of Walter making him jolt as if it had been fifty thousand volts. “You stole into your university in the dead of night to replace your own examination manuscript with a falsified one. One sufficiently brilliant only a fool would pass you over for acceptance into the Master’s degree program. Someone so eloquent, so elegant in prose and with masterful recall of facts was a perfect candidate.”
Walter was visibly shaken, but he still scowled his defiance. Now that was where the scowl on his passport photograph had come from.
“It doesn’t look good Walter,” Sir Reginald warned him. “It’s more than enough to have you thrown into the darkest cell in the commissariat while we sort this mess out.” The dark glare burning out of Walter’s eyes suggested it didn’t worry him.
But I knew where to hit him.
“And it’s certainly more than enough for the university to terminate your doctoral studies.” My words slammed into Walter like bullets. “And without a doctorate, poof goes your visa and poof goes your S-2 deferral.”
“No, you can’t!” Walter slammed his hands against the table. “You can’t throw me into that meat-grinder.”
“Then behold your dilemma, Mr Beauregard,” Sir Reginald flung his arms wide, almost brushing both walls with his finger tips. “On the one hand you stay silent and within a week you’ll face the fire fights of Indochina and on the other hand you tell us everything we want to know, submit to French justice and never face the prospect of war.”
“What...” Walter’s face contorted as the struggle of the choice ran through him. “What’s the punishment for theft in France?”
“For a document? Two to three years,” Sir Reginald offered. “Trifling few by all accounts, and while the French code allows a judge less leniency than Common Law there is still provision for penitence and mercy – especially if a young mind was led astray by a figure of authority... their professor, perhaps.”
Walter’s eyes danced from Sir Reginald to me and back to Sir Reginald. I could almost see the headstone blazing in his mind’s vision of a future in Vietnam.
“Tell us where the treaty is, Walter,” I urged.
“The treaty’s with Professor Sotheby.” Walter let the words out in a gasp, like a man breaching the surface after a long dive. “He’s at the Hilton at Orly airport. He’s waiting for the first flight out.”
“Well then, we have plenty of time,” Sir Reginald said with a smirk. “But I suppose we should inform the authorities.” He snatched up his cane and made to leave the room but paused at the doorway. “Do make sure you don’t go anywhere, Walter.” As he left I could hear the distant call of “My dear director, the telephone if you would be so kind.”
It left Walter and me alone. I typed up my notes on my phone and left Walter to stew. It irked me how Sir Reginald had seized back control at the last moment thanks to his phone call to Ohio. Then again, I was the one who ordered him to do it.
“It was my cousin,” Walter said after several minutes. I looked up and he locked eyes with me, almost pleading for me to understand. “He went out there, barely there a month before he was heading home again. Shrapnel in his spine. He’ll never walk again. He can’t pee without a rubber tube.”
“I understand–”
“I’ve worked hard... very hard to make sure that people back home don’t think I’m a coward,” Walter said. His voice had lost a lot of its harsh edge from before. “They all think I’m too ‘brilliant’ to risk in Vietnam. When this goes to trial... we won’t have to tell them about the Ohio State break in, do we?”
“Well...”
“Professor Sotheby was the only one who figured it out. He said he’d never tell anyone as long as I did one job for him.”
“It’s really down to what he and you say in court,” I said. “It’d help your defence a great deal if you told them he was blackmailing you.”
“And then it’d be on record, for everyone to see, and everyone back home to read.” Walter shivered despite the stifling warmth in the small room. He fell into dark introspection and I didn’t push him. He’d given us what we needed.
“Hannah,” Sir Reginald ducked back into the room. “We need to motor to the airport, o corn rose. The Commissaire has dispatched a dozen officers to the Hotel and a motorcar to collect Mr Beauregard. We need to be outside and waiting, I do not want to miss the arrest.”
“How did you get the Commissaire to pull officers away from the riots?” I slid my phone into my pocket and stood up. Walter followed suit more sluggishly.
“Oh he is more than happy to let the gendarmes stick the oar in for a while, and he remembers working with a Sir Reginald Derby during the war,” Sir Reginald smiled. “Come come, all they’re waiting for is word from a magistrate and I do not think they will have to wait long.”
We headed out, Walter ushered between the two of us. How small he seemed to have become compared to the sprawling, boorish man I’d first met. How much had been an act, I wondered. How much had just been blustering American confidence to throw me off?
All eyes in the examination room glowered at Walter as he passed, save for Leopold who was airily chewing away at his pipe. The director looked to Sir Reginald but this was my investigation. It would be the last words they remembered.
“Walter Beauregard has confessed to the theft of the treaty,” I announced to the room. “And given up his accomplice as Professor Sotheby of the United States. I’d like to thank you all for your participation in this investigation. Without your cooperation this theft might not have been solved for decades. With the director’s permission, you are all free to return to your work. The accomplice is about to be apprehended, the treaty returned, and things can return to normal.” I let myself smile. “Well, as normal as things can be with half of Paris on strike.” I turned to the director. “If you would be so kind as to escort us out please.”
The director nodded, brought out his bundles of keys and led us out of the archives.
Policemen were waiting for us outside the courtyard. Two black and white Renault Dauphines had four officers resting against them. They welcomed Walter with a pair of handcuffs.
“Are you Sir Reginald?” the lieutenant asked. “The Commissaire said you’d be wearing a top hat. He said Sir Reginald always used to wear a top hat, even during the war.” A frown flickered the policeman’s face as the sentences slammed into each other. Sir Reginald did not look old enough to remember the Second World War, let alone have been a part of it.
“I have temporarily been deprived of my hat.” Sir Reginald tried to smile. “But rest assured, I am Sir Reginald.” Sir Reginald did not give them the opportunity to argue, but opened the door of the police car and climbed inside. “Now, to the airport!”
*****
T
he ancient European car was cramped and uncomfortable even if it was currently considered new. The grey leather seats would not have been out of place in a teacher’s lounge and were far more uncomfortable. Nonetheless it was quite exciting to sweep through deserted Parisian streets. The airport was almost at the other end of Paris, so I ended up seeing quite a bit of the city, even as we had to wind around the backstreets to avoid the protests and riots.
At first the policemen driving the car had enjoyed asking a few questions about Sir Reginald’s time working with the Commissaire, either to poke holes in Sir Reginald’s story or to dig up some dirt on their superior. However, Sir Reginald’s cryptic answers eventually beat them into silence and he picked up his tablet to read more of the Arnold family’s ancient history.
“So when did you know it was Walter?” I asked in English after we had crossed the Seine.
“The moment you brought out the percolator my dear,” Sir Reginald said, resting his elbow against the window to support his chin. “Mr Beauregard’s eyes lit up with voracious desire to take it apart and solve the problem.”
“But he didn’t get up to help. Because doing so would open up his knowledge of electronics.” Even though I said it, the fact I had missed Walter’s reaction to the percolator annoyed me.
“Precisely,” Sir Reginald nodded. “Of course, there is a difference between simply knowing something and proving it.” Sir Reginald lifted his head and turned to look me straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t have done anything differently from you, at least what I observed.” He smiled. “And you knew precisely what screws to turn in young Walter’s mind to make him spill his secrets.”
“You were the one who uncovered his first theft in Ohio.”
“Something you would have discovered if you had made the call and not I,” Sir Reginald said. “We each function effectively apart but optimally in conjunction. We are, in every particular, a partnership.”
“Stop stop stop!” The policeman in the front hammered on the dashboard. I ducked so I could see between the seats and the windscreen. “Barricade!”
“Going into reverse,” the driver muttered under his breath. “Nice and slow...”
Overturned cars littered the road ahead of us. Piles of stones and doorways ripped off their hinges lay between them. Even a lamppost had been ripped out of the cobbles and thrown on the heap. It wasn’t much taller than an overturned car, but combined with the men manning the top it was more than enough to keep out the police.
“Should’ve crossed at Pont de Bercy,” the policeman said with a grimace.
“Oh yes, now is an excellent time to say so,” the driver spat.
It was hard to see individuals behind the barricade. They were nothing more than torsos. Had they seen us? Were they just going about their daily business? Would they care we weren’t trying to stop them?
The crack of a stone smacking against the roof answered that question. A flurry of further flung cobblestones followed as our driver whirled his hands on the wheel and ducked us down another road.
“Head to Place d’Italie,” the policeman said. “Take the road to the Grand Mosque. That was all clear last I heard.”
“I detest the Left Bank,” the driver muttered and turned onto a broader road when he had the chance.
Slowly my hands relaxed and I realised I’d been digging deep into the leather upholstery. My fingers came away with a little squeak. All the stone buildings I had been admiring as they zipped by now seemed tinged with a sinister edge. Paris itself was enemy territory. A police car wasn’t necessarily the safest place to be. This was a real city, with real people, and not my own little holiday.
A little part of me wished we had taken the time machine instead. There was something comforting about five tons of wrought iron.
The car sped past the Grand Mosque. From this side the only things that showed it as a mosque were the arabesque crenellations on its wall and the tip of a minaret peaking above it. We sped down the deserted roads to Place d’Italie and then on into the outskirts of the city. Despite the dread of coming across more rioters it was still breathtaking. I would never see Paris so deserted. It was like a film set.
“There’s the airport,” Sir Reginald pointed as we sped down the N7. We were the only car on the dual carriageway.
“Nothing’s flying,” I said. All the planes sat stationary on the tarmac.
“Might stand a chance of catching our American mastermind.” Sir Reginald’s hand tightened on his cane handle. “There’s the Hilton.”
The Hotel was oh-so-sixties, with white concrete panels like moulded plastic running down its front. Already a pile of police cars clustered around its nearly deserted entrance. There wasn’t even a single personal car in the car park. Our driver ran us up to the door and parked up.
“Looks like the Commissaire got the magistrate’s permission,” the driver said with begrudging respect. He brought the car to a stop but Sir Reginald was already out of the door rushing towards the hotel entrance. I followed into the crowd of kepi-capped officers. A huddle of officers were dragging someone out of the building. As Sir Reginald approached, the officers seemed to recognise the flashing suit and brought their prisoner out and thrust him in front of Sir Reginald. As I saw him I stopped dead.
It was the assassin from the lunar colony.
And yet.
Not.
A contemptuous glare burned out of two flecked irises, just like the lunar assassin. The hair was mossy brown. He had a broad, flat nose, and a worry-worn face. But the features were not... entirely the same. The face was slightly longer, the teeth a great deal yellower, the ears slightly wider, the eyebrows slightly longer; an ancestor whose features had echoed down through the ages.
Sir Reginald didn’t seem fazed by it in the least.
“Professor Sotheby,” Sir Reginald did not phrase it as a question.
“Apparently at your service.” The man’s expression was sour but also sullen, defeated. He hung from the arms of the police officers like laundry. He spoke in the refined, sharp voice of a wealthy New Englander. “I must commend you on your English, detective. I’d have said you’re a born Englishman.”
“I am Sir Reginald Derby, I’m not a Frenchman,” Sir Reginald said. “The evidence against you is overwhelming, but I would like to ask you why you chose to steal such a meagre document.”
Professor Sotheby’s expression twisted into a frown. “So you didn’t even figure that out?” He sighed and it felt like decades spilt out. “It was a promise to my grandfather.”
“To steal a treaty?”
“No.” Professor Sotheby sighed. “It was meant to be much more.” Sir Reginald fixed the professor with a long hard stare, but then turned to me.
“Do you have a question, or are you just going to stare at me?”
“Is that fleck in your eye genetic?” Professor Sotheby jolted with surprise.
“Uh, yes, my father had it, my grandfather has it,” Professor Sotheby was too taken off guard to think of hiding anything. “Does it matter?”
“That depends.” I turned to Sir Reginald. “Will we get a copy of the police interviews?”
“Officially no,” Sir Reginald bowed his head to the police who pulled Professor Sotheby away and into a police car. “But I am sure I can wrangle something out of the Commissaire.”
“Then I don’t think there’s any more we can learn from the professor ourselves,” I said, and watched him disappear into the back of the little French car.
“Ah, is this the precious treaty?” Sir Reginald strode towards some officers exiting the building carrying something very carefully. The professor had slid the treaty into a sealed plastic bag and the police had put it inside another sealed evidence bag. The treaty was slightly cloudy between the two layers of plastic but still readable. It was made of thick, stiff paper, and a perfect, elaborate hand had written out the details of the treaty. At the bottom it was signed by a dozen witnesses and sealed with a great stamp of green
wax.
The names were German, Russian and French. All except for one.
“Ebenezer... Arnold.”
Chapter XI
An hour later I stirred a cup of coffee idly with a spoon while looking over microfilm copies of the other copies of the Treaty of Fontainebleau. Four years had passed since the riots. De Gaulle had passed in favour of Pompidou, Cohn-Bendit had been packed off to Germany and the city of Paris had returned to calm. The people were happy, the city was bustling, the summer heat was just below uncomfortable and the oil crisis wouldn’t hit for another year. There wasn’t a better time to sit in a Parisian cafe, especially out in the open.
Ebenezer Arnold’s signature was definitely only on the original treaty. None of the copies carried it. It was the only English name on the treaty. Etienne had testified to its authenticity. Ebenezer’s signature had always been there, small and overlooked amongst the other dignitaries, so unnoticeable that its absence in the copies went unnoticed for over a century.
“I have a number of listings about Ebenezer Arnold here,” Sir Reginald said, tapping his tablet. “None from himself, unfortunately. Born at Portsmouth in 1792 he would have been scarcely twenty-four years old at the signing of the treaty. He was the second son of Tiberius Arnold who had founded the Arnold and Barnstable Artifice Company. They manufactured mechanisms for ships. Pulleys and so on.”
“So what was a twenty-four-year-old son of a shipwright doing at the signing of what was at the time one of the most important documents in history?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Reginald said as he flipped through a few pages of digital paper to refresh his memory. “There is very little written about him. His elder brother died in the war, a malarial fever. Ebenezer took over the company when Tiberius died in 1824. Married in 1818, sired nine children and died in 1854.”
“And that’s it? That’s all of him?”
“All of any relevance,” Sir Reginald shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “Superlative coffee is the best accompaniment for a superlative view,” he said, nodding to the horizon. The cafe occupied the roof of a hotel and the Parisian skyline was laid out before us. The primary view was of the Louvre. It had taken me a little time to recognise it at first. Its glass pyramid wouldn’t be built for almost twenty years.