by Janice Law
“And as you helped build the machines, you will know something about how to disassemble them,” Duguay added.
I could foresee a lot of work and an uncomfortable bed, but I said, “Right. Thanks.”
Leandres clapped me on the shoulder. “Members of Les Mortes Immortels stick together,” he said. “And we are not without friends.” This with a bow to the audience members who had come to our defense. The cognac bottle went around again, and Mademoiselle Berger, clearly a woman of infinite resource, produced not one, but two, bottles of wine as well as a box of biscuits.
There was a good deal of merriment before the stage crew and I got onto the set, and a good deal of work before we all climbed into the loaded truck. LePage drove us several blocks to a courtyard closed with high, metal-reinforced gates. When he shut off the engine, Duguay jumped out to close and latch the gates. He and LePage bedded down in the front seat, leaving Terrien and me to settle as comfortably as we could amid the blankets and tarps that protected the disassembled machines and the various flats and props. The sky was beginning to lighten before I fell asleep to dream of houses that looked a lot like the stage of our theater and of running men pursued by shots.
Chapter Eleven
The creak of a bicycle, the rattle of a metal door or gate opening, street noises. I sat up, knocked my head on the truncated arm of one of the machines, swore, and woke up completely. I wasn’t in my comfortable Left Bank room, a dwelling I suspected was gone forever. Paris seemed a city for night flits, and I hoped I’d be able to recover my clothes, my extra pair of shoes, and my books. Just where was I now? Someone was snoring behind a stylized tree last seen on the stage with Les Mortes Immortels. I was with the set and machines in a truck that smelled strongly of sweaty bodies and gasoline. I’d lain down sometime in the wee hours and now.
I listened. One of the city’s bells was tolling the hour, a great many strokes. Could it possibly be ten a.m.? Yes, it could and the apprentice was monumentally late. I stumbled out of the truck, stuck my feet in my shoes, and opened the small door set into the courtyard gate. I walked until I found a street sign and made my way to the Metro. I got to Armand’s just after eleven.
“You must have had a hard night,” was his comment.
I ran my hand over my face and saw a smear of greasepaint. “I was pressed into service at the theater,” I said, “for a lady in distress.”
“Quelle surprise!” Armand was in a bad mood.
“Also a closing-night fracas, striking the set, and a lot of very bad cognac.” The latter was probably behind the headache that reached from the back of my skull to just over one eye.
I sat down at the worktable and reached for one of the fine Canson sheets to begin.
“Don’t touch the paper! Your hands are filthy!”
I got up and started toward his bathroom to wash, but this didn’t suit Armand, either. The apprentice was late, unconscionably late, and had arrived in no condition to work. I gave him a look. I knew perfectly well that a full account of the evening’s events, emphasizing the more amusing and scandalous aspects, would put him right. Give Armand a tidbit on the latest outrage or a bit of gossip fresh from the street, and he was a happy man. But I didn’t feel like it. I was sick of being bullied and of doing a great whack of work for only a whiff of profit. I’d seen what he charged for the rug I designed, and I’d about given up hope of a fair deal from him.
“Fine,” I said. “Settle up with me for this week’s work and I’m off.”
He didn’t want to pay me, pretended he had no money on hand, and thought it best I come back “early next week.”
I sat back down at the desk and folded my arms. I suspected that he had a client coming—or someone else of interest—because after a few minutes of huffing and puffing, he produced a handful of francs. He’d shorted me but not too badly, and while he was fetching the money, I’d helped myself to several good drawing pencils and a new eraser. I figured we were even.
The bells were ringing for quarter to twelve when I left, and I didn’t get farther than out the door and around the corner before a horn tooted and the green antiques shop van pulled up beside me. Uncle Lastings looked all bright and bushy-tailed, in contrast to me. I’d caught my reflection in Armand’s hall mirror, pale, paint smeared, filthy, and exhausted. I’d been in no mood for Armand, and I was in no mood for my uncle, either. If I hadn’t been anxious to learn about Jules and Inessa, I’d have ignored him and walked on.
“Get in,” said my uncle.
I opened the door. “Are Jules and Inessa safe?”
My uncle does a very good impression of astonished incomprehension. “Safe? Of course, they’re safe. Tickety-boo. I collected them myself, twenty-one hundred hours on the dot. Drove at legal speed to deposit them in the safe house, a late supper included.”
I was relieved to hear that and said so.
“You underestimate me, my boy. But mum’s the word on their location. Best you know nothing. What one doesn’t know, one can’t tell.”
So true—if melodramatic.
“You’re very quiet,” said my uncle after a few more minutes. He drove with considerable élan—another side of him, chauffeur extraordinaire.
“I’ve lost my job with Monsieur Armand, and I’ve probably lost my room and all my possessions.”
“Oh,” said my uncle airily, “mere things of this world.”
“As I recall, you’re rather fond of them yourself.”
“But always ready for the call of king and country.” He glanced at me. “Fortunately for you, because I have maintained my contacts with certain branches of our government and with old comrades from the war, you now have other employment. As for clothes.” Another look. “We can sort those. You’ll see. Probably nothing you had was suitable, anyway.”
I looked out the window. We seemed to be heading west toward the Bois de Boulogne. I saw the mass of greenery and felt my nose twitch. Pollen is my enemy. That decided it. “If I’m going to work, I’ll need to be paid.”
“All expenses, of course,” my uncle said. “His Majesty’s government is fair if not lavish. Must think of the rate payers, you know.”
The last time I’d assisted His Majesty’s government, I’d wound up in torturous heels impersonating a hatcheck girl, and all I’d gotten out of it was a second-class ticket to Paris. “Not good enough,” I said. “I need fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds!” My uncle sounded as shocked as if I’d asked for the Mona Lisa and a concession at the Eiffel Tower. “Your indulgent mother sends you five a month and you live on that quite nicely. What on earth would you do with fifty pounds?”
“I’d think of something,” I said. “But whatever it is, I’m not working for less. Half in advance.”
Uncle Lastings took this seriously enough to pull over to the curb and park. “Now, see here. I kept my part of the bargain and got the lovebirds to safety. Glad to do it. Your friend is an officer and a gentleman. Now you keep to your word.”
“Certainly,” I said, “but last time, I wound up not just leaving the city but leaving the country. Next step is back across the Channel, and I want money for Nan.”
“Your nanny?” Considering how rackety and unconventional his own life was, I felt his surprise unwarranted.
“We’re taking a flat together in London. With twenty-five pounds in hand, she can leave her present situation and find us rooms. Another twenty-five will enable me to join her and start work as a designer. If that’s too much, you can jolly well find someone else.”
My uncle appealed to my patriotism, to my affection for Jules, to the need to find Pavel quickly. On a normal day, I might have given in, but tired, hungover, out of work, out of clothes, and out of patience, I held out. Later that morning, we dispatched a postal order for twenty-five pounds to Nan. As so often with my uncle, our positions were now reversed: I was jubilant,
as jubilant as I was going to be with a hangover and little sleep. He was grumpy—I suspect the twenty-five pounds came out of his own exchequer and reduced the profit from his fiddle with the paintings.
Out near the Bois, he pulled into the gated drive of a handsome building that he announced would be our base of operations and parked the van in the garage. He unlocked the ground-floor apartment and told me to get cleaned up and rested. “We begin tonight,” he said.
I bathed and had a sandwich, but before I took a nap—important you look your best, my uncle insisted—I took some time at the handsome desk to write Nan.
I have sent you twenty-five pounds to find us rooms in London. Do that as soon as possible. Nothing fancy needed but something that will suit you and with a room I can use for a design studio. I know this is a surprise, but He Who Must Not Be Named has secured a job for me, and this time, I have asked to be paid half in advance. You can see I am getting wise to the ways of the world.
In the meantime, I am nicely situated in a fine room near the Bois de Boulogne. I will get a postcard for you soonest. It is where the gentry ride and go to the races; also there are gardens. He Who Must Not be Named is English again, which is a relief, and he has dyed his hair back and gotten proper clothes, which are also improvements. Exactly what I am to do is uncertain, but it requires fine new clothes and the special talents of your Francis.
More than that I could not tell her because my uncle waited until after our supper at a local café. I was interested to see that he was known by the proprietor, suggesting that while he had been living as Claude in one quartier, he had been Lastings in another. My uncle is a complicated man. As we drank our coffee, I was aware of him studying me. Well, let him look. I was dressed in a fine new shirt—real silk—with a lightweight summer suit, a linen between brown and gray. Whoever had picked it out had excellent taste. I had new, only slightly uncomfortable, shoes, and my hair had been lightened up by a gent who’d arrived late afternoon with a full hairdresser’s kit. In short, I was done up like a prize pup, and if I’d ever looked better, I don’t know when.
“Too bad you’re not younger, Francis,” he said at last.
“Berlin aged me.”
My uncle sniffed and decided not to discuss Berlin. “Still you might do, Francis. Though a couple of years younger would be desirable, I have confidence in your abilities.”
I shrugged, and my uncle said nothing more until we left the café. “The way to find your friend’s brother is to find Anoshkin’s honeypot,” he said as we walked back. “Something His Majesty’s government would like to locate as well. And the way to the pot is to follow the diplomat or attaché with the right tastes.”
I saw the conclusion. “And the way to find the target is to throw someone desirable into his path?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, don’t look at me. I have a face like a pudding.” This was an even crazier scheme than his last one. I’d expected to troll the cafés, keep my eyes and ears open, and generally amuse myself at government expense. Clearly, I’d been too modest about my personal attractions.
My uncle sighed. “It would certainly be preferable if you had an angelic countenance, Francis. But needs must, my boy, and we can but try. Your being of age keeps us on the right side of the law. That’s important here.”
“How cheering to be legal,” I said. “At home, I’m threatened with prosecution.” Indeed, the more I thought about it, the less enthusiastic I was about government service of any kind.
“We’ll knock a few years off your age,” Uncle Lastings continued. “On a good day, I think you could pass for fifteen. Yes?”
“Hardly,” I said. “I’ve just turned eighteen.”
“Dim lights will help. You are to be out strictly after dark.”
“Am I to be a rent boy or a vampire?”
My uncle laughed. “You have the family sense of humor,” he said, then turned serious. “Neither. You are to be young and innocent, quite dazzled by Paris. Forget everything you learned in Berlin. And lose that knowing look.”
“I think stupid is only attractive with an angelic countenance.”
“True, but we must use what we have. Look young, Francis, and I think our man will bite.”
I hoped not literally. “And do I know his name?”
“No, and neither do I. There are several candidates. For all I know, more than one may be involved.”
“And if I am lucky, you’ll follow them, and hope they lead us to Pavel?”
“Exactly. Though not me, personally. I am just an advisor.”
Some advisor. “What happens then?”
“We detain our man for questioning and the Sûreté and the Deuxième Bureau take care of the rest.”
What could go wrong? I could have compiled a list, but there was no time. We were due at a diplomatic reception that evening, and I had just time enough to change into evening dress. My uncle inspected the result before we sallied out.
“Yes,” he said, seemingly quite pleased. “Formal dress is good. Definitely you could pass for sixteen, and if there are candles, fifteen is not out of the question.”
I felt like an aging beauty.
“You are a young relative of our station chief. You will address him as ‘Uncle Horace.’ I will point him out discreetly. We are not related. In fact, you’ve never met me before, but I’ve been asked to show you around. Understand?”
I understood that I’d probably have been better off as nephew to a real British spy than to my uncle Lastings, even if, at the moment, he looked not just respectable but distinguished. I resisted the urge to ask if the small but important medals he’d added to his jacket were his or just window dressing. I wanted everything to go smoothly so that I could collect my other twenty-five pounds and return to London. I could almost taste the fog.
Off to the embassy, a fancy pile of stonework with a fine garden in the back like the loveliest seaside hotel imaginable. I was introduced to Horace, my newest uncle. He was tall and dry and sandy haired with rabbity teeth and a glass eye that looked considerably friendlier than his real one. He shook my hand and exchanged glances with Uncle Lastings.
“Good to see you again, Francis.”
“Nice to see you, Uncle Horace. This is impressive.” No lie. The entrance was big and marble clad and designed to intimidate. Empire architecture.
“Duty calls, but Lastings here will keep an eye on you. If you need anything, ask him. Enjoy the evening.”
I looked at Uncle Lastings, now the most causal of acquaintances. “First time in Paris?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying for naive enthusiasm. “A chance to try out my French. I just started last year. Fifth form.”
We went upstairs chatting as if we’d just met. I hadn’t realized my unlamented time at boarding school would ever come in handy. He escorted me to the reception room, a big salon lined in cream paneling touched with gilt, overhung by glittering chandeliers, and bordered by tall arched windows pouring in the evening light. Altogether too much light for my taste, too much of everything really. Roaming around the cafés was one thing. Trying to attract a pedophile at a diplomatic reception was quite another.
Nervous, I cast my eye on the drinks table, producing a subtle shake of the head from my uncle. Right: Schoolboys go for food first, and there was a fine array of pastries and biscuits of all sorts. Fortunately, I still have a schoolboy appetite. I selected a gateau slice with thick pink icing, and remembering that boys on school rations always take extras, I slipped some biscuits into my pocket.
“Aha! Caught you!”
I had a moment’s fear that some café habitué was about to compromise me right out of the gate. I turned to see a bird-boned chap wearing a military uniform many decades out of fashion. He had thick white hair, a beaky nose, and amused blue eyes. “Keep you hungry, do they? Always did at Eton.” He leaned clo
ser, balancing on his silver-topped cane, and whispered, “I always take a few extra myself.” He laughed, then nodded toward a tray of icing-topped fruit squares. “Fetch me a couple of those like a good lad.”
I fixed a plate and held it for him, too, because despite his bright face and cheery air, he had quite a serious tremor. This was a nice old chap who pointed out some interesting pictures and told me more than I needed to know about his schooldays at Eton. Was he our target? I didn’t think so, and even if he was, I didn’t see him being able to do much harm. I was wondering how to get rid of him when a smart young embassy official came up, made excuses, and steered him away.
Was that suspicious? I watched them walk across the room toward a young woman wearing a short violet dress with a diaphanous shawl. She was our entertainment for the evening, all set to warble British art songs. Perhaps she was famous, for the old soldier seemed thrilled. He fluffed his feathers and kissed her hand with an eagerness that put me out of doubt. No honeypot for him, at least not of the sort we were seeking.
Songs, artful or otherwise, leave me cold, so I decided to visit the garden champagne table as preparation for the recital. Surely, a schoolboy on the loose would have at least one glass. As soon as I lost sight of Uncle Lastings, I went through the French doors to the perfect green velvet lawn outside.
Guests milling about, perfume and cigarette smoke and the dangerous breath of roses in the air. I set my course for a long, damask-covered table where I picked up a flute and happily discovered that the champagne was decent. I immediately felt better. A glass in hand is a great support if you’re shy, which I am when I’m on unfamiliar ground.
I admired the roses with a stout lady in a vast red garden party hat—thinking I must describe it for Nan—and exchanged a few words with a slight and active waiter no more than my age before a very tall and handsome chap, blond with a perfect profile and a beautiful physique, strolled up to ask if I was having a good time. On a different occasion, his arrival would have brightened the whole evening. As it was, he was clearly embassy staff and so, strictly speaking, work.