by Janice Law
“Not well.”
“But you did know him.”
“I knew who he was but not what he was up to.”
“Someone said there might be another boy involved.”
I tried to look blank.
“A Russian boy?”
I kept quiet.
“A boy you were looking for? You and Lastings?”
When I remained silent, Willington snatched at the front of my shirt and with his face inches from mine shouted, “Is he dead?”
“He was caught in the explosion.”
Willington stared at me, his chilly eyes unblinking, but I’m a good liar, and, in fact, both Pavel and I had been caught in the blast.
“But you know about him,” he said, releasing me and sitting back down. Was that a note of regret? Had he been susceptible to my charm after all? “You’re the only witness.”
I felt a little chill: I had not been quite as clever as I’d thought. While my uncle, Pavel, and Alexi all could provide evidence about the honeypot scheme, I’d foolishly let Willington think I was the only one besides Alexi who’d had contact with Pavel. Alexi might well keep quiet for the glory of the revolution and the advancement of the Soviets, but I was a problem, whether Willington was set to betray our country or just aiming to escape the threat of blackmail. Keep alert, Francis!
“I believe I need a lawyer. I want to see Horace and I want to see Lastings, who really is my uncle. You can check on that.” Good enough? I took a sip of the whiskey. Excellent. And then another before caution took over. I set the glass down still more than half full.
“Perhaps you’re right. Drink up and we’ll go to the embassy,” he said. “Horace should have sobered up by now.” I got a toothy smile; in addition to everything else, he had perfect teeth.
“Enough for me. I’ve hardly had anything to eat today.” Cue for him to offer a snack to a growing boy. Instead, he lunged at me, trapping my legs and grabbing my jaw. He snatched the whiskey glass and put it to my lips. “Drink up,” he said.
I shook my head and tried to twist away, but he was too strong. He got a certain amount down my throat; the rest drenched my shirt. Willington hoisted me to my feet, twisted one arm behind me and forced me to the door. “Yell,” he said, “and I’ll break your arm.”
With this caution, we descended the stair. One good kick, I thought to myself. A strategic elbow. Maybe even a deliberate fall—although the stone steps of the lower floors looked uninviting, and between drugs and little sleep and less food I was feeling wobbly. Still, how hard could it be? I grabbed the banister, intending to hang on, and found my feet knocked out from under me. Bump, bump, bump down on my shins, upright again at the door and quick out to the car and in.
Door locked behind me. I tried to clamber over to the driver’s-side door, but Willington was agile despite his size, and he didn’t fool about. I saw his arm go back before his fist hit my face full force. I was thrown against the door frame, where I must have cracked my head, because the next thing I was aware of was motion passing through alternating darkness and brightness. The car was moving fast, disturbing my twitching stomach, and I struggled to sit up.
Silhouettes of trees against the night sky—we were in some sylvan place, not the embassy. Not safety. Not safe. And now a glimmer. Lights, of course, it was night, full dark. Darkness had come while I was foolishly lying to Willington and making myself seem dangerous. But that was a glimmer and a reflection. So water. The river. We were along the Seine and why were we there? No good reason, no good reason at all. Were we slowing? For one of the quays? So convenient for the romantic and the suicidal and the romantically suicidal.
I wanted to tell Willington that I was a survivor. That romance was not in my portfolio. That, moreover, my distaste for deep water was well known, but I couldn’t find the words. Not in French, but Willington was not French, he was English. English words then. Easy, sure, unless your tongue was paralyzed. Was I paralyzed? I moved one hand. Not paralyzed.
I put it on the door. Felt the door handle. Felt the lock. Saw against the blurry outlines of chestnut trees and the glimmer of the streetlights, figures. Friends? Enemies? Better than Willington, I thought, and pushed down with my remaining strength. The door swung open, carrying me out with it. My feet hit the cobblestones at alarming speed. Willington yelled and the brakes screeched as I hit the road, slid over the cobbles, and crashed into the curbing in terrible pain.
I screamed. Then high, alarmed shouts and a clatter of women’s heels was followed by the most beautiful sound in the world. “Hoy, ducks! Good way to kill yourself!”
The voice belonged to a big blonde with a fine London accent.
“Help! He’s trying to kill me! Car. Man in car.”
An earsplitting whistle. Her partner, a leggy brunette with a strong line in perfume, grabbed me under the arms and hauled me from the road onto the sidewalk and under the trees. Willington shouted at them, but they were tough and not easily frightened. The blonde yelled back at him in the finest French slang, and I can’t guess what might have happened to him or to my two Amazons if another dark car hadn’t screeched to a stop. Two men got out.
“Shite! First gents of the night and we’ve a casualty on our hands,” one of the women said.
I looked up, recognized my two uncles, and passed out.
Hospital room. Mine. I was sitting up, all clean and bright, my left arm encased in what felt like a ton of plaster, my cut head decorated with patches. More bandages covered the raw scrapes on hip, shoulder, and side from my excursion along the cobblestones. I had a severe break, a possible concussion, and contusions, which sound more medically impressive than bruises.
Nonetheless, I was up and eating well—check my chart if you don’t believe me—and ready to be released. At that moment, I was enjoying late strawberries from a basket that Madame Dumoulin had brought me, along with a stack of gallery catalogs. Both were immensely welcome, as was the news that everyone was safe and that with only tinted glasses and a little makeup, Madame Dumoulin had been out and about, without, as she put it, looking a spectacle, and had seen a most interesting show by a Japanese painter.
That was on Thursday, her day for Paris, and I immediately felt better than I had since before I ventured into Willington’s apartment. But now it was Saturday, and, sure enough, right at 1100 hours, in came Uncle Lastings. He was wearing a dark, ultrarespectable suit, and he was carrying a neat little attaché case. That had to mean something.
He reached into the basket and helped himself to a couple of berries. “Very nice.”
“From Madame Dumoulin.”
He shook his head. “A charming widow. You might have introduced me, Francis. You might have made your old uncle’s fortune.”
“And she might have lost hers. She is a good friend,” I said.
He made a face. “So I understand. For some mysterious reason, you bring out the protective instinct in women, a gift of the gods you choose to neglect. The two flappers the other night—”
“Probably saved my life. I hope they didn’t lose by it.”
“Lose by it? Dear boy, I took them to dinner and rogered them both. A charming night!”
Did I believe that he would have left his unconscious nephew to romp with the Amazons? Actually, I did.
“Horace, of course, arranged everything at this end. A private room and the very best of everything.”
“I appreciate. And Pavel?”
“Safe as houses. He’s given a very complete statement, and his papers are all arranged. He and Jules and the beautiful Inessa are off to Canada for a time.” He looked at his watch. “They catch the boat train to England today, then on to Montreal. Best to have them well away from Paris.”
“That’s good,” I said, and I leaned my head back on my chair, suddenly tired. My friends had been much on my mind.
“Well,” said my uncle, “that’s that, then.” He clapped his hands and made to rise.
“You’re forgetting my money,” I
said. “Twenty-five pounds.”
He huffed and he puffed about this. There had been unexpected costs. My hospital stay, clothes, et cetera.
“I need twenty-five pounds,” I said, “or I go to the press: british boy endangered as embassy bungles honeypot investigation. How does that sound?”
Well, my uncle got angry before he turned sly; he was a man who always had an alternate plan of attack. He lit one of his Gauloises, looked up at the ceiling, then back at me with a twinkle in his eye. “You really are going to set up in London as a designer?”
“Yes. With Nan.”
“She’s found a place for you?”
“She has. Bedroom, kitchen, WC, and workroom/showroom. I can do it.”
“There would be storage space?”
“Some. As I get more stock, I’ll have to expand. But, yes, if Nan says the place will do, you can be sure it will.”
“Give me the address,” he said. And when I did, he opened his wallet and took out some five- and ten-pound notes. “I might just ship you something.”
I had a pretty good idea of what that might be, and I didn’t much like getting involved with his art scam. At the same time, the chance to study a Matisse, a Derain, or a Marquet up close and at my leisure was almost irresistible. “There will be storage fees,” I said, “and you’ll have to pay the insurance.”
Uncle Lastings looked at me from under his brows and considered being angry again but decided against it. “I didn’t take you for a man of business, Francis. I hope this hardheaded streak does not interfere with your artistic inclinations.” Then he laughed and asked, “Any other requirements?”
I stood up, a trifle uncertainly but, yes, I was on my feet, and yes, I was going home. “Only a telegram to Nan,” I said. “Tell her to meet me at the boat train at Victoria Station.”
About the Author
Janice Law is an acclaimed author of mystery fiction. The Watergate scandal inspired her to write her first novel, The Big Payoff, which introduced Anna Peters, a street-smart young woman who blackmails her boss, a corrupt oil executive. The novel was a success, winning an Edgar nomination, and Law went on to write eight more in the series. Law has written historical mysteries, standalone suspense, and, most recently, the Francis Bacon Mysteries, which include The Prisoner of the Riviera, winner of the 2013 Lambda Literary Gay Mystery Award. She lives and writes in Connecticut.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Janice Law
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
978-1-5040-3606-1
Published in 2017 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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