Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  “Some days I like the changes, but other times I wonder what kind of person I’d have been if Roux hadn’t become infatuated with me.”

  “Infatuated with you?”

  “Does that seem so difficult to believe?”

  “No, but it’s Roux. He has a thing for younger women. I’ve seen that.”

  “When Roux met me, I was a younger woman.”

  “Okay, but he wasn’t a younger guy. He was old then. Really, really old.” Despite her fear of impending doom, Annja couldn’t help but be curious. “You became infatuated with Roux?”

  “He’s a deeply complex man.”

  “I know he likes young girls. Girls. Plural. You had a relationship?”

  “We did.” Fiona grimaced. “And he does like girls. As I said, he’s something of a randy old goat. But while he was with me, I believe he was monogamous.”

  “You’re blowing my mind. Seriously. I don’t want to think about Roux’s sex life.”

  “Well, we won’t talk about that.” Fiona smiled. “But I have to admit, he opened my eyes to a lot of possibilities. There’s nothing like the touch of an older lover who knows what he’s about.”

  “Don’t. I’m going to be sick.”

  “Is it the car?”

  “It’s this conversation.”

  Fiona grinned. “You’re the one that asked.”

  “Maybe we could just stick to the highlights.” Annja closed her eyes again as the woman briefly left the street and zipped along the sidewalk.

  “Remind me to have Jenkins take a look at the suspension when we get back.” Fiona checked the traffic, spotted a gap and got back over just as an early-morning breakfast crowd fearfully vacated the tables of an open-air restaurant. “At any rate, I was working my way through university. I answered an ad for a personal secretary.”

  “In London? I thought Roux lived outside Paris.”

  “Does he? I didn’t know that.” Some of the lightheartedness deserted Fiona then. “So close, and he’s never once…” She frowned.

  “The ad was for a personal secretary?” Annja couldn’t help prompting.

  “Yes. You do know that Roux looks for legendary objects from time to time?”

  “I do.”

  “Such as those stupid sword pieces he was forever going on about. Did he talk to you about those, too?”

  “Uh…” Annja wasn’t sure she wanted to get into her relationship with the sword.

  “Of course he did. I don’t know why I bothered to ask. The man was—and probably still is—obsessed with finding the lost pieces of Joan of Arc’s sword.” Fiona shrilled around the next corner. “I spent years helping him look for it. But they weren’t all bad years. We had a lot of fun traveling around the world.”

  “But when you found out how old Roux was, didn’t that kind of creep you out?” Annja held her thumb and forefinger marginally apart. “Just a little.”

  Fiona laughed. “You look at Roux and see an old man.”

  “Um, yeah. Gray hair. Wrinkles. Skinny. Yeah, definitely an old man.”

  “That’s because you’re superficial.”

  Annja couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Fiona reached across and patted her on the knee. “Don’t take it to heart, love. Everybody’s superficial to a degree. Roux certainly is. Some sweet young thing would walk by, his head would nearly twist off turning to look.”

  “Gross.”

  “Is it, now?” Fiona laughed. “Just means he’s alive, is all.” She accelerated around another car. “Do you want to know what I saw when I looked at Roux?”

  Annja gave the question considerable thought. She didn’t want to be scarred for life. And she was comfortable—mostly—with how she dealt with Roux. She didn’t want that to change.

  Evidently Fiona decided not to wait on her answer. “I saw a man who was on fire to live.”

  “Roux?” When Annja thought of Roux, she thought of sloth and selfishness. The old man never truly did anything unless it suited him.

  “Yes.” Fiona smiled in memory. “Just thinking about him makes my heart beat faster. I used to watch him play baccarat. That was his game.”

  “He plays Texas Hold’em now.”

  “Does he? Probably with the same zeal.” Then Fiona grimaced and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Of course, I also think about how the weasel ran out on me in the middle of the night.” She jerked the car violently and avoided another vehicular encounter, leaving horns blaring in her wake.

  “He just left?” That was the Roux Annja knew. Of course Roux didn’t give an answer about something unless someone was holding a blowtorch to his face.

  “He did. We were together eighteen years. Then, one day, he went out and never came back. For a while I was convinced someone had killed him. He has quite a number of enemies, as you might know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s that man, Garin.”

  Annja decided not to say anything about that.

  “And out of the blue, Roux calls me and asks me to look after you.” Fiona glanced at Annja. “You can see how I might not have been as friendly as I could have.”

  “Did you ask Roux why he left?”

  “My pride may be tattered, but I do still have it. I most certainly did not ask him that.”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Yes, but do you think Roux would tell me? The truth, I mean?”

  Annja shook her head. “Probably not.”

  “But I know he still cares.”

  “How?”

  “Because he knew how to get hold of me, and that I would be able to help you. If he didn’t care about me, he wouldn’t have known that. Since he left, I’ve made something of myself. Adventured for a while, mostly hoping to run into him again in our old haunts, and continued working.”

  “Private inquiry work?”

  “Among other things. I made a fortune from some of the things I’d done with Roux, and some of the things I did afterward. After a while, I came back to London to live, but I still couldn’t settle down. I opened up the business to keep from being bored, and because I found out I enjoy helping people.” Fiona smiled grandly. “And I love nettling Scotland Yard and those stuffed shirts when I get the opportunity.”

  Abruptly, Fiona braked and pulled the car to the curb. She parked in front of an old two-story building a block off Cheshire Street, if Annja had managed the geography correctly.

  A sign out front declared Snooker.

  Fiona pressed a button and the gullwing doors opened. “Come along, then. Paddy practically lives here. We’ll see what he knows about Jean-Baptiste Laframboise.”

  13

  Annja had definite misgivings as she stepped into the snooker hall. Although much of the East End had undergone reconstruction and refurbishment, seedy patches remained. This was one of them. Even at this early hour, men were at the tables, drinking and smoking, and talking to one another in language better used on the docks and in the factories where they normally worked.

  The interior was dark and stank of smoke and stale beer. Curtains covered the windows, but thin lines of sunlight fell through gaps and drew lines on the stained wooden floor. Billiards cracked sharply somewhere in the back.

  Voices quieted as the crowd spotted Fiona. She also drew a number of salacious comments, but she ignored them.

  Annja flanked the older woman as they walked to the bar on the other side of the room.

  A scroungy man in a red shirt unbuttoned to the navel tended bar. He leaned over the scarred surface, pencil in hand as he worked a Sudoku puzzle. His limp black hair fell into his face. Eyeliner outlined his dark eyes and made them look sad and sensitive.

  “You’re in a bad place, love.” He spoke softly so his voice didn’t carry. He didn’t look up. “You should pack up and go back to wherever it is you come from.”

  “I’ve been in worse places. I don’t suppose you have a pot of tea back there, do you?”

  “I do.�
�� The bartender left the Sudoku puzzle lying on the counter. “Milk?”

  “Please.”

  The bartender glanced at Annja. “Would you like tea, as well?”

  “I would. Thank you.”

  A grin thinned the bartender’s lips. “You’re an American.”

  Annja nodded.

  “Interesting.” The bartender threw a towel over one shoulder and retreated to the back. He returned a moment later with two steaming cups of tea. With polite deliberation, he put the teacups in front of them. “Brace yourselves. Here comes the bloody cock of the walk.”

  Annja glanced at the small mirror on the wall at the back of the bar and watched a stout man approaching the bar. Three younger men trailed after him. With the builds they had, lean and muscular, they probably worked the docks. Or they had in their past. The hardness of their expressions marked them as something other than warehouse employees.

  Fiona turned casually, leaned back against the bar and hooked her elbows over it. She looked like a cat stretched in the sun, but Annja read her wariness. A small grin pulled at the corners of her mouth.

  Annja hoisted herself onto a bar stool a few feet from Fiona and waited. She hoped the woman knew what she was doing.

  The big man leaned on the counter. Then he swiveled his attention to Fiona. “My name is Leon Copely. I’ve got a nose for cops. My nose is telling me you’re a cop.”

  “You need to check in with your otolaryngologist at your first opportunity, Mr. Copely.”

  The big man frowned, held his gaze on Fiona for a moment, then looked at his nearest lackey.

  Fiona leaned over to the man and added in a low voice, “An otolaryngologist is an ears, nose and throat physician, Mr. Copely.” She tapped her nose. “He should be able to help you with your sense of smell. I’m certain he can put things to rights. He might even be able to recommend someone to straighten it.”

  The man grimaced with cold deliberation. “I don’t need help with my nose. I don’t need it straightened. And you’re a cop.”

  “I’m not a police officer.”

  “You don’t belong here, neither. So I’m only gonna ask you one time—what are you doing here?”

  “I came for some information.”

  The man scowled. “You ain’t getting nothing from me.”

  “I didn’t ask you, now, did I? You didn’t even know what an otolaryngologist was. I suspect you may be pathetically deficient in information.” Fiona sipped her tea. “As far as I’m concerned, you can go back about your business.”

  Annja couldn’t believe the way Fiona was deliberately antagonizing the man. Something bad was going to happen.

  Copely bristled and his jaw worked as if he was chewing cud. “You got a smart mouth.”

  “Trust me, the smart mouth suits the rest of the package.” Fiona eyed Copely coolly as the man stood straighter. “Have a care that you don’t bite off something bigger than you can chew.”

  “Haddock.” Copely’s voice had turned to gravel.

  The biggest of his three companions started forward. He knotted his hands into fists, his intention clear.

  Unable to sit back, Annja slid from the bar stool. She took one step forward, hooked her hand in the man’s shirt collar from behind and yanked at the same time she kicked his supporting knee.

  The big man fell with a squawk. Annja stepped back at once, already aware of a second man setting himself and throwing a punch at her. She slipped under it, then twisted and caught the extended arm by the wrist. Shifting her stance, she set herself, redirected the man’s forward momentum and took the captured arm down and around. Pivoted by his own strength and the fulcrum of his shoulder, the man screamed in pain as he landed flat on his back.

  An amateur enthusiast rather than a trained fighter, the third man rushed at Annja. She hooked a bar stool with her foot and propelled it into the man’s path. He tripped over it, caught himself and tried to fight his way clear. Annja whirled into a spinning back kick that caught the point of the man’s jaw and stretched him out on the floor.

  By that time, the big man she’d choked and tripped was getting his feet back under him. He reached into his pocket and flicked open a knife as Annja seized another bar stool and broke it across his teeth. Bloody and unconscious, the big man toppled to the floor.

  Still holding the stool, Annja threw it down and turned back to Copely. He had already reached under his jacket and was coming out with a pistol.

  A few of the other men in the room had started approaching with pool cues.

  Fiona flicked out a hand quick as a striking snake, seized Copely’s thumb and snapped it like a breadstick. The pistol fell from his grasp and he yelled in pain. Still holding on to the man’s injured hand, Fiona locked her prey in place, then shoved her pistol into his ear. She pulled the trigger and a spray of blood misted over Copely’s shoulder.

  Copely screamed.

  The bartender cursed and jumped back.

  Half the room away, the men with the pool cues pulled up and watched in fascination.

  For a moment Annja thought the woman had shot her opponent in the head and that she’d watched a cold-blooded murder. Instead, she noted the small hole in the center of his stippled and charred earlobe and knew that Fiona had deliberately not killed the man.

  Fiona shoved the pistol into Copely’s mouth. Copely stopped screaming as he choked on the heated metal.

  Almost politely, Fiona leaned forward to the man’s uninjured ear. “Do I have your attention, Mr. Copely?” She had him turned so she could watch the other men in the snooker parlor.

  Weakly, eyes glassy and not properly focused, probably concussed by the detonation in his ear, Copely nodded.

  “That’s good. I’d hate to repeat myself, and it would be only a waste of time because then you wouldn’t be able to hear me at all. You only have two ears.” Fiona smiled and Annja’s estimation of the woman shifted. She decided she wouldn’t want Fiona Pioche as an opponent for any reason. “I want you to go away now, Mr. Copely. Pick up your friends and go wherever it is when you’re not here. And as free advice, don’t ever be anywhere around me again. Do you understand?”

  Shivering, Copely nodded.

  “I hate a bully, Mr. Copely, and I do business on this side of the city. If I have a client who has a problem with you in the future—no matter how far away—I will help them for free. And when I am finished with you, you will be dead or in prison. I hope I make myself clear.”

  “Yeah.”

  “On your way, then.” Fiona gently pushed Copely into motion.

  He stumbled, touched his ear and stared at the bright blood. Then he motioned to the other man who was still conscious and they started working on their two unconscious friends.

  Fiona placed the pistol on the bar and sipped her tea.

  “Never a dull moment with you, is there, Ms. Pioche?”

  Annja tracked the man’s voice upward to the second story overlooking the first. He stood at the railing dressed in a double-breasted suit. He looked almost as wide as he was tall and wore a salt-and-pepper goatee. His dark hair was slicked back. He wore rimless glasses that made him look professorial.

  Fiona smiled. “Hello, Paddy.”

  “You’re a pip, my dear.” Paddy smiled for a moment, then his face hardened. “Mr. Copely.”

  Copely stood with one of Haddock’s arms across his shoulders.

  “You’re no longer welcome on these premises.”

  “That would be a mistake.” Copely had some of his nerve back. “I throw you a percentage of everything I do.”

  “I know that.” Paddy fixed the man with a harsh stare. “And I run an establishment that’s safe for everyone that comes through those doors, whether it’s for snooker or… You know that.”

  Copely’s face darkened. “You can’t talk to me—”

  “Eddie.” Paddy’s voice was sharp with rebuke. “If that imbecile insists on continuing to waste his breath and my time, blow him out of his shoes.”
<
br />   The bartender reached under the bar and took out a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. “Yes, sir.” He ratcheted back the hammers and the clicks sounded ominous in the silence that filled the big gaming room.

  Without another word, Copely staggered out under the weight of the big man. His other two companions leaned on each other and followed.

  “Now, Ms. Pioche, I am to assume you are here on business and not merely to harass my patrons?” Paddy peered down at Fiona.

  “The only reason I have for ever coming here, my dear man, is to be enchanted by your charm and wit.”

  “And my information, of course.” Paddy grinned.

  “Merely part of your charm.”

  “Well played, Ms. Pioche. Please come up.”

  * * *

  THE SPACIOUS UPSTAIRS OFFICE contained a great many books on built-in shelves. Most of the volumes looked as if they’d been read.

  “Annja Creed, it is my pleasure to present Mr. Paddy McGurk.”

  Paddy smiled and inclined his head. “Ms. Creed, this is indeed an honor. Judging from your articles and your books, we share similar interests.”

  “We do?”

  “Antiquities. Legends. Stories of long-lost things.”

  “You’re a collector?”

  “An appreciator of fine arts.” Paddy bowed and took Annja’s hand briefly before gesturing her to one of the plush sofas on either side of a glass-topped coffee table.

  Fiona busied herself at a tea service on one side of the room while Paddy took a seat on the sofa across from Annja. “What he isn’t telling you is that he collects antiquities for other people who aren’t too picky about how he got his hands on them.”

  Apparently embarrassed, Paddy waved Fiona’s words away. “Avarice is a mean thing. First cousin to jealousy. And I don’t hide away every antiquity that I set my sights on. Some of them end up in museums. I’m very careful to…give back.”

  “You are.” Fiona brought the tea service over and put it on the coffee table. She poured the steaming liquid into cups.

  “Thank you. You spoil me.” Paddy lifted the cup and blew on the tea.

  “Another thing Paddy won’t mention, unless he knows you very well, is that he is a gifted forger.” Fiona settled onto the couch beside Paddy with her own cup of tea.