City of Death

by Douglas Adams

  * * *

  Duggan was in command, he was in control, he had the gun. Whatever the story of these two was, he’d get to the bottom of it.

  Suddenly finding himself in the road, he stepped out of it to avoid a coach. He weaved around a group of tourists pushing past to taking pictures of the cathedral. As it wasn’t on the map, they ignored his gun.

  The Doctor and Romana were still sat at the table, placidly watching all of Paris go by.

  Duggan’s grip on his gun did not waver.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’ he suggested.

  * * *

  The café owner barely batted an eyelid when Duggan marched the Doctor and Romana in at gunpoint. The Doctor, who had his hands theatrically up in the air in surrender, favoured him with a friendly waggle of his fingers. ‘Patron! Three glasses of water, please. And do make them doubles.’

  Refusing to feel out of his depth, Duggan marched them over to a table in the corner. No escape. A chance to interrogate them. He waved his gun around the bar, not exactly pointing it at anyone, but ensuring that everyone was aware that he had a gun, was allowed to use it, and they really needn’t bother calling the gendarmes. He was slightly disappointed to realise that no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention. Paris had a venerable history of ignoring tourists seeking attention.

  The Doctor and Romana sat down opposite him, hands still politely in the air.

  ‘I’m the Doctor,’ announced the Doctor. ‘This is Romana. I would shake hands, but . . . well.’ He gestured to his hands, still, somehow insolently held in the air.

  ‘Now then,’ began Duggan, but the Doctor shushed him.

  ‘No, no,’ he whispered confidentially. ‘Let’s wait for our waters.’

  * * *

  In the library of the House of Questions, the Countess was having to provide a lot of answers.

  The Count was wearing his most dangerous smile. She hated Carlos when he was like this. He’d go from being the most charismatic, charming man she’d ever known to this strangely detached creature. She felt she was being observed down a microscope. A bacteria.

  It brought out the worst in her. It reminded her of the clinical appraisals she’d been subjected to by her father’s clients back in Switzerland. Very pretty, but what is she thinking?

  When she was a little girl she’d shuddered. But now she became petulant. There was so much about Carlos she didn’t know. Odd really. Now she wasn’t wearing the bracelet, couldn’t hear that inaudible buzzing, it almost felt as if her head was clearing.

  When she’d first put the bracelet on, Carlos had been dismissive about the buzzing. ‘A buzzing? Really, my dear? Pay no attention to it. Only the stupid can hear it.’

  She’d never complained about it since, only . . .

  Silly thought. She had never seen him clean his teeth. Why was that?

  ‘And then?’ the Count asked, finishing his crème de menthe.

  She ignored the question, flicking through a book of such rareness that she enjoyed slowly folding down the corner of the page to mark where she’d got to. Then she wandered over to a table, pouring herself some champagne into a flute. She sipped at it, looking down at the peacocks in the gardens.

  ‘And then?’ repeated the Count. He was barely smiling at all now. A rare event.

  The Countess shrugged. ‘Oh, I followed that fool of a detective.’

  ‘Why?’

  Another shrug, a sip of champagne. It was too warm to be properly enjoyed, but who cared. ‘Reasons.’

  The Count leaned forward, seizing her wrist with surprising force. He took the glass from her hand, drained it, and then put it down. All the while, he kept gripping her arm.

  ‘Do not play with me, my dear,’ he breathed. As ever, his breath smelt of nothing.

  It took an effort, but the Countess managed a twinkle. ‘What else have I been doing all these years?’

  The challenge hung in the air between them.

  ‘Following instructions,’ the Count replied, and the smile flicked back on his face. He walked over to a window, looking down into the courtyard where they had once had burned a cardinal alive. He inhaled deeply as though he could still smell the cooking fat. ‘Continue with your story.’

  The Countess crossed to a sofa, settling down in it, flicking through the pages of American Vogue. ‘The detective, Duggan. He annoyed me. He’s stopped watching me and started watching the painting.’

  The Count clicked his tongue as he turned back from the view. He looked almost surprised, but his face seemed unable to quite manage the emotion. ‘So . . . Duggan’s shown a glimmering of intelligence at last.’ He appraised the Countess’s figure. Was he, she thought briefly, jealous? Was that it? ‘Perhaps we should deal with him.’ His smile warmed up. That was it! He was jealous! The Countess wondered if she would miss Duggan. Would the Count let her watch when he killed him? She felt a tiny thrill of pleasure.

  One which the Count swiftly dispelled. Rubbing his right eye, he folded himself casually into a chair opposite her. He plucked the magazine from her hands, dropping it to the floor. He held her hands in his, staring into her eyes, his gaze a mixture of love and challenge. ‘But no. I think Duggan is too stupid to bother us seriously. Don’t you?’

  ‘Except . . .’ The Countess stood up, letting his hands fall away. Was she nervous? Perhaps. Just a little. She went over to the escritoire, its pigeonholes overflowing with invitations. ‘The Marquise would consider it an honour . . .’ ‘The Chief Auctioneer politely inquires . . .’ ‘M. President requests the pleasure . . .’ If only they knew. She toyed with a jewel-handled letter opener, picking at imaginary dirt under her fingernails. ‘Something else happened today,’ she began steadily. ‘In front of the painting.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The Count pretended only mild interest.

  ‘A tall man I had not seen before fainted.’

  The Count chuckled. It really was most unlike her to get distracted by overexcited tourists. He hoped this wasn’t the first sign of nerves. That would be unfortunate. ‘You are getting jumpy, my dear,’ he purred. ‘Probably overcome by your charms. A man can faint if he wants to.’

  ‘Except . . .’ The Countess put down the letter opener and turned to face him, biting her lip. She was afraid to make the admission. ‘Except that by the time he hit the ground he had somehow got the bracelet off my wrist.’

  ‘What!’ The Count sprang to his feet, genuinely incredulous. He was staring at her arm. Why had he not noticed it before? He’d just taken it for granted. ‘Wear it always,’ he’d said when he’d first placed it on her wrist. ‘Wear it always and think of me.’ And she’d have had no choice in the matter. How had someone managed to release the isomorphic clasp? Clearly the pickpockets of Paris were excelling themselves. But still. He found he couldn’t contain his anger and something else, something that felt like fear. ‘And you let him take it?’ he roared. He realised he was now towering over her, his smile furious. She was staring at him, the terror plain on her face. Well, good.

  ‘I had no choice!’ She broke away from him. ‘There was a rush, confusion. Well-organised, I’m sure.’

  ‘But by the heavens . . .’ The Count’s brain was catching up with the implications of this. Could Duggan possibly know about the bracelet? He doubted Duggan would even have the intelligence to comprehend what the bracelet really was if he was given a colouring book about it. ‘That bracelet . . .’ Well, this would not do. This would not do at all. If an idiot like Duggan was acting on a hunch, then they were all right. But if that bracelet fell into the hands of someone with a brain. Who could guess what it was. Or rather, what it could be . . .

  The Countess was suddenly wreathed in cool smiles and warm reassurances. As though a maid had spilled soup on his favourite cravat and lost it at the dry cleaner’s. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. We will get it back. The matter is in hand.’


  The Count forced himself to nod. His right eye was itching abominably. He rearranged his features, making his smile thirteen per cent that’s fine and thirty per cent more apology accepted. But deep inside, Count Scarlioni felt worried. Not just for himself. But for everyone. He realised he was still standing in the middle of the library, like a hero in a drawing room comedy. He made himself stride over to the marble fireplace, leaning nonchalantly against it. He lit a cigarette and smiled familiarly over at his wife.

  ‘My dear,’ he purred, ‘I do trust you will be . . .’

  As ever, she finished his sentence. ‘Discreet?’ She tapped her cigarette holder against the mantel. ‘Of course.’

  * * *

  ‘What bracelet?’ asked the Doctor innocently, a gun to his head.

  You can be as rude as you like in a Paris restaurant so long as you don’t insult your waiter. The appearance of two men with guns seemed to be testing this rule. But, unlike most tourists, they knew what they wanted as soon as they walked in, which marked them out as true Parisians. And they were only pointing a gun at foreigners, so live and let live. The customers of the bar had already turned a blind eye to one incident of people being held at gunpoint. Well, why not two?

  The manners of Parisians are baffling. Waiting your turn and queuing are frowned upon. People are pitied for giving correct directions, and sneered at for insincere politeness. Yet, Parisians are also famed for their charm, their enthusiasm and their immense kindness. Such are the Parisians’ contradictions between their good nature and their bad manners that the Japanese Embassy maintains a special helpline for tourists who find it all a bit much.

  Romana, Duggan and the Doctor sat at their table. Duggan was waiting for the Doctor or the girl to react. But they didn’t. Their hands were held placidly in the air as though they belonged there.

  The two men (sharp faces, sharp suits) frisked them quickly. It took them seconds to find it.

  ‘Ah,’ remarked the Doctor. ‘You mean that bracelet.’

  The two men pocketed the bracelet, nodded politely to the waiter and left without another word.

  The Doctor and Romana sat there, arms still in the air, seemingly without a care in the world.

  ‘Romana, are you all right?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m just relaxing and enjoying Paris,’ she said.

  They put their arms down on the table, calmly waiting to see what would happen next. They turned to favour Duggan with identical, polite grins.

  Duggan leaned back in his chair, applauding slowly and sarcastically.

  ‘All right,’ he sneered. ‘Very good. Nicely staged but you don’t fool me.’

  The Doctor and Romana exchanged a quick glance. Romana considered their situation. Imminent threat to the fabric of space-time? Yes. Weapons pointed at them? Double yes. And now mistaken identity. If things ran according to her projection, they’d be locked up in a dungeon within the hour. ‘What are you talking about?’ asked the Doctor, courteously.

  ‘Your men who were in here just now.’ Duggan had perfected sounding bored from endless interrogations.

  ‘My men?’ The Doctor pointed to himself in a pantomime of outrage. ‘Those thugs?’

  ‘Your thugs.’ Duggan nodded slowly. Now, my friend, now we’re getting to it.

  The Doctor pointed to the café door. ‘Are you suggesting those men were in my employ?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.’

  ‘I don’t know if you noticed’—the Doctor cleared his throat and leaned forward, confidential, sharing a secret—‘but those men were pointing a gun at me. I’m sorry, but if anyone in my employ did that, I’d sack them on the spot.’

  Romana nodded solemnly.

  Duggan was having none of it. ‘Except that I know you arranged for them to hold you up as a bluff.’ His tone was triumphant. ‘You’re trying to put me on a false scent.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ The Doctor rhymed it with stupid. Dismissing Duggan, he turned to le Patron. The café owner, who had so far displayed a magnificent unconcern for the goings-on in his café, materialised by the Doctor’s side, solicitous for his every need. ‘Patron! I thought I ordered three glasses of water!’

  ‘M’sieur.’ Le Patron scowled and went to run a tap.

  Romana and the Doctor settled back to wait for their drinks.

  Feeling snubbed, Duggan felt the urge to get violent. In about two minutes, maybe three, he would be very much enjoying hurting this man. ‘Listen you,’ he began. He always said this. Which was odd as there was rarely much to hear except the sound of his fists hitting things.

  The Doctor could sense the mounting threat but was completely unconcerned by it. He’d noticed on the menu a slightly unusual ordering of the ingredients for a Salade Niçoise. Anchovies received undue prominence over the boiled egg. He wondered if this was deliberate, and if so, what difference that would make to the flavour. He held out a hand. Duggan shook it automatically.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ said the Doctor. ‘Where were we? Ah yes. I’m the Doctor. This is Romana. You are?’

  ‘Duggan,’ said Duggan. As they clearly weren’t bothering to tell him their real names, he couldn’t see why he should give them his first name.

  Le Patron brought over three glasses of tap water, putting each one down on the table with a casual yet loud slam. ‘Bonne dégustation,’ he muttered sourly as he slumped away. The Doctor toasted his retreating back, sipped the water and relaxed in his chair, beaming merrily.

  I’ll soon wipe that grin off your face, sunshine, thought Duggan. He tried a direct question. Even if you got a denial, there was always some tell-tale giveaway.

  ‘What’s Scarlioni’s angle?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ The Doctor dismissed the question. He passed it over to Romana. ‘You were good at geometry. Have you ever heard of anything called Scarlioni’s angle?’

  ‘Whose angle?’ Romana shrugged facetiously. Duggan had never seen a facetious shrug before. He didn’t like it.

  ‘Scarlioni,’ Duggan growled.

  ‘Who’s Scarlioni?’ As though politely listening to a dull anecdote, the Doctor stifled a yawn.

  This was too much. ‘Count Scarlioni. Everyone in the world’s heard of Count Scarlioni.’

  ‘Ah well, we’ve only just landed on Earth.’ The Doctor favoured Duggan with his broadest, most disarming grin.

  And we’re done. Duggan glared at them both, stood up, consigned them to the loony bin. ‘All right. I give up. Forget it. You’re crazy.’

  Duggan left and got on with his life. The Doctor and Romana drank their water and then got on with their holiday.

  Only . . .

  ‘Crazy?’ the Doctor called after him. ‘Indisputably. But crazy enough to steal the Mona Lisa?’

  The café paused for just a second. Despite not paying any attention to these three ghastly tourists, everyone was dying to know what would happen next.

  Duggan returned to the table. For once in his life, all the fight left him. He pulled out a heavy iron chair and slumped into it. The Doctor pushed a glass of water to him, and Duggan took it.

  ‘Or, at any rate,’ the Doctor beamed, ‘are we crazy enough to be interested in someone who might want to steal it?’

  * * *

  The Count was surveying the bracelet. It was intact.

  The two suits were standing to one side, as nervous as it was possible for gorillas in suits to look. Satisfied that all was in order, the Count laid the bracelet down on an exquisitely engraved table and smiled at them warmly.

  ‘Good, thank you, you may go.’

  The two suits left gratefully and without a word.

  The Count leaned back in his chair, stifling a yawn. As he did so he caught Hermann’s eye. The butler swept forward.

  ‘Go
od,’ sighed the Count. ‘But not good enough. Kill them.’

  ‘The detective and his friends, Excellency?’ suggested Hermann.

  ‘No Hermann, those two fools.’ The Count jerked a thumb towards the door.

  ‘With pleasure, Excellency.’ Hermann bowed and went to kill them.

  Hermann had originally thought he’d been hired to keep the Count’s hands clean. He’d discovered that the Count, although exquisitely lazy, relished getting his hands dirty from time to time. But he was more than happy to leave the routine killing to Hermann. A situation which Hermann enjoyed considerably. For Hermann, no death was ever routine.

  Magnificently unconcerned by all this, the Countess sat in a corner of the library, flicking idly through some unpublished scandal letters of the Marquise de Sévigné. The Count walked over to her, tapping the bracelet against the side of his face. Oddly, he didn’t feel it.

  ‘So,’ he declaimed, ‘one of them was interested in you and the painting, the other in this bracelet?’

  The Countess didn’t look up from her reading. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the Count said. ‘I wish to meet them.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Countess said as casually as if he’d suggested inviting extra guests for dinner. ‘Just tell Hermann.’

  ‘No, my dear,’ purred the Count. ‘You tell Hermann.’

  The Countess put down her letters, rose with little grace and went to find Hermann.

  Alone, the Count lifted the bracelet up to the light. Hopefully all the data within it was intact. He scratched at that itch above his right eye.

  * * *

  ‘So, do you work in crime as well?’ asked Duggan.

  ‘Work? Not as such, no.’ The Doctor chuckled, swatting away the question. He’d tried having a job once. It had all been so terribly routine. Even the aliens had been expected to invade during office hours. He drained the last of his water and pushed his glass across the table to Duggan.

  ‘Same again?’ the detective asked.

  ‘Well, if you’re buying.’

  It was Duggan’s round. He ordered some more waters.