He’d swept the little shaving mirror to the floor and then picked up the scraps of his discarded face from between the fragments of glass. He’d staggered up the stairs, the strips of flesh dangling from one hand. He’d paused in the corridor, to try and look at his head once more, but it was almost more than he could bear. How had he forgotten all this? How could he still not remember it clearly?
He heard voices again, and for once they weren’t in his head. They were approaching rapidly and, for a moment, the Count felt something like panic. Then, as the voices turned into the library, he relaxed. His secret wasn’t about to be discovered.
He looked down at the ribbons of flesh in his hands.
All that remained of the face of Carlos Scarlioni.
* * *
Hermann strode in, shoving Duggan with one hand while one of his men brought . . . Oh. Well, the girl was unexpected.
The Countess’s enquiring stare was met and reflected right back at her. How young, how beautiful she is, thought the Countess generously, regarding the glowing tip of her cigarette. Watching her suffer would be most rewarding.
Duggan was struggling in Hermann’s grasp. Always the barely tethered hound, so bad-tempered and stupid. Hermann brought up his gun to club him down, yet the strange man on the floor raised his hand in a casual wave, coincidentally blocking Hermann’s swing.
‘Thank you, Hermann,’ the man announced. ‘That will be all.’ The rumpled bohemian remained kneeling, beaming at everyone, sizing up the room.
The Countess was happy to give him ground and enjoy the show. For the moment. Last month that very patch of carpet had been dominated by an equally boisterous railroad tycoon. They were still finding bits of him in the central heating furnace.
‘Hello,’ announced the man shuffling towards a chair. ‘I’m the Doctor, this is Romana.’
The girl favoured her with a radiant beam.
‘This is Duggan, you must be the Countess Scarlioni, and that is clearly a delightful Louis XV chair. Louis may not have been as good a ruler as his father, but his furniture was far nicer.’ The Doctor dropped into it delicately, yet firmly. ‘May I sit in it?’ he asked.
He wiggled experimentally around in the chair, making himself at home. ‘I say, haven’t they worn well?’ He fingered the upholstery and was pleased to discover it was original. He was less pleased to discover an entire fingernail which had been left behind by a Yakuza. The Doctor examined it briefly, flicked it away, and then patted the chair down, an expression of pure delight on his face.
‘Doctor.’ The Countess nodded graciously. ‘You’re being very pleasant with me.’
The Doctor looked embarrassed at the compliment. ‘Ah, well, I’m a very pleasant fellow.’
The Countess got up from her chaise longue and strode towards him, waving her cigarette holder around. ‘However, I did not invite you here for social reasons.’
‘I know.’ The Doctor looked crestfallen. ‘I could tell that the moment you didn’t offer us a drink.’ She didn’t even have a chance to stutter before he continued. ‘Thank you, three glasses of water, please, do go easy on the ice.’
Hermann didn’t move an inch, but he shifted his posture. A word, my lady, just give the word.
Not yet. But she knew she would enjoy seeing this man reduced to a whimpering animal.
She carried on talking, her words as precise as a piano recital. ‘Doctor, the only reason you were brought here alive is to explain exactly why you stole my bracelet.’
‘Ah.’ The Doctor’s face was a picture of bashful remorse. ‘Well, it’s my job, you see. I’m a thief, Romana is my accomplice and Duggan here is the detective who has been kind enough to catch me.’ He paused, judging her expression. ‘That’s his job,’ he added. Still her expression did not waver. ‘Our two lines of work dovetail beautifully.’ He accompanied this with an elaborate gesture.
She rather fancied he was left-handed. She would let Hermann break that one last.
‘Very interesting, Doctor. You see’—and here she allowed herself a moment of mock regret—‘I rather thought that Mr Duggan had been following me.’
‘Well, now . . .’ The Doctor looked between the two and raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, probably. I know! He was trying to summon up the courage to invite you out to dinner! Weren’t you, Duggan?’
Duggan scowled. A pity. There had been a time when she might, just might have said yes. No matter.
‘Who sent you?’ she asked.
‘Who sent me what?’ The Doctor beamed facetiously.
The Countess had a tiny flutter at the back of her head that told her that she was not only losing control of the situation but she was also losing her temper. This never happened. Every shop girl in Galleries Lafayette knew that the Countess never shouted. But when she grew quiet, that was when you had to tread carefully.
She spoke, forcing a casual shrug of her wrist as she ground her cigarette into a marble ashtray. ‘Doctor, the harder you try to convince me you are a fool, the more I am inclined to believe otherwise. It would be the work of a moment to have you killed.’
Hermann caught her eye. He was asking permission to be let off the leash.
That momentary distraction was enough for Romana to march past her and sit neatly down on the chaise longue, picking up the Chinese puzzle box with a pleased expression. ‘Well, this is nice,’ she said politely.
‘Put it down,’ the Countess snapped. She was being attacked on two fronts and the girl, the stupid girl was playing with things she didn’t understand. It was all so unfair.
‘It’s one of those puzzle boxes, isn’t it?’ Romana gave it a none-too-gentle shake.
The Countess winced. ‘It is a very rare and precious Chinese puzzle box.’ She didn’t care how patronising she sounded. Carlos would be furious if it was damaged. ‘You will not be able to open it. So put it down.’
Romana didn’t seem to have heard her. She flicked the sides of the box apart as though she’d been doing it all day, and shook the bracelet out. ‘Oh look!’ she giggled.
The Doctor did not actually applaud. But he looked like he was thinking about it.
‘Yes, very pretty, isn’t it?’ The voice came from the door. Lounging there, not a care in the world, favouring them all with the laziest of smiles, was Count Carlos Scarlioni. He looked magnificent, and gave every air of waiting to be asked what he wanted to drink. One hand was tucked neatly into his jacket pocket. The other flicked up, catching at a lock of stray hair. Nothing was out of place in the Count’s life. ‘Very pretty,’ the Count repeated.
‘Very,’ agreed Romana. ‘Where’s it from?’
‘From? It’s not from anywhere.’ The Count seemed chidingly puzzled by the question. ‘It’s mine.’
* * *
Duggan had only been to the theatre once. He had not enjoyed the experience. He’d spoken about it with his chief. ‘Maybe it’s because I know when people are lying. Theatre is just people lying to each other in a room.’
‘Maybe it’s because you have no imagination,’ the Chief had said.
Right now, Duggan felt as though he were in a play. At any moment, someone was going to come bounding through the French windows asking ‘Anyone for tennis?’ That seemed to happen in most plays. Well, it hadn’t happened in Othello, but there was a play in sore need of some tennis.
To Duggan’s eyes, everyone in the room was wearing a mask. The Doctor was suddenly playing the jolly burglar. Romana was every inch the naively bright schoolgirl. The Countess was pretending not to be annoyed by it all, and the Count . . . who was the Count playing? There was definitely something going on there. It was the first time that Duggan had actually met the Count face to face. They’d nodded to each other at art galleries and auctions. Duggan’s nod had said, ‘I know your game.’ The Count’s nod had been that of the well-fed fox to a chicken it could
not be bothered to eat. ‘Not today. But soon.’
But here, in his own house, the Count still seemed to be putting on an act, in front of everyone. Duggan could tell. They were all at it. The exception was Hermann the butler. There was someone Duggan could respect. They were each eyeing up the other, two old fighters, masters of the game, always on the lookout, ready to attack if the slightest opportunity presented itself. Duggan admired that. Were circumstances different, Hermann was a man he could drink a beer with.
(For his part, Hermann did not return the favour. Inasmuch as he was aware of Duggan, he despised him. He was rather more concerned about his master. Was he quite all right? For once the Count seemed almost ill at ease.)
* * *
The Count strode confidently across the room, fingers lingering over a few volumes left open on tables, before reaching the fireplace. One thing every good room should have is a solid fireplace. This one had once belonged to Madame du Pompadour and was a rococo delight of Bleu Fleuri marble, with an elaborate frieze showing nymphs and shepherds hiding daintily from each other. The most important thing about it, right now, was that it was very solid. The Count leant heavily against it, making every effort to show that the movement was casual, taking every pain not to suggest how much of his weight the marble was supporting. He risked a glance in the mirror. Was his face right? Despite his every effort, his hand reached up involuntarily to check it again and he hastily converted it into a casual flick at his hair. He made his smile eighteen per cent more relaxed, jammed his hand back in his pocket and took pains to survey the room at his leisure.
It would, he thought, be so much easier to just have Hermann spray the room with bullets. Yes, he thought. A gesture with a single finger. Do it, and damn the consequences. Wipe the whole lot out. Start again.
But no.
The Count devoted himself to an inspection of his fingertips. Still propped up against the mantelpiece, he took in the room, his smile clearly saying ‘Well, now I have arrived. We can begin.’
The Countess took her cue. ‘My dear, these are the people who stole the bracelet from me in the Louvre.’
The Count was about to acknowledge them all with a masterful nod, when the Doctor broke in with a twinkling wave from his chair. ‘Hullo there!’
The Count ignored him. He stared at the sun setting behind the Countess. ‘How curious,’ he mused, allowing his voice to take on an air of incredulity. ‘A pair of thieves go into the Louvre and come out with . . . a bracelet.’ And now he trained his eyes on the Doctor, slouching insolently across one of his favourite chairs. ‘Is that really the most interesting thing you could find to steal?’
‘I just thought it was awfully attractive, terribly unusual design.’ The Doctor shrugged regretfully. ‘Of course, it would have been very nice to steal one of the paintings instead, but I’ve tried it before and’—he rolled his eyes—‘all sorts of bells go off, which does disturb the concentration.’
‘I can imagine,’ the Count clucked with sympathy. ‘So you stole this bracelet simply because it looked pretty?’
‘Yes,’ the Doctor agreed quickly. ‘I think it is. Don’t you?’ He seemed terribly eager to hear the Count’s reply.
The Count let a silence hang in the air. His wife waited for someone to light her cigarette, and then lit it herself. She glided closer to her husband, muttering in a stage whisper, ‘I don’t think he’s quite as stupid as he seems.’
‘My dear, no one could be as stupid as he seems.’ The Count smiled knowingly back at her. Then he turned his smile almost completely off. He had so much else to do. So much else. And all he was getting from these people was noise. That itch was back. He resisted the urge to rub his forehead. ‘This interview is at an end,’ he announced.
‘Good, good!’ The Doctor leapt to his feet, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘Well, we’ll be off, then. A quick wander up the Champs-Élysées and perhaps a spot of dinner at Maxim’s. What do you think, Romana?’
The girl sprang to her feet as well with a little bounce. ‘Maxim’s what?’ she asked eagerly.
Hermann appeared at the Count’s side. He nodded. Someone here could be relied upon to behave properly. ‘Ah, Hermann! Would you kindly lock our friends in the cellar?’
The Doctor’s face fell. The Count acknowledged him for a moment, if not as a peer then certainly as an almost worthwhile waste of time. His smile was charming and sarcastic in equal measure. ‘I would hate to lose touch with such fascinating people.’
* * *
Duggan had had enough. Everyone was still talking without saying anything. It annoyed him. Here was this strange Doctor, and that smug girl, and they were alone in the room with the world’s biggest art thief, and they weren’t talking about that at all. Just blathering about a piece of jewellery and a wooden box. It was all a wasted opportunity, and what was worse, the Doctor was now happy to let them get locked up. Duggan saw his opportunity and he seized it with both hands.
He grabbed the chair recently vacated by the Doctor and hoisted it up into the air, ready to bring it crashing down on Hermann.
‘Duggan, Duggan, Duggan!’ The Doctor had seized his wrist lightly. To Duggan’s amazement he couldn’t move his arm at all. The Doctor was hissing in his ear, horrified. ‘What do you think you’re doing? That’s a Louis XV!’
The Doctor had had to act quickly. For one thing, he’d seen Hermann’s hand dart effortlessly to his gun. Duggan didn’t stand a chance. And, for another, he really would have regretted the loss of that chair.
The moment was gone. Duggan traded a rueful expression with Hermann. What can you expect when I’m saddled with these amateurs?
Hermann barely noticed. Killing Duggan would have been a joy, but gunfire so near a Persian rug was always tiresome. The housemaids had proved themselves excellent at lifting bloodstains, but one day his luck would run out.
The Doctor released Duggan’s wrist, and he dropped the chair with disgust.
He turned furiously on the Doctor, snarling, ‘You’re not just going to let them lock us up, are you?’
‘Just try and behave like a civilised guest, won’t you?’ The Doctor’s tone was coaxing.
Romana skipped over to the Doctor’s side, her arms jauntily in the air. ‘Shall we go?’ she asked brightly.
‘Ah, Hermann.’ The Doctor bowed with utter politeness to the butler. ‘Would you show us to our cellar, please?’
The Doctor swept out of the room, followed with a bounce by Romana. Duggan threw another glare of angry apology at Hermann and traipsed after them.
If Duggan had lingered a little longer, he would have heard the Count make a remarkable confession. He and the Countess watched the Doctor go. If the Countess was annoyed at how the interview had gone, she did not show it. If the Count was still feeling uncomfortable in his own skin, he was at pains not to betray it. Instead he beckoned to her, and she came over. Obedient.
They stood for a moment, watching the sunset.
Then, very softly, Heidi kissed her husband on the lips. For an instant, it seemed as though he flinched, but then he smiled, taking her in his arms.
She offered him her wrist, and he slipped the bracelet back onto it. He smiled at her warmly.
‘Be a little more careful with your trinkets, my dear,’ he chided affectionately. ‘After all, we still have a Mona Lisa to steal . . .’
7
LIES BENEATH
It took Hermann longer than he’d expected to get his three prisoners to the basement. The Doctor was treating the march rather like a guided tour of a private art gallery. He would coo with delight at a Monet, and Romana would idly wonder if perhaps it could be displayed to a bit more advantage.
As they were marched through the Château’s halls, it was almost as though Hermann wasn’t even holding a gun to them. The Doctor was forever pointing out some treasure, or nipping off down a hallway, marvellin
g at the vast treasures of the Count’s collection.
‘What pretty paintings!’ the Doctor marvelled as they passed through a corridor that would have made a curator faint. ‘Don’t you think they’re pretty paintings, Romana?’
‘Not particularly,’ she replied. She seemed thoroughly uninterested.
Hurt, the Doctor turned to Hermann for his opinion, got nothing, so tried Duggan. ‘I think they’re very pretty. Don’t you, Duggan?’
‘Very pretty.’ Duggan was learning that it was safest to humour the Doctor.
They walked through a dusty banqueting chamber, the Doctor ticking off the paintings as they passed them. ‘Gainsborough, uh-huh . . . Rubens . . . ooh, a Rembrandt!’ He whistled. ‘Very, very pretty!’
Hermann ignored all this.
They’d reached an ancient oak door. Hermann unlocked the door, revealing a long flight of stone steps and a blast of cold air. He gestured with his gun. ‘Down,’ he said.
* * *
The Doctor did some of his best thinking at gunpoint, especially on his way down to a dungeon. Gunpoint and dungeons were both magical ingredients for some quite unexpectedly brilliant leaps of logic. The Château was quite astoundingly old. The trip to it in the back of a sealed Renault van had told the Doctor little more than that it was on a quiet, old street nestled between two of Baron Haussmann’s grand boulevards. This alone made its survival even more remarkable.
Parisians had spent much of their history finding one reason or another to tear down old bits of their city and then falling in love with whatever had somehow managed to survive. Even though the Germans hadn’t bombed much of Paris, that hadn’t stopped the post-liberation government from rebuilding large chunks of it. The city employed vast departments dedicated to identifying the nice bits and drawing up elaborate plans to replace them with shopping centres and motorways.
Baron Haussmann had been quite the most insane example of this mania. It was to him that Paris owed its nickname of the City of Lights, thanks to the enormous gaps he’d knocked in the skyline, like a beggar’s smile. He had tried to make Paris straight. Lanes that were designed for wandering and corners that invited a linger were swept away, replaced with rigidly straight boulevards. Under Haussmann’s regime, the ramshackle improvised grandeur of Paris was replaced with streets that were composed entirely of ordered ranks of buildings, identical in height, proportion and features. And yet somehow, marvelled the Doctor, this vast château had escaped Haussmann’s attention. By rights and probability it should be a car park by now.
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