Paris Time

by D. B. Gilles

  “Let her go and I will.”

  Luger hesitated for a moment, then complied. As if noticing it for the first time, he touched the wound below his ear. Juliet quickly stood up and moved next to Proctor. She noticed her sister’s sketchbook on the ground, but was fearful of making an attempt to pick it up. With great difficulty Luger managed to stand, but he was shaky. He still clung to The Brimstone.

  “Who are you working for?” asked Proctor.

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “Henri Arpin?”

  Luger shrugged and smirked. To himself he thought, What does it matter now? “Yes. Now send me back.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Don’t play games with me old man!” he screamed.

  “Then I can’t send you back. There are adjustments I need to make.”

  Luger pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket, flipped it open and pointed it at Juliet, its handle in-between his thumb and forefinger.

  “She’ll be dead where she stands if you don’t send me back now. I have lethal aim.”

  Juliet and Proctor looked at each other, then as Luger raised the knife Dalton appeared practically dropping from the sky, landing directly on top of Luger, causing him to drop The Brimstone and switchblade as he fell to the pavement.

  Chapter 26

  Eliza stopped short, her mouth opened in shock as she stared at what little there was of The Eiffel Tower. Her heart began to pound and she felt a nauseating twinge in her stomach.

  The Eiffel Tower was indeed there, but it wasn’t complete. It was barely past the second level. There was no tower. No top floor. Just a bit more than half of what it would come to be. She’d seen photographs of the stages of the building of the structure. Based on her recollection she guessed that the construction of this level meant that she was not in Paris on October 6, 1889, but at some earlier date in 1888, probably in the summer, which explained the humidity.

  She knew that this hadn’t happened to Peter in his dry run the day before. He had arrived as they had planned. He had visited the completed Eiffel Tower and spent the entire day exploring the city. She tried to figure out what could have affected Peter coming through this time, but found no answers. As she tried to find another explanation something more practical entered her mind.

  The francs, she thought. Will the francs I have be usable?

  She crossed the Pont d'Iéna bridge and walked slowly, almost in slow motion towards The Eiffel Tower. She realized that what she was looking at was nothing more than a construction site. There were no throngs of people attending the 1889 World’s Fair. That was months away. Other than a couple of dozen onlookers watching the construction, there were only workmen, scores of them, some on the ground, others at various points on the tower. The southeast base, where she and Peter were to meet, was covered with scaffolding. She wondered if Gustave Eiffel was here. She knew he kept an office on the first level.

  She felt queasy, overcome with the debilitating feeling that Peter had not made it and that she was alone. She would not be returning to New York, whether she wanted to or not.

  Because she didn’t have her sketchbook filled with the detailed drawings of places she planned to go and routes to get there, panic began to consume her. In the excitement of preparing to leave New York she had forgotten to take it from its hiding place in a floorboard behind her bed. She found some comfort knowing that it’s contents were all in her head, but the sketchbook represented her thoughts and dreams of her future in the past. That was how she described her adventure: going to my future in the past.

  She wondered if her mother or Juliet would find the sketchbook and what they would make of its contents. She knew her mother would write off the postings and drawings without reading anything into them. Juliet was different. She would be able to make some sense of it, but what would Juliet do with the information?

  Eliza stared at the southeast base of The Eiffel Tower, making one final, desperate attempt to spot Peter Hillyer. She went closer, moving among the workmen until one of them, probably a foreman, ordered her to get away. Reluctant to draw attention to herself, she nodded and moved back towards the bridge.

  That Peter was not there or even in Paris she was almost certain. That she would be alone in Paris didn’t concern her. That’s what she wanted. But she was worried about Peter’s safety. She would implement Plan B. She would wait for him a reasonable amount of time, then go to the next place on the itinerary she’d made.

  The thing she wanted to do first though was find out what day it was. She had deduced that the year was 1888. At the risk of sounding crazy, she could ask someone, but the only people she’d seen were workmen and she didn’t want to risk gaining the foreman’s wrath again or drawing attention to herself.

  She decided that the solution was to locate a newspaper. She knew that the likelihood of a newsstand nearby was doubtful. She could either go into the 7th Arrondisement or cross the bridge into the Trocadero and find one. As she pondered which way to go, she experienced her first piece of luck in the City of Light.

  Part of a newspaper lay on the ground not ten feet away from her. It was torn and dirty. She picked it up and made out the name: Le Figaro.

  Then, after a deep breath, she checked the date: August 30, 1888.

  Her thoughts turned to Toulouse-Lautrec. Her intention was to study with him, but she knew from her research that he wasn’t living in Paris in August 1888.

  She stood at the foot of Pont d'Iéna. A half-hour passed. Then an hour. There was no sign of Peter.

  She turned away from the half-structure of The Eiffel Tower and crossed Pont d'Iéna. When she reached the other side she hailed a horse drawn carriage. Although it wasn’t part of the plan she’d made with Peter, she considered making one last visit to Place de la Concord with the hope that Peter might be waiting for her there. But she decided against it. If he had landed and tried to make his way to The Eiffel Tower he could be anywhere. She could go back and forth from Place de la Concorde to The Eiffel Tower and back twenty different ways and not run into him.

  The final part of Plan B was that if Peter had indeed arrived and if they were unable to find each other, Peter would go back.

  He has The Brimstone, she said to herself. He’ll be safe. He’ll go back. I’m on my own from here on out. That was how it’s supposed to be.

  She stepped into the carriage, sat down and said in perfect French, “Le Bon Marche. Vingt-deux rue de Sèvres s'il vous plait.”

  She was headed to the most famous department store in Paris to buy clothing, basic necessities and a suitcase so as not to draw attention to herself when she checked into the Hotel Ecole de Lyon, on Rue Berger, which was for women only, a twenty-minute walk from The Louvre. In her research Eliza learned that many affluent female art students from America and Europe stayed there, usually at the insistence of their parents. It would be costlier than other hotels, but she felt that until she became settled and found her own apartment, it would be adequate.

  Despite her fluency in French, she would also be buying a copy of Galignani’s Paris Guide, the English language publication used by tourists to learn about Paris and make their way around the city.

  She asked the driver for the time.

  “Dix minutes neuf passes,” he said.

  “Merci.” Ten minutes past nine on August 30th 1888, she said to herself.

  As the carriage pulled away she looked back at the partially completed Eiffel Tower.

  God bless you, Peter Hillyer, wherever you are! she thought.

  Chapter 27

  Within seconds, as Dalton got his bearings and quickly realized that he was sprawled on top of the man he struggled with in Central Park, Juliet reached for The Brimstone which lay on the ground and held on to it tightly.

  “Run!” said Proctor.

  “Where?”

  He pointed towards The Tuileries Garden. “Across the street. This Luger fellow is in bad shape. Dalton and I will find you.”

  “B
ut... “

  “Go!”

  Juliet nodded and took off, clutching The Brimstone to her breast, leaping into the street, trying to avoid being struck by the dozen or so carriages on the street.Proctor rushed over to Dalton who was now haphazardly struggling with Luger. As Proctor watched, he thought it was almost comical. He knew that Dalton hadn’t had even a moment to acclimate himself to the fact that he had made it through to Paris and he also knew that Luger was suffering from the shock of the lightning bolt, as well as the unexpected shock of Dalton landing on his body. Luger resembled a boxer, exhausted after fifteen rounds, barely able to move, clinging to his opponent for support.

  Proctor looked for something to use as a weapon, perhaps a loose brick or cobble stone, but there was nothing. Then he saw Eliza’s sketchbook on the ground.

  He picked it up, held it firmly, then proceeded to hit Luger with it on the side of the head, aiming specifically for the black and bloodied wound on Luger’s neck.

  It worked. Luger cringed in pain and released his grasp on Dalton, who used the opportunity to push himself away and up. Luger lunged towards Proctor, who continued to bash him, managing to pluck Eliza’s sketchbook from his hands. Dalton then tried to take the sketchbook back, but he couldn’t get a grip on it. As he and Luger struggled, Proctor looked down at his boots, raised his right leg and with all his might kicked Luger in the head, knocking him to the ground.

  But Luger still didn’t let go of the sketchbook. He was barely conscious now. Dalton tried to take the sketchbook, but Luger clung to it.

  “Let it go,” said Proctor. “Follow me.”

  “Where’s Juliet?”

  “She’s fine. Let’s go. Let me hold on to you.”

  Dalton lifted his left arm, Proctor grabbed onto it and together they made their way across the street towards The Tuileries Garden.

  Despite the intense pain and stench of scorched flesh, through blurred vision Luger managed to watch them disappear in the distance. He hadn’t had time to get his bearings, but he knew that they had all run into what looked like a park.

  The name of the girl resonated in his brain. Years ago he had used the services of a high-class, red-headed escort named Juliet.

  Juliet he said over and over again. It was at least something to go on.

  Although he considered himself to be fearless, Luger found himself petrified at his predicament. If he were going to get back to his real life, he would have to find The Brimstone regardless of the fact that he was working for Henri Arpin.

  Despite his concern he drew upon the one thing that had gotten him through the years of working in such a dangerous, violent career. He had always been incredibly lucky and he was never hesitant to admit it. Usually in certain difficult situations he developed a confidence built on feeling lucky, but now, as he stood before the Luxor obelisk somewhere in Paris more than a hundred years from where he belonged, he waited for the feeling to kick in.

  Without the luck factor, he didn’t want to even think about what the future held for him.

  Furthering his irritation was the horrible stench of horse droppings that permeated the air.

  Chapter 28

  Juliet had never heard of The Tuileries Garden, but as she stood within it hiding behind a tree she tried to convince herself that Eliza was somewhere in Paris. She watched as Proctor and Dalton made their way across the street. As they got closer to her, she looked beyond and saw that no one was following them.

  When they reached her, as she handed The Brimstone to Dalton she told them she dropped the sketchbook.

  “That guy has it,” said Dalton.

  “But we’ll need it,” she said. “It has all of Eliza’s notes and maps and... “

  “It couldn’t be helped,” said Proctor.

  “We don’t need notes,” said Dalton. “She had an agenda. I wrote it down.” He pulled out his notebook from the inside coat pocket. “She was going to Montmartre to find Toulouse-Lautrec. Then The Louvre. I have her complete list. We’ll start looking for her in Montmartre.”

  “First things first,” said Proctor. “We need to get away from Mister Luger Pabst. Follow me.” They headed towards Rue de Rivoli. “We’ll find a carriage. Actually, that will be too expensive. We’ll take an omnibus. It’ll be substantially cheaper.” Proctor lifted up his suit coat to reveal an expensive-looking leather money belt. “One of the advantages of being curator of a famous museum is that there are priceless items on display. I brought a few with me that I can sell.”

  As they made their way over the gravel paths of the Tuileries towards Rue de Rivoli, Proctor laid out a scenario. “We must get proper clothing. All of us look totally out of sync. It’s imperative we look like we belong here. As three Americans without passports or papers we do not want to draw attention to ourselves. There will be shops everywhere. We’ll stop at the first one we see. My feeling is that it’s early morning. The city is slowly coming alive. Paris has always been a city of walkers. Nothing will be open until mid-morning. Once we’ve accomplished the clothing problem we’ll check into a hotel, which will serve as a base of operations for the time being. I know exactly where. Hotel de Buci. It’s where I’ve stayed numerous times. It’s one of the oldest hotels in Paris. I think it’s been here since the eighteenth century.”

  Exiting The Tuileries Garden, they came upon Rue de Rivoli and saw more than thirty carriages and omnibuses, as well as dozens of pedestrians on the street and sidewalks. Proctor spotted three people standing at a bus stop. In the distance he saw a two-horse omnibus coming.

  “We have enough time to make it. Let’s go.”

  “It looks like a stagecoach,” said Dalton.

  “A bit more sophisticated, but you’re right. They come in various sizes. That one’s perfect for our needs.”

  Proctor reached into his pocket and removed a few centimes.

  “While I’m paying, you two get on and find somewhere for us to sit. Try to find a place away from other passengers.”

  They found seats at the back. Proctor joined them a moment later.

  “I’m concerned by the fact that Luger Pabst has your sister’s sketchbook,” said Proctor. “Knowing as I do the man who hired him, I’m certain he is more than a hired thug.”

  “Why?” Juliet asked.

  “My ex-wife only pays for the best, and the man who hired him would only hire the best of the best,” said Proctor. “Or shall I say the best of the worst, as it were. Someone highly intelligent with the capability of violence. You saw the gun at the obelisk in New York and the knife here. He didn’t hesitate to employ it either in strong-arming us.”

  “He has one purpose,” said Dalton. “Get The Brimstone and go back to New York.”

  Proctor nodded in agreement. “It stands to reason that he’ll look at Eliza’s sketchbook and try to gain some conclusions. Presumably he has no idea as to why we’re here. He will grasp at straws.”

  “If by reading Eliza’s sketchbook he deduces that we’re here to find her, that’s what he’ll try to do.”

  “Find her or us.”

  “Eliza drew pictures of herself in the sketchbook so he’ll have an idea of what she looks like. He’ll look at the list of things she wants to do, go to those places and hope to get lucky and find her. He’ll undoubtedly go to Montmartre as it was first on the list.”

  “Why would he want to find my sister?” Juliet asked. “He wants The Brimstone. She doesn’t have it.”

  “He most certainly would rather find us, but if he can’t and he finds her before we do, he’ll have some bargaining power with us,” said Dalton. “Assuming we find her.”

  Proctor nodded in agreement. “Which is why the hotel we’re going to is not in Montmartre. We can’t risk him spotting one of us.”

  “It all happened so fast,” said Dalton. “I barely recall his face. Would he even remember what we look like?”

  “Hopefully not, but we can’t be too careful. As for Hotel de Buci, we’ll need a cover story. If it com
es up I’ll say that you two are my grandchildren and that we’re in Paris on holiday.”

  “Won’t it be simpler just to say we’re here to see The Eiffel Tower and the World’s Fair?” said Dalton. “I mean, Paris will be filled with tourists. We’ll blend in perfectly.”

  “What was I thinking?” said Proctor awkwardly. “Good idea.” He was starting to wonder if he should tell them that it was not October 6th, 1889. He decided to wait until he knew the precise date it actually was.

  “Is there any way of knowing how much of a head start Eliza might have on us?” asked Dalton.

  “I’m afraid not. It could be minutes, an hour or several hours. It depends upon when she arrived and what she did upon getting here.”

  “She had to be concerned why my father never arrived,” said Dalton.

  “Undoubtedly,” said Proctor. “She may have waited for him, but for how long? We know from our own experiences that each of us arrived within sixty seconds of each other.”

  “And we have no way of knowing how long she waited before realizing my father wasn’t coming,” said Dalton.

  “She’s always been a conscientious person,” said Juliet. “She would’ve waited for him until she felt certain that he wasn’t coming back.”

  “We know that she and my father left New York seven years ago at midnight. We left last night at midnight. The question is at what time did she land? Would it have been the same time as us?”

  “I just can’t say. The more pressing question is how did she spend her time until she accepted the fact that your father wasn’t coming? We have to assume that it was then that she headed to Montmartre.”

  “If she went there,” said Juliet. “What if she was tired and needed to rest? Or hungry? What if she decided to go someplace else first? We can’t be sure she would go to Montmartre first.”

  “It’s our best hope,” said Dalton. “If she went somewhere else it’s a whole different ballgame. Paris is huge. Each district is like a different world. The streets are all arranged in illogical patterns. Finding her would be next to impossible.”