She hoped there would be no such cruel jests to face. She could scarcely believe she was the same girl who had fled from her quiet home in the country to seek her fortune in London. Already her mother and burly stepfather were faint characters of her past. She could not imagine herself ever returning to such a life, nor ever marrying the lecherous old Lord Dakin!
Now she was a puppet of a mysterious man who had for many years charted the movement of the British secret service. A shadowy figure who had won great battles for England before they were ever fought. An unknown, sinister figure remaining in the shadows of the Foreign Office like a giant black spider, manipulating his agents. And even now as he found himself disgraced and ill, he had embarked on a last great enterprise. And she was part of it!
Her reverie was ended by the sound of knocking on her room door and the welcome voices of Eric and Kingston in an exchange outside. She swung the door open with a smile and let the two men in.
“I was so worried about you!” she confessed to Eric.
“That pleases me,” he said, and he bent close and briefly kissed her. Then he moved impatiently to the middle of the room and removing his white gloves said, “Kingston has given me a strange account of your afternoon.”
“We were not entirely successful,” she said.
Eric stood staring at her, his gloves in hand. “You did get to see the woman though?”
“Yes.”
“That was clever of you.”
“But she proved a disappointment,” Betsy said. “She hated
Napoleon and seemingly also her father because of his resemblance to him and his admiration for the Emperor.”
Eric looked amused. “I have heard the story from Kingston. Pray sit down and recite it for me as you saw it.”
She took a chair and went over the events of their odd meeting with the sour woman. She ended with, “I cannot help but think that all the secrecy surrounding the death of her father was the result of her ugly feelings. I do not think there was any mystery to the death or burial. And I do not think an ailing LaFlenche was spirited away to take the place of Napoleon on Saint Helena.”
“Aha!” Eric said, slapping his gloves against his empty hand.
Kingston, who had stood quietly in the background through her recital, now spoke up, saying, “In my opinion Miss Betsy has summed it all up nicely.”
“Very neatly!” Eric said with a hint of grimness.
She stared at him. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
Eric went on, “You see, the trouble is that your findings don’t jibe with my discoveries at all.”
“In what way are they different?” she asked.
“In almost every case,” he said. “I either found my informants vague or they admitted there was something very strange about the death of LaFlenche. His doctor was no help.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “You are saying that I did not do my task well?”
“I talked with the lawyer,” Eric said. “He told me much the same story as Mademoiselle LaFlenche told you. Then I went on to interview a business rival. An enemy is often a better source in these cases than a friend.”
“And?” she said tensely.
“He told me that LaFlenche had been spirited away. He even spoke of some sailors who claimed they had been on the very boat on which LaFlenche sailed.”
“How can that be?” Kingston demanded.
“Did you find anyone who could actually swear seeing LaFlenche placed on a vessel?” she asked.
Eric shook his head grimly. “It wasn’t that easy. I have not yet found any actual witnesses to the event. But I have found many who are suspicious and who have heard the rumors of the transfer.”
Betsy asked, “And what would you say that means?”
Eric was very solemn as he told her, “I think it means that we have hit on something here. And that Mademoiselle played her role well when she filled you with a pack of lies!”
Chapter Nine
BETSY WAS stunned by the vehemence of the young man who was her fellow secret agent. After a moment’s hesitation she said, “So you consider my conclusions completely wrong?”
His tone warmed and he nodded. “Unhappily, my dear Betsy, that is the case. I had it on the word of both the lawyer and the doctor that Mademoiselle LaFlenche was as staunch a supporter of Napoleon as her father.”
Kingston raised his eyebrows. “She is an excellent actress then!”
“She very well can be,” Eric said calmly. “She knows she is part of a major plan on which a great deal hinges. Her one aim was to throw you off the scent.”
Betsy said, “Then you believe that her father was sent to Saint Helena to take Napoleon’s place and thus allow the emperor to escape.”
“I would swear that the body which rests in that lonely grave on the cliffs of Saint Helena is that of Jean LaFlenche.”
“What else can be done to prove this?” George Frederick Kingston wished to know.
Eric said, “LaFlenche was a partner in a shipbuilding company located just outside the city limits. The surviving partner is one Pierre Bartel, and I have arranged through the lawyer of the LaFlenche family to visit Bartel at his office tomorrow. I think it might be an occasion when we could all make a visit together. We will resume our usual roles.”
Betsy said, “Do you think this Bartel will be helpful?”
“No,” Eric replied. “He will undoubtedly try to disprove the rumors concerning his dead partner. But he may give us some information without realizing it. I wish to make him squirm a little under questioning.”
Kingston said, “Mademoiselle LaFlenche surely did not react in that fashion.”
“That was perhaps our fault,” Betsy told the actor.
“No,” Eric said. “You actually had the most difficult assignment. The woman is loyal to her father’s memory and to Bonaparte.”
“How long do you expect to remain here?” she asked the young agent.
“I’m waiting for some word as to where Valmy may have the former Emperor in hiding,” he told her. “And I also have one delicate task to look after.”
“What is that?” Betsy said.
He gave her a knowing glance. “I must have a private look at the tomb which holds LaFlenche’s coffin.”
Kingston looked a trifle upset. “You expect to find something there?”
“I shall be most pleased if I find nothing,” Eric told him. “I shall make a raid on the tomb one night very soon. You and Betsy will assist me by acting as watchmen while I enter the tomb.”
“Just so long as you don’t expect me to visit the regions of the dead,” the actor said.
Betsy wanted to know, “Where is the cemetery?”
“Located behind a church in the middle of the city,” Eric said. “But it is not in an area frequented much at night. We shall make our visit when the good residents are asleep.”
She said, “Won’t they be expecting some such move?”
“Possibly,” he agreed. “That is why timing is most important in the venture. They might expect us to go there tonight, so we will stay away.”
“A rum game!” Kingston grumbled.
“Felix Black expects results from us,” Eric told them. “And I intend to see that he gets them.”
They had dinner together in the dining hall of the inn, and Kingston elected to remain there over a bottle of wine with the innkeeper. It was Eric’s suggestion that he and Betsy should go farther afield.
“It is a port city,” he said. “There are bound to be a lot of interesting bistros and cabarets along the waterfront.”
Her eyes brightened. “I would enjoy that. Will we be safe?”
“I can think of no unusual risk,” he said.
“Then let us go!” she smiled.
They found a carriage to take them down the cobbled, winding streets to the waterfront. Their driver pointed out a café almost directly on the docks which he said offered good entertainment and would not be too rough for a woman’s visi
t.
The rousing singing and accordion music could be heard as they approached the two-story red brick building. At its entrance there were two or three drunken sailors engaged in a loud debate. A torch set in an iron fixture lighted the Café de Paris. When the sailors saw Betsy, they halted their arguing to stare at her with curious eyes.
She at once began to feel apprehensive about their adventure and to worry if she had been wrong in encouraging Eric to take her out for the evening. The café was dark except for a lighted stage and crowded. Waiters rushed about with trays of drinks, and there was loud shouting and laughter! On the stage a much painted young woman in a revealing gown was singing a suggestive comedy song!
“Monsieur wishes a table?” They were greeted by a host so small they could hear him before they saw him. Then he looked up at them from the shadows below with a smile on his huge face. He was a dwarf!
Eric nodded to the little man. “Yes. Find us a corner where we will not be too much noticed.” And he gave him a generous tip.
The dwarf, totally bald, and with a round moon face on his misshapen body, grinned broadly. “It will be no problem, monsieur!” And he at once led them past many filled tables in the room to a small empty one within reaching distance of the stage.
Eric accepted the table and ordered some wine. He grimaced at her across the table. “It is not ideal but as good as any.”
Her uneasiness grew as she glanced around to see that the noisy, crowded room was filled mostly with men. The few women who were in there were clearly prostitutes, and even the girl entertainer had all the marks of a woman of the streets.
She said, “I’m not sure we were wise coming here.”
“We cannot remain contained in our inn,” he said.
“But there must be places more quiet,” Betsy suggested.
“They would lack the color of here.”
“I could well do without this sort of atmosphere,” she told him.
The bald dwarf came back carrying a tray in his tiny hands. His arms and legs were weirdly short in relation to the rest of his small body. He lacked the grace of a midget with his oversized head and his odd body proportions. He leered at her as he served her, making her more nervous.
Eric sipped his wine. “It’s very good,” he said.
She tried hers and told him, “That little man terrifies me.”
“The dwarf? He’s no different from the average. You must have seen such people before.”
“Not as malevolent looking as this one,” she worried. “He seems to exude evil.”
He laughed. “You’re allowing yourself to become needlessly alarmed.”
“I hope so,” she said, sipping at her wine.
“We are about to have a change of entertainment,” Eric said as the girl singer left the stage to much applause.
Now a soldier in full military uniform and fur hat marched on stage. He wore a red jacket with a wide white leather band and belt and blue trousers stuffed in tall black boots. There was a sword dangling at his side as he came stage center and bowed to the audience.
The house at once went wild and began to boisterously sing the “Marseillaise.” The soldier had a trim black moustache and a bronzed, stern face with a scar on the left cheek which suggested a saber scar.
“Listen to them!” she marveled.
“The place is full of Napoleon admirers,” Eric agreed, looking around. “The spirit of the emperor still runs high in France and especially here in Marseilles. It was a regiment from here which first sang the song and made it so popular!”
Now the soldier was joined on the stage by the grinning bald dwarf in a blue cockade hat slightly askew on his huge head. He was wearing a too large red jacket which almost reached the ground on him to mock the uniform worn by the soldier. And in his hands he held a full-sized sword. His appearance was the cue for the audience to stop singing and start cheering.
She whispered to her companion, “They’re evidently familiar to the people here.”
“Yes,” he said. “They are more popular than the singer.”
Now the tall soldier and the dwarf faced each other a yard or two apart, and each drew his sword. It was a grotesque scene. In the glare of the gas footlights the two moved warily, and then the dwarf lunged at the soldier with his sword. He very nearly caught the tall man off guard. The soldier at once struck back, and the dwarf jumped neatly aside to the delight of the audience.
It was a serious struggle between the two. The dwarf was a surprisingly adept fencer considering his size and strength. And he seemed remarkably agile. When the soldier lunged at him with his weapon, the dwarf was invariably not there! They slowed their play and parried for a little with neither one nor the other seeming to have the advantage.
“The dwarf is a genius with the sword!” Eric said in amazement.
“I cannot believe it,” she agreed. “Surely his opponent must be deliberately giving him a chance to score!”
“I think not! He seems to be having a hard time in merely protecting himself!”
And it was true. The dwarf seemed tireless, and whenever the soldier let down his guard for a second, the little man toddled forward and shot the sword at him with a lightning thrust. The crowd grew more excited as the curious battle went on, and many were shouting out offers of bets on one or the other contestant.
At last the soldier parried with the little man in a long, difficult exchange. Almost without warning the dwarf made a swift movement with his sword and disarmed his opponent. The soldier’s weapon flew through the air and fell onto the stage a distance from him.
This was the signal for a new uproar. Men stood on chairs and tables cheering, and the few women in the place were also lifted up onto the tables where one of them had drawn up her skirts to reveal her shapely legs as she indulged in a wild dance of victory!
The dwarf bowed solemnly to his audience, and then the soldier also accepted the homage of the riotous patrons. The entertainment continued with the accordionist and two violinists taking the stage and playing lively airs.
“What did you make of that?” Eric asked her with a smile.
“A most unusual show,” she said.
“We’d have missed it if we’d remained at the inn.”
“But perhaps we’d have been safer.”
“Are you that nervous?” he asked.
She gave him a reproving look. “You are always the one preaching caution, and yet tonight you seem unduly reckless.”
He studied her with loving eyes, and reaching out took her hand in his and said, “Perhaps it is because I’m so much enjoying your company.”
“I hope the evening will end as pleasantly as it has begun,” she said.
“Do not be a prophet of gloom!” he said.
“All the same I shall feel better when we are safe at the inn,” she said. “You should have had the carriage wait.”
“I suggested it, but he wasn’t interested,” he said. “So we’ll simply have to find another.”
“Carriages will be difficult to find as it gets later,” she worried.
“I’m sure we’ll locate one,” Eric told her.
Reluctantly she allowed him to order more wine. The dwarf did not serve them this time. An elderly waiter took their order and brought them a second bottle of wine. The place never emptied. As soon as one group left, another came. At last it was after midnight, and she prevailed on her escort to leave.
“If we are to be at that shipyard in the morning, we really must go,” she warned him.
“Very well,” Eric said good-naturedly, his handsome face flushed from the wine. He waved to the elderly waiter and when he came over settled their bill.
They again had to struggle to get out of the crowded cabaret. Men whistled at her as she passed, and some of the street girls made sarcastic comments on her appearance and clothes. She was relieved to emerge in the fresh air of the pleasantly warm night. But as she had predicted, there were no carriages in sight.
Eric
refused to be upset. “One should come along soon. The people coming here must have transport.”
At his side she suggested, “Most of the men in there are sailors who have walked up from the docks. And the girls are street walkers who live in the district.”
“You’re probably right,” Eric said, concerned for the first time. “Take my arm and we’ll walk toward the city as quickly as we can.”
She pressed close to the tall, handsome Eric as they made their way along the narrow sidewalks. She had never known a darker night, and the people whom they encountered along the way were anything but prepossessing. A drunken sailor and his girl lurched out of a doorway unexpectedly giving them a scare. Further on a snoring seaman lay stretched out on the sidewalk. A short distance from there a group of drunken, noisy sailors came staggering by and shouted foul words at her over their shoulders.
Eric gave her a worried glance as they kept walking on briskly. He said, “I’m beginning to see you were right. This whole experience has been a mistake.”
“There is an evil atmosphere here,” she said with a tiny shudder.
“I cannot understand why there aren’t any carriages,” he grumbled.
“They could be afraid to come here late at night. They might be targets for robbery.”
“You’re probably right,” he said. “I have exposed you to needless danger.”
“And yourself as well,” she noted.
“I’m not worried about myself,” he said looking around in the shadows as they kept walking. “I’m concerned about you.”
She said no more. It was evident that he had recovered from his wine drinking and was now soberly seeing their plight as she had from the first. It seemed wrong to continue reminding him of his error. The thing now was to reach the inn safely.
Eric halted with a troubled look on his handsome face. “I hate to say it. But I think we made a wrong turn.”
“Where?” she asked in dismay.
“I think back a distance,” he said, “I’m almost sure we’re going in the wrong direction now. If we keep on this way, we’ll be circling back to the docks.”
“Anything but that!”
He sighed. “I’m afraid there is nothing for it but to retrace our steps. Perhaps we’ll meet someone who can set us straight.”
Vintage Love Page 16