by J Ryan
‘They’re still after you? Even though they’ve got him now?’
‘It is as I warned you both. Bertolini will do his best to implicate me and Arnaud.’
‘Won’t the police, like, offer him some sort of deal if he turns informer?’
‘I am sure they will. But he will be too scared.’
‘Is it her he’s scared of her? Because she wants his territory?’
His voice is grim. ‘Even inside a jail, he knows she can reach him. She has silenced others who thought they were safe.’
‘So will you always have the police on your back?’
‘While she is alive, he will never tell the truth.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘The Lisette was moored in the Old Port of Marseille. We put out to sea and sailed along the coast for a few days, before finding shelter with friends in the Camargue.’
‘What was it brought you to Paris?’
He says quietly, ‘Bertolini’s capture had freed me to conclude some…unfinished business with the Contessa.’
‘You were going to see her? When she’s so dangerous? Why, Monsieur?’
I hold my breath. I’m sure Becks is treading on long shadows from the past.
Monsieur’s voice is guarded. ‘A long cord connects her to me and Arnaud. It has to be severed, once and for all. But now, that must wait until he is well out of her way.’
‘How are we going to get him out, Monsieur?’
‘That depends on how well he knows Talia, and how little he knows her mother.’
‘Because he might not believe us…?’
‘It could be difficult to convince him. And you must be on your guard against the Contessa. When she realises that her attempt has failed…’
I stare at my hands and whisper, ‘Why did she want to kill us, Monsieur?’
His voice has an anger that I’ve never heard before. ‘I am afraid it was because of me, Joe. If I had ever thought that this could happen…’
‘Because of you? How…?’
‘When you are all three safe from her, I will tell you. Now, you must both draw on every ounce of your courage and intelligence to get Arnaud away from her. Are you ready?’
I swallow. ‘As ready as we’ll ever be.’ He turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars into life. Ten minutes later, the car glides to a halt beneath the towering darkness of Notre Dame.
‘Go very carefully. I will not be far away.’
The cafes are busy with night life as we walk quickly down La Boucherie. Becks glances behind us. ‘What do you think Monsieur meant about that long cord?’
‘I don’t know. But if I was him, I’d feel like wrapping it round her neck!’
***
‘Hey, you two stop outs!’ Freddie’s waiting at the door. ‘Have you had a good day?’ Beneath the fluttering white lashes, her eyes take in the dust on our clothes.
I shove my hands into my jeans pockets. ‘It was fascinating, thanks, Freddie.’
‘C’mon! You’ve just got time to shower and get into your party gear.’ Her dancing steps lead us up the stairs. She flings open the door of Becks’ room and gestures theatrically inside. Hanging on the bathroom door, shimmering in satin, is a pink, crinoline dress with a tight waist and puffed out sleeves. On the chair next to it are an ornate white wig and a glittering mask.
Becks stares. ‘I thought…it was smart casual?’
Freddie giggles. ‘Sweetie, that’s just not Talia’s style. This is her little surprise. All the girls are Marie Antoinette. Isn’t that so cute?’
Becks’ eyebrows are going in the wrong direction. I cut in cheerfully. ‘Don’t tell me, Freddie. The boys are all going to be Napoleon?’
She squeals with delight. ‘Joe, you’re amazing! And you’re going to love your gear.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘Now, how to get there, right? It’s easy. Just head through that door behind the reception desk, cross the garden and you’ve arrived.’
‘Right…’
‘I’ll line you up some food. Don’t be late, yeah?’ She skips back down the stairs, the ribbons of her white apron waving behind her.
Becks chucks her purse onto the chair. The glittering mask wobbles and topples onto the floor. ‘That’s going to make things really easy, isn’t it? How do we find Arnaud?’
‘We’ll know his voice.’
‘People are completely different behind a mask. Even their voice sounds different.’
‘Why don’t we try and find him now? He’s probably got a room here, too. He might not have gone down there yet.’
‘Nice one, Napoleon.’
We go quietly along the corridor outside Becks’ Marie Antoinette suite, looking at the names of the rooms. Becks whispers, ‘The Princess Diana. She died in Paris, didn’t she?’
I look at the next one. ‘The Oscar Wilde?’
‘My all time favourite writer. We went to see a film of one of his stories – ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey?’ Remember?’
‘I remember you leaving your bag in the cinema.’
‘I think Oscar Wilde died in Paris, too.’
‘So did Marie Antoinette. On the guillotine.’
‘This is getting creepy, Joe.’
‘Napoleon didn’t die in Paris. Even I know…’ A light goes on in the hall below. We freeze. Then we hear voices, talking quietly.
Becks whispers, ‘Perhaps it’s Arnaud arriving?’ We tiptoe towards the banister.
‘You will be ready with the car at twelve.’
‘Very good, Madam.’ The voices fade as they go out of a door behind the reception desk. We fly back along the corridor into Becks’ room.
Closing the door, she turns to me. ‘Where’s she going at twelve?’
I look at my watch. ‘It’s gone nine. If we don’t get down there soon, The Blonde will be back to round us up.’
She touches the gleaming folds of the crinoline dress. ‘It’s so beautiful. And I really don’t want to put it on.’
‘You’ll look gorgeous, Becks. But keep your jeans on underneath.’
‘My jeans?’
‘Yeah. Action gear. We might see some before the party’s over.’
‘Downstairs in ten minutes?’
‘Let’s make it five.’
***
Struggling into breeches and boots, I growl at Napoleon’s portrait, ‘How did you ever win battles in these stupid trousers?’ He looks inscrutably down at me from his little Arab horse. I shrug on the jacket and contemplate the black hat. It looks like a Stetson that’s had a nasty fright. ‘I don’t do hats, Napoleon!’ Then, I think, Well, it’ll cover my hair. And my thick blond crew cut is a bit of a giveaway. I shove the hat on my head and pick up the glittery mask. It won’t fit over the hat. Sighing, I take off the hat, slip on the mask and replace the hat. I check in the mirror, in case there are any buttons on these breeches I haven’t done up. That would be a bummer. A tall, masked Napoleon with black hands stares back at me from the mirror. Frantically, I call Becks. ‘Have you got any gloves with your costume?’
‘What?’
‘I’m digitally challenged, Becks – remember?’
‘Oh, right. Hang on – I’m looking in the drawers.’
Light fingers tap on my door. ‘Party’s sizzling, Joe. We miss you!’
‘There’s just a bit of stuff I’m sorting out.’
‘Can I help? I’m a whizz with costumes.’
‘Er…’
‘I’ve found some gloves, Joe.’
‘It’s OK, Freddie. We’ll be right down. See you in a minute?’
‘Can’t wait…Napoleon!’
‘Oh, God.’ I listen at the door, until I can’t hear anything.
‘Joe – are you still there?’
‘Just.’
‘I’ll bring the gloves down to reception. OK?’ There’s no one in the hall below. Nervously, I jam my Napoleon hat further onto my head. The knee-length boots are tight on my feet. I wonder how good they are for running. There’s a swish on the stairs above me. I back towards the door. Marie Antoinette floats down the stairs, her pink crinoline drifting around her. The white, curled wig nods towards me, the mask glittering in the half light. ‘Is that you, Joe?’
‘Like, who else?’
‘You could be anyone. Except Napoleon.’
‘Thanks. You look amazing.’
‘Here. They might be a bit small.’ She holds out a pair of lacy white gloves.
‘I’ll look well gay in those!’
‘They were all I could find. If you don’t like them, just stuff your hands into your jacket or something.’
I pull them on. At least they conceal the bruising. I take a deep breath and link my arm with hers. ‘OK, Marie. Shall we go tell them to eat cake?’
‘Lead on, Napoleon.’ We turn towards the reception desk. ‘Which door was it?’
‘She didn’t say there were two doors. Let’s try this one.’ I grasp the brass handle of the door on the right and quietly open it. Ahead is a corridor with wood panels that glow behind the dim wall lights. In the distance, we can hear the steady thump of heavy metal. ‘She said, cross the garden. It must be the other door.’
‘There’s music coming from somewhere.’ The satin dress swishes again as Becks goes on ahead. ‘Let’s find it.’
Our feet tread silently on the soft carpet. In the stuffy air, I’m starting to feel hot in this heavy jacket. The eye slits I’m looking through remind me uncomfortably of the face mask I was wearing in those tunnels, only a few hours ago. Suddenly, something brings me to a stop like I’ve hit a wall. The dress rustles as Becks turns. ‘What is it?’
‘Can’t you smell it?’
I can hear her breathing. Sniffing. ‘I can smell something. But I’m not sure.’
My hands prickle inside the gloves. ‘Shall we go back? Try the other door?’
Her white wig turns back to the corridor. ‘No. It’s her.’
We move quietly on down a small flight of stairs. Everything is silent now. No more heavy metal. At the bottom of the stairs, another passageway leads on. We’re walking on flagstones. The wall lights are bolted into stone and they’re further apart, deep shadows in the spaces between them. We turn a corner. A shaft of light beams from an archway just a few yards ahead, in the wall on our left. Beyond the archway, we can hear voices. I whisper, ‘Stay here, Becks, your dress is too noisy.’
Taking off my Napoleon hat, I creep up to the archway and peer slowly round it. The room is lit by leaping flames that burn in the tall, stone fireplace. Myriads of tiny candles glow on a small table. Two people stand either side of it, facing each other. Both wear glittering masks. The woman has a coil of blonde hair and a long, close-fitting white dress. The man has a full length black cloak and black leather gloves; something about him reminds me of Monsieur but I can’t work out what it is. Their echoing whispers drift towards me. The woman says softly, ‘I knew you would come.’ Motionless, the man says nothing. The two masks stare at each other. ‘Have you nothing to say to me after all these years?’
I can hear the man’s breathing but still he doesn’t speak. Her voice changes. Taut and twanging, like a guitar string out of tune. ‘Christian? You are Christian, aren’t you?’ The man in black takes a slow step forward.
She hisses, ‘I warn you, Christian, don’t play games with me.’
As he takes another step forward, her arm snakes back. I see the twinkle of light on metal. His gloved hand catches the dart effortlessly in mid-air. He walks round the table as she stands there, frozen. Grabbing her arm, he pushes the dart close to her throat, less than an inch from her skin. ‘The games you played with me are over, Madam.’
‘You!’
‘I know who you were expecting.’ He pulls her arm behind her and examines the tip of the dart. ‘What is it this time? A contact poison? Or one that has to be absorbed into the bloodstream?’
She doesn’t move. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Why not? You’ve killed, and killed again. And tonight, you were waiting for him with this.’
Beneath the silver mask, her lips curl with contempt. ‘You fool. You don’t know anything.’
‘I know enough to put you behind bars for the rest of your life.’
‘And you’ll join me there. I’m sure you’ll be deliriously happy.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure to hand you over, and myself too.’ He releases her and throws the dart into the fire.
Her laugh is low and scornful. ‘You haven’t the guts.’
‘If you try anything tonight, and if you don’t send those kids home tomorrow, Talia with them, you’ll find out if I’ve got the guts.’
As he turns on his heel, I fly back down the corridor towards Becks. ‘Quick!’
She scoops up her dress and we run all the way back to the hallway. Panting, I close the door quietly behind us.
‘What was it?’
‘The chauffeur. Well, I think it was – he called her Madam and he sounded like James. He knows all about her. He told her he’s going to the police if she tries anything tonight.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe not so good for him. And she said…’
The other door opens suddenly. Freddie wags a reproachful finger. ‘Did you two get lost or what?’
‘We were…admiring the paintings. Weren’t we, Joe?’
‘Oh, they’re nothing. You should see the Contessa’s art collection. Now, come with Auntie Freddie. I’m not going to let you two out of my sight again.’ Feeling like naughty children, we follow her bouncy feet through the door. The shadowy lawns of a well kept garden are dotted with shrubs and statues. Ahead is a huge marquee. Coloured lights flash inside. A heavy beat throbs. Behind it, we can hear laughter and the tinkle of glasses. Freddie calls, ‘Here are your mates, sweetie.’
At the open door of the marquee, another Marie Antoinette stands there waiting. From the white wig and glittering mask to the pink crinoline, she looks exactly the same as Becks. She smiles and holds out her hands. ‘You are here! I am so happy!’ The husky-voiced Queen of France leads us into the party.
***
As soon as we’re inside, hands grab us, we’re whirled onto the dance floor and I lose track of Becks completely. We’re surrounded by prancing Marie Antoinettes and stomping Napoleon Bonapartes, moving awkwardly from one booted foot to the other.
I’m sure the giggling Marie Antoinette opposite me isn’t Becks. Becks doesn’t do giggling. This girl is near to hysterical. Then I realise why. She’s pointing at my hands in these stupid gloves. I can’t hear what she’s saying, the music’s too loud. I grin, and wave my hands in the air. My grin is so fixed, I think my face is going to seize up.
I flick glances around, trying to spot any Napoleon who could be Arnaud. There are skinny Napoleons, one very fat Napoleon, and some who are built like rugby players. That narrows it down a bit. I ease my way through the gyrating costumes, looking at the thinner ones and getting some funny stares in return.
My head’s starting to feel light with hunger. I head for the buffet. A tempting array of goodies is spread out on the table. I pick up a smoked salmon sandwich. It’s on the way to my mouth when a hand touches my wrist. ‘You don’t know where it’s been, do you?’
‘Becks? How did you…?’
‘The last guy I ended up dancing with thought your gloves were really cool.’
‘Oh, right. Look, she can’t have poisoned everything. Otherwise…’
Becks crams a sandwich into h
er mouth. ‘I’m so hungry, I don’t care.’ We find seats and stuff our faces for a few blissful minutes. The music slows down and soon there’s a crowd round the table. Flicking crumbs from her dress, Becks whispers, ‘Have you seen anyone who could be Arnaud?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘I’ve bumped into every thin Napoleon I could see, apologised and asked him if he was called Arnaud. So far, I’ve met Etienne, Manolo and Stefan.’
‘You’ve probably set a new record for speed dating.’
Becks picks up two glasses of orange juice and passes me one. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right about the double hook, Joe.’
I look hard at the orange juice before taking a careful sip. ‘Talia told us that Arnaud would be here but she never invited him? Why?’
Behind the glittering mask, Becks’ green eyes are steely. ‘I think we’d better ask her. Don’t you?’
As Becks gets up, her dress swirling around her, my fat, frilly-fingered hand reaches out for her arm. ‘There’s just one thing, Becks. Did Talia do the inviting or did mum?’
Her fingertips touch mine gently. ‘We can’t ask mum, can we? We’re supposed to be dead.’
‘Unless Freddie’s told her we’re alive and kicking…’
***
Talia isn’t difficult to find. Silver mask flashing as she laughs, she’s holding court, surrounded by a throng of admirers. The Napoleons are offering her drinks while the Marie Antoinettes chatter to each other. I whisper to Becks, ‘How are we going to get her attention?’
‘Watch me.’ She calls over the crowd, ‘Hey, Talia, we’ve just met one of your mum’s really old friends?’
The white wig turns our way. ‘An old friend of my mother? Who is that?’
Becks’ voice is teasing. ‘You’ll have to guess.’ As Talia comes towards us, the music ramps up again and everyone heads back to the dance floor. Becks leads her out of the marquee onto the lawn. Freddie stands at the entrance, like a sentinel. ‘Fresh air, yeah?’
As I pass her, I can feel her eyes on us. She knows who we are. ‘Yeah.’
We stop by a statue of some Greek goddess. Water spouts from her hands into a small pond that’s covered with lilies. The lights from the marquee glint on the white wigs and shimmering crinolines, as Becks and Talia stand by the pond; two French queens, identical in their glamour. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Freddie inching closer. Becks says casually, ‘We haven’t found Arnaud yet, Talia. Has he arrived?’