by Felice Arena
The pickpocket and the looters abruptly retreat, sprinting as fast as they can in the opposite direction.
Then the police are in pursuit.
Frederic sees Claire running towards them. She pulls at Thierry’s coat and drags him over to help Monsieur Bertrand to his feet. He catches his breath, and thanks them all for their courageous help.
‘We heard you yelling,’ says Joseph. ‘There are gangs of looters and good-for-nothings making trouble all over town at the moment. Robbing houses that have be evacuated and making the most of the fact that the street-lights are out at night.’
Monsieur Dupuis nods. ‘You should come to training, Frederic. You show so much potential, but you let that boy go! Come to the boxing hall one of these days. We haven’t seen you there since your father . . .’
Joseph trails off.
Frederic answers with an awkward nod, and, in an attempt to change the subject, starts to introduce his friends. Claire steps forward and says hello. Thierry is once again writing manically into his notebook.
‘Are you a journalist in the making?’ says Joseph, grinning.
‘No way!’ says Thierry. ‘I’m a novelist in the making. Now, that kick you did . . . What’s the technical term for that?’
Claire grins. ‘Come on, boys. We need to get going.’
‘It’s good to see you, Frederic,’ calls Monsieur Bertrand.
Frederic waves, turns and chases after his friends.
‘I can’t believe it, Frederic! I just can’t believe it!’ Thierry says over and over as they approach the hotel where his mother works. ‘You calm horses and you rumble like a sailor from Calais. Who are you?’
‘What else are you hiding from us, Frederic?’ says Claire as the three step up to the entrance of the Hotel Christophe-Antoine.
‘Really?’ Frederic says, raising his eyebrow at her.
‘You’re asking me that question?’
But Claire doesn’t answer. She just looks away.
Frederic gasps as he steps into the grand lobby of the Hotel Christophe-Antoine. It’s one of the few hotels in the city that has escaped the flooding. It’s built on high foundations on one of the rare drier streets.
Inside, life goes on just as it did before the natural disaster hit. It’s a completely different world, not at all like the bleak dreariness outside.
The lobby is warm and has electric lighting – the rest of the city has reverted to gas or wood fires. Frederic feels as though he hasn’t been properly warm and dry in a long time.
The huge room has polished patterned wood floors, high ceilings with beams, windows with heavy embroidered drapes, and an imposing stone fireplace surrounded by couches and chairs.
Frederic soaks in the surroundings, but then he starts to notice the stares they’re getting from the guests – women in large hats and full-length furs, men in top hats and tails, even children in coats with velvet collars.
He starts to feel self-conscious. Three grubby, damp children don’t belong in such a luxurious place.
A hotel porter in a crimson uniform with gold buttons makes a hasty dash over the polished floor towards them.
‘No loitering in here,’ he snaps, waving his arms as if he’s chasing away chickens. ‘Out you go!’
‘We’re not loitering,’ says Thierry. ‘I’m here to see my maman, Marie Bonneville. She works here. She’s a chambermaid.’
‘Employees of this hotel enter in the laneway at the back,’ the hotel porter says in an angry whisper. ‘Didn’t your maman tell you that? You must wait there. Now, please, you’re dripping on the floor!’
‘Oh, it’s you!’ comes a booming voice from behind them. ‘I’m glad you found us. What luck!’
Frederic turns to see an elderly gentleman walking towards them.
At first Frederic doesn’t recognise the man. He has an accent, bright rosy cheeks and smiling eyes.
He steps in front of the porter and shakes Frederic’s hand. ‘Lord Haythorne. I never forget a face.’
He calls over to a woman sitting in front of the fire. She’s very beautiful and elegantly dressed. ‘Darling, this is the boy I told you about.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, oui, oui!’ She beams. ‘My husband has not stopped talking about you. This watch has been in the family a century. It means more to him than all our homes in England.’
Ah! Frederic remembers him now. And that explains the accent. They are English aristocrats from across the channel.
‘How many homes do you have?’ Thierry blurts out, only to get a jab in the ribs by Claire.
The man waves the porter away. ‘This boy and his friends are my guests today. He helped me and then ran off without accepting a reward.’
The porter nods and Claire cheekily pokes her tongue out at him.
‘Oh, James,’ sighs his wife. ‘Look at them in their dirty wet clothes. It’s all so grimy and drab. They look like stray hungry kittens. Let’s buy them some warm new clothes and then have pastries and hot chocolate together.’
‘What a smashing idea!’ Lord Haythorne declares in English.
‘What’s your name, dear?’ his wife says to Claire.
‘Claire.’
‘Oh!’ says Lady Haythorne excitedly. ‘We share the same name.’
Thierry looks delighted and scribbles madly in his notebook. ‘Smeshion aydeer-err!’ he says, trying to copy Lord Haythorne’s English.
Everyone laughs. Even Frederic is smiling.
A half hour later, Frederic and Thierry are kitted out in new pants, boots, vests, jackets and caps. Frederic feels different – in a good way. He feels strangely taller. The new clothes hug him like another skin and make him want to stand up very straight. As for his new knee-high leather boots – he can’t wait to splash through the water in them.
The boys are ushered into the hotel restaurant by the porter. They timidly head over to join Lord Haythorne, who has his head buried in a newspaper. Frederic notices that the headlines on the front page continue to be about the flood and the diamond robbery that Journal mentioned.
‘Now, that’s more like it,’ Lord Haythorne says. ‘Fine young gentlemen. We’ll wait for the girls to arrive before we order, d’accord?’
Frederic and Thierry exchange grins, savouring the moment.
‘My stars!’ Thierry gasps.
Frederic follows his gaze and sees Lady Haythorne entering the restaurant with a young lady wearing a peach-coloured dress with a lace collar and sleeves. She has ribbons and flowers in her hair.
‘Where’s Claire?’ Frederic asks Thierry.
Thierry laughs. ‘That is Claire,’ he says.
Frederic almost can’t believe it. ‘Wow! Claire is beautiful! I mean really beautiful!’
Claire takes a seat between Thierry and Frederic.
‘You smell like lilacs,’ Thierry says.
‘Shut up!’ Claire hisses. ‘And what are you staring at, Frederic?’
‘Um, nothing, I wasn’t staring . . . Sorry, Claire. It’s just that you look so different.’
Lord and Lady Haythorne order rich, dark hot chocolate and a selection of the hotel’s finest pastries: creamy éclairs, an upside-down tarte Tatin with caramelised apples smothered in sugar and butter, and the hotel’s specialty, the mille-feuille, a custard slice made up of layers and layers of delicate puff pastry and cream, dusted with icing sugar and roasted almonds.
‘I think this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me,’ says Thierry. He cradles his cup of chocolate near his chin.
Claire and Frederic just scoff down the delicacies in silent bliss. There is no time to talk when you’re surrounded by the most delicious treats in the world – though Thierry does manage to tell the Haythornes, in between bites, how the three of them have become friends because of the flood.
When the sweet feast is over, Lady Haythorne asks Claire if she would come with her. She is going to meet with a French women’s group.
‘We come together once a month to discuss the righ
ts of women,’ she says. ‘We are making great strides in fighting for equality for women – in sports, politics, in life in general. I mean, why should the boys have all the fun? Will you join me?’
Claire nods and grins widely.
‘Enjoy yourself, my love,’ says Lord Haythorne. ‘That will give me a chance to catch up on some paperwork. Boys, when you’re ready, I’ll have the porter arrange a carriage to take you back to your shelter.’
As Claire and Lady Haythorne leave, Frederic catches Claire looking back at them. She looks genuinely happy.
‘Oh no!’ Thierry says, standing up from the table. ‘Maman! I forgot all about her! I’ll see you at the shelter, Frederic. And, thank you, Monsieur Haythorne.’ Thierry bolts out of the restaurant.
‘No need to rush, Frederic,’ says Lord Haythorne, standing. ‘Finish your hot chocolate. I wish you and your friends all the best.’
Frederic watches Lord Haythorne leave. He sighs contentedly but as he’s about to take another sip from his cup, his eyes fall on a figure entering the dining room. Frederic almost chokes on his chocolate.
It’s the thief from the Louvre.
Frederic snatches up the newspaper on the table and hides his face behind it. He cautiously peers over the top and tracks the man as he walks over to a waiter at the far end of the restaurant.
He is dressed differently now – a lot smarter, in a tailored jacket. He doesn’t seem to be hiding or be concerned that he might be seen. The man and the waiter chat briefly and then he leaves.
Frederic jumps from the table and follows him.
The man makes his way to the back of the lobby and up a grand spiral stairway. Frederic is careful to keep a safe distance between them. At the top, the man turns the corner into a long corridor.
Frederic leans against the wall at the top of the stairway and peers around the corner. He sees the man unlocking the door to room 22. Then he disappears inside.
Frederic’s hands are shaking and his mouth is dry. He walks towards the room until there is just a single door between him and the man who murdered his father.
A wave of blazing anger washes over Frederic. He clenches his fist and grits his teeth. And just as he is about to rap at the door, he hears voices coming up the stairway.
There is a chambermaid’s cart in the middle of the corridor a few doors down, filled with fresh towels and sheets. He runs and huddles behind the large metal trolley. The voices of two men echo along the passageway. He hears a knock and peeks from behind the trolley. They’re at the man’s door!
Frederic wonders if they are the accomplices from the night at the Louvre museum. They had masks on so it’s hard to know. One is short, balding and has a moustache, like most men in Paris. The other is tall, thin and has a goatee beard. The door opens slowly.
‘Finally!’ says the man. ‘I went down to the restaurant to see if you were there. What took you so long?’
The man speaks with an accent that suggests he is educated and from the upper class.
‘You can blame this damn flood! It takes twice as long to get anywhere,’ says one of the men in a rough accent more like Frederic’s.
‘This isn’t a bad place to lay low for a couple of nights,’ says the other. ‘And you’ll be happy to know all is set to go. Another guard in place ready for Friday night and we’ll soon be smiling with her . . .’
‘Shhh! Come in!’
The door slams and Frederic exhales.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ A voice comes from behind Frederic.
Frederic jumps. He turns to see a chambermaid scowling at him. He knows he shouldn’t be in this part of the hotel. He’s certain he’ll be reported.
But the woman’s scowl turns to a curious half smile instead. ‘Frederic? Thierry’s friend, from the shelter?’ she says. ‘But what are you doing up here?’
‘Um, I was . . . looking for Thierry.’ Frederic lies, recognising Thierry’s mother.
‘Well, I was just with him down in the maids’ quarters. I understand you all had an unexpected shopping expedition – thanks to you, apparently. At least there was no jumping into sewers or rescuing cats from crocodiles. Thierry is on his way back to the shelter.’
Thierry’s mother opens a side panel on the cart to reveal room keys dangling off small hooks. She hangs a key, takes another, and grabs a cloth from the top of the trolley.
Frederic has an idea. There’s no time to think about the consequences, about how dangerous it is or how much trouble he might get himself or Thierry’s mother into.
‘I’ll see if I can catch up with him,’ says Frederic, pretending to say goodbye.
As Thierry’s mother steps into another room, Frederic opens the side panel on the cart and snatches the key to room number 22.
Frederic doesn’t sleep much that night. And when he wakes up the following morning his mother notices the anxious look on his face.
‘You were tossing and turning all night,’ she says, already dressed to leave for the day. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Perhaps I can help.’
Frederic is torn. He wants to tell his mother everything – that he knows where to find his father’s murderer, that he has a plan to get revenge. But his mother will just tell him to go to the police. And he knows how much help that was last time.
‘You always worry, but there’s no need,’ he says, hugging her goodbye.
After she leaves, Frederic sneaks out of the shelter before Thierry and Claire see him. The streets are once again drizzly and grey. He wonders if the rain and the flood will ever go away.
He walks quickly along the passerelles back to the Hotel Christophe-Antoine. Once there, Frederic positions himself directly across the road from the hotel, behind a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts. They smell so good, he thinks, his stomach grumbling.
Frederic waits.
And waits. And waits.
A long hour later he spots his father’s killer stepping out of the hotel. The man hails a taxi-carriage and rides off.
‘Now!’ Frederic whispers under his breath, splashing across the street and entering the hotel at the main entrance.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Frederic is startled – it’s the same porter from yesterday and despite Frederic’s fancy new clothes he knows he doesn’t belong.
‘I was asked to meet Lord Haythorne,’ Frederic lies.
‘Really?’ says the porter, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
‘Yes, and I’m running late,’ adds Frederic. ‘I don’t think Lord Haythorne would appreciate your holding me up. Between you and me, he told me he wasn’t really happy with your service and was thinking of reporting you to the manager. If you let me pass perhaps I might be able to put in a good word for you.’
The porter looks a bit worried. Finally he steps back and waves Frederic through.
When Frederic reaches room 22, he takes a deep breath. It’s the riskiest thing he’s ever done. He’s gambling on the other two men not being here. He listens. Nothing. Then he lets himself in.
Frederic wastes no time. There’s a bag on the bed, and clothes neatly hung up in the wardrobe and placed in the drawers. It’s all very neat and orderly, not at all what Frederic was expecting.
Somehow he thought that the man who killed his father would be grubby and messy, out of control somehow. But this man is a gentleman. He fits right in here. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Frederic rummages through the bag. He is looking for more information about who this man is, something that will help him get revenge.
Then on the desk, he finds a letter from the hotel addressed to their guest: Dear Monsieur Manteau . . . it reads. He quickly scans the letter, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
Still, he has a name, even if it’s not real.
‘Manteau,’ Frederic mutters.
Suddenly the doorknob rattles.
Frederic throws himself to the ground and rolls under the bed just as the door swings open.
His heart is pounding. Are the two men from yesterday here? Is Manteau back so soon? Frederic hears the sound of two voices.
‘Maybe we misjudged,’ says one. ‘Perhaps he’s in the room next door.’
‘Then why is this one open?’ says the other voice.
Frederic lets out a huge sigh of relief and crawls out from under the bed.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, startling
Thierry and Claire. ‘Did you follow me?’
‘Of course we followed you,’ says Claire. ‘And we watched you watching the hotel. What do you think you’re doing?’
Frederic sighs, wishing he had been careful to lock the door behind him. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you two and it isn’t safe for you to be here.’
‘Why? Whose room are we in?’ asks Thierry.
Frederic doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to because Claire answers for him.
‘If I’m right, and I always am, then it isn’t safe for any of us to be here. I think we’re in the room of the man Frederic saw on the street, the one he thinks killed his father.’ Claire shakes her head at Frederic. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘What? Ce n’est pas possible! It’s not possible!’ Thierry sounds panicked now. ‘Let’s go to the police. Tell the hotel manager . . . Tell someone!’
‘No!’ Frederic snaps. ‘We’re not telling anyone. Not yet.’
‘Why? Because you want to confront him? Let him have it?’ asks Claire.
‘Maybe I do. I don’t know. It’s just . . .’ Frederic feels agitated and lost. And starving. He starts pacing around the room, grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the desk and bites into it.
A shooting pain goes through his jaw. The apple is hard as rock. He puts his hand to his mouth. ‘I almost chipped my tooth. What’s in here?’ Frederic splits open the apple.
Something glints from inside the white fruit.
‘Oh la vache, holy cow!’ gasps Claire. ‘Is it a jewel?’
‘That’s the stolen Prince of Condé diamond,’ cries Thierry. ‘The same one in the newspaper! The one that boy said was worth twenty thousand francs.’