floor was her ceiling, I’d decided an oblique attack would be best.
‘Keep a lookout,’ I whispered to my companion.
‘Hurry! I saw a gendarme down the alley!’
‘I’ll be in and out without a peep of noise.’
I sidled on the sill to my neighbour Chabon, a librarian who each evening tutored the children of the newly striving. As I’d hoped, he was gone. The truth was that I had no hope of bribing a man of his rigid and rather dull rectitude, and was counting on his absence. I broke a pane and opened his window. He’d be disturbed to find a hole in his wall but I was, after all, on a mission for France.
His room smelt of books and pipe smoke. I dragged a heavy chest away from the wall opposite my own place and used my tomahawk to pry at the wainscoting. Did I mention the hatchet could work as wedge and lever, too? I’m afraid I splintered a few boards, but I’m no carpenter, either. I was making more sound than I’d promised, but if I was quick it wouldn’t matter. I saw my powder horn and the butt of my gun.
Then I heard the click of the lock on my own door, and footsteps in my apartment. Someone had heard the noise! Hastily, I shouldered the horn, grabbed the rifle, and started to slowly draw it out the wall, fighting the awkward angle.
I just about had it free when someone grabbed the barrel from the other side.
I peered through the hole. Facing me was the visage of Madame Durrell, her red hair seemingly electrified, her hideously rouged mouth pursed in triumph. ‘You think I don’t know your tricks? You owe me two hundred francs!’
‘Which I’m travelling to earn,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Please let go my gun, Madame, so I can satisfy my debts.’
‘How, by murdering another? Pay, or I shout for the police!’
‘I haven’t murdered anyone, but I still need time to put things to right.’
‘Starting with your rent!’
‘Be careful, I don’t want to hurt you. The rifle is loaded.’ It was a frontier habit acquired from the voyageurs.
‘Do you think I’m afraid of the likes of you? This gun is collateral!’
I pulled, but she tugged back ferociously. ‘He’s here, come to steal his things!’ she shouted. She had a grip like the jaws of a terrier.
So in desperation I abruptly reversed movement and bulled forward through the hole I’d made in the wall, bursting more boards as I drove through to my own apartment. I landed atop my landlady along with gun, splinters, and wall dust. ‘Sorry. I wanted to do this quietly.’
‘Help! Rape!’
I staggered to the window, dragging her as she clung to one leg.
‘It will be the guillotine for you!’
I looked outside. Talma had disappeared from the muddy yard. A gendarme stood in his place, staring up at me in surprise. Damnation! The police had not been half so efficient when I had once complained to them about a pickpocket.
So I lurched the other way, Madame Durrell’s attempt to gnaw on my ankle somewhat foiled by her lack of more than a few teeth. The door was locked, its key no doubt in my landlady’s pocket, and I had no time for niceties. I uncapped my horn, primed my pan, pointed, and fired.
The report was a roar in the room, but at least my landlady let go my leg as the lock shattered. I kicked the door open and plunged into the hallway. A hooded figure on the stairs blocked my way, armed with a snake-headed staff, his eyes startled from the gunshot. The lantern bearer! Smoke hung in the landing’s air.
There was a click, and a fine sword point emerged from the snake’s head. ‘Give it up and I let you go,’ he whispered.
I hesitated, my gun empty. My opponent had the skilled stance of a pikeman.
Then something flew out of the darkness below and banged off the lantern bearer’s head, staggering him. I charged, using the barrel of my rifle like a bayonet to thrust against his sternum, knocking his wind out. He lurched and tumbled down the stairs. I clattered after, vaulted his sprawled body, and stumbled outside, colliding with Talma.
‘Are you mad?’ my friend asked. ‘Police are coming from every direction!’
‘But I got it,’ I said with a grin. ‘What the devil did you hit him with?’
‘A potato.’
‘So they’re good for something after all.’
‘Stop them!’ Madame Durrell was shouting from a streetside window. ‘He tried to have his way with me!’
Talma looked up. ‘I hope your gun was worth that.’
Then we were flying down the street. Another gendarme appeared at the end of the lane, so Talma jerked me into the doorway of an inn. ‘Another lodge,’ he whispered. ‘I sensed we might need this.’ We burst inside and quickly pulled the proprietor into the shadows. A quick Masonic handshake and Talma pointed to a door leading to the cellar. ‘The order’s urgent business, friend.’
‘Is he a Freemason too?’ The innkeeper pointed at me.
‘He tries.’
The innkeeper followed us down, locking the door behind us. Then we stood under stone arches, catching our breath.
‘Is there a way out?’ Talma asked.
‘Past the wine barrels is a grate. The drain is big enough to slip through and leads to the sewers. Some Masons escaped that way in the Terror.’
My friend grimaced, but did not quail. ‘Which way to the leather market?’
‘Right, I think.’ He stopped us with his hand. ‘Wait, you’ll need this.’ He lit a lantern.
‘Thanks, friend.’ We scampered past his barrels, pried off the grate, and skidded thirty feet down a tunnel of slime until we popped out into the main sewer. Its high stone vault disappeared into darkness in both directions, our dim light illuminating the scurrying of rats. The water was cold and stinking. The grate clanged above as our saviour locked it back into place.
I examined my smeared green coat, the only nice one I had. ‘I admire your fortitude in coming down here, Talma.’
‘Better this and Egypt than a Parisian jail. You know, Ethan, every time I’m with you, something happens.’
‘It’s interesting, don’t you think?’
‘If I die of consumption, my last memories will be of your shouting landlady.’
‘So let’s not die.’ I looked right. ‘Why did you ask about the leather market? I thought the stage left near the Luxembourg Palace?’
‘Exactly. If the police find our benefactor, he’ll misdirect them.’ He pointed. ‘We go left.’
So we arrived: half wet, odoriferous, and me without baggage except for rifle and tomahawk. We washed as best we could at a fountain, my green travelling coat hopelessly stained. ‘The potholes are getting worse,’ Talma explained lamely to the postman. Our standing wasn’t helped by the fact that Talma had purchased the cheapest tickets, economising by perching us on the open rear bench behind the enclosed coach, exposed and dusty.
‘It keeps us from awkward questions,’ Talma reasoned. With my own money mostly stolen, I could hardly complain.
We could only hope the fast stage would get us well on the way to Toulon before the police got around to querying the stations, since our odd departure would likely be remembered. Once we reached Bonaparte’s invasion fleet we’d be safe: I carried a letter of introduction from Berthollet. I masked my identity with the name Gregoire and explained my accent by saying I was a native of French Canada.
Talma had his own valise delivered before accompanying my adventure, and I borrowed a change of shirt before it was hoisted to the coach roof. My gun had to go in the same place, with only the tomahawk keeping me from feeling defenceless.
‘Thanks for the extra clothing,’ I said.
