be called a pumpkin!'
'I do not care about what suits you, Monsieur,' said de Rochefort. 'There are more important matters on my mind and you have already distracted me enough.'
'I fear that I will prove to be much more than just a mere distraction, Monsieur,' D'Artagnan said. He drew his rapier.
'You must be mad,' said de Rochefort, turning away.
'Turn, sir! Turn or I will strike you down!'
'This is annoying,' de Rochefort said to his men. 'Do something about this insolent boy.'
'Insolent, am I?' said D'Artagnan, striding forward. He pushed past one of the guards and reached for de Rochefort's shoulder. 'I am not done with you, Monsieur! I-'
The guard he had brushed past picked up a chair and, with a swing that seemed almost nonchalant, he smashed it over D'Artagnan from behind. The Gascon crumpled to the floor. The innkeeper moaned over the loss of the second chair of the afternoon.
The guard turned back to face Lucas and Delaney. With a hand on the hilt of his sword, he approached them belligerently.
'You gentlemen don't have anything to add, do you?' he said; then, in the same breath, he whispered, 'Mongoose.'
Finn's eyebrows rose. 'No, we don't have anything to add,' he said. 'In fact, we hardly even know that fellow.'
'It appears to me that your friend has had too much to drink,' the guard said, indicating Lucas. 'I would strongly advise you to be on your way, before his drunkenness gets you into any more trouble.'
'Certainly, Monsieur,' said Finn. 'The last thing that we want is trouble.'
'Then be on your way,' said the agent, adding in a quick whisper, 'Moreau's Tavern on the Rue Ferou. Say Legault sent you.' He raised his voice. 'Out with you! Now! And make it quick!'
4
Something was wrong.
No one had seen Jacques Benoit for days. In anyone else's case, this would not have been particularly noteworthy, but Doctor Jacques was well known to be a creature of scrupulous habit. For the past week, Hunter had been making all the rounds, but ex-army surgeon Jack Bennett, known to his Parisian friends as Doctor Jacques Benoit, was nowhere to be found.
He wasn't at his home on the Rue St.-Honore. His servants, Marie and Old Pierre, had found it necessary to turn away his patients, as they did not know where Doctor Jacques had gone or when he would return. This gave them cause for much concern, since their master never went anywhere without leaving them some word.
Moreau's Tavern, on the Rue Ferou, where Doctor Jacques could be found every evening enjoying a bottle of wine and playing a game or two of chess, had not been graced by his presence for over a week. This upset Moreau somewhat, as Benoit was something of an attraction at the tavern. It was the way that he played chess. He would sit with his back to the board, at another table, carrying on idle conversation with onlookers. His opponent would announce his move, and then Benoit would announce his, 'Knight to King's Bishop four' or whatever, all without looking at the board. He had yet to lose a game. These casual, friendly matches brought in customers and these customers frequently bet upon the outcome — at least, those who had not seen Benoit play before would bet.
Moreau knew Hunter as 'Monsieur Laporte,' an old friend of Jacques Benoit's from Reims. Insofar as Moreau knew, Monsieur Laporte was a gentleman, a man who liked to live quietly and who did not often come to Paris, but when he did, he always made a point of it to visit his old friend and to stop in to see Moreau.
'It is not like Doctor Jacques,' Moreau was saying, as he poured both himself and Hunter some red wine. 'He never goes anywhere without at least telling Marie and Old Pierre. He has always been considerate of his friends and especially his patients.'
'He didn't say anything the last time you saw him?' Hunter said. 'He did not say he was going to the country for some rest?'
Anytime Jack Bennett made a trip to Plus Time, he always said that he was 'going to the country.' Members of the underground who kept in frequent touch with one another had various code phrases such as that to pass on messages. 'He didn't say anything at all?'
'No, Monsieur,' Moreau said. 'If he had said anything, I would most assuredly have remembered.'
'I hope nothing has happened to him,' Hunter said. 'Paris can be dangerous at times, especially these days.'
'Who would hurt Doctor Jacques?' Moreau said. He shook his head. 'He hasn't an enemy in Paris. He has his peculiarities, true, but who can argue with his results? I, myself, have never understood why he looks down on bleeding, for example. He insists that it does more harm than good. Still, he has helped many people hereabouts, and he even extends himself to those who cannot afford to pay. He may ask some little service or, as in the case of Marcel's ailing father, take payment in a chicken or two, but… no, I cannot imagine anyone who would wish him harm. He is the soul of compassion. And well-liked and respected.'
'Then what could have become of him?' said Hunter.
Moreau shrugged. 'Perhaps he had some business with those friends of his, from Flanders.'
Hunter frowned. 'Friends from Flanders?'
'Yes, five of them,' Moreau said. 'They were with him the last time he was here. And the time before that, too.'
'Can you tell me anything about them?' Hunter said. 'It could be important.'
'They were a rough lot,' Moreau said. He shrugged again. 'Still, Doctor Jacques has friends from all walks of life, no? Not my sort, though. Not my sort at all. They would all grow silent whenever I approached their table, as though afraid that I would overhear their conversation.'
'What did they look like? Perhaps I know them.'
'They were all large men,' Moreau said. 'All except one, who was very slight and thin. About like so,' Moreau said, indicating his own chest level. 'Three of them were dark, rough-looking, as I said. One was bald. Him I remember very well. He was a bull, that one, a giant of a man. They didn't speak much, at least, not to me, but they were not French, that much was certain.'
'They did not know the language,' Hunter said.
'Oh, no, they knew the language very well,' Moreau said, 'but they learned it elsewhere. They had some sort of accent, but I could not place it.'
'What about the fifth man?' Hunter said. 'The slight one?'
'Ah, yes, him. I thought he was a girl, at first.' Moreau chuckled. 'It was a bit embarrassing. I called him 'mademoiselle' and it seemed to amuse the others and it was only then that I saw he was a man. A very young man, no more than a boy, really. Some boys, in their youthfulness, well…'
'Yes, I understand,' said Hunter. 'And some young girls look like young boys sometimes, especially if they are not wearing dresses.'
'Quite so,' Moreau said, visibly relieved. 'Still, this one… he wore his hair quite long, much longer than is the fashion. And it was like spun gold, Monsieur. Most unsettling. His French, now, was flawless. A real gentleman, that one. I heard Doctor Jacques call him 'Adrian.' ' Moreau lowered his voice. 'An English name, no?'
'Could be,' said Hunter. 'I know no one by that name. This all sounds very mysterious, Moreau.'
Moreau looked around, then leaned closer to Hunter. 'Tell me, Monsieur,' he said, 'Doctor Jacques… I have never known him to, that is, he has no… political leanings, has he?'
'I don't know,' said Hunter. 'What makes you say a thing like that?'
Moreau shrugged again. 'One learns a thing or two in this business, Monsieur. After all, you must admit, it does look strange. Five strangers, four of whom are decidedly not French and the fifth with an English-sounding name, all speaking in low voices in the corner…'
'I see what you mean,' said Hunter. 'But political intrigue? That does not sound like the Jacques Benoit I know.'
