The Black Hawk

She could hear them. From the shops of the arcade, commenting loudly in their native language, a pack of four young gentlemen approached. They swaggered in a line, arms linked, loud, expensively rigged out, unkempt, pushing everyone from their path. They came from the gambling rooms on the floors above where they had spent the night drinking and losing money.

She murmured, “I see why Mr. Millian met the end he did. It is surprising the English are not more frequently defenestrated.”

“You’re too harsh.”

Englishmen swooped upon the Café Foy in a jangle of fobs and a great clumping of riding boots, the many capes of their coats flapping as they walked, the lapels of their jackets wide as outspread wings. They would take breakfast, they said to one another and all the world. The waiter tried to lead them to a spot distant from anyone, behind a pillar, but they ignored him and shoved their way between chairs toward where she sat with Hawker. They sprawled into seats at the next table, bare inches away, close enough to share their reek of drink and tobacco.

The waiter brought brandy and glasses for them without being asked and was rude, addressing them as ‘tu,’ which they did not have knowledge enough to resent. He pretended to understand no English in the hopes they would go away to find their beefsteak and ham elsewhere.

They were persistent. Beefsteak they would have or know the reason why. Really, what sensible man would eat food served by a waiter he had offended?

The waiter bowed apologetically to her as he left, then to the old woman nearby who had picked up her dog into her arms protectively.

The café was allowed to listen to a recounting of the nighttime exploits of four well-to-do foreign louts. They were frank in their opinion of the women of the Palais Royale and Frenchwomen in general. The old woman and her dog departed. The pretty young ladies under the linden trees arose and went back to shopping their way down the arcade.

Then the Englishmen became interested in her. “Pretty little bird,” one said to the other, staring at her rudely. “Damn, but that’s a fine pullet. Think she’ll come back down when she’s finished servicing the black ram?”

“I know where I’d like her to come down.”

“Come down for breakfast. She can breakfast on me.”

“She can wrap those sweet lips around my sausage anytime.”

Men of such high good humor. Did they imagine no one spoke English?

She shrugged ruefully, “It is my fault, ’Awker, that our peace is done. I will leave.” It was a tame surrender, to be chased from their coffee by such apes, but agents do not engage in public brawls. “I must arrange for this evening, in any case. Shall we meet at—”

If Leblanc had not been furtive, she would not have noticed him.

Leblanc stood fifty feet away, half hidden by a column, inspecting the merchandise of a seller of opera glasses and scientific instruments. The hunch of his shoulder shouted hidden purpose. The angle of his head spoke of surreptition.

He had not followed her here. She would have noticed. He came because he knew she would, to interest himself in her investigations and to snoop into her sources.

He was no practiced field agent, Leblanc. He was a political and scheming animal. He had not even changed his coat from their meeting this morning.

“Do not turn around,” she said. “Face more to the right.”

Hawker was so instantly upon guard, the snap of fingers took longer. His arm remained relaxed upon the back of a chair. His dark, ironic expression did not change in the least. But his fingers went to close over his cane.

“Why should I not look left?” he said genially.

“I do not choose to share your face with others. Their curiosity is intrusive.”

He slipped a coin on the table, under the edge of the plate. “Someone is interested in us? How delightful. Do we know who it is?”

“A man I know. Do not turn to look.”

His snuffbox held a polished mirror inside. He already held it in his hand and examined the world behind him. “The gentleman with an interest in opera glasses. Who is he?”

How annoying he should spot Leblanc at once. “If you do not know him, I will certainly not enlighten you. Stand, bow once, walk away, and do not show your face. I will meet you at the shop that sells fans, at the end of the arcade, at sunset.”

“We’ll be more creative than that. Watch.”

“Do not—”

He took up the cane as he stood. “Ma chérie, let us go.” He was so gentlemanly. He bowed as he took her hand. His cane . . .

One of the Englishmen had tipped his chair back on two legs so he might sprawl even more inelegantly. Somehow Hawker’s cane encountered the chair.

The chair spilled backward. The Englishman fell with a yelp and a flailing of arms. Hawker sprang back to avoid him and knocked into another Englishmen. Stumbled. Was tossed against a third.

Oh, the consternation. Hawker in his heavily accented English helped one man to his feet, brushed another, unaccountably bumped into the last. Apologizing. Explaining. Dropping his cane. Picking it up. And never showing his face to Leblanc.

Oh, the annoyance and outrage of the Englishmen. The spilled brandy. The curses.

“I make ten thousand apologies.” Hawker bobbed from the waist. “It is my fault entirely.”

“Watch yourself, damn it.”

“I hurry myself. I did not see. I am only concerned to take my lady away from here and I do not notice the so-English polite gentlemen. Come, I will leave coin with the waiter to pay in some small way for this inconvenience I cause you. See. I call for more brandy.” And he waved.

“Clumsy oaf.”

“I am clumsy. Yes. Unforgivably so. But I think only to avoid the petty thieves. It is the hazard of this place, that it is replete of pickpockets. I forget myself in my fear of them.”

“What do ya mean, pickpockets?”

“They are everywhere. Like the ticks of the dog. And this morning, most of all.” Hawker reassured himself, pocket by pocket, as he spoke. Pat. Pat. Vest and jacket. “Yes. All is well still. The waiter tells me he recognizes a most notorious pickpocket. A man called the Swift Finger he is so well known.” His gesture led the eyes toward the distant Leblanc. “He comes close, that one. Brazen. You, yourself, have passed him not a moment ago. It is a scandal that such fleas prey upon us, is it not?”

And her Hawker slipped fingers into the last man’s pocket. No one saw but her. He let her see.

Sometimes, in a play, there will be a single scene that makes it memorable. The actors reach a height of art that surpasses all others. Hawker’s bow, as he kissed his hand and bid a ceremonious farewell was that moment. “I wish you an interesting visit to Paris, gentlemen.”

He took her arm to lead her away. They had gone perhaps a hundred steps before the first of the Englishmen noticed his watch was missing.

“We just keep walking,” Hawker murmured.

“I am not an infant in these matters. I know what to do.” So she did not look over her shoulder to see what happened, only listened to the outraged boots inexorably headed in Leblanc’s direction.

Twenty-nine

THEY STROLLED, ARM IN ARM, NOT DAWDLING, NOT hurrying, away from the distant commotion that was Leblanc discussing with four Englishmen the theft of . . . “What did you take, ’Awker?”

“A little of this. A little of that. Not everything.” He sounded regretful. “I took a ring from the man who talked about your lips.”