Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

I went to the first establishment in the area telling myself that it would be best to test the waters. After all, I probably wouldn’t like French prisons any more than English ones, possibly even less. I went in, purchased a handful of blasting caps, presented my papers, and that was it. There were no recriminations or problems.

Having completed my duty of the day, I took Maire back to the hotel, where we changed for the evening. Forgoing the dining room, I took her to the Cafe Le Procope, the oldest restaurant in Paris, if not the world. After dinner I tried a mixture of coffee and chocolate, which the waiter assured me was the favorite of Voltaire, and Maire indulged herself for once, since the cafe was justly famous for the invention of vanilla and chocolate ice cream. I wanted to pinch myself. Nothing like this had happened in my first case working for Barker. I had been nearly murdered several times over. If half, or even a quarter, of the work involved squiring beautiful women about Paris, I could see why so many applicants for the position had been there the day I first came to Barker’s door.

We couldn’t decide what to do next. We’d had too much coffee and ice cream to sit through a long opera or ballet. Neither of us was the sort to desire a visit to the notorious Chat Noir to see its cancan dancers, yet it seemed too early to return to the hotel. We ended up simply walking along the boulevards, arm in arm, eventually making our way along the Seine, that gentle queen of rivers.

“What are those people doing over there?” Maire asked, looking at some people in the shadows.

“I believe they are kissing.”

She stared harder. “You are right. There are several couples kissing.”

“That does not surprise me.” And leaning in, I kissed her for the second time. And the third.

She heaved a great sigh. “I still can’t believe I’m here.”

Arm in arm, we continued along the Seine, enjoying the warm night, the pale quarter moon, and the beauty that is Paris. It was one of the most wonderful nights of my life. Had I known how this adventure would turn out, I would have treasured it all the more.

The next day was a busy one for me. While Maire was out shopping, I had primers to buy, glycerin to obtain, and satchels to purchase. My first stop was an industrial supply company where I obtained thirty fuse caps, a large spool of wire, and numerous other articles necessary for the infernal device-building process. Their purchase required identification, and I was glad of the false papers and business cards they had provided me in Liverpool. Afterward, I had everything sent to the Gare du Nord.

There was a chemical supply store in the rue de la Grande Armee, where I explained that I needed supplies for my company, and there was no better place to get them than Paris. I flashed my business cards and talked explosives with the clerk, whose entire life, both waking and sleeping, seemed devoted to the art of destruction. I was able to procure gallons of glycerin, some fulminate of mercury for the detonation process, and all the other chemicals necessary for the making of infernal devices.

So now I was to build bombs for the Irish Republican Brotherhood, though they were not to be functioning ones. Barker and I had discussed it. Since Niall Garrity was the only one who knew how to build bombs and he would be in Dublin, we could build inert devices, though all the parts would be there.

“Transportez le paquet a la Gare du Nord, s’il vous plait,” I told the clerk.

“Oui, Monsieur Beaton.”

I stepped out into the street. All I needed now was thirty satchels and a like number of timepieces. Oh, and the pistols, of course. Thirty of them, to be used to detonate the bombs. That was going to be tricky.

I met Maire back at the hotel. The room showed evidence that I had not been the only one shopping. There were close to a dozen packages on a table by the window. My pretty companion was trying hard not to smile, which resulted in a dimple in each cheek.

“What have you been up to?”

“Why, nothing,” she said, all innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

“That money was earmarked for the poor,” I said, wagging a finger at her in imitation of Dunleavy.

“If you’d taken a look in my wardrobe lately, you’d have seen who was poor. All these nice traveling dresses I’ve been wearing I’ve borrowed from friends. I promised I’d bring them back some French lace and gloves. You wouldn’t have me be ungrateful, would you? Besides, if I know Mr. Dunleavy, the money would have gone to his tailor or a drink.”

“Did you buy your dress?” I asked.

She couldn’t help herself. She hopped up and down a time or two and clapped her hands. “I did.”

“Excellent. And I suppose you bought some nice shoes and some perfume and powders and such.”

“Well, if you can go to a chemist, I don’t see why I cannot,” she maintained.

“Of course,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished. Shopping gives me an appetite.”

After lunch, we took in more sights. We visited the cathedral of Notre-Dame, where Maire went in and prayed. Then we shook our heads in wonder at the beauty of the Jardin des Tuileries and strolled about the gardens.

“I know this is all pretend and we’re not really on our honeymoon, Thomas, but I want you to know I’m having the best time of my life.”

“I am, as well,” I told her.

“I haven’t always had an easy life,” she continued. “It hasn’t turned out the way I could have wished, so far. Certainly, I never expected to be strolling in a French garden with a handsome fellow my own age. It would be too much to hope for. Oh, I’ve made you blush again! You’d make a poor spy, Thomas. All your emotions are on your sleeve!”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. Had I betrayed myself? As far as I knew, there had been nothing in my conduct that had revealed who I really was.

“I mean you’re as open as a book. You need to spend more time in Paris, among all these suave boulevardiers.”

“Oh, I like that,” I protested. “Thank you very much. And to think I bought you lunch. I wonder how you dare be seen in Paris with an oaf like me.”

She laughed and took my hand. “You’re not an oaf, Thomas. You are a dear. And I shall always cherish this time in Paris with you.”

She kissed me then. For a moment, I felt as if all subterfuge was gone. Names and affiliations did not matter. It was just the two of us.

“Shall we go to the opera tonight?” I queried.

“Oh, yes, let’s!”

I wasn’t prepared for the sight of Maire in her new evening dress. It was a masterpiece of gold and silver with a bustle, but it showed far more of her neck and bosom than I was comfortable with. She was brave to put it on, but balked at the last minute.

“Is it too much?” she asked, closing a matching mantle over it. “Or rather, too little? The seamstress assured me it was la mode this year. Everyone shall be dressing this way.”

“Very well,” I said. “But you must hide that dress from your brother, or he will kill me.”

“Oh, don’t mind Eamon. I’ve got the boy wrapped around my finger.”

“Really? And which finger have you got reserved for me?” I wondered aloud.

I found out after the opera. The performance was Manon, a very tragic story. Our eyes were glued to the stage throughout the entire production. She wept openly at the end, and even I had a lump in my throat. We were rather subdued in the carriage ride back to the hotel.

I began preparing the chaise longue for the night while she changed.

“I feel dreadful, your sleeping on this chaise here,” she said.

“I’m used to it.”