Simon Hawke - The Timekeeper Conspiracy

"Look at that!" said Aramis. "An angel in the mud!"

"She saved my life," said Athos.

"No, no, you are mistaken," Porthos said. "That shot was aimed at me."

"You are both wrong," said Aramis, "it was my life that she saved."

"No, but clearly, it was mine," D'Artagnan said. "That guard was aiming straight at me."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Aramis. "Your back was turned, how could you see?"

"Nevertheless, it was I who was the target," said D'Artagnan.

"My friend," said Porthos, "it is a miracle, indeed, that you are an accomplished swordsman, for clearly you are blind. I tell you, it was me she saved!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Aramis, "this matter can be settled easily. Let us go and pull the lady from the mud and ask her whom she meant to save."

Athos tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. There was no sign of Andre.

While they had been arguing, Andre had quickly made her way back to her carriage, directing the coachman to take her back to the Luxembourg Hotel. The coachman had raised his eyebrows when he saw her all covered with filth, but he made no comment. He was being well paid and if the lady chose to have an assignation in a puddle of manure, that was no concern of his. The recreational pursuits of the jaded well-to-do made little sense to him and he really didn't care. He counted himself fortunate to be employed.

Andre ignored the stares and wrinkled noses as she entered the lobby of the Luxembourg and made her way back to her rooms. She knew that Hunter would be furious. Doubtless, he had returned by now to find her gone with no word of explanation left. She had taken the carriage and some of their money and now she was returning, soiled and smelly, after having been gone all morning and much of the afternoon. She prepared herself to face his anger. Pausing at the door to their apartment, she took a deep breath and entered. There was no sign of Hunter. Relieved, she went into the bedroom to change her clothes.

Hunter was in bed, with the covers pulled up over his head. Quietly, so as not to wake him, she tiptoed to the closet. Then she noticed that the clean white sheets were stained with crimson. She jerked back the covers.

Hunter's throat was slashed from ear to ear.

Moreau's Tavern was a noisy, friendly place, patronized mostly by the members of the working class and, on occasion, by gentlemen in search of some diversion. It was a rough-hewn sort of place, with cracked white walls, one of which was decorated with a mural placed there by a local artist with a decidedly erotic bent, cheap and sturdy furniture (the better to survive the occasional donnybrook) and heavy-timbered ceiling. Moreau's establishment was a tavern in search of a character and, in that, perhaps, lay its charm. Elderly men played chess at quiet tables in the corners, younger men played cards, gentlemen rubbed shoulders with common laborers as they drank their fill, and prostitutes solicited the patrons, albeit very politely and in a subdued, indirect manner. Moreau would not allow it any other way.

The aging seaman held court in his establishment with a charm and joie de vivre that made his tavern a popular spot, and he was tolerant of the excesses of his patrons, but only to a point. Although he was sixty-two years old, Moreau was still as strong as an ox and one did not argue with him unless one were deeply in his cups and, in such a case, the conclusion of such an argument could be sobering in the extreme.

Messrs. Dumas and D'Laine inquired as to the rooms their friend, Monsieur Legault, had arranged for them and Moreau had them sign the register for one of several rooms he let out on the tavern's second floor. Lucas raised his eyebrows when he saw Finn sign in as Monsieur F. D'Laine.

"Well, if you can be Alexander Dumas, I can be Francois D'Laine, so long as we're posing as Frenchmen."

"But D'Artagnan already knows you as Delaney," Lucas protested.

"So? If we run into him again, I've Frenchified my name for the sake of convenience."

"Frenchified!"

"Whatever."

Their room was spartan, nothing more than four walls, a couple of ramshackle beds, a small table, and a basin.

"If you'll be wanting anything more, it's extra," said Moreau.

Lucas assured him that if they needed anything, they would let him know.

"No food before eight o'clock," Moreau said, "and none after nine at night. And there'll be no eating in the rooms, if you please. If you're hungry, you come downstairs and get fed in the tavern. I'm trying to keep the rats down." He pointed at the foot of the bed in the corner. "Chamber pot is under there. When you're done, you fling it out the window in the hall, into the alley. Don't leave it sitting, stinking up the place. I run a clean establishment."

"So I see," said Lucas, eyeing a large roach as it scuttled across the floor. Moreau spat and hit the roach dead on, slowing its progress only for a moment. He shrugged.

"There's still a few around, but I'm getting rid of 'em."

"How?" said Finn.

"Snakes," Moreau replied. "Bought three of 'em from a sailor friend of mine. Don't you worry, though; they're not the poisonous sort. You find one in your bed, just toss it out upon the floor."

"The snakes will eat the rats, I think," said Lucas, "but I don't believe they'll eat the roaches."

"You sure?"

"I think so."

"Hmmph. That explains it, then. I was wondering why there were still so many of them. What eats roaches, then?"

"Lizards."

"Lizards!"

"Lizards."

Moreau seemed to consider this a moment, then he shook his head. "No, then I'll be up to my ears in lizards."

"The snakes will eat the lizards," Finn suggested.

"And then I'll still have the roaches," Moreau said. "What's the point?"

"It does seem to pose a dilemma," Lucas said, "unless you get rid of the snakes. But then you'll have the rats."

Moreau considered this as well, then grunted. "I'll take the roaches."

"Wise choice," said Finn.

That night, he let out a yell and Lucas was out of his bed in an instant, rapier at the ready. Looking sheepish, Finn dropped a king snake down onto the floor. It slithered off somewhere into the shadows. "Springtime in Paris," Finn mumbled, sourly.

In the morning, someone knocked upon their door.

"Who is it?" Lucas said.

"Ratcatcher," said a voice from beyond the door.

"We've already got one," Finn said.

Lucas opened the door to reveal a gnarled and bent old man dressed in rags and smelling of garlic. He carried a cloth sack draped over his shoulder and a club-shaped stick in his left hand. He was filthy and his nose was running. He brushed past Lucas and entered the room.

"I'm afraid-" Lucas began, then stopped when the old man suddenly straightened, moving his shoulders to loosen the kinks.

"Mongoose," said the smelly old man.

"Mon-" Lucas halted in mid-word, then peered hard at the stranger. "I'll be damned."

"That's a pretty good disguise," said Finn, wrinkling his nose.

"I'm paid to be a lot more than 'pretty good,' Mr. Delaney," the agent said. He scratched himself. "Damn lice."

"Must be rough," said Lucas, sympathetically.

"It is rough, Captain, but it's the work I do best."

"God bless America," said Finn.

Mongoose looked at him for a moment, then an amused smile appeared on his face. "Working for a spook stings your professional pride, does it?" he said.

"Let's just say I'm less than happy with the arrangement," Finn said.

"I think I can understand that," Mongoose said. "Your dossiers were delivered to me yesterday. I memorized them, then destroyed them. In your particular case, there was quite a lot written between the lines. I think I know you, Delaney. We spooks are only supposed to do the groundwork, after all, right? Then you real pros come in to clean the situation up. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?" He grinned. "It might interest you to know that we have a lot in common. I was in the Corps myself and I also flunked out of RCS. My final thesis was just a bit too controversial, so I didn't make the grade, but I'm not bitter. I expected it. Just between you and me, I'm not that crazy about the agency myself. Too many diehards and nut cases."