William Dietrich - Napoleon’s Pyramids

Well, that was optimistic. Napoleon sounded like a general who was either a shrewd opportunist or blind as a stone. ‘This Bonaparte, what do you think of him?’ We’d all heard his praise after his early victories, but he’d spent little time in Paris and was largely unknown. Word was that he was something of an upstart.

‘He’s the most energetic man I’ve ever met, and will either succeed spectacularly or fail spectacularly,’ Talma said.

‘Or, as is the case with many ambitious men, do both,’ Berthollet amended. ‘There’s no denying his brilliance, but it is judgement that makes greatness.’

‘I will be abandoning all my trade and diplomatic contacts,’ I said. ‘And run as if I’m guilty of murder. Can’t the police find Count Silano and the captain who lost the card game? Put us all in a room and let the truth come out?’

Berthollet looked away. Talma sighed.

‘Silano has disappeared. There’s word that the Foreign Ministry has ordered his protection,’ my friend said. ‘As for your captain, he was fished from the Seine one night ago, tortured and strangled. Naturally, given your acquaintance and the fact that you have disappeared, you are a prime suspect.’

I swallowed.

‘The safest place for you now, Monsieur Gage, is in the middle of an army.’

It seemed prudent that if I was going to join an invasion, it would be wise to go with a weapon. My costly longrifle, dating from my sojourn in the fur business, was still cached in the wall of my apartment. Made in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, its maple stock nicked and stained from hard use, the firearm remained remarkably accurate, as I’d demonstrated occasionally on the Champ de Mars. Equally important, the curve of its stock was as graceful as the limbs of a woman, and the filigree on its metalwork as comforting as a purse of coin. It was not just a tool but a steady companion, uncomplaining, smooth, the iron blue-hued, its scent a perfume of powder grains, linseed, and gun oil. Its high velocity gave its small calibre better killing power at greater range than a big-bore musket. The criticism, as always, was the awkwardness of a firearm that came up to my chin. Reloading took too long for the quick, mass volleys of European combat, and it wouldn’t fit a bayonet. But then the whole idea of standing in a line, waiting to be shot, was foreign to us Americans. The great disadvantage of any gun was the need to reload after one shot, and the great advantage of an accurate rifle was that you might actually hit something with that first shot. The first order of business, I thought, was to fetch my firearm.

‘Your apartment is exactly where the police will look for you!’ Talma objected.

‘It’s been more than two days. These are men paid less than a potter and corrupt as a judge. I think it unlikely they’re still waiting. We’ll go tonight, bribe a neighbour, and pry at the wall from his side.’

‘But I’ve got tickets for the midnight stage to Toulon!’

‘Plenty of time, if you help.’

I deemed it cautious to enter the building as I’d left Minette’s, by a back courtyard window. Even if the police were gone, Madame Durrell would still be lurking, and I was no closer to paying repairs and rent. That evening, Talma reluctantly boosted me up a downspout so I could peek into my own apartment. It was unchanged, the mattress still torn, feathers spotting my abode like flakes of snow. The latch was shiny, however, meaning the lock had been changed. My landlady was trying to make sure I’d settle my debt before getting my things. Given that my 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?’