Dennis Wheatley - The Dark Secret of Josephine

"The little Capet!" Roger gave an angry laugh. "Why, 'tis an age since I even gave the boy a thought. You need count no more on making your fortune out of him. He is dead."

"Dead!" gasped Fouché” "You cannot mean that! You are lying again."

"He is dead, I tell you, and has been so well above a year. It was in that I used you; buying your silence for a worthless partnership that you proposed yourself."

"Then... then I have kept your true identity secret all these months for nothing?"

"A most fitting reward for your double-dealing with your colleagues and your treachery to your country." Red blotches stood out on the white mask of Fouché's face. His pale eyes were starting from his skull-like head, and he looked as if e were about to have a fit. But, when he spoke again, his voice held a quieter, sinister note.

"Now you have been too clever. Yes, too clever, Mister Brook. For this cheap triumph over me you have thrown away your armour. Since I can no longer hope to gain anything by keeping your secret, why should I continue to do so? Before morning I will have you in jail for what you are. You accursed English spy!"

Roger shrugged contemptuously. "Time was when you might have done so had you played your cards with that in mind. But to denounce me so belatedly could profit you nothing. You have given me the time I needed to re-establish myself and dovetail the pieces of my story in the minds of those who would judge between us. My upbringing in England, my coming to Brittany as a youth, my secretaryship to M. de Rochambeau and duel with M. de Caylus, my return to Paris as a journalist for certain English news-sheets, my life as a member of the Paris Commune, and my having become a prisoner of the English after Thermidor: all these things are now strung together as a whole, and so many people could vouch for various parts of the story that all would believe the whole of it. You might as well accuse Barras or Buonaparte; for no one would believe you. Had you even a single witness to support you, matters would be different. But you have not.

It would be your word against mine. Our respective situations being as they are, ask yourself whose would be taken?"

In the face of Roger's cynical assurance, Fouché wilted visibly. Striking his forehead, he gave a bitter cry. "Oh that I had that one witness; or my old power back, even for a single hour!"

"Had you used it less evilly you might never have lost it," Roger retorted swiftly. Then pointing at the Order of Banishment, which still lay on the table, he gave a final turn to the screw before turning to leave the room.

"Try denouncing me if you will. You'll find it will be regarded as the pathetic effort of a man half crazed, endeavouring to revenge himself upon me. because I brought him that."

As he stepped through the doorway, Fouché, goaded beyond endurance, seized an empty bottle on the side table by its neck, swung it aloft and came at him from behind.

But Roger knew his man too well not to have kept a wary eye out for a sudden resort to violence. Swinging round, he sprang back into the hall, whipped out the slender blade from a tall sword-cane that he was carrying, jerked back his elbow, and levelled the point at Fouché's heart.

"Stand back!" Roger's voice was low but menacing. "Drop that bottle or I'll run you through with less compunction than I'd stick one of your pigs."

With a curse, Fouché dropped the bottle. Then, almost weeping with rage, he cried: "To hell with you! I'll get the better of you yet."

Lowering his blade Roger turned away, but flung a parting shot over his shoulder. "You are welcome to attempt it. But you had best be gone from here by tomorrow morning. I mean to send the police to see that you have obeyed Barras's order."

Roger's anger had now cooled. He had, all through, had the best of the encounter. No qualms of conscience troubled turn about having brought Fouché an Order of Banishment instead of the expected post. Neither did he blame Barras for having in this manner deprived FouchS of the power to menace their plans concerning the marriage of Buonaparte and Josephine. On the contrary, he was thoroughly pleased with himself for the way in which he had handled the situation.

His feelings would have been very different had he had the least inkling of the evil trick that Fate was about to play him, and the desperate straits in which he would find himself within a bare half-hour.

chapter XXVII

THE CAT GETS OUT OF THE BAG

A quarter of an hour's drive brought the coach to the far end of the Quai de la Grève where, between the two bridges, a row of decrepit-looking buildings backed on to the river. Even in daylight it was an unsavoury part of the city, as it was adjacent both to the wharfs and to the Faubourg St. Antoine, a great area of slums, from which the most sanguinary mobs had emerged to loot and kill at every crisis during the Revolution. Now, in the late evening, ill-lit and evil smelling, its dark and crooked ways seemed to conceal a menace round every corner.

. But Roger was used to taking care of himself, and his only worry at the moment was that he might not find Madame Remy at home. As the coach rumbled, now at a walk, over the cobbles he peered from its windows, till, by the light of a lantern-lit doorway from behind which there came the muffled sounds of raucous singing, he located the drinking den of which Fouché had spoken.

Halting the coach he got out, told Corporal Peltier and his men that in no circumstances were they to leave it until he called to them, then faced about to take stock of Madame Remy's dwelling. It was quite a tall building but had only two storeys. In the upper one there was a single unusually large window, presumably put in by its late tenant, the artist, to give a good north light. Curtains were drawn across it, but through them came a dull glow, Roger noted it with much satisfaction, as an indication that Madame Remy was probably at home. Walking forward, he rapped sharply on the door of the place with the butt end of his sword-cane.

In reply to his knocking there came the click-clack of footsteps on bare boards, then the door was opened by a woman. As the only particulars of the blackmailer Roger had received were, that she was the sister of a mulatto who had been brought up as a slave in the household of Josephine's father, he had subconsciously expected to find her middle-aged and running to fat, as is the case with nearly all ageing females having negro blood. But the light, although dim, was sufficient for him to see that the woman who had answered the door was tall, shapely and much younger than he expected; so with a shade of doubt in his voice, he asked:

"Are you the Citoyenne Remy?"

"Yes," she replied in a cheerful voice that implied a smile. "You're lucky to find me alone. But come in and we'll have a glass of wine. Then you can tell me who gave you my address."

It was clearly the invitation of a harlot to a stranger, whom she assumed had been sent to her by one of her regulars. With a grim little smile, at the thought that she had no idea of the surprise in store for her, Roger followed her inside and took quick stock of the main room of the dwelling, which had been hidden from the street door by a hanging curtain of coarse material.

Two-thirds of the place had been gutted to form a lofty studio, and it now had two storeys only at its far end. There, a steep, narrow stairway, flush with the partition wall, ran up to a four-foot square landing giving access to a single door, which was presumably that of a bedroom overlooking the river. But, apparently, Madame Remy did not usually conduct her business up there; as, at one side of the studio before a small fire of sea-coal stood a broad couch covered with rugs and cushions. Near it was a table on which two candles, stuck in the necks of empty bottles, were burning. Otherwise, apart from a wicker chair, a battered oak chest, and a cracked mirror above the fireplace, the big apartment was bare of furniture.