Dennis Wheatley - The Dark Secret of Josephine

"For that, then, you offer me only what may amount to a brief respite. That is not good enough."

"I'll go no further. Give me the book and we'll take you to the police office. Refuse and I'll kill you where you stand."

Roger decided that Fouché meant what he said. It was a bitter pill to have to give up the diary, for so much hung upon it. But there was no other way in which he could buy his life.

"Very well," he nodded. "Unload your musket and throw the cartridge on the floor."

As Fouché hesitated, he added: "Come; I'm not such a fool as to risk your shooting me after you have obtained the book. You will still have the weapon to use as a club. I am unarmed and even if I attacked you your shouts would soon bring the two soldiers up from the front door to your help."

"If I unload will you come quietly to the police office?"

"What faith would you put in my word if I gave it to you? That is a risk you must take. As I have just said, you have two armed men whom you can call on to escort me."

Without further argument Fouché unloaded the musket, and threw down the cartridge. Roger drew his arm in from the open window, walked over to him, and handed him the precious diary. Instead of moving towards the door, Roger said: "You will be good enough to go first, I have no mind to be struck down with the butt end of your musket as I descend the stairs."

With a pale smile, Fouché replied: "In that I will oblige you. But being of an equally suspicious disposition I have no mind to have you leap on me from behind; so you will be good enough to remain up on the landing until I have reached the bottom step."

Roger gave a quick nod, and halted in the doorway while Fouché walked on down the narrow staircase. At its bottom he took two paces forward, then stopped, looking down at something that was hidden from Roger's view. Roger followed, and as he rounded the corner of the newel-post his glance fell on the thing at which Fouché was staring. It was the body of Lucette.

She lay there where she had fallen, her neck grotesquely twisted, and obviously dead. There came into Roger's mind the prophecy of which she had told him some fourteen months before. That she could not be killed by bullet, by steel or by rope, but only by a fall from a high place.

After they had stared at her body for a few moments they raised their eyes. For once Fouché's shifty glance met Roger's. Both knew that the other had realized the implications of her death. Fouché had lost his all-important witness, and Roger could swear now without fear- of further contradiction from her that when she had denounced him in front of the soldiers, she had mistaken him for the mythical Robert MacElfic.

For as long as it takes to draw a deep breath, Roger was seized with wild elation. It seemed that this sudden turn of fortune's wheel had placed him out of danger. Then, like a douche of ice cold water, the facts of the case arranged themselves in his mind in their true perspective. Fate had robbed Fouché of his Ace of Trumps, but he still held the next best cards in the pack—the diary and two armed men who, so far, had accepted his orders.

Within an instant of grasping that, Roger saw the new sequence. Lucette, by losing her life, had brought him again into immediate peril. Now, his one chance of saving himself and the situation lay in a swift attempt to exploit the setback that his enemy had suffered. With a great effort he forced his voice to assume the ring of triumph, and cried:

"The game is mine, Fouché! Give me back that diary."

"No!" Fouché exclaimed. "I'll see you in hell first!"

"If you refuse I'll call in those two men to take it from you."

Surprise robbed Fouché of the power of speech for a second, then he burst out: "It is I who will call them in! I mean to have them shoot you while I have the chance."

That was exactly the development Roger had feared. Knowing that his sole protection from the threat lay in giving the impression that he was now master of the situation, he even managed a laugh before he said:

"Do not deceive yourself. They might have shot me in cold blood while Corporal Peltier was still with them to give them a lead; but they will not risk their necks by committing murder at your order now. They'll go no further than to escort me to the police officer; and, if you wish, I will go quietly with them. You know why, do you not?"

Fouché's eyes flickered from side to side. "You think that now Madame Remy is dead, you have nothing to fear from me. But you are mistaken.

"I meant only that there is nothing with which the two soldiers can charge me except having injured two of their comrades who refused to obey my lawful orders. If you wish any other charge to be made you must come with us and make it yourself."

"And I will!" Fouché snarled. "Even without support for my word, my denunciation of you as an English spy is certain to result in a full enquiry. Many things may emerge from it. Little things that you have forgotten. I am convinced that, with a little luck, I could yet see you convicted."

Roger's muscles tensed spasmodically. He was only too well aware of the dangers inherent in a full investigation of his past. But in the candle light his face was still a smiling mask, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"We have argued this before. If it comes to your word against mine there can be little doubt that mine will be accepted. Besides, has it not occurred to you that if you once enter the police office with me, you will leave it under arrest and on your way to prison?"

"Your threat is an empty one. There is no crime of which you can accuse me. The night is young. I am aware that I shall be subject to arrest should I not leave the city tomorrow; but there are many hours to go yet. Ample to first settle your business."

The edge of a folded paper protruded from Fouché's pocket. To it a few fragments of wax from a broken seal still clung. As Roger's eye lit on it he felt sure it was the order of banishment. With a sardonic laugh he pointed at it and cried:

"Can it be, then, that you have already forgotten the terms of the order I served on you less than an hour ago?"

"They can have no bearing on what I choose to do tonight," Fouché declared harshly. "They do not come into operation until tomorrow morning."

"There is one that does." Roger's voice was mocking now. "It is to the effect that should you communicate with certain persons, including Madame Remy. the order would be changed from banishment to transportation. You have contravened that clause. The men outside and myself are witnesses to your having done so. You have made yourself liable to be sent to Cayenne."

Suddenly Fouché wilted. His eyes fell and he thrust out his hands as though to ward off some horror. Roger knew then that he had him at his mercy and rapped out an ultimatum.

"I am agreeable to hold my tongue. But only at a price. Unless you wish to give me the pleasure of seeing you shackled to some other felon in the hold of a convict ship outward bound, you will hand me that diary and be out of Paris before dawn."

EPILOGUE

"And then, Roger?"

Georgina's lovely face was flushed with excitement. It was late at night, and she was wearing a loose chamber robe of red velvet that set off her rich dark beauty to perfection. Her feet were curled under her as she lay snuggled against Roger on the big sofa in her boudoir. Shaded candles and a bright wood fire lit the room with a soft, rosy glow. Nearby on a small table a champagne bottle stood in an ice bucket. Beside it there were the remains of supper, and still half a dish of early strawberries from the hothouses tended by some of the forty gardeners that she kept at Stillwaters. It was mid-April and Roger had returned from France only the day before. For the past two hours he had been telling her about the new Paris that had emerged from the Terror, and of his last mission.