Chapter 14
Fourteen
Brodie had taken the first train to Paris, arriving just before two o’clock. He found a driver at the rail station and gave him the destination of the museum.
He had sent Alex Sinclair back to London with the information they’d learned in Calais. But what did that tell them?
It came back to that date, and the reason Caspian was there in the first place. But what was it? And how was Heinrich part of it?
Five-and-a-half hours later, the train pulled into the station at Gare du Nord. It was just half-past two o’clock in the afternoon, according to a clock over the booking hall as he followed other passengers.
He overheard a conversation between a man and woman in English and inquired where he might find a driver. The man gave him directions to the part of the rail station where omnibuses and carriage drivers could be found for arriving passengers.
He thanked them and quickly crossed the station. He found a driver and gave the man the location of the museum. The ride was long, very near an hour, as the driver crossed the streets of Paris and then arrived at the main public entrance of the museum.
It was an enormous stone and glass series of columns and towering pavilions that resembled a palace, with one wing that stretched along the river and another that opened to a large plaza.
He paid the driver in francs that he’d exchanged at the rail station in Calais, then entered the vestibule at the entrance.
Signage on display directed visitors to various parts of the museum. From the telegram, he needed to find Room 346, where he was to meet with Ridley’s contact in Paris.
Brodie was watchful as he had been on the train from Calais with that instinct learned as a boy on the streets of Edinburgh—an older man in a long coat who passed by, another, younger, in a suit who met with a woman, a man who looked to be a teacher or professor with students.
And others—men and women, older women in a group chatting in French.
At a position near the entrance, a young man in uniform directed him to a corridor beyond the grand staircase.
He passed through several galleries to the gallery the guard had indicated, the Gallerie des Antiques, then followed signage through tall marble pillars to Room 346.
He had never been inside a museum. It was not the sort of place a child on the streets or a police inspector might go, except if there was a crime committed.
Brodie had heard of the Louvre, where Mikaela’s sister had several paintings displayed. The size of the museum, the corridors with countless galleries with artwork displayed, was impressive. But this room was different.
It was set apart at the end of the corridor, smaller than the others he passed, with the statue of the Venus de Milo, according to the sign in front, set back in an alcove lit by gas lamps around the room.
There were other people in the room, voices low in conversation as they moved about, stopping to admire the sculpture, pointing out this feature or another before moving on as still others arrived.
He studied each person, searching for the one he had contacted, and waited as one after another of the visitors left and others slowly drifted into the exhibit room.
“Mr. Smith,” a voice, low, soft-spoken, just behind him.
He turned and nodded at the elegantly dressed woman with a faint smile. She was slender, attractive though not beautiful, with dark hair and deep brown eyes that missed nothing around them in a way that he was familiar with. She tucked her arm through his.
“You must see the next exhibit. It is quite remarkable,” she said.
The next exhibit room across the hall was of Roman carvings and sculptures, one in full armor carved in stone.
“The Gladiator,” she commented as if they were no more than two guests at the museum, there to admire or study ancient works of art.
“I think there is a lesson to be learned.” She continued without looking over at him. “Those who fight in the arena against all odds, even when it means their death.” She angled her head slightly.
“You were not surprised to find a woman had come to meet you.”
“No,” he admitted.
“Obviously because there is a woman you admire?” she suggested.
He had not thought of it in that way, yet he realized it was there. He did admire Mikaela for her strength, her spirit, and her fearlessness in situations they had encountered.
“Sir Ridley sends his greetings,” he told her in an equally low voice.
“Ah, you say nothing. She must be very important to you. It has been some time since Monsieur Ridley was last here in Paris,” she added.
“Have ye known him long?” It was more than idle conversation. He needed to know more about who she was.
The smile deepened, and he discovered that she was pretty in that way that hinted at a gypsy somewhere in her family. That dark gaze met his.
“Since he lured me from the ‘house’ where I worked with the promise of adventure, a safe place for my son, and more money in a month than I could possibly make in a year on the street, in exchange for the names of some of...the ‘guests’ I encountered,” she explained in a thick French accent.
“One in particular. And even though it can be dangerous, he promised the work would be no more than a handful of years, and then with what I am paid, my son and I will be able to disappear. Until then, he is safe. “
And into a new life. He understood about creating a new life.
They continued to walk through the Roman exhibit, her arm tucked through his as if they were any other couple viewing magnificent artwork at the museum.
“Your message was urgent,” she whispered as they stopped before another sculpture.
“The boat captain is dead,” he said in lowered voice so as not to draw attention of those they passed. He saw by her faint nod that she was aware of it.
“He carried no cargo when he arrived in London. According to what we have learned, he was to meet a passenger and then depart.”
They walked to the next exhibit of stoneware vessels from a particular Greek dynasty, according to the sign there.
“The captain was sent by the German.”
She nodded again.
“The boat captain was to meet with someone tomorrow, the 18th of October. I need to know whom he was to meet in London. I need a name.”
That smile again, a mixture of sadness and resolve.
“I know someone,” she replied.
The way she said it, he knew her meaning. They stopped. He covered her hand with his.
“He may be suspicious with the short amount of time. It will be dangerous.”
She played her part well as she laid her hand against the front of his coat.
“Anything worth having can be verra dangerous. Is that not so?”
And he knew whom she spoke of—Heinrich.
There was no need to say it. She had a son to protect and a future she was working for.
Still, like another, there was concern. “Be careful.”
“I think the woman you admire is most fortunate.”
She kept her arm through his a while longer as they continued to walk through the next exhibit.
“The Le Grand Hotel, 12 Boulevard des Capucines, midnight. I will leave a message for ‘Mr. Smith’ at the concierge desk.” They stopped at the next exhibit. She turned to him.
“She must be quite extraordinary,” she commented. “When this is over, I would invite you to stay a while in Paris. But I think you would not accept my offer.”
“The Le Grand Hotel, after midnight,” Brodie replied.
“I must leave now, Mr. Smith. There is much to be done, and very little time.”
He found a driver at the main entrance after they parted and requested to be taken to the nearest telegraph office. Fortunately, the man understood English.
By now, Alex would have returned to London and informed Sir Ridley of the information they learned in Calais. He sent off a brief telegram informing him that he’d met with their ‘person in Paris’ and hoped to have word by midnight. He would return once he had the information.
He mentioned nothing that would reveal anything to the telegraph operator either there or in London.
He left the telegraph office after the message was sent, and made his way to a small café recommended by the telegraph clerk very near the Le Grand Hotel where the woman was to leave a message if she was able to reach Heinrich.
He was fairly certain of the woman’s ‘relationship’ with Heinrich, if it could be called that, and he felt that familiar feeling of regret deep inside at the reality of it.
A woman who sold herself for information in order to provide for her son.
A boy who might never know the price his mother paid to give him a new life.
Paris was different from the streets of London where he’d spent twelve years, first as a constable, then an inspector. And yet, it was exactly the same. The streetlights, the carriages, the sign over the entrance where a meal and coffee could be purchased, along with company for the night.
He chose a table in the corner of the café, just beyond the glare of electric lights and drunken laughter, ordered a meal, then sat back and watched those who came and went in that way that he’d noticed when he was first in Paris with Mikaela.
Wine that was ordered at the next table and slowly consumed over conversation and a cigarette. A woman joined two men at their table, the easy laughter that followed, perhaps with an arrangement made. Then another bottle of wine before leaving. And the hours passed.
He watched, and waited...
It was very near midnight when he paid for the last cup of coffee, then buttoned his coat against the crisp night air and walked the short distance to the Le Grand Hotel.
In spite of the late hour, it was lit up, with guests who had returned from a late supper after the opera, travelers who had arrived at the rail station and then dined in one of the restaurants, men who had gathered in what was called the Salon Fumeur.
A smoking room. It needed no translation with the spirals of smoke that wrapped around elegant fixtures and patrons who gathered on couches with a glass of cognac or wine.