Inspector Honoré Duval spent the morning pacing a worried path in front of the cordoned-off pavilion where the Caldwell Collection would be opened to an eager public the following morning. Art critics, dealers, brokers, and connoisseurs from all over the globe had made the journey to Paris for the event, which had been heightened by the sensational news of the artist’s murder and the ongoing trial of her murderess.
Two steps behind him, Duval’s assistant Daniel followed closely—a cocky young man who smugly prided himself on being on top of everything. Duval couldn’t stand him, but the boy was a nephew of the Minister of Justice and had been thrust upon him. He strained not to let his annoyance show but secretly delighted in catching the pup with any detail left undone.
Without stopping, he turned toward the young man. “What’s the latest on Thompson?”
Duval well knew that the American tycoon was a bosom friend of Garrett and had gathered a force of lowlife thugs, no doubt with hopes of helping him recapture the paintings and smuggle them out of the country.
“He’s in Calais with his men,” Daniel said, just barely stopping before plowing into the inspector. “He still has his ship in readiness, but he has made no move to bring his people to Paris. Cold feet, no doubt.”
Duval assumed the American would try to join forces with the fugitives’ Belleville allies, but so far, he’d made no moves in that direction. If he had such a strategy, surely he’d act before tomorrow, when the opening would firmly establish the collection as a French possession.
If he did try something before then, it would be futile, because Duval had convinced the Minister of Defense to bring in an entire regiment of crack troops that was positioned in platoons all over this end of the Champ de Mars and was more than capable of squelching any uprising of petty criminals.
As he resumed walking, his eyes watched the curious faces staring at the pavilion from the other side of the cordon. Just behind them, a crew was doing some kind of construction work. The hammering had been going on all morning, resounding in his head. He stopped again and peered at Daniel. “And how are things progressing at the prison?”
“Everything is set. The execution of the young murderess will take place tomorrow morning at ten sharp. As you requested, there will be no prior announcement and the press will not be told about her conviction until after the execution has been carried out.”
“Good.”
Duval had convinced the Minister of Justice and the President of the Republic to extend the secrecy under which they’d cloaked the trial by not announcing her conviction last week. He’d prevailed upon them to carry out her sentence in privacy and at once, to avoid a bloody and potentially embarrassing rescue attempt by elements of the Belleville underworld. He also reasoned that once the young woman was dead, her gang chieftain admirer would be so crushed that he would have no stomach to aid the fugitives in any foolhardy attempt to rescue the paintings.
Duval turned to walk another lap that would take him away from the irksome hammering of the workmen. He strode another twenty feet in deep thought, then stopped and shot a glance at his companion. “And what about the artist’s sister? Has there been any breakthrough in the search?”
“None, sir. We have had information that they may have left their Belleville hideout, and we are intensifying our efforts in the city’s center. Every policeman has their description and knows that capturing or killing them constitutes the highest priority.”
Duval wasn’t enjoying this. He felt no animosity toward the young American woman and even less toward the beautiful trapeze artist who was about to lose her head. They were all victims—he included—of a situation that seemed to have been ordained by fate and now had a will of its own. The ironic truth was these people had to die so he could save his reputation.
And yet, with the fugitives still running around loose, determined to foul up his plans, and allied with two criminal armies, the potential for a career embarrassment—no, disaster—hadn’t vanished. So he had to be diligent.
Well, if they were stupid enough to make a move on the paintings, he’d be ready for them.
He turned again and headed back the way he’d come. As he walked, the hammering of the road crew, the repetitious rat-tat-tat, over and over again, suddenly made him flare with anger. “What are those people doing?” he snapped out.
His assistant reddened. “Apparently, sir, they are doing some work on the waterline to the Tower.”
“When will they be done? We cannot have the dignitaries tomorrow subjected to that racket. Tell them they’re to finish up and be out of here by eight A.M. I don’t care if they have to work all night to do it!”
Richard pushed his shovel into the loose pile of dirt and limestone and deposited the rubble into a wicker basket. Behind him, another man picked up the basket and passed it to another behind him, sending it down a long bucket brigade that led to the wider shaft of the catacombs. Richard was grimy, sweaty, tired, and hot from the kerosene lamp he had to keep perpetually by the side of his face. Without the lamps, it was pitch-black and painfully claustrophobic. It was miserable work, but he couldn’t afford to let up, and he preferred doing the digging himself.
They’d entered the catacombs through an opening in an old building that faced the south end of the Champ de Mars. The tunnel had stretched almost three quarters of the way down the long fairgrounds before it took a sharp diversion toward the Seine. By his calculation, that put them within a hundred feet of the pavilion. They’d been digging their way through that hundred feet and it was tough going. The procedure was to use a sledgehammer to break up the hard rock, then shovel it into containers to be removed. A slow procedure, but they were making progress. Soon, he estimated, they would hit surface clay and it would become much easier.
As he toiled, Richard thought again about Mason. She’d been surprisingly reticent the past few days, even a bit withdrawn. They’d seemed so close after his confession. In fact, he’d never felt more connected with anyone in his life. It had tortured him to strip away the layers of his past, but when he’d finished, some of its treacherous hold had drained out of him. He’d ended up feeling grateful for her patience, her understanding, and yes, even for having forced him to see the real Hank.
But then he’d told her his idea about the tunnels and her face had fallen. Since then, she’d been distracted, remote. He was determined to finish this job on time, and had thrown himself into the task with ferocious vigor. And yet…that look on her face. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.
Another man crawled to his side. It was Pierre, a good-natured Corsican and Dargelos’s chief lieutenant; he knew the catacombs and had led them to this branch of them. “Time for me to relieve you,” he said.
“Just a minute. I want to get this one big rock that’s loose.”
“Have you hit any clay yet?”
“No, but I expect to soon.”
“We must be close,” Pierre said.
“I just hope we’ve calculated correctly. It’s so easy to get disoriented down here. It wouldn’t do to tunnel into the river.”
Pierre crossed himself.
“I’m concerned about the time,” Richard continued. “We only have until eight tomorrow morning, because they’ve ordered the work crew to stop by then. After that, if we keep tunneling, they’re likely to hear us.”
“Then I think you had better let me take my turn. You must be tired. I will dig as quickly as I can.”
The sumptuous carriage pulled off the Boulevard des Capucines and into the driveway of the Grand Hotel. As it drew to a halt, the driver announced to the smartly uniformed valet, “The Count of Deauville.”
The attendant quickly opened the door and the count stepped out. He was a short, slight figure with a sneer on his full lips that twisted the close-clipped mustache. He looked about haughtily, then walked up the steps, entered the hotel, and crossed the lobby, stopping short when he spotted her grace, the Duchess of Wimsley, sitting with an older gentleman in a corner area. Pausing a moment to run his fingers along his mustache, the count approached the aristocratic couple. When he reached them, he made a curt bow, and when the lady extended her hand, he brought it to his lips, just barely grazing it.
“Please join us,” the lady offered graciously.
When the count took the offered chair, the lady leaned forward and said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “The disguise is marvelous. You fooled me right up to the moment you bowed.”
It was Emma’s idea for them to hide in plain sight for this meeting, just in case the Galliera was being watched. She’d sent the carriage and the necessary accoutrements. Percival, with his customary unflappability, had picked Mason up just outside of Belleville, and she’d donned her disguise on the drive into the city.
“This is my husband, Smedley,” Emma told her. “And this, darling, is the”—she hesitated—“person I spoke of.”
Smedley Fortescue-Wynthrop-Smythe, Duke of Wimsley, leaned forward to shake hands with Mason. “I’m delighted to know you, although discretion dictates that I not address you by name.”
Mason grinned. “You may call me ‘count’ for the time being. Did you have any luck?”
“We managed to procure exactly what Richard wanted. Actually, Smedley arranged it. Tell the count about the plans, Smedley dear.”
“I’ve arranged through a personal acquaintance, the Earl of Hambersham—charming fellow, by the way, with an excellent wine cellar, although he tends to be a bit of a snob when it comes to his preferred vintages—to have the fastest cutter in the British Isles at your disposal. It’s currently docked at Cherbourg, which offers the safest escape route from the country.”
Emma patted his arm proudly. “Smed’s being much too modest. He had to pay a bloody fortune to the earl to convince him to go along.”
Smedley blushed. “What’s the use of having a fortune if one can’t use it to help one’s friends?”
Mason leaned closer to him. “What you’re doing is enormously risky. I want you to know how much we all appreciate your efforts.”
“Not at all, my good young—fellow. It’s nothing compared to the kind of capers—Is that what you called them, dear?—my Emma used to perpetrate. Why, did you know she was a daring counterfeiter living by her wits in the Wild West? All these years I hadn’t the foggiest. She finally told me. I knew she was a glamorous figure, but I had no idea how truly glamorous she really is. I must say, it’s rather a delicious development, being married to an adventuress. I feel enormously privileged that she finally cares enough about me to bring me into her full confidence.”
“Just so you know,” Emma said, taking her husband’s hand, “we destroyed my forgeries of your paintings. We did it together.”
“And a jolly good bonfire they made, too.”
Emma smiled at him and said, “Smed, do be a dear and go get us something cool. We ladies need to have a little chat.”
When he left, Mason observed, “So you threw caution to the wind and told him.”
“Thanks to you I did. Ever since I’ve been married, I was afraid my secret would come out. I lived in constant fear of that. But when I told him, I think he fell in love with me all over again. Perhaps for the first time. With the real me. Oh, Mason, I’ve been such a fool! This man is the best thing that ever happened in my life and I didn’t know it.”
“Are you over Richard now?” Mason asked.
“Completely. I’ve never been as happy as in the last two days. I’ve been released from a passion that really had no meaning anymore. By forcing me to face the truth, you’ve given me a second chance at happiness—perhaps the first I’ve ever had. I intend to seize that chance. Mason, dear, I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
“You already have. Your help is going to prove invaluable to us. Richard appreciates it as much as I do.”
Emma laughed. “I rather doubt that.”
“It’s true. I told him I followed him the night he went to see you. He knows about our conversation. He was a little reluctant to trust you, I admit. But, Emma, he’s really trying to change. He wants to change. He knows he needs to change. What you thought was impossible has happened. He’s broken with Hank. I took your advice and forced the issue.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Darling, do tell!”
She related the scene at the observatory.
“That snake Hank! I knew he had to be up to no good. But a complete betrayal? Dimitri Orlaf of all people! Heavens! How did Richard take it?”
“Just as you said he would. It turned out to be the key to unlocking his past. He shared it all with me, Emma. Everything.”
Emma’s eyes sparkled. “A few short days ago, I would have died to know what that ‘everything’ is. But that’s for the two of you alone. I’m so happy for you. Now we both have what we want.”
“Not completely. Richard has opened himself up to the thing that haunts him, but that hasn’t freed him from its power. He’s still having the nightmares. And as you can see, his obsession with the paintings—and the legend they represent—is still the thing that drives him. I don’t care a thing about those paintings, and I’ll never be happy until they’re out of our lives.”
Emma nodded sympathetically. She was the one person capable of fully understanding Mason’s dilemma. After all, hadn’t Richard found a trio of Poussins more important than her? “What are you going to do?”
For a moment, Mason didn’t answer. Then she looked at Emma, and said, “I’m going to force him to make a choice between me and my paintings.”
After digging all night, Richard pushed his shovel into the hole and, finally, mercifully, felt its resistance give way. As he pulled it back, a beam of light hit his face. They’d made it, and with no time to spare. He yelled back, “We’ve broken through. Get ready to move.”
He plunged the tool into the opening and moved it around until he heard it clang against a metallic object. Then he pulled the shovel back and jabbed it against the object with all his might, piercing it and unleashing an ominous hissing sound.
He yelled back, “The gas main is broken. Get the hell out of here!”
Grabbing his kerosene lamp, he crawled back down the cramped tunnel to the larger catacomb shaft. But as he stepped through, he dropped the lamp. It shattered and a rivulet of lighted kerosene streamed onto the stone floor.
Swiftly, he turned and raced down the larger tunnel. But he couldn’t quite escape the exploding gas behind him. A wave of hot air picked him off the floor and hurtled him down the corridor.