The Haunting of the Oceania Page 4

  Liam put his hand to his mouth, but Clary realized he couldn’t see for himself. “I don’t know. I don’t have gold teeth,” he said. “It must be a trick of the light. I have to go. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He tried to take a step forward, but stopped and clutched at his side.

  “Are you ill?” Clary asked, wondering if some strange sickness could cause his teeth to appear so extraordinary.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll be right back.” He staggered up the narrow steps leading up to the Pont Royal. Clary watched him until he reached the top and disappeared onto the bridge. The walls on the sides of the bridge were not very tall, no more than three feet, so she assumed he had gone to the downstream side where she couldn’t see him from her vantage point. Who was Liam meeting to give him money at such an odd place and time? Her would-be “friend” claimed he too was getting money, but Clary could not imagine who would be handing out francs up on the bridge.

  She looked down at the folio. It was tied with twine, the clasp broken, and it was thin enough to hold only a few drawings. Even if Liam had produced a few sheets of amazing work, she didn’t think he could get back in Monsieur Dupay’s good graces. The day Liam appeared at the studio befuddled by opium, Monsieur Dupay was furious. He had made it plain Liam was not to return.

  Tucking her knife under her arm, she fumbled with the fraying bits of twine, attempting to untie the knot. Her fingers refused to work, the cold biting into them. The gloves she wore were so old and thin, they only provided the illusion of fabric. It was tempting just to cut the twine with her knife, though she knew it would then be difficult to retie it.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a dark shape above her. Startled, she looked up and saw a man, a red-bearded man, Liam, plunge down from the bridge, an arm trailing awkwardly behind him as he fell. His fingers curved as if beckoning her to follow. When he hit the misted water, his body cleaved the surface cleanly and disappeared beneath it.

  For an instant, Clary was frozen, staring at the ripples in the water, waiting for him to reappear. The river turned dark as it flowed under the shadows of the bridge arches, and she couldn’t make out anything in the water under them. She ran toward the stairs, then back the other way looking for someone to help. There was no one. Clary turned back again and saw the black smoking hat, the tassel flapping about, tumbling down. The hat stilled her when it landed on the river. It bobbed and twisted about in the ripples of the current, appearing and disappearing in the mist, a St. Vitus dance of futility to stay afloat.

  Clary ran down the bank to the edge of the river, dropped the folio and her knife and reached down to pull off her boots, wishing she wasn’t enveloped in long skirts. Glancing back up at the bridge, she saw the man with the sideways jaw leaning over the edge, looking down at the water.

  “Help,” she yelled, first in English, and again catching herself, in French.

  The man gave her a long look and started toward her, not running, but walking as if he hadn’t understood the urgency.

  “There’s a man in the water,” she yelled at him as he turned. His pace didn’t increase, and his eyes were fixed on hers, not the river. He started down the stone steps.

  Two

  A man in passion ceases to be a gentleman.

  “The Gentleman’s Book of Etiquette” by Cecil B. Hartley, 1874

  Reese Tretheway knelt on the damp cobblestones of the alley behind the Café Guerbois, clutching his side and making fake gasping noises, trying to ignore the rat peering at him from behind a broken crate. Either the blow to Reese’s head was making him hallucinate, or this rat had been dining on full course meals, because it looked twice as large as an average Parisian rodent.

  The man who had just tried to crush in Reese’s skull was standing motionless nearby, as if trying to judge exactly how to finish the job. But if Reese had learned anything in the last year, it was that fighting fair didn’t work with opponents who didn’t know the Queensbury boxing rules. He could see the man take a step forward. When the boot lashed out, Reese was ready. He grabbed the man’s ankle and pushed off from the ground at the same time. The man flew backward, his head hitting the cobblestones hard.

  A voice came from a shadowed doorway, speaking in Russian-accented French. “Nice, my boy. You even fooled me. I thought we’d be paying the mourners for sure.”

  Reese straightened his coat. “Did you think about lending me a hand perhaps?” Even as he asked, he knew the answer. Anatoly didn’t risk himself for anyone. Informants never did.

  Anatoly just chuckled, not bothering to reply as Reese walked over to examine the man on the ground.

  “He after you in particular?” Anatoly asked.

  Reese knelt down and went through the attacker’s pockets. A moan came from the man, but the figure didn’t move.

  “No,” Reese said. “I think it was just a random robbery attempt. I’ll need to find a police officer to notify so they can pick him up.”

  “If you’ll be doing that, we’d better finish our business first.” Reese could tell from Anatoly’s voice that he didn’t have much information. There was no air of expectancy at being paid well for what he knew.

  “To business then,” Reese said. “We’ve heard disturbing rumors of something major in the works involving the Russians, but we can’t pin down any more details.”

  “There are some new players appearing here and there.”

  “And?” Reese prompted.

  “I don’t know. Just talk of people you don’t normally see in the Quarter, people who don’t belong here and aren’t here just for a bit of the underside, if you know what I mean.”

  “What people?” Reese was exasperated. This didn’t even count as information.

  “I don’t know. You might try the café Le Renard Noir, though. That’s where I heard it, speculation about some unfamiliar faces.”

  “Unfamiliar Russians?”

  “Not just Russian. That’s what was odd. English too.”

  Reese went cold. They hadn’t even considered that possibility.

  The clattering of a delivery cart and voices from the street reached them. The informant drew back into the shadows, holding out his hand. “I have to be going.”

  Reese reached into his pocket, pulling out more coins than Anatoly deserved. “I need to know more,” he said. “You’ll be paid much better if you can bring me some names, or even some descriptions.”

  Anatoly shrugged. “I’ll try.” He headed off down the alley and then turned back. “Watch yourself,” he said. “The Game is a nasty one. Your father was a good man. I would not enjoy seeing his son end up dead in a place like this. Oh, and you have a giant rat behind you. He’s looking hungry.”

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