An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (33 page)

“Right.” Rob’s head bobbed up from the engine compartment, cheeks aglow and eyes bright. Zeno set off in the direction of town somewhat disgruntled with the young man’s obvious enjoyment of their minor setback. He hadn’t fully explained to Rob the amount of danger Cassie might face. But neither could he find a good reason to worry him.

At the Gare de Calais-Ville he confirmed the morning train to Paris had, indeed, departed on time. Exactly an hour and a half ahead, Cassie’s train traveled at a speed of sixty miles per hour, twenty miles per hour faster than the roadster could make on the downhill. The next train would not depart for hours yet. Zeno contemplated whether or not to ditch his plans to use the roadster.

At the telegraph office, several telegrams waited for him, none of them more recent than yesterday evening. A message from Cassie, forwarded on from Scotland Yard, informed him that she had arrived safely in Ca-lais. There were two from Melville; the most interesting one apprised him of Lord Delamere’s status as a fugitive from justice.

Based on Gerald St. Cloud’s sworn statement, Melville had secured an international warrant for Delamere’s arrest. Now, if they received the cooperation of the French government, things could work out very well indeed. Zeno crossed the square and headed for Cassie’s hotel.

The familiar rattle and hum of the roadster greeted his ears. Rob pulled up in front of the Meurice and left the vehicle parked in the street. The stunned doorman gawked at the strange seven-headed hydra on wheels. Caught without a French coin in his pocket, Rob assured the hotel employee a sum of
sous
to keep a watchful eye on the horseless carriage, then vanished inside. Zeno gave the doorman wide berth as the man’s snarl turned into a spate of swearing.

He caught up to Cassie’s brother inside the lobby. Rob ventured off to exchange a stack of English pound notes while Zeno struck up a polite line of inquiry at the desk. He presented his card, and asked a routine question. “Might you be able to tell me when Mrs. St. Cloud checked out of the hotel this morning?”

The young clerk returned with the most startling answer. “Monsieur, Madame St. Cloud has not checked out.” Zeno’s heart thrummed inside his chest. Had she received his telegram and decided to wait for him or was this another mix-up?

“Would you, then, kindly deliver my card to Mrs. St. Cloud?”

Zeno dug in his pocket and found a few coins for the clerk and bellhop. A wrinkled nose and muttered shake of the head from the staffers renewed Zeno’s frown. Perfectly serviceable British sterling. Bloody French.

“I shall wait here for the lady’s answer.”

As soon as Rob returned from the bank, Zeno filled him in.

“Rather a stroke of luck, wot?” Ever the optimist, Cassie’s brother ran a hand through unruly hair and buttoned his jacket.

Zeno drew his mouth into a thin line and managed a nod. “Let us hope so, Rob.”

The wait felt like hours. Finally, a mature gentleman exited from behind the desk and approached them. “
Pardonnez-moi, messieurs
. Mrs. St. Cloud appears to have left the hotel this morning without notifying us.”

A rumble began in the pit of his stomach. “This is decidedly out of character for Mrs. St. Cloud. Might I have permission to search her room?”

The elder gentlemen, most likely the morning manager of the hotel, hesitated.

Zeno shoved another of his cards at the man. “As you can see I work for the London police, Scotland Yard. It is our belief Mrs. St. Cloud travels to Paris in great jeopardy to her safety. Again, might you allow me and my associate to examine the empty room? Surely—”

“
Avancez, messieurs,
” the wary manager relented, “but I must accompany you.”

He gave the man a perfunctory nod, and followed him up the grand stairway. As they entered her suite, several maids were already preparing the room for its next occupant. Zeno cringed. So much for clues. His heart sank as he scanned the small sitting room. No bags or evidence of occupancy.

A hair-raising cry from the adjoining bedroom interrupted his thoughts. First through the door, Zeno stepped past a wild-eyed, terrified cleaning woman as she shrank from the water closet door. Zeno’s blood froze in his veins.

The dead body of a man sat on the commode, propped against the wall. The man’s head flung back, exposing a throat cut ear to ear. Blood soaked the clothing of the victim’s chest and puddled onto the small white octagonal floor tiles. The acrid, metallic odor caused his stomach to roil. Even the toilet water pooled beneath the body was stained crimson red.

“Call the police.” Zeno spoke to the pale-faced manager as he stepped into the closet to get a better view of the man’s face. A pair of spectacles fell askew over the man’s black, glassy-eyed stare. Thick brown moustache, salt-and-pepper hair. Aged somewhat since Zeno’s last meeting with the inspector.

His heart beat a staccato in his chest. Inspector Olivier Tautou had been murdered last night and Cassie was missing.

TRANSLATED FROM FRENCH
:

POST & TELEGRAPHE FRANCAIS
30 MAY 1887
ALL FRENCH RAIL WORKERS STOP
STRIKE TO COMMENCE NOON TODAY

Was the strike on? Cassie fidgeted in her seat and waited for the train to depart Lille. Inspector Tautou had left the compartment some time ago to inquire about the delay. She glanced at her maid, who stood in the aisle, having a flirtation with the handsome French agent who guarded their compartment. Earlier, the young man had removed his sunglasses and revealed the most striking pale blue eyes. In combination with gleaming dark hair and an engaging smile? Well, no wonder Cécile was entranced.

Zeno crept into Cassie’s thoughts. Setting aside the dilemma she currently found herself in, she had not thought she would miss him quite so much. She had every confidence he followed behind, but where? She sighed. He had been right about
the danger, of course. But who would have thought Delamere would have pursued her this far? Or was this coincidental? Awfully hard to believe that.

She dabbed at beads of perspiration with a pocket square. Even with all of the windows lowered, the humid air of the compartment stifled. She opened the door and slipped out of the rail coach onto the platform. A plume of white steam greeted her. Squinting, she made her way through the haze to the shaded side of the station. She spotted a street vendor’s cart, which featured large glass containers filled with chilled fruit juice.

On such a humid day, a splash of lemonade over shaved ice was the perfect refreshment. Gripping the paper cone, she sipped on the iced treat and wandered farther down the platform. She found a comfortable spot with a pillar to lean against and enjoyed the cooler breeze along the platform.

She spotted Inspector Tautou standing quite close to another man. The two men spoke in low tones and she was unable to overhear any of their conversation. Curious to see the gentleman’s face, she curled herself around the post to get a better view. Raising a hand, she nearly called out to the inspector when his acquaintance turned in her direction.

Cassie bit down hard on an ice chip. She swiveled back behind the column, heart pounding. The very same man had sat down to dine with Lord Delamere last evening. Her mind raced in tandem with her heartbeat. What to do? Eyes to the ground, she stepped over some fallen lemon ice and retraced her route along the platform. What an insidious, dastardly little man Tautou had turned out to be.

Fortune smiled in odd ways. The station remained full of bustling travelers. She looked frantically for her coach number, and found it just as the handsome, agitated, young agent flew out the compartment door. His gaze swept the crowd.

Cassie retreated behind a pillar. The man jogged right, then abruptly turned and ran down the platform toward Tautou. The moment he rushed past, she ran to the door and yanked Cécile outside.

“Stay here.” She stepped back inside the train and grabbed one of their travel bags. After a hurried glance down the platform, she pushed her maid toward the closest exit under protest. “Hush, Cécile.”

Wait a moment.
Should they search for her, which they would surely do, they would likely assume she made for the nearest exit. She pulled Cécile up beside her as they advanced on a row of offices and shop fronts that lined the edge of an empty train track. She quickened their pace from a walk to a jog

A flutter of pigeons in the rafters overhead startled her and she pulled Cécile into the shadows of an office doorway. She inched forward to gain a view of the station and saw three men, led by Tautou, run past the station exit and head straight for them. Dear God, they must have seen her. She pressed farther back into the niche of the entry.

With a groan, the door behind them gave way. Strong arms pulled them inside.

Cassie confronted a very large man with a mop in one hand. He pressed against her, bearing a surly grin with few teeth. He exhaled.

Horrors.

She puffed out her chest. “Monsieur.” Fear caused her French to become halted and inadequate. She explained as best she could. He would need to hide her and Cécile posthaste and ask questions later. “There is no time to argue.”

With a leering once-over that sent shivers down her spine, he shoved them both into a backroom closet and turned the key.

Through a golden curtain of flying dust motes, she made out the size and contents of the storeroom they were locked in. The walls were covered floor to ceiling by racks loaded down with supplies. A neat row of wooden file cabinets lined up under a high-placed window.

The sound of muffled voices and loud knocks sent her scrambling up to the window ledge using a stack of shelves as a ladder. When she had climbed high enough, she reached across the top of the file cabinets and gave the sash a swift shove. It opened. A breeze flowed into the stifling room. Peering out the frame, she made quick estimate of the distance between the sill and the paved ground below.
Worst case, a turned ankle.

“The portmanteau, Cécile, quickly.”

She pitched the bag out the opening and jumped back down to guide her maid up the shelf and onto the window ledge. “Sit first, and then swing a leg over. That’s it.”

Demanding muffled voices and the jiggle of keys in the door sent a chill down her spine. Cassie picked up a broken stool and angled it under the doorknob.

Wiping clammy hands on her skirt, she climbed up the shelves and urged her maid onward. “Cécile, jump, or I’ll have to push you.”

Could her heart pound its way out of her chest? The click of the key in the lock was her impetus. She shoved. As her maid fell to the ground she released a small scream, alerting the men outside the door.

She had only seconds. Edging onto the file cabinet, she leaped out the window and tumbled on top of Cécile. Grabbing her maid and bag, they ran down the walkway outside the station and headed for a queue of waiting carriages.

The first coach they reached featured impressive equipage including four fast-looking horses. Outriders and footmen, busy chattering among themselves, paid the two women little mind. With no time to think about her actions, Cassie opened the door of the grand carriage and shoved her reluctant servant inside.

Climbing in behind Cécile, she pulled down the curbside window shades and took a seat. A rush of blood swept through her body as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

A frail, elderly woman sat across the narrow aisle wearing a blank stare in her eyes. The woman appeared unruffled, as yet, from such a rude intrusion. Gasping for breath, Cassie scrutinized the elder passenger. Perhaps the woman suffered from blindness or senility.

She was prepared to beg for their lives.

“S’il vous pla
î
t, excusez-nous, madame
—
”

“Speak English, girl.” The woman held up a quizzing glass and appraised Cassie, then Cécile. “Is this your maid?”

Hands clasped in her lap, Cassie nodded obediently. “Yes, ma’am.”

Having seen enough, the matron released the glass and let it dangle from its ribbon. “You both appear to be on the lam. Perhaps you should explain yourself.”

ZENO DRUMMED HIS fingers on the constable’s desktop as the black-haired gendarme reopened both passports. Leaning back in his chair, the Calais police chief glanced at a few of his most recent stamps. “The moment I receive word from Scotland Yard, Agent Kennedy, I can release you both.” The man laced his fingers together across a wide girth. “While we wait, shall I collect your contact information in Paris?”

He shot Rob a glance. The young man’s demeanor had sobered noticeably since finding the murdered French agent. Zeno passed Cassie’s itinerary across the desk.

“Hotel Pont Royal
, trés gentil, monsieur
.” He picked up a pencil to scratch a few notes.

A vein throbbed in his neck. “Inspector, I cannot stress enough that time is of the essence. Mrs. St. Cloud is in the gravest of danger—”

A knock on the office door interrupted Zeno’s plea. As he listened to the intruding officer speak, his jaw clenched. He forced himself to draw in a hot intake of breath.

“It is official.” The rotund constable turned to Zeno and Rob. “The rail workers are on strike.”

Zeno grimaced. Cassie, as well as her abductors, was now stranded. Was that good news or bad? He believed they would continue on to Paris. The sprawling metropolitan city was a hotbed of anarchist sympathizers ready and willing to offer refuge.

He still held out a shred of hope that Cassie might have avoided her captors, but he wasted no time on the thought. Inside his shirt, a trickle of sweat crawled down his back. Wasn’t it far more likely they had her in their clutches? He wondered if his fearless young widow would attempt to escape. And if she did manage to break away, where might she run to?

A steely kind of calm settled over him as his heart rate slowed. The rail strike gave him a fighting chance to overtake her on the road, perhaps even beat her to Paris.