Tempting Fate (86 page)

It took him the better part of twenty nervous minutes to make it to the corner of the house, and there he teetered while trying to decide if he should jump to the street there or at the next corner. The cold had its hooks in him, and he knew that he had best jump while he had the strength for it, although there was no way to get a running start on the three-meter gap between houses, and the wind buffeted him eagerly. He touched the side of the house to steady himself, and pushed away from the wall like a racing swimmer as he launched himself across the space.

His shoes slithered as he landed and he reeled, grabbing for support. Finally he wrapped one arm around an old chimney pot, hoping desperately that the crumbling masonry would hold him. His hands were scraped, but the bricks were firm. This roof was steeper than the first, but there was a wide gutter that afforded him a safer purchase than the balustrade had. He went more quickly, and crossed to the next roof without mishap.

On the third jump, his hands slipped on the ice slicking the ornamental tiles. He clung with one hand, scrabbling with his feet, his other arm windmilling in the freezing air. At last he swung near enough to an attic gable to grapple a hold, and he hauled himself onto it, tearing his dinner jacket as it caught on the rough surface of the tiles. He huddled in the lee of the gable, reminding himself that he had sought excitement and had been rewarded in full meausre. He decided that he must soon get down to the street and find something to cover him. A man in a dinner jacket on a night as cold as this would cause attention, but now that the back of the garment was in tatters, he would have to find a way to conceal the damage, or face the necessity of answering unwelcome questions. He was not confident that he had gone far enough to be out of range of the two men sent to watch him, but he decided that it would be wiser to get down to street level, where he might find a workman up early or a party-goer up late, who, for a price, would provide a coat or jacket for him.

At the far edge of the roof, he found a thick drainpipe, and, hand over hand, let himself down to the street.

Text of a wedding announcement sent on December 10, 1926.

Lieutenant Colonel Jerome Jaubert Timbres (Army of France, Ret.)

announces with pleasure

the marriage of his nephew

Phillippe Olivier Salaun Timbres

to

Irina Julija Olga Andreivna Ohchenov

formerly Duchess of Russia

in a private ceremony

on November 16, 1926

at Saint Sulpice, Paris

At home at

29 Avenue Rapp

5

Nikolai pulled the Minerva to the curb beside the Gare de l’Est, directly under the
stationnement interdit
sign, trusting that the French police would not penalize such an elegant and expensive automobile. He was ten minutes early for the train from Trieste, and had been assured that it would arrive on time. He reached into his small carrying case and pulled out a garish magazine that promised to reveal untold depravity on the part of highly-placed government officials. Although Nikolai did not expect anything very shocking, he did find this the most painless way to improve his understanding of French, and was pleased to spend time reading the lurid tales.

Inside the rail station, there was the usual high level of bustle and chaos, and the continual rumble and hiss of trains. As Madelaine left her first-class compartment, she found herself in the middle of a party of chattering Sisters of Mercy, their huge coifs making them look like gigantic tulips in a fast-moving garden of weeds. She raised her hand to signal for a porter and was not particularly surprised when she was not able to summon one. With a sigh she stepped back into the carriage and retrieved her two large suitcases and a smaller valise. She did not regard these as a burden, but as an inconvenience. She began to thread her way through the confusion, occasionally looking about for Irina, whom she half-expected to meet her here, in spite of the telegram she had sent saying that she would manage for herself. There were no familiar faces, she realized as she looked around again. This did not bother her as it might have a century ago. She had begun to accept the transitory qualities of the world around her, as Saint-Germain had told her she would. As his name came to her, she felt his familiar image grow within her, and she frowned with worry as she recalled the disturbing letter Irina had sent her.

She was on the sidewalk now, out of the cavernous building and caught in the throngs hurrying to and from the enormous station. She was uncertain whether she should take a motorbus or the Métro to her house, and she set down her cases while she debated the matter with herself.

“Madame,” said a voice at her elbow, and she turned to see a large, craggy man of scarred visage looking down at her. He wore a chauffeur’s long coat and a beaked cap. “Are you Professor de Montalia?”

Madelaine studied the man without revealing her surprise. “Yes.”

“I am Nikolai Rozoh. I’m Ragoczy’s driver.” He touched his forehead in salute.

“Is he here?” Madelaine asked, startled.

“No, but he sent me here to Paris when he left Bavaria.” Unconsciously Nikolai had come to attention, and Madelaine recognized him for the soldier he had been.

“I see.” She waited for some explanation.

“Madame … Timbres said I should meet you.” He noticed that two or three poorly-dressed men had stopped to stare at them, and he flushed, the scar standing out on his face as his color deepened.

“Madame Timbres?” Madelaine was more curious than confused.

“Duchess Irina,” Nikolai clarified with a cough.

Madelaine laughed. “How like her. I tell her not to meet me, and so she sends me a chauffeur. I was trying to make up my mind about taking a motorbus or the Metro, or risk everything in a taxi.” She smiled at him more openly. “You said your name is Nikolai Roz…”

“Rozoh,” he said. “Madame Timbres asked me to bring you to her new apartment so that she can explain her fears.”

As she picked up her cases once more, Madelaine said, “You’re the man she told me about, aren’t you? The one Saint-Germain or Ragoczy or Balletti or whatever he’s calling himself at the moment had with him that day.”

“Yes,” Nikolai admitted unhappily. “That was the other reason Madame Timbres sent me; so that I could tell you what I know.” He indicated the Minerva and started to take her bags.

“Thank you. I’ve grown heartily weary of dragging those things all over the world.” She relinquished the two suitcases, but kept the valise. “My notes are in here, and they’re all that matters.” That was not entirely correct, for one of the suitcases contained a good portion of earth from her estate at Montalia, but in Paris, where she had more than five caches of earth already waiting for her, it did not seem dangerous to hand so little of it to the chauffeur. As he held the passenger door open for her, she said, “So Irina and Phillippe are married. I hope they are very happy.”

“It would appear so,” Nikolai said, and closed the door before walking around to his own door.

Madelaine rolled down the window separating passenger and driver. “How long will it take to reach wherever we’re going?”

“Avenue Rapp,” Nikolai told her. “That will depend on traffic, Madame. And weather. It was raining at breakfast, and, as you see, may do so again.”

“Yes; it was raining east of here.” She thought of that first December she spent in Paris, with her Aunt Claudia. Her father and uncle were newly-dead and she had begun a decline that had killed her the following summer. She had learned to hate the low gray clouds that hung over the city. She could expect little else but storms at this time of year, but that knowledge did nothing to ease the apprehension that had coalesced within her, like a cold stone behind her ribs.

Nikolai pulled out into traffic, driving the big, luxurious automobile in a dignified manner, scorning the antics of the little Renaults and Fiats dashing about the street. As he drove, he told her in a quiet, passionless way what had happened in Munich on the last day of May.

By the time Avenue Rapp was reached, Madelaine was somberly thoughtful. She had supposed from Irina’s letter that Laisha’s death had been accidental, yet Nikolai was convinced that it was deliberate, and Saint-Germain shared that conviction. She had fallen into an introspective silence, and was somewhat startled when Nikolai drew the Minerva up to the front of a large apartment house in the Art Nouveau style by the architect Jules Lavirotte, whose work was no longer as fashionable as it had been twenty years before.

“We are here, Madame,” Nikolai said. “I will have to find a place to park the automobile, and will join you directly.”

“Fine,” Madelaine said somewhat absently. “No need to bring my suitcases in; I’ll want to have them with me when I go to my house.”

“Very good,” Nikolai said, and got out of the automobile to hold the door for her.

“I wish I’d brought an umbrella,” Madelaine remarked as she started toward the elaborate door. “It will be raining in half an hour.”

“I have an umbrella, Madame,” Nikolai assured her, and got back into the idling Minerva.

Madelaine nodded, thinking that Saint-Germain had trained his chauffeur well. She entered the elaborate lower lobby and rang the bell marked with the name Timbres, and heard a tinny version of Irina’s voice tell her to take the lift to the third floor, and that theirs was the second door on the right.

“How wonderful to see you again!” Irina said with genuine delight as she opened the door.

“And you, Madame Timbres,” Madelaine responded with a smile as she stepped into the small entryway. “Nikolai told me, and I am very happy for you both.”

“You must come in. Phillippe has taken the day off work, just to be able to see you and thank you for introducing us. Absurd, isn’t it?” Her face was more joyful than Madelaine had ever seen it, and she moved as if she had become a girl again.

“Enchanting,” Madelaine said wistfully. She had followed Irina into the front parlor, a large room with beamed ceilings over which wonderfully symmetrical vines twined in ordered ranks. She extended her hand to Phillippe as he rose from the sofa under the largest window. “My congratulations, Phillippe.”

“Thank you, Madelaine,” he said, adding uneasily, “You haven’t changed.”

“No. I don’t.” Her tone was flippant, but Phillippe sensed that she would not welcome any more comments on her perpetual youthfulness. She regarded Irina and Phillippe, thinking that they would do well together, would grow old together and die together while she kept on, no different in a century than she was now. Shaking off this disturbing thought, she looked about for a chair, and selecting one, she said to Phillippe and Irina, “I had not intended to take so long to arrive. My plans were to be here more than two weeks ago, but there was a government inspector at the dig and he was forever demanding forms be filled out and questions answered, and that meant that I was needed. The real problem was that he had no idea what was going on, and dared not admit his ignorance, and we were all forced to pretend he was well-informed, which simply prolonged the whole farce.” She adjusted her skirt, draping its pleats becomingly. “On digs, I wear trousers. The official was scandalized.”

Irina had taken her place on the sofa next to Phillippe, and she said, “We were becoming concerned. When your telegram arrived, Phillippe chided me, but—”

“You were apprehensive,” Madelaine finished for her. “So was I, once or twice. But I am here now, and I must find out everything I can from you.” She leaned forward, her head slightly to one side. Phillippe, studying her, remembered that she had held herself just that way the first time he met her, nearly a decade ago.

“Nikolai told you what happened?” Irina asked.

“Yes, as you did in your letter. Is there anything more? Has Saint-Germain, perhaps, come to Paris?” It was a tenuous hope, and she could tell from the haste with which both Irina and Phillippe expressed their confidence that they would have word soon that there had been no additional news.

“Do you know where he has houses?” Phillippe asked. “We had no addresses other than the château in Bavaire, and so have not been able to—”

“I know where a few are,” Madelaine said, cutting him short. “Do you mean that you have heard nothing from Roger?”

“Nothing,” Irina admitted. “I called his banker, but, well, he could not tell me anything, even if he knew.”

“I see.” Madelaine tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Rozoh said that Saint-Germain saw the girl killed. Did he?”

“I don’t know,” Irina answered. “I have two boxes of her clothes, to give to charity, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I don’t know why.”

Madelaine had seen such reluctance before, the last denial of absolute loss, but she said nothing. Instead she rose and paced about the room, paying little attention to the middle-aged couple on the sofa.

“If there is anything you wish us to do, Madelaine…” Phillippe prompted her. “It was not entirely fair to bring you back from … was it India?… and then leave you without any assistance. I haven’t a great deal of spare time, but I am willing to put what there is of it at your disposal.”

“Very good of you, Phillippe,” Madelaine said, giving him a steady look. “I have had the impression recently that you would be more comfortable if you did not have to deal with me at all. Was I wrong?”

Phillippe looked away from her. “Not entirely. But your friend came to my wife’s aid when she needed it, and I can do no less for him.” He cleared his throat. “I will hold my peace about … other things.”

His candor saddened Madelaine, and she looked toward the far wall. “It is very good of you. Irina is not the only one in his debt: I owe him … everything.”

Irina was startled to feel her eyes fill with tears. She had never heard Madelaine speak of Saint-Germain with anything other than fondness, but this ardent, hushed passion was new to her, and she guessed for the first time the depth of love Madelaine had for Saint-Germain. “There must be a way to get information about him,” she said, her voice not quite steady.