The Book of the Seven Delights (36 page)

This information should be worth a bonus.

"No one from the palace, eh?" Ferdineaux LaCroix said as he stood at the center of a maelstrom of activity in one of his lesser-known warehouses.

All around him, men were loading barrels and crates and furnishings onto wooden lorries, preparing them for transfer to the ship waiting nearby. He himself was sorting documents from a stack of pasteboard cartons and feeding some of the records to a fire in a large metal drum.

"Only the Dutchman and an Arab," Banane said, savoring the news that came next. "But this evening, someone else came… someone whose name might be worth a few more dirhams." The Frenchman regarded him with impatience that turned to threat and made Banane reconsider his request.

"Apollo Smith."

The papers in LaCroix's other hand fell back into the carton he had pulled them from, and he looked for a minute as if he'd been impaled.

"Smith? Apollo Smith is still
alive
?" His face reddened furiously and he bolted around the barrel to grab the little informer by the shirt. "You're sure it was him?
Certain
?"

Banane swallowed hard. "I bunked near him for months. I know him."

LaCroix released him with a shove.

"Damn Gaston to hell! He was supposed to follow him and the Englishwoman and get the treasure she was after. Then he was supposed to kill Smith… for the
second
time." He stalked away and paced for a time before setting aside his anger to concentrate on thinking. "I should have known… if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."

"Smith was at my house." He wheeled on Banane. "Did he get in?"

"They were on the roof when I left. The door there was unlocked."

"Then he knows I've abandoned it. If he's searching for me, he'll probably try my offices next—then perhaps the main warehouse and the docks." He ground a fist into his palm as he fleshed out the plan forming in his mind.

"You—leave that!" He called over a pair of burly dock-workers loading crates onto wagons. "Find my bodyguards, Belanger and Patel, down at the ship. Tell them I need them." Then he turned to Banane with a cold smile.

"It has been a long time since our last family reunion," he said. "I think perhaps… it is time for another."

Abigail and Apollo met Crocker and Flynn and the others at a side door of the hotel, where they split into two groups: one headed for LaCroix's house and the other for the docks to see if there was word of him taking passage on a ship. Apollo insisted Abigail accompany him to LaCroix's house… mostly to keep an eye on her. She didn't object to going with him… mostly to keep an eye on him.

Though it was dusk when they arrived, there were no lights in the windows and no signs of cooking fires or servants coming and going. They tried the lower doors and windows and found no easy entry.

Crocker pulled a rope out of his pack and threw it up around a finial on the parapet around the roof.

Apollo insisted on going first and Ravi went second, promising to open the doors for them if all was well.

Five minutes after they reached the roof, Abigail and Crocker heard a bar being drawn back on the alley door and as both trained guns on the opening, the door swung back and Apollo appeared in the opening.

"He's gone." He led them inside and up to the main floor, where they went from room to darkening room, finding only litter and the occasional broken or discarded furniture. "He's cleared everything out.

We have to hurry."

The LaCroix Trading Company offices were near the Bab el-Marsa, the sea gate, in a somewhat dilapidated commercial quarter containing shipping offices and various craftsmen and shops catering to the sea trade. They arrived at the trading company offices to find several men shouting and brandishing fists at the closed and shuttered front of the business. Ravi was able to translate their ranting as: "You son of a whoring donkey!" and "My money or my goods, you thief!" and "The Sultan will have your hands for this!"

"What has happened?" Ravi asked them in the Berber Tamazight dialect. Startled at first by hearing their language from a French uniform, they soon began to rail about their losses, calling LaCroix a thief, a liar, and a filthy dog.

"Do you know where he might be?" Ravi asked.

If they knew, they said reaching for the long, curved daggers prominent in their sashes, the wretch would not live to see the sunrise.

At one man's declaration that he was going to the palace to report this to the Sultan, the others jumped at the chance to go with him, vowing to see justice brought down on the vile Frenchman's head.

"Probably 'is best friends when they 'ad their noses in 'is trough," Crocker said with a snort. "Now they're out a quid or two, an' 'e's the devil in-car-nate." He looked up at the simple roof. "No holds fer a rope. 'Ow do we get in there?"

"I'm not sure we have to," Apollo said, studying the shuttered windows and barred door. "He's sure-as-hell not coming back here to face the likes of them. Which means he has probably taken everything of value here with him."

"Then he could already be headed out of the city." Abigail looked above the houses and buildings toward the sea gate. "How would he travel, a ship?"

"If he's truly headed for France, that's the only way."

He grabbed her hand and struck off for the docks. "We need to find Flynn and the others."

Just outside the Bab el-Marsa, they entered an unregulated district of hastily constructed warehouses and marine suppliers squatting side by side with cafes, brothels, and seedy hotels that ran all the way to the water. The streets were lighted by the open doorways of enterprises beckoning to newly paid and idle sailors.

They hurried along the streets, scanning the fronts of the buildings, being jostled by inebriated sailors, pickpockets, beggars—and the occasional—

"Hey!" Apollo froze, then wheeled to look at someone who had bumped into him. A Legionnaire's uniform… a small, wiry fellow whose nose was flatted against his face in a grotesquely familiar crescent.

Banane
. Part of the retrieval squad he had seen on the dock the day they landed. If there was anyone who might have access to information about a rich crook in hiding, it was probably the little squealer himself. Information was his stock and trade.

"Banane!" he called. "Stop—I want to talk to you!"

The little Legionnaire halted at the sound of his name and glanced back over his shoulder. When he spotted Apollo, his face lit with recognition and fear. In a heartbeat he turned and was running off down the street. He knew something—Apollo thought—or the sight of an old comrade wouldn't have made him bolt.

"I'll get him!" Apollo took off after him and was soon regretting his rash impulse to give chase. His still tender ribs were jarred with each stride and he was quickly beginning to feel like his lungs were being hammered. The little informer darted and dodged—as slippery as an eel. Clenching his teeth, Apollo picked up the pace briefly, and then saw Banane scramble to turn down an alley. When he reached it and made the same turn, he caught sight of Banane bursting out of it into the next street at full speed. Panting heavily now, he followed and was relieved to spot Banane again and see him glancing over his shoulder… veering… heading straight for a group of seamen exiting a tavern.

Banane slammed into them and bounced off one and then another of the men before sprawling headlong on the dusty street. In an instant, he scrambled up and was running again, but the delay had given Apollo time to catch up and as they entered an area of dilapidated brick and wooden warehouses, the gap between them was closing. Another glance over his shoulder told Banane he would soon be caught, and he put on a last, panicky burst of speed.

In desperation, Apollo launched himself at the Legionnaire and slammed him down on the hard-packed dirt. For a moment they both lay on the ground struggling to breathe. Then, fighting through the pain in his chest, Apollo pushed himself up and rolled the informer over onto his back to see his face.

"I'm looking for a man," Apollo rasped out. "A Frenchman named LaCroix. You know him?" Banane was panting so, he could only nod. "Do you know where he is?"

Banane shook his head, but there was more defiance than defeat in his denial. Apollo drew back a fist.

"Tell me!" he roared. "Do you know where he is?"

"He'll… kill me… if I tell," Banane blurted out.

"I'll kill you if you don't."

After a moment, he felt Banane's body slacken.

"I can't say how to get there. But I'll know it when I see it."

Apollo shoved to his feet and pulled Banane up by his shirt.

"Take me there," he said, pulling his gun from its holster and shoving Banane ahead of him, holding him by the collar.

He could feel the little worm trembling, could see the paleness of his face in the moonlight. They made two hesitant turns through darkened alleys before they stepped out onto an empty, moonlit street and Banane finally announced they were in the right place. He searched the mud brick and planking faces of the buildings until he came to one with just a number painted on its doors.

"Is this it?" Apollo demanded.

"I—I think so," Banane said, quaking now.

Apollo tried the door and found it locked. "Is there another way in?"

Banane turned with a frantic expression but came nose-to-nose with the barrel of a pistol. He swallowed hard, nodded, and led Apollo around the side of the building to where a pair of loose boards could be swung out of the way.

"You first," Apollo said shoving him toward the opening. As soon as Banane's feet disappeared into the opening, Apollo got down on his knees to crawl through himself. It was dark inside and smelled like a warehouse of some kind… marine stores… rope and canvas, pitch and turpentine…

"The door—I found the handle," Banane whispered. "Now can I go?"

"Open it," Apollo demanded.

The door creaked softly as ü opened and a slice of dim light entered the storeroom. Outside, there were stacks of crates and barrels all around the door and a dim light coming from overhead.

"Go on." Apollo nudged him forward along the stacks of cargo and at the end of the stack Banane darted around it. Apollo considered leaving, but he had to know if LaCroix was here. With a silent snarl he headed after the little wretch.

Around that corner he caught a glimpse of Banane disappearing around yet another stack of barrels and pallets. There was something in the way the little squealer moved that seemed odd, almost… eager.

Crouching, he stepped around a last stack of cargo and suddenly heard hammers being drawn back on at least six guns. Freezing, he looked up. All around him were beefy dockworkers, holding guns. He looked down.

There before him, on a platform at the end of the empty warehouse floor, sat Ferdineaux LaCroix with a pistol aimed straight at his heart. Strolling toward LaCroix with an insolent bounce in his step and a taunting smile was Banane. LaCroix tossed him a small bag that jingled when he caught it.

"Well, well. My beloved nephew." LaCroix turned to him with a sardonic smile. "Back for another dose of my 'hospitality' are you?"

As Abigail, Crocker, and Ravi watched Apollo run after the little Legionnaire, they assumed that he would haul the fellow back to them in short order. One minute dragged by, then two. They looked at each other uneasily. After three minutes, they went after him, searching the raucous nearby streets and then spreading out into the farther, quieter ones.

They didn't find Apollo, but they did find Joseph Flynn and Cruz Sanchez, who had news. There was a ship sailing for Marseille in a day or so. Franks and Johnson were still there, watching the loading. They had followed the empty lorries back to a warehouse on the edge of the docks and had been looking for Apollo, Abigail, Crocker, and Ravi before proceeding.

"That may be where he is," Abigail said, looking frantically to Crocker and Ravi, who nodded.

"Where who is?" Flynn asked. Then his eyes flew wide. "Smith?"

It took a quarter of an hour for them to reach the warehouse and find a way to see inside. They had to climb up to the louvered vents at the top of one wall, where they could hear voices, but couldn't make out what was being said. Nothing was visible but stacks of cargo.

Then one of the main doors opened and out came a diminutive figure in Legionnaire khaki, striding confidently. Abigail, who was perched on a stack of old pallets against the warehouse, recognized him as the man Apollo ran after and waved frantically to get Joe Flynn's attention. The Irishman saw the Legionnaire and a second later, dove off the stack of old cargo crates and landed on Banane.

Quickly, they dragged the little weasel around behind the piles of old wood and demanded to know if Apollo was inside with LaCroix.

Banane nodded, seeming terrified. Then they asked if there was another way inside, one that wasn't so obvious. He nodded again.

"And that lovely Miss Merchant," LaCroix said, watching his men drape the ropes securing Apollo's hands over the hook of a cargo hoist. As they pulled the chains to raise the hoist, Apollo's arms stretched above his head, sending pain through his still-healing ribs. "Snatched her right from under my nose. Did you take her out into the desert and have your way with her?"

"Go to hell," Apollo rasped out.

"
Tsk
. Not very sociable of you." LaCroix set down the wine he had been sipping. "Did she find her treasure?" He laughed. "Did she find yours?"

"What about
your
treasure, LaCroix?" Apollo demanded. "What did you find in France that was worth murdering members of your own family?"

"You forget, I don't have a family." LaCroix came up out of his chair, crimson, his eyes like hot coals.

"They disowned me when I was nineteen—younger than you when you came to my house. They bought me a ticket from Marseille to Tangiers and told me I had a whole continent to get lost in. They never wanted to set eyes on me again."

"What did you do to deserve it?" Apollo said, feeling his hands going numb. "Did you steal them blind, too?"