Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [106]
The secret of Zenith's great success was that he understood the psychology of his opponents marginally better than they understood his. Thus his penchant for openness and his willingness to depend entirely on his own quick wits should he ever be in danger. One day, Begg hoped, that cool intelligence would be employed entirely on the side of the law. He remained convinced of Zenith's highly developed sense of honour, which meant the albino never lied to those he himself respected.
Moreover, Zenith was equally hated and feared by the criminal classes. That ebony stick of his hid a slender sword remarkable in that it was black and carved with certain peculiar scarlet markings which gave the appearance of moving whenever the blade was unsheathed.
In the old days Begg had pursued Zenith across the multiverse more than once and knew that sometimes the sword became an altogether larger weapon, sometimes carried in an instrument case of some kind. Zenith was a skilled musician, as expert in the classical cello and violin as he was with the popular guitar. Begg knew also that more than once Zenith's opponents had been found dead, drained in some terrible way not only of blood but of their very life-force. Underworld legend suggested that Zenith was a kind of vampire, drawing his considerable physical power from the souls of his enemies.
At that moment any casual customer of the salon would have seen one elegant man of the world in amiable conversation with another. An observer might have noted that both seemed to be taking an admiring interest in the tall woman walking, à la Colette, her two Oriental cats in the noon sunlight sparkling through the waters of the central fountain where classical marble merfolk paid homage to a Neptune whose trident was green with verdigris. The spraying water formed a blur of rainbow colour giving the woman an almost unearthly appearance as she passed by. She stood for a while staring thoughtfully into the middle distance seemingly utterly oblivious of the two men.
Begg smiled to himself, well aware that this was Mrs. Persson's characteristic way of taking stock of those she believed were watching her. It had the effect of disconcerting any observer and causing them to turn their gaze away. Even though she aroused no such response in Begg or Zenith, whom she recognized, nonetheless it seemed even to them that somehow she stepped through the shimmering wash of colour and, with her cats, disappeared.
“You are acquainted, I know, with Mrs. Persson.” Begg lowered his voice. “The Quai d'Orsay, if not the Quai des Orfevriers, are convinced that she works for the German insurgency. I would be surprised if it's true. I thought her nature too romantic to let her fall in with such a gang.”
“Mrs. Persson rarely confides in me.” Monsieur Zenith raised one finger as a signal for the waiter to bring him a drink. “Will you join me, Begg? Is it too early for an Armagnac?”
When the detective acquiesced, Zenith raised a second finger and made a small gesture. The waiter nodded. Zenith watched with approval as the serviteur mixed his absinthe and placed two specially formed pieces of sugar in the saucer, while Begg received a generous measure of St-Aubyn. It was rarely his habit to drink his favourite Special Reserve before lunch, but he was unusually anxious to remain on agreeable terms with his old opponent. Zenith appeared to live chiefly on Turkish ovals and absinthe.
“Would you permit me, cousin, to ask you a rather direct question?” he inquired after a couple of appreciative sips.
“How could I refuse?” A smile crossed Zenith's handsome lips. Clearly this approach amused