Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [107]
“I have to assume that your business in Paris has something to do with the present situation in Germany. I am also curious to know what Mrs. Persson's association with the Germans might mean.”
“Any confidence Mrs. Persson chooses to share with me must remain just that.” Zenith's voice sharpened a little. “Naturally the British and French are in haste to conclude their present problems with Colonel Hitler, but, while I wish them well, you must know—”
“Of course.” Begg regretted his directness. He suspected he had offended his cousin whose sense of decorum was if anything somewhat exaggerated. But there was no retreat now. “I suppose I am asking your help. There is some suggestion that many innocent lives are at stake.”
“My dear Begg, why should you and I care if a few bourgeois more or less are gone from central Paris by next Sunday.” Monsieur Zenith finished his absinthe. He removed à large, crisp note from his slender case, laid it on the table and stood up. “And now, if you will forgive me, I have some business which cannot wait.”
Begg rose, trying to frame some kind of apology or even protestation but for once was at a loss. With his usual litheness and speed, Zenith slipped his hat from the shelf and with a perfunctory bow strolled towards the exit. Cursing himself for his uncharacteristic impatience, Begg watched his relation depart.
Only as he took up his own broad-brimmed hat did he allow a small smile to appear on his face while under his breath he offered a heartfelt “Merci beaucoup.”
CHAPTER THREE
Into the Labyrinth
Commissaire Lapointe had set his men in waiting for M. Zenith, and the albino was followed once again, and once again, as his old colleague was bound to admit to Begg, they had lost him. Mrs. Persson, too, was gone. The four metatemporal detectives met that afternoon in Lapointe's rather grand offices overlooking the Seine.
“She was last seen visiting Caron's print shop in that section of the arcades known as La Galerie de l'Horloge. But she was never seen emerging. Two of our fellows entered on a pretext just as old Caron was closing for lunch. The shop is small. It has long been suspected as a place of illegal assignations concerning the Bourse and the arms trade. There is an even smaller room behind it. Neither Mrs. Persson nor the trio of men were to be found. My chaps did, however, discover a good excuse for making a further visit to Caron's. He also specializes, it appears, in a particularly unsavoury form of pornography in which Nazi insurgents are portrayed in acts of torture or worse with their victims. The photographs are almost certainly authentic. Caron made an error. He omitted to hide the photographs in his office when our men entered. So although they pretended to notice nothing, it will be possible for us to stage a raid, ostensibly by that of the regular vice department, to see what else we can discover. Would you and Dr. Sinclair care to accompany us?”
“I would be unable to resist such an invitation,” said Begg. Sinclair assented by lowering his magnificent head.
“I think you are right, old friend, in your interpretation of Monsieur Zenith's communication,” added Lapointe. “Not only will Hitler's plot be realized in a crowded part of Paris, it will occur before next Sunday.”
“So he suggested. But whether Mrs. Persson is party to this plot, we still do not know. The sooner we can question her, I think, the better.”
“Precisely!” Lapointe inspected his watch. “Come, gentlemen. A powerful car awaits us! Her batteries are charged and ready!”
So it was that the four men accompanied by two uniformed sergeants arrived at the Galerie de l'Horloge with its magnificent glass, wrought-iron roofs and ornate gas lamps, its rows of small shops on either side. They crowded into M. Caron's little establishment carrying a search warrant on the excuse that he was known to be selling forbidden material.
Begg felt almost sorry for the short, plump, grey-haired print seller, who shivered