AHMM, November 2007 Read online

  "Why do you watch me, boy?"

  I didn't know what to say.

  Remy prodded me forward with a none too gentle push.

  "I ... I have a friend who wishes to speak with you,” were the words that finally left my mouth.

  Paquay continued with his hammering and bending.

  "Could be I have no wish to speak with him."

  Remy stepped up beside me.

  "And if this friend can make the words worth their value?"

  The hammering ceased. The old man turned to face us.

  "Go on."

  "I have need to enter a house and not much time in which to do it."

  "Then knock on the door. Perhaps the owner will grant you admittance."

  "It would be best if the owner did not see me inside his residence.” Remy extracted two silver coins from his sleeve and placed them on the table. “I have heard that you are an expert in such matters."

  Paquay studied Remy's face for some moments and glanced only briefly at my own before his gaze finally settled down onto the round pieces of silver. Laying aside his small hammer, he reached across for the coins and swept them into his other palm.

  It was then that I noticed Paquay was minus the first two joints of both index fingers. I opened my mouth to inquire, but Remy dug his thumb into my shoulder muscle.

  "Whose house is it that you don't wish to be seen in?” asked the old man after the coins had been secured on his person.

  "A Monsieur Rousseau has residence in the city. I believe you have already made his acquaintance."

  A look of red anger passed over Paquay's face. He held up both hands with the back of each toward us.

  "Don't jest with me."

  "I assure you, this is no jest. His is the house, and I am told you are familiar with the lock in his door."

  "I'll gladly sell you some iron rings to place on the tip of your index fingers,” he wriggled his two mangled stumps, “if you wish to have amputated fingers like mine."

  The old man dropped his hands into his lap and struggled to contain himself. “Each of my special rings has a slender pick fastened to it so that a skilled man can place his fingertip with the lockpick on it into the opening of a ward lock. With one of these rings you may try your own skill at rotating the levers inside the lock on Rousseau's front door."

  "Why can't the merchant's lock be picked in the same way as any other ward lock?"

  "Rousseau is not the smartest man in the land, but he is clever enough to protect the wealth he stores in his house."

  "The lock, Paquay, tell me about the lock."

  The flush of redness left Paquay's cheeks, but a tinge of the anger remained in his voice.

  "Our clever merchant hired an inventor from Florence to rework the door. Now, whenever the levers don't get moved in the proper manner by his large brass key, a hidden blade comes out to slice across the inside of the keyhole."

  "You must have tried it twice,” I exclaimed.

  Paquay turned back to his table and picked up his hammer again.

  "As the boy said, I tried to pick the lock. Two different nights. I'll risk no more of my fingers on Monsieur Rousseau's wealth."

  "How else can one enter the house?"

  Paquay selected one of his bent metal slivers from the tabletop.

  "I've pondered that myself."

  "And?"

  "A ladder propped against one of the upper windows won't do. In that part of the city, the watch would soon spy the ladder and raise the alarm. As for the windows on the main level, they're all covered by iron grillwork, plus Rousseau employs a night watchman to prowl the main floor against intruders. Make one noise and it attracts the attention of the watchman."

  Remy rubbed his chin.

  "You're saying there is no way in?"

  Paquay laid his selected sliver of metal onto the miniature anvil and carefully positioned it to his liking.

  "I'm saying the only way in that I see is with Monsieur Rousseau's large brass key."

  "Where does he keep this key?"

  "On a long chain around his neck and stowed safely inside his shirt. He never lets the key out of his sight."

  Paquay began to hammer on his sliver of twisted iron.

  Remy waited until the old man paused long enough in his hammering to turn the metal sliver into a new position on the anvil. Then Remy spoke. “Not much information for my two pieces of silver."

  The hammer stopped for a moment.

  "After I lost the fingers, I followed Rousseau for several days. He likes to look at beautiful women, but he never seems to have the courage to take one back to his house. And he walks in the parks along the Seine every afternoon, but I don't know what you can do with such gossip as this."

  "Nor I,” replied the Chevalier.

  "Well, that's all I have."

  Remy grabbed my shirt collar and pulled me away from the ironmonger's shop, but instead of returning back the way we came, he led me along the winding cobblestone streets until we arrived at a better neighborhood in the city. Here, the houses were richer and more ornate, not the shabby, ill-kept buildings I was used to. After wandering back and forth on a street whose name I did not know, Remy stopped in the doorway of one of the houses and positioned me against one wall. Then he engaged me in conversation about nothing. I tried to answer his questions and keep up with what he was saying, but every time I looked at his face, his eyes were focused somewhere over my shoulder and across the street.

  After a half hour of this nonsense, my stomach started to growl. I needed to eat. Somewhere nearby, there had to be a market where I could liberate a loaf of bread or a slab of good cheese. I started off.

  The Chevalier quickly extended his arm across my chest.

  "Not yet,” he whispered, but I could tell by the movement of his eyes that something was happening on the other side of the street. I wanted to look back over my shoulder, only his arm kept me pressed against the wall. Then he spun me around and out into the street, placed his hand on the back of my neck, and we began to walk at a leisurely pace toward the river.

  If I hurried forward, he pulled me back, and if I lagged behind, he soon dragged me up beside him. In time, I realized the same frock coat moving before us in the street was always kept a certain distance in front of our walk. From the girth of the man inside the coat, this had to be the well-fed Rousseau whom King Jules had described earlier this morning.

  At the street running along the right bank of the Seine, Rousseau in his frock coat entered one of the parks. Remy and I stopped at the entrance and watched him stroll through the manicured gardens. After several moments of standing in silence, we headed back to the Buttes-Chaumont. As we walked, it was only by providence and my skilled fingers that I was able to purloin one withered turnip and some onions, left over from last year's crop, for our next meal. A housewife had turned away for a few seconds in order to settle a dispute between two of her brood, but it was all the time I needed to reach inside the open doorway.

  For the rest of the afternoon and most of that evening, Josette and Remy put their heads together and conversed in whispers. Sometimes one would leave for a while and come back with a rolled up bundle under one arm, then later the other would do the same. Mostly they ignored me as I chopped up the turnip and onions into the small kettle heating over the fire pit in our living quarters. I stirred the pot and listened closely to their voices but could catch only a few words and phrases of their plans. This much was for sure, it involved Monsieur Rousseau and his brass key, but those two friends of mine would tell me nothing.

  After supper, I yawned, went to my side of the fire, and pretended to fall asleep. When they assumed I truly slumbered, their actions became more unguarded, and thus through the slit of one barely opened eyelid, I could observe some of their preparations.

  The Chevalier quietly melted a perfectly good candle, letting the soft wax drip onto the flatness of a pewter plate. Finished, he set the plate aside to cool. Only a nub was left of the candle.
In the meanwhile, Josette had unrolled her assortment of bundles to display a fine dress of the upper classes, plus a rich shawl to wear around her shoulders. Remy nodded his approval.

  Remy's bundles were considerably smaller. He brought out bootblack to shine his belt and boots, silver polish to brighten his scabbard, buttons and buckles, and a dazzling white handkerchief to rest inside his sleeve. I was still trying to figure out how all of this entered into their scheme when I dozed off.

  Late the next morning, I awoke at the murmur of voices. Josette sounded to be in some minor discomfort, twitching her shoulders and complaining in a low voice. Remy stood to one side and patted her on the upper back as if to reassure her everything would be all right. After a final hug between them, Josette covered her shoulders with a plain wool shawl, tucked a large bundle under her arm, and left. Remy turned in my direction, but I quickly closed my eyes and lay still.

  When I heard Remy go out, I rose to my feet. His bundle, minus the handkerchief, was still resting on the floor. I picked up the pewter plate from last night. It was warm to the touch, but the melted candle wax was gone. Very well, they had set their plan in motion. I would just have to follow at a distance and see what was to happen.

  As they crossed the meadow, I hung well back to keep from being seen, but then had to run like the devil to keep from losing sight of them when they entered the city. Here, hidden in the press of other people, I could follow closer in the streets and not worry about being discovered so easily.

  In time, we came to the parks along the Seine. Remy and Josette entered one of the parks, stepped off the path, and disappeared into a grove of trees. Since I could not follow directly without fear of being caught, I made my way around to the other side of the park and approached the tree grove from the back side. By now, Josette had donned her new dress and draped the rich shawl around her shoulders. To all appearances, she looked like a lady in waiting at King Louis's court. If I hadn't already memorized every line and angle of Josette's face, I wouldn't have recognized her.

  Remy had positioned himself by a tree where he had a clear view of the park's entrance. Obviously, they were waiting for Monsieur Rousseau to make his early afternoon walk.

  With nothing left for me except to watch their scheme play out, I found a soft patch of grass and made myself comfortable. White clouds drifted overhead as the sun reached its zenith and started down the other side of the sky. Now my belly began to speak to me. I reached inside the cloth sack I'd brought along. A loaf of bread earlier freed from the cooling pans of an unwatchful baker would keep my stomach good company. Several bites later, I saw Remy motion to Josette. I glanced at the park's entrance, and there came Monsieur Rousseau on his daily afternoon stroll.

  Josette stepped daintily out onto the path and advanced as if she had no notice of anyone else around her. Five paces from Rousseau, she slowly flung one arm up to her forehead and swooned to the ground. Monsieur Rousseau hurried forward, but seemed not to know what to do. I jumped to my feet and had almost run to her side, when Remy stepped onto the path. He knelt by her shoulder and lifted her head off the ground.

  "Quick, monsieur, we must help this woman. She is a lady-in-waiting for the queen. Your assistance will be greatly rewarded."

  "What can I do?” inquired Rousseau.

  "It's a seizure,” replied the Chevalier. “We need a piece of brass to cure her."

  Rousseau fumbled in his pockets.

  "Perhaps I have some small item made from brass."

  "No, no,” returned Remy. “Have you not heard of Cesar Herbaux from the university?"

  "But of course,” said Monsieur Rousseau, “all of Paris knows of the great alchemist and his work."

  Remy kept his eyes cast down.

  "The queen herself has consulted Cesar Herbaux about the seizures of her lady-in-waiting lying here before you. Cesar claims only a large piece of brass applied to the back of the lady's neck will bring her about."

  Rousseau fumbled with the front of his shirt.

  "I do have a large brass key on a chain, but I never let the key out of my sight."

  Remy raised his hand, palm up.

  "Quickly, the key, before too much damage is done to the lady."

  Rousseau sank to his knees by Josette's head.

  "It is my key,” mumbled Rousseau, “perhaps I should apply the brass."

  "We have no time for this,” snapped the Chevalier. “I have the knowledge and experience to do this properly. Give me the key. You place your hand on her chest and check her pulse rate."

  By now, I had crept closer and could see the bare top of Josette's bosom begin to rise and fall at an alarming pace. Rousseau seemed mesmerized by the sight. He quickly surrendered the key while he placed his hand in the requested position. It too rose and fell with each rapid breath that Josette took.

  With one hand, Remy accepted the key on the end of the long chain and pressed the brass firmly to Josette's back just below the neck. After several muttered prayers, Remy nudged Josette with his knee. Her eyes fluttered open to gaze on Rousseau's perspiring face.

  "Oh, monsieur,” she gasped in a breathy voice, “thank you for your assistance. I feel much better now."

  Rousseau's hand seemed reluctant to relinquish the task it had been given. In the end, he actually blushed.

  The Chevalier helped Josette to her feet and carefully arranged her shawl around her shoulders. Then he thanked Rousseau for his help and assured him that the queen would be made known of his name. Rousseau stood there with the key now in his hand, a slight flush still on his cheeks, and a definite giddiness to his speech.

  I, for one, had no idea what made Rousseau so pliable. Nor could I see what Remy had gotten out of this masquerade. The large brass key had remained on the end of the chain, so we still didn't have the key to Monsieur Rousseau's house. How were we to get in and steal the jewels? The Chevalier's scheme had turned out to be a farce. Now what was I to do? King Jules would soon give me back to Lemat. I shuddered at the thought of that assassin's dagger blade. There was no help for me.

  Rousseau slowly continued on his stroll, with many a glance back over his shoulder, until he passed from sight.

  Josette and Remy slowly headed for the park's entrance. As soon as they assumed no one was looking, they stepped behind a tree long enough for Remy to peel a thin slab of candle wax from Josette's upper back just below the neck. He placed the wax on a flat surface, wrapped it up, and stuck the package inside his coat. She quickly changed back into her old clothes.

  Now I understood. Remy had used the concealed wax to make an impression of the large brass key. I might be saved after all.

  For the next several days, Remy stayed inside our dwelling. Selecting one metal file after another, he continued to work on a key blank from the ironmonger's shop. From time to time, he'd lay the false key over the wax impression, make a mark, then file again at the metal edges. It was midday when he finally seemed satisfied with the key and began to pack a few items in a small cloth bag.

  "Get your cloak, boy. You and I are spending the night in the city."

  "What of the curfew? The watch?"

  "Surely you know how to avoid them in the dark.” Remy paused in his speech. “You must be good for something,” he added.

  I nodded. My years of sleeping on the back streets of Paris would stand me in good stead to keep us invisible for at least one night. Josette bid us farewell at the doorway. She kissed Remy and seemed not to want to let go of his arm. Me, I got a pat on the head. I grumped all the way to the gates of Paris and beyond, but that night, I sought my little revenge.

  By dark, we'd made our way to a side street close to Rousseau's house. Here in the dim alley, I used my years of street experience to carefully select the trash pile that was to conceal me for the night. Then I directed Remy to a garbage pile on the other side of the alley for himself. We parted for a few hours.

  At a time when all honest citizens were asleep and black clouds scudded across the face
of the half moon, Remy shook off his covering of garbage and whispered for me to follow him. We paused at the mouth of the dark alley and listened. Hearing no sounds of the watch, we made our way to Rousseau's house and huddled in the shadowed doorway.

  Remy produced his false key, applied a thin coating of wax to the portion he had filed, and silently inserted the key into the ward lock. The key turned a ways before stopping. Remy withdrew the key, held it out to the half-moon light, then proceeded to file where the wax had been scored. On his second try, the key turned round and the door opened.

  "Stay here,” he hissed, “until I call you. And be quiet."

  Of course I could be quiet. Who did he think I was?

  Remy eased the door open, disappeared inside, and closed the door behind him.

  I waited and waited and waited. Then I heard the sound of tramping feet and muted voices. I peered around the doorway. The watch was coming. Quickly, I pushed open the door, stepped in, and shut it. A hand grabbed my shoulder. I started to cry out, but a second hand wrapped itself across my mouth.

  "I told you to wait outside,” whispered the Chevalier.

  I shook my head. He loosened his hand on my mouth.

  "The watch is coming,” I mumbled between his fingers.

  Remy released me, then produced the false key, locked the door from our side, and put his ear against the wood to listen.

  "They've gone,” he said at last. “You stay here by the door."

  I turned to follow him and tripped over something lying on the floor.

  Remy struck a flint and lit a candle.

  Now I could see that I'd stumbled over Monsieur Rousseau's night watchman.

  "Is he dead?” I whispered.

  "No, merely unconscious."

  Remy placed a two-foot length of hard, polished wood into my hand.

  "Don't let him wake up before I come back."

  Then he was gone up the stairs in search of Rousseau slumbering in his bed.

  Several times when the night watchman groaned in his unconsciousness, I raised the wooden club thinking I might have to return him to his rest. But he fortunately stayed in whatever world he had gone to visit.