“Un moment, s'il vous plaît.” Manon’s sly wink said she knew full well he understood her. “You interest me, Brock. I do not know what your business is in Paris, but I sense you will get yourself into trouble before it is through. If you need help, come to the Boulangerie Dantes. My appartement is above it.”
“Won’t it upset your husband if I show up unannounced?” Stone deadpanned.
“I am my own woman. I understand that is unpopular with American men. It is much the same in France.”
“I like a strong woman.” Stone wanted to kick himself. Why was he engaging with her, much less revealing anything at all about his real self?
Manon flashed a pitying smile and gave him a gentle, condescending pat on the cheek. “I find you charmant in a clumsy way. I think I will see you soon. I have a sense about these things.” She swept away with a confident grace and melted back in with her group.
“Am I really that transparent?” Stone muttered. “If she sees through me, what chance do I have?”
3 The Search
“I positively adore your hat,” Trinity said. “I wish I could dress with such elegance, but it’s a man’s world and I have to work in it.”
“Believe me, I understand. The men in my industry are dogs.” Magda Fischer rolled her big blue eyes and smiled knowingly.
“That is why she only spends her time with men who know how to treat a lady. I am John Kane.” They shook hands. Kane was a tall man with an athletic build. His jet-black hair, sprinkled with silver at the temples, was perfectly coiffed, and his toothbrush mustache precisely trimmed.
“A pleasure. I am Nellie Benton.” Nellie Benton was the name Trinity gave when hiding her identity. It combined the names of two of her personal heroes: Nelly Bly, the legendary investigative reporter, and Jessie Benton Frémont, the writer and political activist whose writings had brought fame to her husband, John C. Frémont.
“Miss Benton is a reporter,” Fischer said.
“Really?” Kane arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but every reporter I’ve ever met has been a peaked-looking man with thick glasses and at least one ink stain on his suit.”
“You just described half my colleagues,” Trinity said.
“What newspaper do you work for?” Kane asked.
Trinity said the first name that came to her. “The Washington Warbler.” She wondered if the Warbler even had any female staff. If Kane suspected her, he could easily find out she had been lying. But Kane merely nodded and flashed a polite smile. Relieved, Trinity turned to Fischer.
“I don’t suppose I could have just a few minutes of your time?”
“Our viewing begins in a few minutes,” Kane said.
“You go on. I’ll catch up.” Fischer turned to Trinity and grinned. “Women should support one another, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. And thank you.” Trinity’s heart raced. She had managed to stall Fischer but not Kane. Alex was now on his own.
Alex approached the guard. He kept his chin up and tried to exude an air of confidence. He took a deep breath and spoke from his chest.
“I’m Agent English,” he said, flashing his Buck Rogers Fan Club membership card and tucking it away again before they could read it. “I need to give the exhibit a final inspection.”
“Your girl already did that,” the guard said.
“Which is why I need to check behind her. You understand.”
The guard grinned knowingly. “Should have sent you in the first place.”
“Government.” Alex shrugged as he strode past the guard and into the Crowley exhibit.
He quickly examined the collection. A gold death mask stood on a pedestal. Behind it, five canopic jars sat in a row. A variety of weapons were on display, including javelins, bronze-tipped spears, and a gold dagger with a jewel-inlaid hilt. Statues of all sorts guarded a large quartzite vault that had once held a coffin. Nothing leaped out at him as being unusual or especially significant.
He moved on to the next room, where Orion Crowley’s study had been reconstructed. A quick inspection turned up nothing. He was about to admit defeat when his eyes fell on a walking stick leaning against an overstuffed armchair. It was topped by a bronze cap. Stone’s grandfather had owned one like this. The cap was removable if you knew the trick.
“I wonder…”
He picked it up, twisted the cap a quarter-turn to the left, pushed down, then a half-turn back to the right, then pulled up. It came free. Inside was a rolled paper. He took it out and unrolled it. It was a map! He barely had time to take in the sight when he heard voices. His watch read 3:00. Time was up!
4 Trapped
Alex whipped his head around. He expected to see a security guard, or perhaps Constance coming to tell him his time was up. To his surprise, two big goons shouldered their way through the door.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” The speaker was a husky man with blond hair cut in a wave.
“I’m with the Bureau,” Alex said.
“You?” The man smirked. “Let’s see your credentials.”
“My credentials?” Alex blinked. “I don’t have to show you anything.”
“Don’t listen to him, Max. He’s bluffing,” said a black-haired man whose bulk blocked the doorway.
“What is that paper you’re holding?” Max pointed at the map clutched in the hook at the end of Alex’s left arm.
“None of your business.” Alex looked around for an avenue of escape. The only way out that wasn’t blocked was the door leading into the tomb exhibit.
“We’re making it our business. Come on, Artie.” Max dipped into his pocket and took out a pair of brass knuckles which he slipped onto his left hand.
Alex grabbed Orion’s walking stick and flung it at Max. It bounced off the big goon’s chest, eliciting a smile.
“Is that the best you can do?” Max chuckled, took a step forward.
Alex sprang up onto the large mahogany desk. A cup filled with sharpened pencils sat atop it, along with a framed photograph and a ship in a bottle. Alex kicked the pencil cup, sending small, sharp projectiles flying at Kane’s thugs. Max covered his eyes and turned away. Alex hopped down off the desk and made a run for the open door.
The thugs closed in on him. Alex threw his shoulder into a suit of armor as he sprinted past it. It clanged to the floor at the feet of the two goons, who stumbled and fell. A few feet away, something caught his eye — a kerosene lamp sitting on a bookshelf. Alex snatched it up and hurled it at the two men who were just climbing to their feet. The lamp shattered and the fuel spattered all over them.
“Would you look at that?” Artie said. “Now we have to take our suits to the cleaners. I guess he’s going to get away.”
“Not too bright, are you?” Alex took out his Zippo lighter and quickly knelt.
“No!” the two dimwitted men shouted in unison.
Alex gave the lighter a flick and lit the spilled kerosene. A streak of fire shot across the floor and set the two men’s suits ablaze. They roared in pain, scrambled to their feet, and tried to bat out the flames.
Alex’s eyes moved to the door that led back to the museum. There was a commotion, and more men rushed in.
“I won’t be getting out that way.” Alex turned and ran into the tomb exhibit. He wound through a forest of statues — Bastet cats, Anubis warriors, and the ibis-headed form of the god Thoth. At the back of the room, the quartzite vault stood against the wall. High above it hung a grill covering a ventilation shaft. “It’s worth a try.”