I saw the point come out six inches through his back, vanishing as she withdrew in graceful recovery. Willem took a step, his mouth opening soundlessly, and then he fell sideways down the incline to the lake, rolling into the shallows with barely a ripple, sliding slowly out from the shore, his body so buoyed by the salt water that his limbs floated on the surface while the crimson cloud of blood wreathed down like smoke into the transparent depths beneath him. Half-conscious as I was, I could see his face ever so clear, and I remember ’twasn’t glaring or hanging slack or grinning as corpses often do, but tranquil as a babe’s, eyes closed, like some sleeping prince in Norse legend.
The cold stone beneath me seemed to be heaving, and my vision was dimming and clearing and dimming in a most alarming way, but I recall that Caprice tossed her sabre into the lake as she turned and ran towards me, calling something in French that I couldn’t make out, and her running shape blurred to a shadow with the light failing behind it, and as the shadow stooped above me the light went out altogether and in the darkness an arm was round my shoulders and fingers were brushing my brow and my face was buried between her bosoms, and my last conscious thought was not of going to find the Great Perhaps, but rather what infernally bad luck to be pegging out at such a moment.
I don’t remember asking the question, but it must have been the first thing I uttered as I came to, for Hutton echoed it, and when I’d blinked my eyes clear I saw that he was sitting by me, trying to look soothing, which ain’t easy with a figurehead like his.
" `Where did she come, from?' " says he. "Still in that salt-mine, are we? Let it wait, colonel. Best lie quiet a spell."
"Quiet be damned." I took in the pleasant little room with the carved wooden eaves beyond the window, the pale sunlight flickering through the curtains, and the cuckoo clock ticking on the whitewashed wall. "Where the devil am I?"
"In bed, for the last four days. In Ischl. Easy, now. You’ve stitches front and rear, and you left more blood in that cave than you’ve got in your veins this minute. The less you talk, the better."
"I can listen, curse you." But I sounded feeble, at that, and when I stirred my side pained sharply. "Caprice … how did she come there? Come on, man, tell me."
"Well, if you must," says he doubtfully. "Remember, in the casino garden? I said we’d put a cover on you? Well, that was Mamselle. She was behind you every foot o' the way. Didn’t care for it, myself. I’d ha' used a man, but our French friend Delzons swore she was the best. Said you and she had worked together before." He paused. "In Berlin, was it?"
"Unofficial. She was … French secret department." It was weary work, talking. "I … didn’t know her … capabilities, then."
"Capable’s the word. Starnberg ain’t the first she’s taken off, Delzons says. Good biznai, that. Saved the hangman a job—and Bismarck a red face. What, his star man a Holnup agent! He’ll be happy to keep that under the rose. And small comfort to him that that same star man had his gas turned off by a dainty little piece from the beauty chorus. Sabres, bigad!" He began to chuckle, but checked himself. "Here, are you up to this, colonel? I can leave it, you know."
"I ain’t complaining," says I, but I closed my eyes and lay quiet. My question had been answered, and I was content to be left alone with my thoughts as Hutton closed the door softly after him.
So la petite Caprice, formerly of the Folies, had been my cover. Damned odd—until you reflected, and saw that it wasn’t odd at all. Why, even five years ago, according to Blowitz, she’d been Al in the French secret service, a trained and expert Amazon. I’d known that, in Berlin … but of course I’d never given it a thought during those golden hours in that snug boudoir on the Jager Strasse, when I’d been in thrall to the lovely little laughing face beneath the schoolgirl fringe, the eyes sparkling with mischief … "I must understand your humour, n’est-ce pas? So, le poissonier is a thief—that amuses, does it?" The perfect body in the lace negligée silhouetted in the afternoon sun … languidly astride my hips, trickling smoke down her nostrils … the saucy shrug: "To captivate, to seduce, is nothing—he is only a man" … moist red lips and skilfully caressing fingers in a perfumed bed …
… and the clash of steel echoing in a great stone cavern, the stamp and shuffle of the deadly dance, the reckless gamble of her disarming thrust … and the pretty face set and unsmiling as she killed with cold deliberation.
Aye, a far cry between the two, and middling tough to reconcile them. I’ve known hard women show soft, and soft women turn harpy, but blowed if I remember another who was at such extremes, a giggling feather-brained romp and a practised professional slayer. Thank God for both of ’em, but as I drifted into sleep it was a comforting thought that she wouldn’t be the one fetching my slippers in the long winter evenings.
Remember I said there were two kinds of awakening? My drowsy revival with Hutton had been one of the good ones, but next morning’s was even better, for while I was still weak as a Hebrew’s toddy I was chipper in mind with all perils past, and eager for news. Hutton brought a brisk sawbones who peered and prodded at my stitches, dosed me with jalup, refused my demand for brandy to take away the taste, but agreed that I might have a rump steak instead of the beef tea which they’d been spooning into me in my unconscious state. I told Hutton to make it two, with a pint of beer, and when I’d attended to them and was propped up among my pillows, pale and interesting, he elaborated on what he’d already told me.
"She was on your tail, at a safe distance, from the moment you and Starnberg set off for the lodge, and talked yourselves in—neat scheme of Bismarck’s, that. Then when night came, Delzons and I and our four lads joined her in the woods—a skeleton crew, you may say, but ain’t we always, damn the Treasury? We picketed the place as best we could, and near midnight Delzons and his Frogs, who were on the side away from the town, heard fellows skulking down from the hill, and guessed they were Holnups come to call. He and his two men sat tight, while Mamselle trailed ’em close to the house—"
"Good God, he let her go alone?"
"She’s a stalker—Delzons'. fellows call her Le Chaton, French for kitten, I’m told. Some kitten. Anyway, there were three Holnups, gone to ground under a bush, whispering away, and she slid close enough to gather that they were an advance guard, so to speak, and there were others up the hill. Then comes a whistle from near the house, and who should it be but friend Starnberg, summoning the three Holnups, if you please. Here’s a go, thinks Mamselle, and follows ’em in, to eavesdrop. She must," says Hutton in wonder, "be a bloody Mohawk, that girl. From what she heard, Starnberg was plainly a wrong ’un, but before she could slip back to Delzons to report, you came in view and went for him. The row brought the Emperor’s sentries, and all at once there was a battle royal, with more Holnups arriving—we heard it all, but in the dark there was nothing to be done. Mamselle kept her head, though, and when Starnberg’s gang brushed off, carrying you along, she stuck to her task, which was to cover you, whatever happened." He paused to ask: "How had you discovered that Starnberg was a bent penny?"