Heart of Gold

Aubrey elbowed his friend. 'We'd like to deposit our things, if we could.'

'You'll need your keys.' She vanished, leaving them standing on the doorstep.

Aubrey looked at George. 'I suppose no-one is going to steal our luggage.'

'Not unless Lutetia is populated by roving gangs of weightlifters who've turned to a life of crime.' George sat on one of the trunks, took off his boater and fanned himself with it. 'Just to make sure, I'll wait here while you're getting the key.'

'No need,' Aubrey said, nodding toward the door.

The grey-haired woman had reappeared. 'I am Madame Calvert. This is my establishment. Here are your keys, and a letter for you, young Fitzwilliam.'

She handed them to Aubrey, then disappeared into the depths of the building, leaving the ornate doors open.

Aubrey opened the envelope, wondering who knew he'd be at this address. When he finished reading it, he chuckled and folded it away.

'Everything all right, old man?' George asked. 'We have the right place, don't we?'

'Yes.' Aubrey chuckled again. 'I think we're in for an interesting time, George. After all, according to my guidebook, Lutetia is the City of Art.'

'City of Art? I heard it was the City of Love.'

'I imagine you did hear that.' He held up the envelope. 'We have our first Lutetian invitation.'

'Excellent! An exhibition? Opening night at the opera?'

'Not exactly. Do you remember the Gallian airman we saved?'

'Of course I remember. Not likely to forget that jaunt for a while.'

'Well, Captain Saltin has asked us to visit him at the St Martin airfield. He wants to show us the Gallian dirigible fleet.'

'Do we have to go straightaway?'

'Not at all. It's an open invitation.'

'Good. I'm sure we'll be able to fit in a visit. In a week or two. Or next month, if we can't manage that.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Now, let's see about these trunks.'

Inside, they found themselves at the foot of a marble staircase. A rich red carpet affixed with brass stair-rods led up to a landing with a stained-glass window as extravagant as the front doors. On their left was an open door, while a short corridor led to another door on the far side of the stairs.

Aubrey was glad for George's muscles. Even so, it was a difficult task, hauling the trunks up the stairs. They paused on the first-floor landing to catch their breath, and then at each subsequent landing. When they reached the fourth floor, Aubrey sat on the stairs and panted. 'One more to go. I hope we have a wonderful view.'

'I'd swap a view for a ground-floor room,' George said. He'd draped himself over the polished wooden balustrade. 'If I want a view, I can look in a book.'

Aubrey stood, gingerly. He could feel his heart pounding from the exertion, but he thought it was under control. A dull headache lurked, but it was minor.

On this floor, there were three rooms – two on the left, one on the right. Aubrey frowned, wondering about the other tenants in Madame Calvert's residence. If he were correct, the room on the right would be larger. It would face north, too, so it may be useful as an artist's studio. He was sure Madame Calvert would approve of artists.

But Aubrey wasn't sure Madame Calvert would approve of the loud thumping noises coming from the apartment. Was the tenant a woodworker? Or perhaps a sculptor, hammering at a large piece of marble?

Aubrey took a step back when the door to the apartment began to shake.

The roof of his mouth started to itch, with rapidly rising intensity. Aubrey narrowed his eyes. Magic was afoot.

A deep, wrenching groan came from behind the door, followed by hammering that shook dust from the ceiling.

George stared. 'I hope we're not going to have noisy neighbours.'

'It sounds as if someone's in trouble.' The door handle rattled, as if whoever was within was unfamiliar with the functioning of latches.

'They need help.' George made for the door, but at that moment it was thrown open. George stopped, aghast, and gave a cry of horror.

Aubrey wondered what George had seen, then he, too, reeled back at the sight of what emerged. Almost of their own accord, his hands rose to ward it off.

It had once been a man. Late fifties, to judge from the sprinkling of grey in his wiry hair and beard. He was short and thickset, his rounded frame showing the signs of good living. He wore a fine dark-grey suit, but the dove-grey gloves on his hands were in tatters. Bloodied fingers protruded from the shreds. His face was lined and pale, but his eyes were completely vacant. No intelligence, no awareness at all lay behind them. He gazed directly ahead with an emptiness that was terrifying. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

The appalling figure groaned, hoarsely. His hands dangled, as if they were too heavy to lift. He staggered, dragging his feet, until he faced Aubrey. Then he groaned again.

Aubrey badly wanted to turn and run; his muscles trembled in readiness, but he steeled himself and put out a hand. 'Sir?' His heart hammered. 'What can we do for you?'

'In Gallian, old man,' George said. 'He can't understand you.'

Aubrey had grave doubts whether this was merely a language difficulty. He tried again in Gallian, but the man simply stood there, swaying.

'He's not blinking,' George pointed out.

Before Aubrey could respond, the groaning man lurched at them in a stiff-legged shamble. The groaning turned into a deep, chesty growl.

A cry came from the stairs. 'What is this?' Madame Calvert put a hand to her mouth. 'Monsieur Jordan, what are you doing?'

A shout wrenched Aubrey's attention back to see Monsieur Jordan lunge clumsily at George, who fended him off with a straight-armed push to the chest.

The groaning man's feet went out from under him. He fell back and hit his head on the tiled floor with a crack.

Aubrey hurried and crouched by his side. 'He's still breathing. Madame Calvert, can you fetch medical help? And the police?'

Madame Calvert didn't argue. She rushed off.

George knelt, his face anxious. 'Never had that happen before. A good push to the chest usually gives time to work out what to do next. He just toppled like a tree.'

'He had poor balance. And coordination.' Aubrey wondered what the symptoms for rabies were. Didn't they include groaning and twitching? 'Don't let him bite you.'

George shuddered. 'Last thing I'd want, old man.'

Aubrey looked over his shoulder through the open door. 'Let's take him into his apartment.'

Aubrey took Monsieur Jordan's feet while George hefted the other end. They shuffled into the apartment and lay the still-unconscious Gallian on a blue velvet chaise longue.

Aubrey straightened and took in the apartment. Monsieur Jordan was an artist, without doubt. A large north-facing window – curtainless – took up one wall, while carpet had been rolled back. The wooden floor was a riot of colourful streaks and splashes. One end of the room was a combined kitchen and sleeping area. The other was an arrangement of shelves, easels, two mismatched tables and a small dais. After assuring himself that Monsieur Jordan was comfortable and still breathing, Aubrey wandered over to the dais and the single chair on it. Behind the chair, the wall was draped with white cloth in quite deliberate folds.