He now understood the real reason for Fulton's hiding away in the stews of the Left Bank—and with it he had the key to making an approach. He lay back in growing satisfaction, letting all the pieces come together. And they fitted as snugly as he could have wished.
It was the character of the man. His was a brilliant and fecund mind; in a few short years he had changed from an artist of the first rank into a self-taught engineer, able not only to conceive of but actually bring to realisation dread engines of war. But that very quality, his lonely genius and single-minded drive to achieve, had made him almost completely self-reliant, never needing the support and comfort of an organisation. And, like many deeply immersed in a project of their own conception, he was suspicious and wary.
The vital clue was what he had said about a business footing for his endeavours. Greed for gold did not figure in this: he was using a commercial mechanism to control the project and remain at its head. But thinking that Paris would agree to such a novel prospect— commercialising the art of war—was both naïve and futile.
However, if Fulton was holding out for a business relationship, that would explain both the conspicuous absence of the military about him and his humble lodgings. With the French standing firm, the man was probably fast running out of money.
Was this, then, his chance? Despite his thudding head, Renzi felt a leaping hope. After his short talk with Fulton he felt certain that, for him, the bringing into the world of his creations stood above all else. He had almost certainly chosen to go with the French as having the greatest need for a war-winning sea weapon against the all-conquering Royal Navy, and the radical talk might be just that.
It was time to act—but was he prepared to stake everything, even his life, on one drunken insight? He had until that night to decide.
Slipping out of the hotel quickly, Renzi stepped down the avenue and into the darkness, pausing only at the corner to glance back. As far as he could tell, his previous night's debauchery had succeeded and no one was interested in him. He pushed on as if he was heading for the Bastille. Then he took a last precaution. At Le Marais he chose a narrow street, turned down it and hid in the first alley he could find. He had not long to wait: he had been followed.
As the man pressed past urgently Renzi was out and behind him. Hands clasped, he brought his fists down hard on the nape of the man's neck, then dragged his pursuer, senseless, into the alley. In the blackness he went through the man's pockets, taking a watch, money, papers. He stuffed them away and, for good measure, took the coat, a stout fustian, then left. Now free to move, he cut abruptly right and across the Seine by the Pont Marie, dropping the coat into the river as he went.
He headed directly through the Latin Quarter to Fulton's address, slowing when he got near. A watcher stood at the corner opposite. This was another matter. Close in with the wall and at full alert, the man could not be taken by surprise. Lights showed in the top floor—Fulton was there.
Renzi's resolve hardened. Should he kill the man? But that would only awaken suspicions. Then he remembered something. He turned back to a small pile of old furniture. With a flap-sided table over his shoulder, he walked firmly towards the doorway. The watcher would probably know the tenement residents, but it was unlikely that a tradesman delivering goods would be challenged.
At the entrance he mimed to a woman that he was a mute, jabbing upwards. She let him in and he stumped up the dark stairs, leaving the table at the top landing. Then, heart racing, he knocked at the door.
Fulton's muffled voice demanded who it was. Renzi mumbled a few words until an exasperated Fulton flung the door open. "Mr.— Mr. Smith! What in hell's name—"
Renzi pushed his way past, ducking out of sight of the windows. "Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Fulton, but my business with you is pressing and cannot stand on ceremony."
"What business? And how in the devil's name do you know where I live?"
"Sir, I know you to be an inventor and genius of the first rank who will surely find a place in history. I am also aware that you're frustrated in your desire to see your creations born, to have them become a tangible reality."
A long table at the end of the room was overflowing with drawings and other papers. Renzi thought he could detect the form of an undersea craft.
"Not only that, but you are being denied the fruits of your labours—even the means to sustain existence while you bring these wonders into the world. Mr. Fulton, I'm here to—"
"By God, you're English and you've come to put in your oar with me and Emperor Bonaparte!" he gasped in astonishment. "The barefaced hide of you, sir!"
A knot formed in Renzi's stomach: if he revealed his true identity he might court betrayal to the watcher outside, but if he denied it, he would have no standing by which to negotiate.
"It's true, isn't it? How can you know of my affairs," Fulton snapped, "unless you've agents in the Ministry of Marine?" His eyes narrowed.
"Sir, if your heart is set on this, you must see that your present arrangement will not be the one that achieves it. Napoleon's France will never agree to putting a military master-stroke in the power of a Yankee businessman, no matter what the terms. You should see this, sir!"
Time was slipping away: at any moment the watcher might realise that the deliveryman had not emerged and become suspicious. And if he had made an error concerning Fulton's true situation he was done for.
"Well, Mr. Smith, or whatever your name is, I can tell you now, you're plain damn wrong in your reckoning. There's nothing stands between me and my arrangement save a little matter concerning the crew of the submersibles."
"The crew?" Renzi said, mystified.
"If it's the barbaric custom these days to treat fire-ship crews as pirates and incendiaries, I want the French to stand surety that the enemy won't hang 'em—and take reprisals on their prisoners if they do."
"Sir, I'd hazard they've been hanging fire over this for . . . a long time," Renzi said quietly. For the canny French it would be an ideal sticking point to drag matters out. It was looking more and more certain that they were letting economic hardship do their work for them in forcing Fulton to hand over the plans and come to a different agreement.
"They'll get to it," Fulton said uncomfortably.
"Perhaps," said Renzi, seeing his chance. "But in the meantime it would grieve me to see a mind as worthy as yours brought to such a needy pass." He fumbled beneath his waistcoat and found his money-belt. "Here—twenty English guineas." He placed them on the table. Fulton made no move to stop him. "They're yours, sir, with my best wishes. There's no need to account for them—no one has seen me give them to you, have they?"
They were part of a sum he had signed for in far-away Walmer Castle and he would have to explain later but for now . . .
Fulton gave him a look of indignation. "If you're thinking I'd sell out for English gold . . ."
But Renzi had seen the gleam in his eye—the money meant decent meals, wine, a respite from creditors . . . independence. At the very least Renzi had bought his silence. The danger of betrayal had receded. "Sir, I would not think to imply such a thing. Do take it as your due."
Fulton picked up the coins and slipped them into his pocket. "Accepted with my thanks—but I see myself under no obligation whatsoever."
"Quite. I cannot help but observe that it's not without its merit to consider some kind of business relationship with Britain as will see your projects properly completed. I'm sure—"
"Are you an English agent?" Fulton asked.
Renzi caught his breath. "I'm authorised to offer you a contract with His Majesty's government for the full realisation of your works in a sum to be determined, and all possible assistance from the naval authorities under your direction."