“We were taking that code-book to Paris,” Ranklin said.
“Then how did you wind up here?”
“I’d rather explain why. The General’s a royalist.”
“I know that.”
“And there’s quite a ring of royalists in the Army, government posts and so on.”
“I know about that, too. Probably more than you do.”
Really? Ranklin filed that for future thought. “I’m guessing now, but suppose somebody came one day with a message, proper writing paper and signature, introducing himself as a messenger from the Duc d’Orleans, d’you think the General could be fooled?”
She paused to consider. “I guess … He lives in a dream world. Yes, it would be Christmas all over again. And?”
“And suppose that somebody was really an international spy wanting to tap into the secret information the royalists were sharing among themselves. Such as a code being brought to Paris.”
“And you think Cort’s an international spy?”
It took a moment for Ranklin to remember Cort was Gunther. “I do.”
She nodded slowly. “Cort’s smart. He doesn’t try to hide that. And smart businessmen don’t hang around broken-down chateaux unless there’s a good business reason – or they’re a smart something else. But it makes me wonder how you boys earn your daily bread, too.”
“I am an Army officer,” Ranklin said coldly. “Naturally, a mission like this couldn’t be entrusted to a civilian …”
“Okay, okay.” She gestured to the doctor to re-bandage O’Gilroy’s arm. “So how did you get him involved in a duel, for God’s sake?”
“Well – it started off as a delaying tactic – while you got the police here. Gunther – Cort – knows we know about him. It gets a bit complicated, but Gu – Cort – insulted O’Gilroy.”
“Called me Secret Service,” O’Gilroy said with some relish.
Ranklin said: “Which, as O’Gilroy pointed out, is like something out of the sewers.”
“It sounds like you should know. And what now? You really want to go on with it?”
Before O’Gilroy could have an opinion, Ranklin said: “If you could say O’Gilroy needs to be got to a hospital and offer to drive him there, I’ll be all right.”
“What’s to stop you just walking out anyway? The General doesn’t want the duel to go on.”
“The General’s not in charge, however much he thinks he is. And it’s gone beyond the business of the code. If we get away, we’ll denounce Cort, he’ll be jailed and lose everything. So once we’re out of the General’s sight, he’ll kill us.”
She thought about that. Then she said carefully and unemotionally: “And now you’ve told me, which Cort has to assume you’ve been doing, he has to kill me, too. Spying isn’t exactly a gentlemanly business, is it?”
Staring at the cobbles, Ranklin said in a quiet voice: “No, not exactly.”
“Then there isn’t much point in me asking Please can I go home now, is there?”
“Don’t you want to get out of this?”
“You’re damned right I do. But – I don’t know why, I feel safer with you two.”
“Meself,” O’Gilroy said, “I still like the first idea best: I kill the fat bastard.”
Ranklin said: “That would narrow it down to the Sergeant.”
“Clement?” Corinna was surprised. “Is he …?”
“He’s the one we’re sure is on Gunther’s side.” Be damned to remembering that Gunther was Cort, or vice versa. “And he’s wearing a pocketful of pistol.”
She stared across the lamplit courtyard. The General was stumping towards them; behind him, Clement was fiddling with the bayonet fixings of both rifles. When he moved, his right-hand pocket quivered with the weight inside it.
“Not exactly a pocket pistol, either,” she murmured as the General arrived and raised his hat to her.
“My dear lady, I understand you have a small book which rightly belongs in the hands of His Majesty. If you will permit, I will see it is properly delivered.”
“Captain Ranklin passed me that book, General. I figure he decides where it goes.”
“My dear, I beg of you not to concern your pretty head with matters which we men …”
Ranklin barely knew Corinna, but even he could have told the General he’d made a tactical mistake. However, the General found out soon enough.
“And maybe mop the kitchens and clean your boots? – while you great brains play childish games with loaded … bayonets that’ll probably get someone killed. And all because of some jerk who belongs in an asylum for thinking he’s King of France!”
Let’s say a strategic mistake, Ranklin thought. The General stood there, his mouth opening and closing, then he turned dazedly away.
Ranklin hurried after him. “Mon General we wish to go on …”
“I like that ‘we’ stuff,” Corinna muttered to O’Gilroy, who’d been staring at her in wonder. “I don’t see him doing very much.”
“Ah, he started it, ma’am. I mean, he challenged Gunther first, only the General said ’twasn’t fair, Gunther not being a gent-at-arms, which is likely all ba – not true, I mean.”
“Quite so.” Corinna suppressed a smile.
Ranklin beckoned O’Gilroy to the centre, Clement handed out the rifles and Ranklin came back to Corinna.
“Couldn’t he just wound Cort?” she asked.
“No,” Ranklin said firmly. “Oh, it may work out like that, but if you go into something like this without meaning to kill, you’re going to get killed yourself.”
She watched as the two took their positions. “I just do not believe this.”
“Gunther admitted he was a spy; he tried to buy the code off me, and …”
“I don’t mean that. Code-books, international spies – that’s plain ordinary common sense. But all this … tell me you’re really making a cinematograph film. Or I’m having a lobster dream.”
Ranklin smiled thinly. “The General’s having the dream; we’re just passing through.”
“Commencez!”
Again Gunther let O’Gilroy move, and again he moved left. Perhaps he was favouring his left arm, perhaps he was pretending to, but after the first few clashes blood was staining the bandage above his wrist.
And is Gunther’s mind muddied by thoughts of how he can get scratched, and end the duel, without getting killed? Oh, I hope so, Ranklin thought.
Then he noticed the change in Gunther’s style: he didn’t seem to be really trying. He was content to stand off, making neither real thrusts nor even feints, and just fencing so that the bayonets constantly clacked on each other. O’Gilroy seemed puzzled, too, trying feints to draw Gunther into a real thrust, then changing to a right-hand circle to see if that made a difference.
If so, it was only that Gunther fenced harder, really hacking O’Gilroy’s bayonet aside and – almost – leaving himself open to a thrust. Was he trying to tire O’Gilroy? – constantly jolt his wounded arm so that …
O’Gilroy’s bayonet snapped. It sparkled in the air and clattered on the cobbles, and while everyone waited for Clement to shout “Degagez!” Gunther lunged.
O’Gilroy had half-lowered his rifle. Now he didn’t try to parry: he stepped left, across Gunther’s bayonet, let go of the rifle with his left hand and held it out one-handed just in time for Gunther to ram his ribs onto the remaining three inches of bayonet.
Gunther’s point, his rifle and then himself brushed O’Gilroy’s right shoulder and crashed onto the cobbles. Clement still hadn’t called “Degagez!”
O’Gilroy yanked his rifle clear and into both hands again. “Ye stinking bastard, ye!” But Clement was busy tugging at his pocket.
The courtyard exploded with noise; the women – except Corinna – screamed, the men shouted orders and jostled to let each other reach the blood first, the General squawked: “Sergeant! Sergeant!” and Ranklin yelled: “The car! Get in the car!” as he ran to scoop up Gunther’s rifle.
Corinna grabbed O’Gilroy’s jacket and her bag in one hand, pulled up her skirt with the other and ran for the Renault.