At the corner we turned left upon a broader thoroughfare. Here, considerable carriage and cart traffic hurried past, as well as horseback riders and pedestrians.
"Along this way we should find transportation," Marie remarked.
Five minutes later we were passing a flower seller's stall, a number of people gossiping or staring before the racks of dried arrangements. Just as we went by an elderly man stepped toward us from beyond the next stall—where cheap scarves were being sold—and the moment his eyes fixed upon mine, a bright glint of lunacy within them, I knew that all was not quite well. He was poorly dressed, save for an expensive ring on his left hand, and in that instant I realized it was not the hand of an old man. A quick step and he was at my side, right hand emerging from behind his hip, a flash of steel within it.
I moved forward as he struck, blocking the thrust with my forearm. I punched toward his midsection, and though he blocked it his breath was expelled and he jerked as if my blow had landed. It was several moments before I realized that Peters had delivered a kidney punch at that instant. By then the man had lurched past me and commenced running, his blade fallen at my feet. I turned as if to give pursuit but Marie's hand fell upon my arm.
"'E is but a common thug," she said. "I have seen him about. There is no need to pursue. We will know his employer by this evening."
The man had already disappeared into a space between two buildings. I shrugged and kicked the knife. It slid about eight feet. Grinning, Peters gave it another kick and it bounced along, coming to rest six or so feet ahead of him. When next we came to it I kicked it, and so on until we found a carriage.
As we rode along she gave me a quick lesson on the town's disposition and taught me my first words of French. We rattled on for some time through the Fauborg St. Germain. The skies spat a few drops of rain upon and about us for perhaps two minutes then desisted. Occasional wraiths of fog hovered at the feet of hills and among trees.
At length we found ourselves traversing the Rue Dunot. The carriage slowed as we neared a grotesque and time-eaten mansion. Its crumbling eminence caused me to construct visions of the impoverished nobility when I saw its number to be the one we sought.
"C'est le maison de Monsieur Dupin?" I said proudly.
"La maison," she said.
"But that's the place all right?"
"Indeed."
She paid the driver and we descended. As the carriage rattled away we approached the doorstep, where Marie drew upon the bell-pull. Shortly thereafter the door was opened by an elegant young man—both in appearance and dress—who was obviously not a servant. He and Marie exchanged rapid-fire French for several minutes before he shifted his attention to Peters and myself.
"I am sorry," he said in an unusually rich tenor, "but the information could not wait. You are looking for Von Kempelen." It was a statement, not a question. "Please come in."
He stepped aside and held the door for us. We entered, and he closed it behind us. "Come this way."
The place was musty and filled with shadows. The floor creaked beneath our feet. He led us down a corridor past dim rooms filled with ancient furniture. At length, we came to a study, somewhat better illuminated but as venerably furnished as the chambers we had passed. Within, a goblinesque voice shouted an amazing litany of obscenities as we entered.
"The same to you, mate!" Peters retorted, turning quickly to seek the source of the challenge.
"Grip, be still!" Dupin ordered. "Attend now! Repeat! The flames in Spain burn heretics amain!"
"Rawk!" said what I then saw to be a raven perched on a shelf above the door. It followed this with the sounds of champagne bottles being uncorked.
"Nevermore, Grip. Nevermore," Dupin persisted.
"Rawk," repeated the bird, followed by obscenities I had heard but seldom for all my years in the Army, save from the lips of an Arkansas mule driver who had complained earlier that day on the recurrence of a vicious rectal itch.
"Nevermore," said Dupin.
"Je m'en fiche," said the raven.
Our host swept past us, saw us seated in attractive and uncomfortable chairs of a gold and rose floral pattern, then offered us sherry.
"I write a bit of poetry," he confessed, "and it amuses me, teaching a few aphorisms to the bird.
However, his previous owners were less than careful when it came to influences."
I refrained from inquiring concerning Grip's former residence.
"But he was an experienced speaker and a bargain, to boot," he finished. "Now, concerning Von Kempelen, his whereabouts are known to me. I make it a point to keep posted on the location of eminent visitors. Your problem as I understand it, however, entails more than simply finding the man."
"True," I replied. "The man is reputed to have developed a process whereby he can transmute baser metals to gold."
Dupin smiled.
"So I understand," he observed. "Many have made such claims, down the centuries."
"As I understand it, Von Kempelen is rather reticent concerning the process. Be that as it may, he is being followed by three men who wish to obtain the secret from him."
"By fair means or foul?"
"Fair, I'd judge. A process so complicated is not easily taken against a person's will. I believe they'd be willing to strike a genuine deal with him."
"What is the problem you seek to solve?" he asked.
I took a sip of the sherry.
"My problem is not the same as my employer's," I told him. "Seabright Ellison wishes to prevent such a deal because the appearance of large quantities of alchemical gold on the world market could damage his own position in that area, where he is strongly represented."
"Indeed," Dupin observed, "more than our employer might be injured by the injudicious release of great masses of precious metal. Look what the gold of Mexico and Peru did to Spain. Her present troubles—from the Inquisition through this hit or miss war—may all owe something to the effects of its superabundance on the economy of an earlier day. How far is Mr. Ellison prepared to go in foiling this transaction?"
"Pretty far," I said, recalling his hint that Griswold, Templeton, and Goodfellow's relocation underground would earn me a bonus.
"Might he be willing to outbid the others for the secret?"
Thinking of the massive sums commanded by my letters of credit, I nodded.
"I have been given considerable discretion in this area," I said, "and the funds with which I might attempt such a thing. What do you think?"
"I do know that Von Kempelen has met on several occasions now with a trio of foreigners—most likely American. So I would guess that they are talking business. On the other hand, I daresay he is suspicious of them—as he must be of anyone, under the circumstances."
"I suppose so."
"There may be a way to capitalize on this ..." he mused. "But tell me, what did you mean when you said that your problem is not the same as your employer's?"
"He wants to stop the deal because he's interested in protecting his financial interests. My interest is in the lady Griswold has kidnapped and still holds prisoner. She possesses psychic abilities and he used her to track Von Kempelen here. He has other, darker plans for her."
"Ah! There is a woman involved!" He leaned forward and squeezed my forearm. "I understand."
"Partly, I'd imagine," I replied. "But I would be very surprised if even a Frenchman could unravel this particular relationship too readily."
"You have roused my curiosity to the utmost," he said. "Pray, tell me of it."
So I did. Forgetting myself, I drank four of the tiny glasses of sherry as I spoke. In that I did not stagger off with delirium tremens, the performance may have helped to convince him I was telling the truth.
"Yes," he said, nodding, "it seems a relatively simple matter to one who is familiar with the German philosophers, particularly Leibnitz. The notion of a multiplicity of existences—"
"Dreck! Dreck!" cried Grip, flying down from his shelf and lighting upon Dupin's left shoulder. "Guvna!