Fata Morgana (21 page)

“... ladies and gentlemen, the Great Harid!”

The crowd roared. The roaring grew louder, so loud he couldn’t stand it, a deafening roar in his ears, in his brain, in his whole body.

He collapsed, spilling the toy army onto the floor. Blood gushed from his wounds, forming a pool all around him, and he lay staring into the eyes of a little artillery officer. The details of the uniform were perfect. The face was that of Ric Lazare.

Picard sighed, his whole body heaving forward and then freezing.

Death tore him violently out of his body and wrenched him upward in a single powerful leap. An immense thunderclap sounded and Paris was below, a vapor, a chimera. Death bowed and swiftly departed, his errand complete.

Dead, dead, dead,
echoed the wind as Picard struggled against the threads which were lifting him, up out of the earth’s sparkling theatre, reeling him upward through the dark sky. He struggled, but his strength was nothing against the fine golden line.

A terrible wind whirled him higher, whipping the golden threads, and he dangled like an empty costume flapping in the air.

Golden threads were shining everywhere, billions of them, undulating, never tangling, connected to the earth below and controlled by secret mastery from above, whose power now reeled him faster, until he was a comet speeding upward through the heavens.

He resisted, forced a turning in the threads and looked downward at the earth—a small blue ornament in space, one of a little cluster of ornaments around the sun. Then the brilliant sun and its cluster dropped away, becoming no more than a tiny light among countless others.

Desperately he searched for a prayer, but his lips were sealed, sewn with golden thread. Overhead he saw the dome of existence, a curving transparency on which the lights of the universe were reflected. He struck against the dome and passed through it, into utter darkness. He was alone and the universe was below him—a great star-filled ball.

A bell rang.

“Your twenty-five seconds are up, Monsieur Fanjoy,” said the butler softly, opening the door of the chamber.

Picard spun around, and the white-turbaned Hindoo bowed to him, his eyes shining darkly, a faint smile on his face.

The telegraph machine clicked, and the Hindoo handed a slip of paper to Picard, who opened it with shaking hands and read the words:

FATA MORGANA

“If you’ll step this way, please...” The butler’s voice was more insistent now and Picard let it carry him out of the room.

He went down the long hallway slowly, as if he were emerging from the land of the pharaohs, from the darkness of a gigantic tomb. His footsteps echoed behind the butler’s, and he listened with all his heart, trusting in the echoing hallway as the only certain reality.

“Monsieur Fanjoy—” The butler bowed quietly again, admitting Picard back into the Lazare parlor, where the guests looked at him, indirectly, casually, but knowing that he had undoubtedly received a strange and perhaps shattering message.

The candles in the chandeliers blazed with peculiar intensity, and the green vines and tendrils which surrounded the Grecian columns were the most comforting sight he’d ever seen. With trembling steps he walked toward Ric Lazare.

Lazare was smiling faintly, as had the Hindoo. “Well, Inspector?”

Picard stared into the uncanny eyes of Lazare, seeing in them all that he’d seen in the crystal ball—the young acrobat, the toy maker of Deep Sorrow, the murderer of Anton Romani. You are the rarest killer in the world and only a fool would oppose you. “Good night, monsieur.”

The small clique at the doorway parted for Picard as he passed out of the parlor, into the entrance hall. A footman awaited him at the cloakroom, producing his cape and gloves. He slipped into them quickly, heard footsteps behind him, and turned. Duval was coming down the hallway toward him, and they stepped together into the courtyard. It was wrapped in fog, a light drizzle falling, the rain-mist mingling with the sudden tears that filled his eyes. Alive!

He twirled his cane, Duval chattering beside him, his voice the echo of a thousand infinitudes of night.

“Inspector? Did I hear him address you as a police inspector?”

“Yes,” said Picard. “So watch your step, Duval.”

“No one’s to be trusted these days,” sighed Duval, as they walked through the iron gate to the rue de Richelieu. Duval hailed a carriage. “Can I leave you anywhere, Inspector?”

Picard called to the driver. “Do you know the Café Orient?”

“Pigalle,” nodded the driver.

Picard climbed in beside Duval and the carriage started forward, into the rue Drouot.

“A most enlightening evening,” said Duval. “I must get myself a suite of rooms and a crystal ball. You have to be in front with something original these days.” He turned to Picard. “You look quite pale, Inspector. Did Lazare’s machine tell you something disturbing?”

The carriage turned onto the rue Notre Dame de Lorette. The lights of Pigalle winked in the distance. Picard sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the lights.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” said Duval. “One is naturally curious. Did it involve—a woman, perhaps?”

Picard stared out the window. “As a matter of fact, it did.” He watched as the carriage rolled quickly along, and the glittering lights of the cafés came closer. Amongst them he could already pick out the Café Orient, the coiling dragons glittering on its glass doorway.

“Here you are, monsieur,” called the driver, bringing the carriage to the curb.

“Do you see her there, Inspector?” asked Duval, following the look in Picard’s eyes.

“I believe so,” said Picard, opening the carriage door.

“Well, Inspector, remember—Eldorado Investments—”

Picard walked through the fine drizzle toward the café and entered, crossing the terrace toward the brunette in mauve.

“Good evening,” he said, seating himself at her table.

“Why do you look at me so strangely?” she asked, with a smile, her earrings tinkling as she moved her head.

“Because you’re so lovely,” said Picard, lighting the candle on the table, the dancing little flame causing her eyes to glow. He reached into his pocket, took out the bit of telegraph paper and held it in the flame.

“A love letter?” she asked, watching it curl and burn.

“An affair best forgotten,” said Picard.

In the distance, from the station at the Place Roubaix, he heard the whistle of a train.

But in Nuremberg, a few days hence, at a skating rink in the moonlight—

You and I, my dear Baron, shall meet again.