Page 87 of The Art of Theft
Her loot stowed, she closed the safe and the panel and slid the single brick back in its place. They’d discussed blowing up the safe to avoid anyone guessing that it had been opened by someone who knew the combination. It was not terribly difficult to do: All she needed was to leave a suitable quantity of powder inside the safe and close the safe door with putty except for one tiny space through which threaded a slow-burning fuse. Then light the fuse, leave, and half an hour later,kabloom.
But if she didn’t, Moriarty’s suspicions would fall not on Charlotte Holmes, but on Madame Desrosiers, his former mistress, who had every opportunity to find and open the safe during the time he’d been held captive. So Charlotte didn’t need to cover her tracks quite that thoroughly.
The blankets from her paunch she folded and set on the floor. The specially made pocket lantern, hardly bigger than a matchbox,she stuffed into her pocket, next to Lord Ingram’s cigarette case. It would be perfect if Poulaine was still watching room 5, but he was back at room 4, which was closer to the exit. She weighed her choices and decided not to wait for him to move farther away: The sooner she got out of the passage, the sooner everyone could leave the premises.
Stubbing out a still-lit cigarette, the nightstick in hand, she sauntered toward the exit, the piss bucket on the other side an excellent excuse for stepping out.
As she neared the secret door, Poulaine struck a match to light a cigarette. In that flare of light, he glanced at her.
She held her breath.
“Merde.You are not Mercier. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
He charged toward her. She struck him across the cheek with her baton, then kicked him in the solar plexus. He stumbled back, crashing into the camera stand behind him.
Now where was the exit, exactly? But Poulaine was back on his feet. Another match flared—Barre, too, was coming.
“Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot,” growled Poulaine.
She fired her derringer first, at his hand. Poulaine howled as his revolver clattered to the floor. She rammed her shoulder into the exit. As soon as she and her stomach were through, she started to shove it shut. But Barre had reached the door and was pushing it open.
She wouldn’t be able to hold it against him for much longer. Should she run? Or let the door go and shoot him as he crashed through?
All at once the door moved in her favor, closing. Her colleagues had joined her, Lord Ingram and Lieutenant Atwood, most likely. Together they pushed back against Barre, the door closing, closing.
And wouldn’t close anymore.
Barre must have blocked it with something.
“Back!” Lord Ingram ordered in a fierce undertone.
As one they leaped back.
Barre fell through. Lord Ingram kicked him hard. Barre staggered back and hit the wall of the secret passage. They all three pushed the door shut and threw the bolt in place.
A hand settled on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” whispered Lord Ingram urgently. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, perf—”
The floor shook. For a moment Charlotte thought it was because Barre had thrown himself at the door. But it was not that. Lieutenant Atwood struck a match. In the flare of light he, Lord Ingram, and Charlotte glanced at one another.
“So the rescue has started in earnest,” said Lord Ingram, his voice tight. “They brought explosives.”
Charlotte put a hand under her stomach to help with the weight. “We have to get out of here. Please have all the ladies come to room two.”
They already knew where the spy port was in room 2. Charlotte went in and set a chair before it, and then yanked the cover from the bed to drape over the chair, blocking the spy port’s view.
Mrs. Watson and the maharani arrived first. Without a word, they helped Charlotte remove her jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, as well as her glued-on facial hair. And then, with greater care, her now-heavy false stomach. The false stomach was not simply a shell, but was lined with thick canvas where it rested against her torso, to prevent anything inside from falling out, and also because they’d always intend to take it—and its contents—off her.
And to then turn it around and reattach it to her, so that it served as a bustle, albeit an unwieldy one that exerted considerable pressure on her lower back and abdomen, where the women tightened the straps hard, to prevent it from falling off.
Livia came into the room then. She opened her mouth. Charlotte immediately placed a finger before her own lips, shushing hersister. Under the bed, hidden from view by the blue silk bedskirt, the two guards who’d been blindfolded and stowed there were coming to, groaning softly behind their gags, and she didn’t want them to overhear anything.
Mrs. Watson waved Livia toward Charlotte. Outside the window the sky glowed: Fireworks shot up and burst noisily into showers of brilliance.
The ball always concluded with a display of fireworks. But this was too early in the evening. Moriarty’s people must have set off their own fireworks, to distract the guests from the real explosions.
Another tremor came from underfoot. Fear flashed in Livia’s eyes, but she worked quickly to help Charlotte pull out the skirt of the ball gown that had been rolled up and tucked into the waistband of her trousers, along with two layers of petticoats. As Livia smoothed out the skirts in the back, Charlotte refastened the trousers that she still wore so that they wouldn’t fall off her now-much-slimmer waist.
