Page 62 of A Ruse of Shadows
She had imagined an invasion with guns drawn, but not one that involved chisels and splitters.
Lieutenant Atwood smiled again and pointed at Moriarty’s house across the Cours Mirabeau, bathed in afternoon light. “There is a window on one of the upper floors that remains lit longer than anyone else’s.”
The very one that she always glanced up at when she walked past the house.
“Recently the occupant of the room began to move the curtain at night in such a way that we can only interpret as sending messages via Morse code.”
Livia’s heart thumped. “What messages?”
“So far, it’s always been the same message.Be careful.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Repeated as many times as the number of pinecones I toss on the window.”
Livia swallowed. “And will you be very careful?”
Lieutenant Atwood picked up a small olive oil cake, supposedly a specialty of the region, and said, “Rest assured. We’re not planning to do anything dangerous at all.”
?Penelope stopped in her tracks.
What was that smell inside Aunt Jo’s house? And what was going on in thesalle de séjourto the side of the entry?
Fontainebleu, the young man who claimed to be the son of one of Aunt Jo’s lovers, sprawled sideways in a padded chair. He was dressed in only his shirtsleeves, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth, a handfulof cards held facedown on his chest. A glass of whisky and a mostly empty coffee cup sat on the table before him. Also on the table, a small gleaming pile of napoleons.
“Why, hullo,” she said.
She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d arrived like a speeding bullet and then ricocheted off just as abruptly. Not that he hadn’t returned to the house periodically from his merrymaking. Once, when she asked, a mercenary said he was sleeping. And on a different occasion, she was told he was bathing.
“Why, hullo yourself,” he said. “But shhhh, don’t talk anymore, or my friend here will blame his loss on you.”
He yawned and addressed the man across the small table from him. “Patron, are you playing cards or reading my fortune? Hurry up.”
“One second,” answered the leader of the mercenaries, whom Livia had termed Number One. He looked to be agonizing over his cards.
Fontainebleu yawned again. “It’s been your turn for five minutes, and if you don’t put down a card in the next ten seconds I am going to pull one from your hand.”
Penelope glanced at Mercenary Number Two, the one who had opened the door for her. “Is Monsieur Fontainebleu a good card player?”
Number Two shook his head decisively. “He’s terrible, but sometimes his luck is good. I won forty napoleons from him, but then lost everything, plus another fifteen napoleons.”
All at once cards were being slapped down on the table one after another. And Number One cried in jubilation. “Yes, yes, thank God!”
“Did he win?”
“He recouped his losses,” said Number Two, looking envious. “The next hand he might win.”
But the opportunity was denied Number One. Fontainebleu stretched and tottered out of the chair. “Time for bed.”
It was six o’clock in the afternoon.
“Will you play after you get up?” Number Two asked eagerly, as Fontainebleu staggered up the staircase.
“No, I’m going out tonight. It will be smashing fun.” He turned around, leaning on the banister. “And you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. My aunt Watson hired you to look after her house in her absence, not for you to gamble with any riffraff that walks in from the street.”
And with that, he resumed his ascent.
?By the time Charlotte said good-bye to Mrs. Lane and scribbled a note to the chemist’s shop—she might as well follow Mrs. Farr’s instruction to Mrs. Lane and “send word”—the day was growing late, and the city had become congested.
