C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Returning to his apartment, Serge Ravenelle fumed, simmered and stewed in his own kettle of chaos. The United States government had turned a deaf ear to the French minister. The Americans had provided him with an elegant and lavishly furnished home and offices; they had been quite hospitable in every way but, and this was the part that gnawed, they had failed to take him seriously on the political stage. On the other hand, in the underground arena —Serge's true area of expertise— he had suffered losses he was not accustomed to. More than twenty of his men had died on this side of the Atlantic; his sister-in-law and niece had turned against him, then disappeared; his organization was ripping apart at the seams and Commandant Henri L'Heureux, who now stood silently staring out the window, could come up with no better explanation than that confounded shrug he used for an answer to everything.
Initially, the Washington infiltration had been as easy as taking gold fillings from an old woman's teeth. There had been no resistance. Now, everyone wanted back into the action. Even the Chinese were planning to open another opium den, though the first one had been burned to the cellar and eleven or twelve of the slipper flopping bastards had baked in the ashes. Wasn't that a sufficient education for them? Sawyer Thompson, frontman for the late Bagnold's construction firms, had a yellow streak wide enough to paint Pennsylvania Avenue. He had no guts, no gumption and gall enough to gag a maggot. But the longest and most irritating thorn in Serge's side was this elusive black haired kid who single-handedly beat Guy Stringer —one of L'Heureux's toughest Apaches— to death, or beat him so badly that the commandant had to finish him.
After many hours of trying to place this American from the verbal sketch Sawyer Thompson had given, Serge recalled the army dance he had attended not long after the Ravenelles' arrival in Washington. A lad, a good-looking young devil, had danced with Dominique. Serge remembered the American had been named Adam, Adam something. L'Heureux had discovered that Adam Forsythe was the name of the kid who fought Guy Stringer. Thompson's description of the fighting Adam matched that of the dancing Adam.
Neither Serge nor Commandant L'Heureux had caught a glimpse of the intruder who, less than an hour ago, had escaped from Madame Ravenelle's apartment. There was evidence of snooping, but nothing had been stolen from Serge's rooms and he assumed nothing had been taken from Gabriella's apartment. The thief must have been searching for information and he must have known the suites were empty. Though it rankled a little —because they just didn't care enough to do so— Serge could not believe the invasion had been ordered by an American government agency. But… someone was interested in his operations and he believed it could be the Forsythe kid. Why would a youth, smitten by a pretty young lady, be so determined to infiltrate the French underground in Washington DC? Serge recalled another instance of an intruder: Before the arrival of L'Heureux and his men, Ravenelle had hired two local goons to maintain a guard on the apartments. One night, they had caught a young man climbing down the balcony from one of the suites. The man had escaped but perhaps that thief or spy had been the young Romeo seeking Dominique's company? If Forsythe was the snoop, then and now, how much did he know? Conceivably, Adam Forsythe may be the root of all Serge Ravenelle's troubles.
With a muttered curse, Serge tossed off his whiskey and vowed to have a feed of Forsythe Ragout with Dominique thrown in for added flavour.
L'Heureux, hearing Serge Ravenelle swearing under his breath, turned from the window and studied his employer. Following orders, Henri had found out what he could about the late Guy Stringer's opponent. A couple of the Apaches had tried the tough way by beating the job foreman, Robert Tessier, and then Henri had Sawyer Thompson search the business's employment records. Now the commander could not tell his boss that, had he done the reading in the first place, none of the events of yesterday, especially the forest massacre, would have taken place. Nonetheless, Sawyer had come up with the answers this morning and, at this very minute, three more Apaches should be investigating the home of the young Forsythe.
Leaving Ravenelle to his muttering, the commandant turned again toward the window. A man was running across the common. L'Heureux's keen vision descried the familiar chapeau worn by his men. He opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. As the runner neared, Henri read terror in his paled features. In French, L'Heureux hailed him. The man skidded to a halt on the slippery grass, tore off his hat and, clutching it in both hands, blurted, “Micheal, Pierre and Denis have been killed.”
Robert Tessier couldn't lift heavy lumber and he was too sore to swing a hammer but he had more know-how than Davy Brannigan's three carpenters combined. Work on the new house proceeded faster on the first morning of Tessier's employment than it had since turning the first shovel of sod. Brannigan appraised the Frenchman and knew he had to have this fellow running at least one of his crews. He mentioned this to his eldest sister.
The Brannigans had postponed their proposed shopping expedition to Washington. It seemed to Lily that the appearance of Preston Diamond often had a way of altering the best laid plans. On their arrival back home, Amy and Lily had made the new people, Robert and Gabriella, as comfortable as possible in the old house. Not many months ago, the girls would have been embarrassed to have a glamorous lady like Madame Ravenelle visit their humble home but times had changed and prosperity was now in sight. The visitors, exhausted from the challenges of the long day, were grateful to have each other and a sturdy roof over their heads.
In spite of being whipped and frayed like a knot on the end of a trailing rope, exhausted from strain, pain and exertion, sleep eluded Tessier. A host of overwhelming thoughts were at opposite poles and their constant rivalry hurt his brain. Until today, he had been a man who nursed and cared for wounded animals and birds, but a few hours ago, he had blasted a human being to oblivion. Was he now a killer? When he opened his eyes in the still darkness of the cabin, the moon and star light outlined the lovely lady lying beside him. Gabriella Ravenelle had beauty to rival angels and she would soon be his wife. How could this be? What had he ever done in his life to be awarded so fair a prize?
Protesting doubts surged to the fore: In a tender moment, Gabriella had promised she would love him forever; a few seconds later, he had been convinced she was going to kill him; then, as calmly as he would set a nail, she blasted the brains out of an Apache assassin. Robert couldn't decide whether to worship this hotblooded French woman or burn her at the stake. Gabriella's soft, steady breathing told him she was asleep. He wondered what her dreams were. Most women he had known would have had nightmares if they had shot a man to death. He thought again of the stranger slain by his hand.
Madame Ravenelle, aware of Robert's restlessness, had no nightmares but she had worries and regrets. Writing Alexandria on the reverse side of Serge's note and verbally passing on Adam Forsythe's intentions to the messenger who delivered it had been an egregious error. She should have realized the consequences; maybe she had. At the time Adam and the Chinese man burst into her apartment, Gabriella was in a state of pained shock. She wanted to lash out at someone; Adam was the first and most deserving target. Madame also worried about her tender daughter. She should not have let Dominique go away from her. The girl's uncle was a merciless man, Gabriella shuddered, he had drowned his brother; he would have no compunction about murdering his niece. She wondered how much Serge knew about Tessier and Forsythe. Did he know about the summer-long tryst?
Gabriella turned over and saw that Robert was awake. His arm traced an arc across the bed sheet and his hand came to rest on her thigh. She snuggled close and her lips met his. For both, aches, fears, doubts and worries faded.
The second day after arriving at Brannigan farm, Robert Tessier was able to actively participate in the finishing of the new house. Davy soon gave over any pretense of being the boss and became a willing student. He marvelled at the Frenchman's insight and knowhow. It seemed that Robert never paused to think of what to do next; he just went about his work as methodically as breathing. His ideas and innovations were far superior to Davy's straight forward ninety-degree construction. By midmorning, Davy informed his original carpenters to pack their tools and move to a job his main crew had started in Conception. “Mr. Tessier and I will finish up the house and, if it's alright with Robert, we'll come and help with that project in a few days.”
Lily and Amy were getting along fine with Gabriella and, from time to time, the three of them, cooking or baking in the old house, could be heard laughing and talking in high spirits.
After the carpenters had said their good-byes —?Lily and the younger carpenter taking their time in parting— Tessier said to Davy, “Gabriella is missing her daughter. She fears for what Monsieur Ravenelle may do. I know the man is capable of anything, even murdering his own family. So, Davy, we'd like to go with you to Washington when you and your sisters set out again to buy your stove and furniture for the new house.”
Davy laughed. “Sure, Robert. I'll ride my saddle horse, it is a tight squeeze for us all in the two-seater.”
Tessier told Brannigan of his previous employment under the late Hugh Bagnold and of the glorious opportunities for a young man with ambition in the construction industry around Capitol Hill. Davy had completed several small projects in the city and his lumber shipments had given him a few connections but Robert Tessier's contacts, inside knowledge, and understanding of the dynamics of successfully bidding contracts and tenders could give Davy the leg up he needed. From then on, Brannigan's conversations seldom ranged far from that topic.
Colonel Unzer was a tough old soldier but his Achilles Heel had always been his loving wife and that is the lever Preston pried on to convince the colonel to move out of his home for a few days. Night had fallen. The curtains were drawn. Sifu Chiang, Dominique and Preston sat in the parlour with Colonel and Mrs. Unzer. Rebecca and Xi-Ping had just finished replacing the dressings on Diamond's wounds. Outside the house, as many as a half dozen Chinese knights patrolled the front and back streets.
Preston said, “They will blast or burn the house next time, Colonel Jim. You don't want to lose Rebecca in this cursed mix up. She was just seconds away from being hurt today. Please, sir, it's all my fault and I can't let you or Rebecca die for my mistakes.”
“This is our home, Adam,” Unzer said, “We have to defend it.”
Rebecca rose from her chair, walked across the room and rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. She was reluctant to be forced out of her house, too, but she said, “I think Adam is right, James. I can't go on defending my kitchen with a shotgun. These people aren't going to give up, but they are losing ground. Maybe it will only be a short while before we can move back home.”
Unzer's stern face softened; his hand moved up to cover hers. “Where would we go, Rebecca? I don't want to move into some hotel. Hell, they may find us there and we would be in worse shape than here, at home.”
Preston had his arm around Dominique's waist. He shifted and winced from a twinge in his side. “I don't think they are after you, Colonel Jim. It's me… me and Dominique. But this house is not safe. We have no idea what arsenal they command; I know Les Apaches have strange weapons, stuff that I have never seen before and they have a supply of powder and caps. They may even launch artillery from a distance and Sifu's men could not prevent it. The sooner we all move, the safer we will be.”
Rebecca squeezed her husband's hand and answered for him, “Alright, Adam, we'll go. Where do you suggest we bunk in?”
Relief shone in Preston's blue eyes as he met Colonel Jim's gaze. “Uncle Lyss and his family are expecting you any minute. As a precaution, I've already moved Rascal and your grays to the Grants' stable.”
Unzer growled, “This young bugger had this all set up. He has us wrapped around his finger, Becky.”
Preston protested, “General Grant's house has a twenty-four hour guard and I'm guessing he has increased the man power for this occasion. The entire French army couldn't reach you there.”
Commander L'Heureux helped the breathless runner over the balcony rail, brought him into the apartment and poured a stiff shot of Ravenelle's good whiskey. Even after the Apache's breathing slowed enough for him to talk, he continued to sit in numb silence. An ominous quiet permeated the room. The walls closed in. Henri gruffly urged him to tell his story.
The French fighter's name was Andre Lassard and he had been sent as an observer to the Unzer's residence where one Adam Forsythe was reputed to be living. L'Heureux had wanted an extra man because, so far, when a plan went sour, there had been no witnesses, no survivors, to tell the tale; just plenty of dead Apaches. Lassard had followed his orders to the letter. He had stayed out of the fracas; he had witnessed all that went on outside the house; he had an audio description of what happened inside and saw the end result of the indoor fight. From his view point in a tree several houses down the lane from Unzer's house, he watched two of his colleagues cautiously approach the home from the alley. He saw an old man, with a pistol in his hand, emerge from a stable and attempt to apprehend Denis; at that moment, two Chinese people vaulted the neighbouring fence and kicked Denis to death in a split second.
Lassard went on to describe every movement in minute detail. He saw the Chinese men go inside the house a short while after Micheal and Pierre had gone in. The old man went round to the front. Another man, an ancient Chinaman, came trotting down the alley and passed right under Andre's perch. Seconds earlier, Andre had heard someone running out on the front street. The old Chinaman went in the back of the house, too. Just as he disappeared, there was a blast of a heavy gun, not a pistol, from inside the residence. Shouts erupted and then there was a murmuring of voices, too distant to make out, but what Lassard could hear was not in French. After a few minutes, the two younger Chinese, the fighters, dragged Micheal and Pierre's bodies into the back yard; then they pulled Denis in from the alley. Lassard had tears in his eyes and he wiped a sleeve across his nose. “They were all dead, Commandant,” he said.
Ravenelle's face showed no emotion but Commander L'Heureux, who knew him better than anyone, realized that the boss was primed for an explosion.
L'Heureux poured three fingers into Lassard's glass then refilled Ravenelle's and his own.
No one spoke.
Lassard took two large gulps, watched his leaders for a few minutes, then drained the remainder of his tumbler. L'Heureux nodded to him as he turned to leave. “Lassard, I know it must have been hard for you to stay out of the fight… watching your comrades killed. But we had to have the information you have given us. Go to the whorehouse and choose any one or two ladies you want. Tell them Commander L'Heureux said to treat you right.”
Lassard was out of sight across the common before Serge Ravenelle managed to speak. It wasn't the blast L'Heureux had anticipated. Serge's words were slow and deliberate. “Henri, we have underestimated the Chinese. They were the first people we attacked right at the start. We slaughtered a dozen of them in that opium den. It's been them who have fought us all the way. Chinese fighters killed our men in the Presidential, they wiped them out at Kalmattii's Mercantile.”
Ravenelle took a tentative sip of whiskey. “Henri, you were right to suggest I have more fighters brought in. They'll be here in a few days, a week at the most. The syndicate has been recruiting in Paris but, with our men being beaten at every turn here, we may run out of soldiers on both sides of that cursed ocean.” He tipped the glass to his mouth and, before drinking, his dark eyes studied L'Heureux over the lip of the crystal. “We can't stop now, Commandant; Washington has already proven to be a lucrative enterprise. There are big dollars ripening on the American money tree and we are the chosen ones to harvest them.”
L'Heureux stifled a shrug and nodded his agreement. “Monsieur, there is one other thing about the Chinese….”
“What, Henri? The new opium den? Take some powder down there and blow that place into the water. Then you can hunt down those little rice eaters and wipe them out. If they want war, we'll give them war.”
The big commander shrugged, slopping a few drops of whiskey on the carpet. He ignored Serge's scowl. “Only… I don't think the Chinese fought our Apaches in the forest. None of our men came back alive to say what did happen and I haven't sent a man to interrogate the soldiers. I can't believe Madame and Mademoiselle Ravenelle would have fled with the Chinese. It seems more likely that Forsythe and the carpenter have something to do with the ladies' disappearance and with the fight out in the trees.”
Ravenelle stood thoughtful for a minute then, with exaggerated gentleness, placed his tumbler on the table. In a voice laced with venom, he said, “Commander, I have to talk to Gabriella and Dominique. They know all about this damn Forsythe kid and that nail-hammering bastard, too. Find the women and we'll find the answers. We will make those pretty whores give us the truth and I shall enjoy prying every word out of them.”
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