Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

Offence is the Best Defence

‘What now?’

It was about an hour after the receipt of the note. Mr Ambrose had sent it off to his Paris headquarters, to have its contents confirmed. A few minutes earlier, the answer had arrived: the note was genuine. The signature was indeed that of the royal secretary. So now Mr Ambrose and I sat around a small table in my attic room, while one floor down, oil was being mopped off the floor of Mr Ambrose’s office, and a few floors farther down, Karim was mopping the floor with our own personal traitor.

‘What now?’ I repeated.

Mr Ambrose stroked one long, powerful finger along his chiselled jaw. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then he said something that took me completely by surprise. Something that, for the first time since we’d discovered the swamp of plots and secrets we’d stumbled into, gave me hope for the future.

‘What do you think?’

He was asking me.

He was trusting my opinion.

And I had no intention of letting him down. Taking a deep breath, I met his cool gaze—then plunged forward. ‘I say we take the battle to Dalgliesh!’

One eyebrow lifted infinitesimally. ‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’ My eyes flashed. ‘I’m sick and tired of always being on the defensive. That bastard is a killer and a tyrant, and he deserves to go down for what he’s done—not to mention what he’s planning to do! If we can save millions of lives, we have to try!’ I flashed him a grin. ‘And if we also could destroy your biggest business rival into the bargain…who can say no to an offer like that?’

Mr Ambrose reached across the table, something shining in his dark eyes that made me feel all warm inside.

‘I always knew there is a reason why I love you.’

Taking hold of his hand, I held it fiercely for a moment, then lifted it to my lips and gently kissed his open palm. ‘Likewise.’

‘But the question remains, how do we proceed?’

I considered the question for a moment.

‘Can we warn the king?’

Mr Ambrose gave me a look. ‘Warn him that a Member of the British House of Lords is about to assassinate his foreign minister? If he’s in the right mood, that alone would be cause for war. That would rather defeat the purpose, correct?’

Biting my lip, I nodded. He was right, dammit! But what else could we do? Our hands were tied. If we didn’t warn them, the king and the foreign minister would be inside Lord Dalgliesh’s building, surrounded by his men, blissfully ignorant of the lion’s den they had entered.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, an idea struck me. It was like the spark that started a bushfire.

‘Lord Dalgliesh doesn’t know we’re here…’ I began slowly.

‘Yes. We already established that, Mr Linton.’

‘But,’ I continued, ‘the King does.’

Reaching for the unfolded message on the table, I tapped the words His Majesty extends his invitation for you to join us in his permanent box.

Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

‘What are you suggesting, Mr Linton?’

Slowly, a wicked grin spread across my face.

‘This. Listen closely…’

I told him my idea. Just when I was finished, the door opened and Karim entered the room, his face grim.

‘He confessed to his misdeeds, Sahib, and to the identity of his employer. But I failed to obtain any useful information about Dalgliesh. I fear I cannot provide a feasible option to stop whatever he is planning.’

Mr Ambrose and I exchanged looks.

‘No matter,’ Mr Ambrose told him. ‘We have a plan. But we’re going to need some help.’

*~*~**~*~*

‘Bon Dieu, this is exciting! I’ve never been to the opera before.’

‘You go to the opera every single day,’ I reminded her.

Claudette waved that little unimportant detail away. ‘Taratata. Sat is just business. I’ve never gone for my own amusement, c’est frai! And I certainly have never gone out clothes shopping just for such an occasion. Oh, what shall I wear?’

‘You do realize that an evil genius is planning an assassination to start a gigantic war, right? Fashion is probably not that high on the list of most important things right now.’

Another unimportant detail Claudette dismissed with a wave of the hand.

‘It is always important to look your best, Monsieur Linton.’

‘But people won’t even realize it’s you! You have to dress up as…you-know-what.’

‘Even more reason to look my best. I never disappoint an audience when I perform.’

We were heading towards the exit of the opera – now lacking one doorman – when quick, light footsteps approached from behind. I started to speed up, but too late.

‘Mr Linton! Mr Linton, wait. It’s me!’

I know, blast it! That’s why I’m running!

I turned to see a smiling ‘arse rushing towards me. Taking the last few steps, Miss Emilia reached out and attached herself to my hands like a fashionable limpet.

‘Have you heard? I’ll be singing my first performance tonight! Just a small role, because Monsieur Joyal wants to see how I do on stage, but I’ll be singing! In front of hundreds of people!’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I told her and tried to detach my hands. It didn’t work. They were stuck. Darn! How did she have this much strength in those tiny little fingers? ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

‘Will you be there? Will you watch and be my good luck charm? Please say yes! Please, please.’

I considered how to answer that diplomatically. No, thanks, I have to go stop a bloody murder and prevent the end of the world as we know it?

That probably wouldn’t go over well.

‘I’m sorry.’ Once again, I tugged on my trapped fingers—to no avail. ‘I, um…err…’

‘Mr Linton has promised to help me pick out new costumes for a performance we are planning to stage soon,’ Claudette cut in, giving the girl a broad smile. ‘There will probably be a very interesting part for you, too.’

Emilia let go to clap her hands in delight. I immediately wrenched mine back and hid them safely behind my back, out of her reach.

‘Will there? Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you!’ She threw her arms around Claudette, and hugged her—and before I could leap back, she submitted me to the same horrific torture. ‘And thank you, too, Mr Linton! All my good luck is due to you, I’m sure.’ Love-struck eyes gazed up at me. ‘I’m more certain than ever that fate has brought us together.’

Fate can go kiss my generous feminist ‘arse!

Behind me, I heard Claudette snort, and I sent her a look that told her all too clearly what I thought of her. Finally, I managed to disentangle myself from my destined lady love, grabbed Claudette by the arm and rushed out of the door. I didn’t slow down until we were at least three streets away.

‘Phew!’ Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I sagged against the closest wall.

Claudette took up a position beside me, one eyebrow lifted in curiosity. ‘So…when are you going to tell ‘er you’re actually a girl?’

I nearly fell on my butt.

‘You…you know?’

The prima donna rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please! I ‘ave been playing pants roles in se opera for over a decade! You don’t really suppose they leave the acting of boy roles to actual, pimply little boys, do you, mon amie?’[31]

‘But…you asked if I was…and when you saw Mr Ambrose and me together, you said….’

She grinned. ‘A girl ‘as to ‘ave some fun now and again, non?’

To that, I replied with some inventive language I’d heard from one of the janitors who squashed his thumb in a door. Claudette listened and, when I was finished, nodded appreciatively.

‘Not bad, mon amie, not bad. Your French is improving.’

‘I’m glad to think so! Maybe you can help me and tell me what “You’re a bloody devious witch and I hope you burn in hell!” means in French?’

‘That would be “Ma tête est une pomme de terre pourrie”.’

‘Ma tête est une pomme de terre pourrie!’[32]

She gave me a grave nod. ‘I’m sure it is, mon amie.’ She patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t ‘old it against you.’

Deciding to take her translations with a pinch of salt from now on, I strode down the street towards our goal. We still had an assassin to catch and a war to prevent,

I spotted the building we were heading towards at the end of the street.

‘Claudette! There! Is that it?’

‘Yes, mon amie.’

The place was a luxurious three-story building with large, arched windows, pretty columns and gilded decorations. It almost looked like a small palace. And to judge by the sumptuous gowns, tailcoats and coats displayed in the shop windows, its owners considered themselves to be the kings of Parisian fashion.

‘Mon Dieu!’ Claudette gave a longing sigh at the sight of some of the dresses.

‘Don’t get any ideas, Claudette. You know what we’re here for.’

‘Oui, but your beau is quite well-to-do, n’est-ce pas? And he loves you very much. Couldn’t we just put it on the bill, and…’

Taking a step closer, I took a look at the price tag. ‘Trust me—he doesn’t love me that much.’

Claudette gave me a pat on the back. ‘Ne dis pas de bêtises! You are underestimating your attractions, mon amie. I’m sure if you went about persuading him the right way….’

I gave her a look. ‘I have no interest in persuading him. I have, however, an interest in stopping a megalomaniac from plunging Europe into war. Could we concentrate on what’s important here?’

She gave an impish smile. ‘It’s all a matter of perspective.’

‘Yes. And my perspective is: war is more important than clothes.’

‘Ah, you English! Philistines, the ‘ole lot of you!’

‘Come on. Time to get down to business.’

As we stepped into the shop, the doorbell above our head tinkled like a fairy’s laugh. Not surprising, considering the room we stepped into looked like something straight out of fairyland. Gold, silver, brocade, jewels, silk, satin—everything that was soft, sumptuous or sinfully expensive was gathered all around us, beckoning and whispering: ‘Buy me. Buy me. I might not be on sale, but your soul is, and it’ll surely be worth it to part with that annoying little thing to pay for me.’

‘Bienvenue! Bienvenue, Monsieur et Madame, à Leclercq et Lacroix, les meilleurs modistes en France.’[33]

A short, wrinkly man came hurrying around the closest rack of clothes, his eyes alight with the glitter shared by hunting sharks and sales assistants who have just spotted a new customer.

‘Anglais, s’il vous plaît?’ Claudette told the assistant with an apologetic smile.

‘Of course, Madame.’ He bowed deeply. ‘We often get customers from the British Isles in our establishment. And for good reason. After all, our handiwork is famed throughout the world.’

‘A reputation which I’m sure is not undeserved.’

‘You’re too kind, Madame.’

‘Not at all, not at all. Now, if you would be so good as to show as some of your wares…’

‘Of course, Madame. What would you and your husband like to see?’

My eyes went wide. ‘Oh no, no, nononono! We’re not married.’

The shop assistant blinked owlishly. ‘You are not?’

‘No.’

‘Brother and sister, then, oui?’

‘No. No, definitely not.’

‘Oh. Well…err…’ For a moment or two, the poor man struggled for words. You could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he tried to figure out our connection. Young aunt and nephew? Lady and her chubby gigolo? The latter obviously didn’t suit his taste very well. He cleared his throat. ‘My apologies. It is none of my affair, Monsieur et Madame. What items would you like to see?’

I gave him a bright smile. ‘We’re going to the opera.’

‘Ah!’ The old shopkeeper’s face brightened at the sound of something so respectable and familiar. ‘Of course. How wonderful. What may I show you? Accessories only, or a whole wardrobe?’

‘We need everything, please. A beautiful dress fit for the best of society, up to and including royalty, and a tailcoat and trousers of the same quality.’

‘Royalty?’ The little man’s eyes went wide. ‘You don’t mean…?’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘We expect to be introduced to His Majesty in the course of the evening.’

Now the little tailor was beaming. Surely, if we were going to see royalty, we had to be respectable people, right?

‘Don’t you worry, Monsieur et Madame!’ He clapped his hands. ‘I shall make you a tailcoat that Jupiter himself would not be ashamed to wear. And for you, Madame, I shall make a dress the likes of which the world has never seen.’

‘Oh, no, no,’ I hurriedly clarified, my smile widening. ‘The dress is for me, and the tailcoat is for her.’

*~*~**~*~*

‘Aaah! Safe at last.’ With a sigh of bliss, I let the dress settle around me.

Behind me, Claudette chuckled and started buttoning up the back.

‘This is the first time I have heard that response to putting on a gown from Leclercq & Lacroix, mon amie. Stunning? Oui. Beautiful? Absolutely. But safe? What do you think it is? A plate armour?’ She sounded highly amused. ‘It will not protect you from bullets, you know.’

‘Not from bullets,’ I agreed, ‘but from Emilias.’

‘Ha! Oui, of course she will be the biggest danger you’ll encounter tonight.’

‘You think you’re joking.’

Making a derisive French noise at the back of her throat, Claudette closed the last button. ‘There. Tout est prêt.’

‘Hey! Why did you call me a prat?’

‘Because we still need to work on your French, I think.’

‘Hm.’ Ignoring her jibe, I tugged at my dress. ‘How do I look?’

She scrutinized me. ‘Utterly and completely non-male.’

‘Good. That was what I was going for.’

‘And also…’

‘Yes?’

‘Magnifique.’

A slow smile spread across my face.

Claudette patted me on the shoulder. ‘’e will be blown away.’

‘He?’ I fluttered my lashes. ‘Who could you possibly mean?’ Turning, I examined Claudette. ‘You clean up pretty nicely, too.’

‘Why, thank you.’ She bowed, the long tails of her tailcoat billowing behind her. Elegantly, she extended one arm to me. ‘May I escort you down the stairs, Mademoiselle?’

‘You may, Monsieur.’

Once we reached the landing, we saw Mr Ambrose standing down in the entrance hall of the opera, Karim and the pale figure of the saboteur beside him.

‘…was your meeting with Dalgliesh?’ Mr Ambrose was asking. ‘Did he seem suspicious?’

‘N-no, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Not at all.’

‘And you stored the items we discussed exactly where I told you to?’

If possible, the face of the little worm went even paler.

‘Y-yes. B-but what do you intend to do with—’

Mr Ambrose raised one finger.

The saboteur shut his mouth.

‘Adequate. Now, if you have done everything you said, you might—emphasis on might—get out of this with your head attached to your body. If not…’ Mr Ambrose tapped his pocket. ‘I have your signed confession right here, and the other two copies are in the hands of capable people who know what to do with them. If the police get their hands on them, you’ll be spending a decade or two behind bars. Understood?’

‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’

‘Adequate.’

Just then, Mr Ambrose looked up. His eyes swept over the stairs for a moment—then he saw me.

One of his eyebrows lifted about half a millimetre.

‘Ah. Miss Linton.’

‘Err…is this what his version of “blown away” looks like?’ Claudette whispered from behind me.

I grinned. ‘This is what his version of everything looks like.’

‘My poor dear. You ‘ave my condolences.’

I didn’t really hear her. I was already rushing down the stairs. Mr Ambrose had hardly enough time to fully turn towards me before I crashed into him, flinging my arms around him.

‘Miss Linton! What, pray, are you doing?’

‘Hugging you,’ I whispered into his chest. ‘It’s the first time in ages I’ve been able to without having to wonder if anyone is watching. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.’

For a moment, there was nothing but startled silence. Then his stiff form relaxed just a tiny little bit, and his arms slid around me. That was all the response I needed. I leaned into him, not giving a damn if anyone was staring. Finally, I relaxed my grip and looked up at him, a fierce grin spreading across my face.

‘Shall we go kick Dalgliesh’s arse?’

His eyes met mine and held them for a moment that felt like forever.

‘Let’s go, Miss Linton.’