Remember Paris
by Santa Crux

Set immediately after Survivors.

Principal Characters

Marguerite Smith, known as La Pinsonne, singer at La Fosse Usée
Adrienne Montclair - dancer at La Fosse Usée, often called the Fat Man’s bar.
Gaspard Grosman – the Fat Man, owner of La Fosse Usée

The thieves

Raymond Duclos – known as Le Larron, infamous safe-cracker and jewel thief
Louis Depard – second-in-command to Duclos

The revolutionaries

Russian
Vladimir Lenin – leader of the expatriate Russian Bolshevists, accompanied by
Lev Kamenev and
Grigori Zinoviev, his comrades
Leon Trotsky – leader of Menshevist revolutionaries who later supports Lenin

Indian
Vinayak Savarkar – Hindu nationalist who espoused complete Indian independence by violent means, accompanied by
Har Dayal – Hindu nationalist, his associate

The spies

Erich Mutterlich – German civil servant – assigned to courier information in Paris
Percy Boyd – British agent for Special Branch –Scotland Yard
Bertie Stopford – British embassy worker
Henri Bint – French ex-policeman, agent for Okhranka – Paris bureau of Russian secret police
Ralf Krause – German secret agent – Department IIIb – German Secret Service

Chapter 1

I’m hallucinating, maybe dying.
I wouldn’t let that happen to you.
Why? I let it happen to you.

~~~

“I don’t want to die!” The plaintive cry faded to a whimper. Adrienne’s face was drained of colour, eerie in the moonlight, her knife-sliced throat a smirking grimace beneath her blue lips. Her fingers reached out and feathered along Marguerite’s cheek; their icy touch sent a chill deep in her bones. Adrienne’s eyes were curious and blaming. The vision shattered into shards of distorted images, the last her friend’s reproachful gaze which stabbed even deeper than her gallows touch. “You took my life, Madge” she whispered, “Why did you let me die?”

Marguerite shuddered to wakefulness, automatically pushing herself upright. She felt a sharp stab in her injured arm and she covered a groan as the wound throbbed hotly. Her heart was hammering, and her soul was consumed by a feeling of dread and guilt. As she slumped back onto the pillow she pressed the heel of her hand to her brow. Why had the nightmares returned? It had taken years for them to fade away. That horrific moment in her life had been followed by a cavalcade of other horrors until her dreams of Adrienne ceased, lost amid the sheer quantity of soul-sapping actions she had taken since.

Her aching body made further sleep impossible. She rose to distract herself from her melancholy reverie. The treehouse was quiet, punctuated by the faint snores of Challenger on the level below. The night was pleasantly cool. Marguerite moved gingerly, favouring her injured side and arm as she covered her nightgown with a wrap. Walking to her dressing-table, she opened her jewel-box and dug her hand into a tangled mess of bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Sifting through the pile she picked out a pair of cheap earrings. Adrienne’s earrings. A memento of Marguerite’s best friend, dead long ago.

Roxton hesitated outside the entrance to her room. He had been awakened by muttering and a sound almost like a sob. From the direction it had to be Marguerite. He had risen silently and pulled on a pair of trousers. He hesitated before going to her, torn between concern for the health of the adventuress and respect for her privacy. She likely wouldn’t thank him for intruding on her, but he was worried about her. She had been in bad shape yesterday. A person they thought was her old friend had turned out to be an evil spirit intent on sucking the life force out of her. John felt once more the helpless futility he had endured as she had lain on the bed, pale and unconscious, the blood still seeping through the dressings over her wounds. God, he had thought for a while that he might lose her. A life without the bewitching heiress in it had loomed before him – and it had felt like ashes. The flash of fear brought on by that image ended his hesitancy and spurred him to action. He had padded down the hall, not sure what he’d do when he reached her room. As he stood there undecided he saw the flicker of a candle moving within. She was awake.

He knocked lightly on the doorframe.

“Marguerite?” he called out in a low voice. He was met by silence. “Are you alright?”

“Roxton… what’s wrong?” Her voice was muffled by the curtain across the entrance.

“I heard something. I thought-” he hesitated.

Marguerite drew the curtain aside and leaned casually against the door-frame. “Sorry I woke you up. I must have been dreaming.”

In the uncertain light of his candle she appeared terribly pale to his worried eyes, the flickering shadows accentuating the hollows in her face.

“You look tired. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?”

She chuckled. “An Englishman’s cure for all that ails one. But it’s not a bad idea, Roxton. Why don’t you stir up the fire and put the kettle on. I’ll be up in a minute.” She forced up a weary smile.

Roxton nodded his head in acknowledgement and walked toward the kitchen. Marguerite returned to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. She brushed her fingertips across the fragile tattered document that lay upon the rumpled bed linens. She folded it carefully and slipped it back into a compartment she’d created by slicing open the lining of her valise. Adrienne Montclair’s baptismal certificate was safe once more in its secret hiding place. Marguerite wondered for a brief moment if Adrienne’s spirit was at rest or, if instead, her friend’s shade haunted her dreams.

***

1909 Paris, France

Paris in the first decade of the 20 th century. The cradle of life for modern thought at the dawn of a new century. A spawning-ground for ground-breaking ideas, amazing technology, radical people. Artists and writers in France and elsewhere were drawn to this fertile soil to work and exchange ideas. Plans for violence and treason were conceived by revolutionaries, trade-unionists and anarchists, gathered around tables at night-clubs and café-bars, eventually hatching into rebellions and assassinations around the globe.

Performing on the stages of these clubs were the wild offspring of a more staid generation, creatures that had evolved in this daring era - nude dancers, spiritualists, levitationists, mentalists and strip tease artists. The fecund atmosphere bred seditious plots and murderous conspiracies. Government agents buzzed around the clubs like insects, gathering information about the enemies of their governments. Opportunists abounded in the primeval muck in which the modern era was being created.

***

Remember Paris? We called the Fat Man’s bar a pit.

Oh, but when you sang -

“I am so tired. My feet are killing me already.” Adrienne Montclair threw off her shoes and rubbed her aching toes. Her reddish gold hair was pulled back in a chignon, the stage makeup smudged on her oval face. She groaned theatrically and lay back against the cushions of the shabby divan on which she had collapsed the moment she had entered the room.

Her companion took a quick glance at herself in the clouded mirror of the make-up stained dressing-table as she pulled on a new costume. The glittery show-girl’s outfit left her in peril of embarrassing exposure – just as the patrons of La Fosse Usée would have it. Marguerite Smith smiled at her sprawled companion.

“Don’t get too comfortable. Intermission is over in five minutes and we’re back on the floor.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s easy for you – you sing. Sometimes it isn’t such fun dancing and making nice to the customers.”

“This is the Fat Man’s bar, remember. We all have to make nice to the customers or we won’t have a job,” Marguerite studied herself critically in the mirror, pulling up on her strapless bodice, “Looks like there are some high rollers out there tonight. I saw Le Larron at a table with some foreign eggheads. Russian revolutionaries, I heard.”

“What would that old fox be doing hanging out with troublemakers like that? All he cares about are diamonds and gold – preferably left easily available for someone with light fingers like him. Then, poof, the gems are gone and so is Le Larron.” Adrienne’s face was filled with amusement which suddenly shifted to thoughtful interest. “Now if they were Russian aristocracy - that would be another matter. I heard the Tsar and his family have more jewels and wealth than any other royal house in Europe. I’ll bet –“

“Now put that thought right out of your greedy little mind. Didn’t you notice the way they dressed? Those thread-bare, ink-stained sleeves? I’d say professors and journalists, more likely.”

“Oh, Marguerite, you have such a good eye for these things. You’ve pointed out a few likely marks and I passed them on to Le Larron. And he’s been generous.” She smiled as she remembered the fat reward the thief had given her last time.

“Well, it’s not something you ought to continue. I’ve heard too many stories of business associates of his who came to a nasty end when they failed to deliver on their end of the bargain. That’s not how I want to end up.” Marguerite touched up her lipstick.

“Ah, but silly, we’re much too clever to make a mistake like that. I tell you, an opportunity will arise and we’ll have the money we need to get out of this pit and live high on the hog.” Adrienne’s voice became almost dreamy as she drifted into her favourite fantasy, “Buy some pretty clothes, go to the best parties, get introduced to some nice rich men…”

“Adrienne, you are such a dreamer. I’m just saying that you should stay away from Le Larron; he’s bad enough and his second-in-command Louis is a cold-blooded killer.”

“Don’t you worry, Madge, we always land on our feet. Anything worth having is worth taking a few risks for.”

A rap came at the door. A muffled voice growled out, “Break’s over. Get a move on.”

The two women rose. Adrienne, groaning, thrust her feet back in her shoes. They moved toward the door as the first strains of music were heard – two young women in the first flush of beauty, their bright plumage flashing in the harsh glare of the stage lights.

****

September 12 1909

Attention: Aleksandr Krassilnikov

Agent reports Bolshevik leaders– Vladimir Lenin, Gregory Zinoviev and Lev Kamenev - have left Geneva for Paris. Lenin is believed to have masterminded the recent bombing raid on Tiflis Post Office.

He also may have provided financial support for election of the radical Malinovsky to top post in St. Petersburg Metalworkers’ Union.

Leon Trotsky has left Vienna also reportedly bound for Paris. Rumour has it that he may be meeting Lenin to heal the split between their two Marxist factions. This would substantially increase the threat they pose.

Keep these men under close surveillance at all times. The use of infiltration agents is recommended. Advise of your progress.

Okhranka Division
Ministry of Internal Affairs
St. Petersburg

Oh, please…
You had the voice of an angel.

Marguerite sang her final song, her voice true and sweet. The mostly male audience gave her an enthusiastic response. She made her way down the stairs as the levitation artist took the stage. On her way to her dressing-room, she was intercepted by Gaspard Grosman, the obese owner of La Fosse Usée.

The fleshy gentleman slipped a hand around her waist and propelled her toward a table which was ringed by the infamous thief and the mysterious Russians that Adrienne had been curious about earlier.

“Come along, Mademoiselle Smith, M. Duclos has specially asked for you. He’s looking to impress his gloomy Russian friends and the famous ‘Songbird” – La Pinsonne - is just the ticket.” He ignored her complaints as he hurried back toward the crowd.

Raymond Duclos, better known in the criminal world as Le Larron, greeted her with a suave smile and bow. Le Larron was a sobriquet Duclos had earned during his very successful career as a cat burglar. Introduced by first name to the four Slavs, Marguerite sat between the one called Vladimir and Duclos himself. She turned to the slight Russian and met his piercing eyes.

“Have you been to Paris before, monsieur?” She gave a charming smile.

“I lived in Paris for a time some years ago. I’ve travelled here a few weeks ago to visit friends. Though my heart is in my homeland, my work is to fight for worker’s rights – in all of Europe including here in France.”

“Better not tell Gaspard what you’re up to or he’ll think you’re unionizing the showgirls,” Marguerite quipped. Vladimir looked at her oddly, no sign of a smile on his face. The singer subsided into silence.

Marguerite sipped at her drink and tried to maintain interest in the polite small talk. A man, likely a member of Le Larron’s gang of thieves, approached and whispered a few words in his boss’s ear. The jewel thief rose to his feet.

“Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. I trust La Pinsonne will amuse you until my return.”

A stilted chat lapsed into silence. The singer took in the increasing tension of her companions until one fellow, quiet up till now, Leon she thought his name was, snapped at the others in Russian.

“What’s that devil up to? If he sells us out to the French police or the Okhranka, we’re done for.”

The man across the table started to hush his compatriot but, certain that their native language would be beyond the comprehension of the pretty little singer at their table, he sat back and let the others continue.

“Patience, Trotsky. There is no reason for the police to be involved. There is nothing illegal about what we have been doing here. Just talk, that’s all.”

“Talk! This man has offered us pistols, rifles, materials to make bombs – just for the promise - the chance - that he’ll get a share of the Romanov fortune. That’s treason … and theft… and –“

He was interrupted by Vladimir, a small man with a round head and intense deep-set eyes who Marguerite took to be the leader of the group.

“The time for revolution is coming. We’ve learned from our mistakes. In 1905, we were all separate – farmers, workers, soldiers. Now we realize we must work together to overthrow the oppressors. The people are ready – it is the army we must convince. But we need money to make a new society – and what better way to pay for the revolution than using the fortune piled up by aristocrats on the backs of the Russian peasant. ”

“But, Vladimir Illich do we want to be tied to a piece of scum like this one?” This came from the florid-faced man who frowned through a pince-nez perched on his nose.

Vladimir Lenin shrugged his shoulders. “Who says we’re tied? When the Revolution takes place, many things will be swept away. Maybe this French crook will be caught in the current as well.”

Marguerite’s odd knack for languages had left her more than once with knowledge no-one suspected she had. She had developed the ability to not let any understanding show on her face and give her away. In this case, the dangerous nature of the revelations made her very glad of that skill.

The Russians subsided into silence as Le Larron returned to the table. A moment later M. Grosman squeezed his way between tables toward them, a regretful expression on his face.

“Sorry, M. Duclos, gentlemen. La Pinsonne must once again perform on stage. She can return to your table afterward.”

Vladimir finished his drink and spoke. “Unfortunately we are staying in the suburbs. It is time for us to return there.” He turned to Le Larron. “We should meet again soon. Tomorrow perhaps?”

The men rose as Marguerite walked back toward the stage behind her boss.

“Who are those men?” she inquired.

“Oh that’s Vladimir Lenin, the socialist, and his pet dogs, Kamenev and Zinoviev. He’s very tiresome – always talking about workers’ rights. What nonsense! The one with the wild hair- he’s visiting from Vienna. Trotsky. Not that those are their own names – all these anarchist fellows are either running from the law or in exile.”

After the final set was over, Marguerite and Adrienne trudged back to their tiny flat, the late-night streets brightened by modern gaslights. Their amiable conversation lapsed as the two exhausted women reached their cheap lodgings. Adrienne could barely stay awake long enough to strip off her clothes. She fell asleep to the sound of her friend washing out her lingerie in the basin.

Raymond Duclos dit Le Larron sat at the bar twirling the absinthe in his glass between his slim fingers. The Crown Jewels of Russia. He had a chance to get his hands on perhaps the finest gems in the whole world! His wildest dream. In his youth he had once been to St. Petersburg. His companion told him that inside the Winter Palace there was a room - the Diamond Chamber - securely protecting the royal collection originally created by Peter the Great. Duclos had attended a public showing of the Faberge eggs in the White Salon. It was like he was viewing a fairy-tale treasure chest. There were beautiful rococo earrings and bracelets on display as well, but his eye was drawn to the doorway which led to the cache holding the Tsar’s legendary treasures: Caesar’s ruby, the Sapphire Brooch and the Orlov diamond, reputedly stolen from an idol in a Hindu temple. All were one-of-a-kind pieces which he would have given his eyeteeth merely to have gazed upon.

He’d been a young pup then, learning his craft from Guillaume Van Ney. The old burglar had warned him– only steal what you can fence, he said. Good advice and Le Larron had listened. They had robbed a few of the homes of lesser nobles and left the country before any suspicion turned their way.

Since then Le Larron had made a good living from burglary; some might even say he was wealthy and powerful. But the image of the Tsar’s gems nagged at him like an old sore he couldn’t help scratching. This was his opportunity. For the cost of a shipment or two of rifles and bombs he could get the inside track on the Romanov jewels. If he got his hands on them, he’d hold on to some of the best ones. Just this once he’d keep a few baubles for himself. Hell, if he pulled this off, he could afford to.

He hated dealing with these revolutionaries – fanatics every last one of them. However they would be spitting sunflower seeds on the fancy carpets of the Winter Palace if they won control of Russia (and there was a strong possibility they might. He’d heard that Nicholas was just barely holding on to power and gossip abounded that the Tsar’s only son and heir was very sickly or mentally deficient). These Bolshevists were crazy enough to destroy every glittering symbol of the tyrant’s power. Their brutish peasants’ hands would chisel the jewels right off the delicate eggs, take axes to priceless paintings, sledgehammer porcelain to smithereens. Much better that they let him save some of those beautiful gems in repayment for giving them guns now.

It would take plenty of money to purchase the kind of arms that they needed. He’d made an offer to buy guns from Von Bergenheim whose company was scrambling for sales now that Krupps had cornered the market on German and Austro-Hungarian munitions orders. A couple of big hauls would be needed to finance the purchase – and they’d be needed soon. His network of spotters hadn’t come up with any likely marks up to now. But summer was fast approaching and some unwary tourists would soon swim into his net. He hoped there would be some wealthy Americans on one of their ‘Grand Tours’. The nouveau-riches were often quite careless with their recently-acquired valuables. He intended to make someone pay dearly for their carelessness.

***

September 13 1909 Okhranka Headquarters

Attention: Section Director – Foreign Operations

All four subjects in question have been located and are under surveillance. Trotsky has been meeting with Lenin and the other Bolsheviks frequently. Henri Bint has been assigned to co-ordinate surveillance. Unfortunately we have had no success planting any infiltration agents to this point. All existing Okhranka agents are known to the Bolsheviks. Bint has been directed to recruit new agents and put them in place.

Further information to follow.

Aleksandr Aleksandrovitch Krassilnikov
Chief - Paris Okhranka

<To be continued>

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