Remember Paris

Chapter 2

But that wasn’t enough, was it?
Our dreams would have come true, Madge.

Adrienne woke early, her country upbringing having created habits at odds with her big-city late-night lifestyle. Marguerite was going to hold her first séance this afternoon and preparations had to be made. Their other partner was Mme. Hippolyte, the fortune-teller. She had rented a salon and Adrienne had volunteered to buy some fresh flowers to pretty it up. The chairs (and a few special effects) needed to be arranged just so. She slipped out of the pension, leaving her roommate still fast asleep.

She strolled toward the flower-market, picking up an apple along the way for breakfast. She bit into it as she walked along, the juice running down her chin as she swiped the back of her hand across her face. She made a brief stop at le tabac to buy a couple of cigars. As much as she detested the taste, smoking was shockingly fashionable. Just like her flimsy shoes, also the height of fashion. These were the kind of sacrifices that had to be made if she wanted to make an impression on a nice rich man.

As she neared the flower-vendors in La Place Pigalle, she stopped to read some of the advertising posters for the clubs here and in Montmartre. The waybill advertising Le Lapin Agile fluttered by her feet. How she longed to be invited to that club. All the smartest set went there, Picasso the artist, Apollinaire, even Max Jacob. Wouldn’t Marguerite just love to meet Monsieur Jacob - the man was a fortune-teller and a palm-reader and friends with all the famous poets and painters and he was rich – exactly like Marguerite was working so hard to be. Her friend was going to be very good at the séance racket too.

Whenever a spiritualist had appeared at the Fosse, Marguerite had quizzed them and found out all their tricks. Even though Adrienne knew how her friend did it, it was spooky when Marguerite got that strange faraway look in her pale green eyes. Adrienne sometimes felt creepy - as if she might turn around to see a ghost hovering behind her. She got goose-flesh now just thinking about it. Adrienne made the ancient sign to ward off evil then gave her head a shake. Four years in the city and she was still acting like a plouc, a country bumpkin. She’d never marry rich if she didn’t smooth out her rough edges.

Marguerite Smith stretched under her goose-down duvet. A glance out the window revealed that it was late morning and the silence told her Adrienne had already gone to the market. She hoped her room-mate had left enough water for her to have a sponge-bath. The sleepy brunette approached the washstand hopefully but the water jug was empty. She put on her robe and descended the stairs to the toilet and faucet on the main floor. She carried the jug of water back up to the room and poured it in the basin, shivering as she sponged herself with the cold water. How she longed for a full bath. When she was rich she’d have a house with running water, water closets on every floor with modern flush toilets. She’d send her clothes to be laundered and dress in fresh clean outfits every day. She shuddered every time she dressed for a performance. Grosman rarely had the showgirls’ outfits cleaned and the odour of stale perspiration warred with cheap eau de cologne in the dressing rooms.

Marguerite felt a frisson of anticipation as she thought about the afternoon séance. Mme. Hippolyte had invited a couple of clients of hers - society matrons who wanted to see the new medium. Marguerite had billed herself as Renenutet, the Eye of Ra, which her studies had told her was an ancient snake-goddess. She hoped that the green robe and golden headdress topped with a cobra emblem would impress potential clients.

Her shrewd business sense had led her to realize that there was big money in spiritualism – a fad that was sweeping the western world. Some mediums had repeat customers who paid good money for sessions every week. She could work in any of the major cities in Europe – even go back to London if she wanted to. It was a career which suited her ideally – her ability to read people, to find their weaknesses, to tell them what they wanted to hear. Her skill learned at an early age of slipping her quick fingers in and out of people’s pockets and handbags would also be useful. She wasn’t sure how she’d be at pretending to be possessed by a spirit but it wouldn’t be the first role she’d played in her life. Even her peculiar talent for languages might come in handy.

Marguerite held up her heavy mane of hair and ran the washcloth across her neck and shoulders. She caught her reflection in the mirror. It was a shame that it was mostly women who came to visit spiritualists. As a rule she got on much better with men than women, Adrienne being a notable exception. Marguerite still marvelled that the two of them – so different in their upbringing and their personalities - had become such fast friends. Speaking of Adrienne -where was that girl, anyway?

***

September 10 1909

Internal memorandum.
Re: German foreign policy in Southern Asia subcontinent

An important element to accomplish the Zimmerman initiative – total destruction of British control in India - is the cultivation of Hindu and Sikh nationalists in India and abroad. There are strong factions of disaffected Indian ex-patriots in California USA and Vancouver Canada poised to return to India and overthrow the British. The acknowledged leader of the movement is Vinayak Savarkar who, with Har Dayal, has a tightly-organized group right under the noses of the British. They train assassins and make bombs in the London House hostel in London, England.

Our government has secretly thrown its support behind Savarkar and his followers. The German Foreign Ministry has purchased arms from munitions dealers in the U.S. These weapons are to be shipped to India for delivery to key revolutionary groups. The same shipment will include letters to be carried to all the Indian maharajas – exhortations to revolt against the British raj.

Apparently Mr Savarkar will also be using this ship to smuggle large quantities of his controversial account of the Indian Mutiny which accuses the British of horrendous abuses. These tracts are to be distributed all over India. Our analysts believe that this inflammatory document may be a vital key to sparking a revolution that will bring down British rule in India.

One of our people has been dispatched to Paris to meet with Mr Savarkar. He will receive the co-ordinates for the location in India where the arms will be handed over. Herr Mutterlich will bring this information back to Berlin. The ship will sail from San Francisco upon receipt of these co-ordinates.

We have arranged safe passage for the ship through the South China Sea. We have hired a Chinese crime syndicate headed by the infamous ‘Shanghai Xan’ to prevent unnecessary boarding by both pirates and government agents.

Our plans await only the destination co-ordinates to be complete.

Head of Section
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Adrienne and I were friends twelve years ago - in a nightclub where we worked. She met a man…

The séance went beautifully. Marguerite’s spirit-world Egyptian goddess had carried a message from one woman’s dead son and the other’s departed mother. There had been a bit of a scramble when a third lady had accompanied the others, but a quick sleight-of-hand had unearthed a faded photo of a man in uniform in her handbag. Marguerite made the assumption that the woman’s husband may well have died in the Franco-Prussian war some thirty years past. Her guess was spot-on and the woman, moved to tears, had given her quite a large sum of money. The women left vowing to tell their friends of the marvellously gifted young spiritualist.

The three jubilant business-women repaired to a café-bar for a glass of pastis to toast their success. They laughed at how their customers had jumped and screamed as empty chairs had toppled over – an event orchestrated by Adrienne and carried out by a yank on a black string at a predetermined signal. It worked marvellously in the darkened room. Mme. Hippolyte promised to set up another salon for the next week. They even talked about renting a suite to provide them a drawing-room for their séances. The conversation was abruptly ended as the two younger women rushed off to perform at the Fat Man’s bar.

There had been a swarm of apaches outside – street-raised delinquents destined for a life of crime. Many of these served as the eyes and ears of Le Larron following well-dressed party-goers as they left the theatre and the café-concerts and went back to their residences. Tonight the bold adolescents lounged outside the club shouting lewd comments at the showgirls as they arrived for work.

They never said a word to Marguerite anymore. Adrienne had asked her once what she had done to silence them. Marguerite had shrugged and given an evasive answer not wanting to explain that she had flashed them a sign identifying herself as a Paris gang member. Much of her childhood had been spent in the streets of Paris, an existence much like that of these street urchins. It had only been good luck and the help of an anonymous benefactor that had allowed her to pursue her education for a few years. She had even earned a baccalaureate which was the ticket to enter the universities of France.

How surprised her co-workers at the ‘Pit’ would be to learn that she had spent a year at the Sorbonne. A year studying science hoping to find a niche in mineralogy so she could study the precious stones she adored so much. Her professors, however, had pushed her toward medicine, a field deemed more proper for a woman. But after a year the money was cut off as mysteriously as it had arrived and once again she had been on her own. She would have to find other ways to indulge her passion for gems.

Marguerite stepped onto the stage as La Pinsonne, the Songbird of Paris. She was buoyant after their successful afternoon and she had never sounded better. The melody soared over the hubbub of the club. Conversations hesitated and died as the occupants of every table stopped their scheming if only for a moment to listen to that strong, pure voice. Partially blinded by the footlights, she was still aware of the hush in the room, the heads turned toward her.

Le Larron sat at his usual table accompanied by his âme damnée, Louis Depard, and some of the showgirls. The accomplished thief was excited. He had heard this evening of two potential robbery victims. His second-in-command was content as well. When the boss had his eye on some jewels, it was good times for the whole gang.

Lenin sat back and watched as Lev Kamenev tried to convince Trotsky to join the Bolsheviks. Lenin had urged his good friend Lev to persuade the publisher of Pravda, the leading revolutionary newspaper, to join the cause. Trotsky had taken the other side when the revolutionaries had split up in 1903 but Lenin sensed he was coming around to the Bolshevik side. The impassioned argument ground to silence as the Russians were distracted by the beauty of the music.

At another table, a drab little middle-aged man watched the Russians carefully. Henri Bint was an agent for the Okhranka, the infamous Russian Tsarist Secret Police. His job was to spy on and infiltrate every radical Russian group that gathered in Paris. Right now though, he had his hand around the bottom of a young lovely who giggled as she drained her glass of wine. She spontaneously threw her arm around his neck and pulled him toward her for a kiss. He pulled away and signalled her to silence so that he could listen to the singer on the stage. She was the young woman who had been sitting with the Russians the night before. What a beautiful voice she had!

At the Moulin Rouge, a café-bar much like the ‘Pit’, another singer performed modern music and light opera while the crowds watched and drank and schemed. A pair of young Hindu men sat nervously at a table – the only men of colour in the whole establishment. They waited for a man to join them – a man who would help them achieve the goal for which they had worked for years – to free India from the yoke of British tyranny.

Keeping a sharp eye on the Indians was a British spy, Percy Boyd by name, assigned by Scotland Yard to watch Savarkar and his associate and keep track of their movements. He could now confirm that they were having clandestine meetings with other Indian revolutionaries in France; they were indeed dangerous characters. He hoped they were returning to England soon where they could be arrested. He missed his homeland.

But that night one man would leave the Fat Man’s bar and make his way to the Moulin Rouge. The plots and schemes that would be put into play would shake the governments of world powers. And the lives of many of these people would change forever.

***

Le Larron sat as his table, barely able to control his nervous excitement. His hopes had been realized. His street arabs had informed him of an American couple dripping with jewels who were staying at the Hotel Lavoisier. And thanks to his old friend M. Grosman he had his eye on another target.

It had long been a sideline for the Fat Man to give details about some of his wealthier customers to Le Larron – for a cut of the action and information about a certain item he was searching for - a valuable statue dating back to the Crusades. Ever since he’d heard about it from a Greek antiquities dealer, getting his hands on it had become an obsession for the bar owner. Who better than the most skilled thief in Paris- a man who could slip in and out of the best guarded collections in Paris to find out more about this relic? Frankly Duclos thought Grosman was crazy spending all his time and money trying to find a sculpture of some bird, but it was an easy way to pay him off for all his tips.

The mark Grosman had told him about was a German businessman who’d complained loudly that his wife had foolishly brought all her jewels and finery for the ball they were attending on the weekend. They were staying at the Meurice, a hotel that was a dream for a cat burglar as accomplished as himself. However, the businessman, Mutterlich, seemed a cautious and observant man and great care would need to be exercised. Duclos watched the man as he sat drinking at a table across the floor. When the floor show was over, Mutterlich finished his drink, signalled the waiter, paid the bill and left. Le Larron hastily followed suit. The apaches out front indicated with hand signals which direction the German had taken. Duclos tossed them a few coins. He pursued his prey with a few of the young men nonchalantly trailing after him down the street.

Erich Mutterlich walked into the Moulin Rouge and peered through the gloomy interior. On a stage lit by brilliant lime-lights a chorus-line of dancers were performing the scandalous can-can. The German was unimpressed by the spectacle. He was here on government business. It had been arranged for him to meet two Indians from Hindustan. As his eyes acclimatised to the dimness he walked toward the table where two bespectacled dark-complexioned men in suits were seated. He felt disdain; no matter how much they tried –shaving off their beards, wearing Western clothes – these foreigners would never be able to pass as Europeans.

He had been outraged when he had first been assigned the task of working with the Hindus. It had taken some convincing to show him that India was the soft under-belly of the British Empire. Incite revolution in the ‘jewel in the crown’ of their colonial system and all the British trade routes in Asia would be in chaos. Vast military and political resources would be required to restore order. The British government would be so involved in Asia that it would be forced to ignore Germany’s aspirations in Europe and Africa. The ultimate goal, of course, would be for India to gain its independence then promptly enter into a trade agreement with Germany. Even now a railway was being built across the Caucasus to Baghdad. It could readily be extended to link Germany to India. This soaring strategic initiative had been planned by Foreign Minister Zimmerman in response to the Kaiser’s decree. ‘Drang und Osten’ – ‘Drive to the East’. Using diplomacy, secret pacts and fomenting civil war they would make sure India, the key to the wealth of Asia, would fall into German hands without one shot fired or one German soldier lost.

Mutterlich’s assignment was to arrange with this Savarkar fellow the delivery of a shipload of arms. These guns were being loaded into the hold of an American trading ship about to sail from San Francisco bound for Calcutta. What he needed to find out and pass along to the ship’s captain was how and where the arms should land and be distributed after they arrived in Indian waters. He was anxious to get the information he needed and return to his hotel room. He was a civil servant not a spy.

More vexing, he had been too long away from his wife this evening. She would complain bitterly and ask pointed questions when he returned to their rooms. The German diplomat approached the table. The Indian gentlemen stood and bowed. Mutterlich snapped his heels together in a proper Prussian bow then sat down to conduct his business.

Percy Boyd sat at his table in the back of the Moulin Rouge and took in the new arrival. He had been tailing Savarkar ever since rumours were heard that India House in London was a hotbed of Indian nationalist radicals and that this man was the leader. As an agent for Special Branch of Scotland Yard Boyd was tracking the man to identify who he met and to add to the dossier which would ultimately provide enough evidence to arrest the troublemakers and nip any revolt in the bud.

Boyd didn’t recognise the chap who had joined them – Prussian ex-military from his bow. It was an ominous sign if Germany was involved in instigating a revolt in India. King Edward would find it a bitter pill to swallow if his nephew, Kaiser Wilhelm, was plotting to bring down the British Empire. His superiors would be receiving an interesting report from him in tomorrow’s diplomatic pouch. The agent sat back to continue his surveillance. The German man came and went. The Englishman was vaguely aware of another man leaving shortly after him. He arrived about the same time as the German did too. Who the hell was he? Boyd stuck with Savarkar as he had been instructed. The Prussian and whoever was following him would have to wait.

Mutterlich left the café and breathed in the fresh air outside the club with relief. The German considered himself a clean-living man and the grey haze of pipe and cigar smoke dirtied the air inside just like the debauchery on the stage polluted the minds of those who watched it. These Frenchmen were beneath contempt. He would be glad to return to his home in Danzig. He had a piece of paper in his pocket with the rendezvous point for the arms shipment and the recognition code that had to be signalled from the ship. He would keep it safe until he could deliver the information back to the Foreign Minister himself.

Le Larron followed surreptitiously as the German hailed a carriage back to his hotel, the Meurice, an establishment that he had robbed before. The place was a cat-burglar’s dream. This would be too easy. But he needed a woman, someone fresh, unknown by the concierge. Maybe that little country-girl at the Fosse – she’d certainly seemed eager enough the last time he’d talked to her. Or maybe her friend, that bewitching brunette – no, that one was too clever; she’d want to know too much about what she was getting into.

The woman he was considering as an accomplice danced in the chorus during the final show at the Fosse Usée, her smiling face showing no sign of the pain in her protesting feet or the way her eyes searched eagerly through the audience to see if there was someone who might turn out to be that one special man. At M. Grosman’s direction her friend, Marguerite, again sat at the table with the Russians. While at another table, a man with a very drunk lady on his arm looked speculatively at La Pinsonne, the Songbird. Henri Bint was desperate for new agents and he had a mind to hire the young singer. If she were willing he would pay her to spy on Lenin and his troublemaking friends while they were in Paris.

***

September 12 1909
Dispatch: to Head of Special Branch, Scotland Yard

Agent’s report

Savarkar and Dayal have had several meeting with other Indian revolutionaries here in Paris. Appended is a list of names of those known to me. They appear to be spending most of their time raising funds and speaking at gatherings. Dayal left for one day having purchased a ticket to Rotterdam.

Yesterday S & D spent the evening at the Moulin Rouge, a night-club. This is a remarkable departure from their normal haunts. There they were visited by a man, likely Prussian, who sat with them and copied down information. The man was not a German agent with whom I am familiar.

I would request that Special Branch assign an additional agent to Paris. I believe it would be wise to find out the name of this German and the purpose for their meeting.

Please advise.

Percival Boyd

She met a man, made a deal.

Adrienne left their little pension early again the next day. Shopping for fresh food was a necessity in the city and if she left it for her roommate to do they might never eat. Amazing that such a competent woman could be so helpless in the kitchen. Where had Marguerite grown up that she hadn’t learned to cook when she was a little girl? Adrienne had helped with the chores as soon as she could walk. No matter, Madge was otherwise a great roommate – fun and sassy and she always paid her way.

Adrienne had grown fond of her over the time they’d known each other. Marguerite was like a smart-alecky little sister – too clever by half. Moreover, interesting men were attracted to her. Adrienne hoped that would prove to be a great way for her to meet the kind of men (rich, mostly) she hoped to marry. Coming out of the bakery she was surprised to bump into Le Larron.

“M. Duclos. I wouldn’t have expected to see you out so early.”

“Mlle. Montclair,” he took her hand and pressed his lips to it formally. “I was hoping to have a word with you if I might. Is this a good time?”

“But of course, monsieur. What is it?” Don’t simper, she chided herself.

“You have expressed interest in perhaps helping me in my business. I happen to have an evening dinner engagement and I need a beautiful young woman to accompany me. I had hoped you might be interested.”

The excited young woman blushed and lowered her eyes. What was he up to?

“I would be required to leave the lady alone for some brief time while I conducted some business. However the dinner would be delicious and there would be a generous financial reward for the pleasure of your company.” The amount he mentioned was more than generous.

“Well…,” Marguerite’s warning rang in her ears. But so much money for one evening – just to go to dinner… She’ll tell Grosman she was too sick to dance tonight. “Certainly, monsieur, I would be glad to be of help.” She’d better not let Marguerite find out.

***

“I’m not feeling so well, Madge. I don’t think I’ll go in to work tonight. Marielle can dance my part.”

Marguerite, ready to leave for work, looked at her roommate in surprise. Adrienne had been very quiet since her return from shopping and she detected a flush of pink in her usually pale cheeks.

“You’d better not have picked up a case of the grippe and passed it on to me. I can’t afford to lose my voice.” The brunette’s grumpy words were belied by a sympathetic smile as she laid a gentle hand on Adrienne’s forehead. Adrienne felt guilty about lying to her friend.

Marguerite arrived at the Fat Man’s bar a little early to tell Grosman that Adrienne would not be there for the evening’s performances. He grumbled bitterly, warning Marguerite that her friend was on the brink of being fired. She performed her first set of songs to great applause and stepped down into the audience, trying to catch Grosman’s eye to see where to sit. As she passed a table an older gentleman stood and called to her.

“Mademoiselle, could I prevail upon you to join me?” Marguerite shot a glance at the Fatman who gave a grudging nod. With a brilliant smile she extended her hand to the gentleman who pressed his lips to the back of it and guided her into her chair. His thinning hair and rumpled trousers rang an alarm in the street-raised woman’s head. He looked like the Sûreté to her but older – a retired policeman maybe. His accent had a touch of German to it – perhaps the Alsace.

“The famous Songbird - La Pinsonne - at my table. I have long looked forward to this moment. You have such a lovely voice. My name, my dear, is Henri Bint.”

“Thank you, M. Bint. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here that often.”

“No, I am a recent convert. The Eldorado was my old haunt, but once I heard your voice, I had to switch my allegiance.” Actually it had been the shift of Lenin and the other Russian émigrés to this locale that had necessitated the change. Where they went, he followed, dogging their footsteps and spoiling their plans.

During their conversation Bint took in the singer’s beautiful smile and lovely figure. When he talked about himself she leaned toward him in rapt attention, her eau de cologne a breath of petals on the breeze. And beneath it all he sensed a promise of warm sensuality, a promise that remained elusive as he tried to pin her down. Her work, her boss, a jealous boyfriend – all these things seemed to interfere with having an affair with him – an arrangement that it would appear she desired as much as he. He sighed. Henri, this is your weakness. You are supposed to be recruiting women who will become mistresses and confidantes of Russian revolutionaries not finding someone for your own bed.

Over the years Henri had had many, many mistresses, some of whom had also worked for him as agents. It was hard not to mix business with pleasure. As the young singer rose with apologies to go on stage for her next performance, Henri remained standing after she left. With a final appreciative glance at the singer’s retreating figure, he paid his bill and left the club.

She’d be perfect, he concluded, walking back to his flat. If not for Lenin or his confederates, there were plenty of other randy Russian exiles that she could drain dry of information. He’d had great success in the past turning showgirls into spies; it was amazing how otherwise close-mouthed men bragged about their accomplishments and spilled their secrets when they were bedding a young lovely. He was willing to bet that throughout history more military secrets had been shared willingly to women spies than had ever been extracted by torture.

And what a woman! When he looked into the fathomless depths of her green eyes, he’d felt himself wanting to tell her something desperately important. She looked clever enough – like she would remember and understand what she had heard. He would suggest that his superior wire St. Petersburg about this one. She might be the one who could break into the inner circle of the filthy Bolshevists and see what trouble they were trying to stir up. Enough evidence and it would be death for Lenin’s bunch if they ever set foot in Mother Russia. A conviction would please his boss Krassilnikov. It would be a feather in Bint’s cap and could mean a nice raise.

Marguerite was distracted as she sang. It felt strange; this was the first time she had performed at the club without Adrienne being there. She hoped her friend felt better tomorrow or she’d be looking for a new job. They just barely paid the rent as it was. She’d hoped to use the séance money to save up for a new apartment suite that had a sitting room not to cover Adrienne’s share of the rent. She finished a love song to enthusiastic clapping and began a sprightly song by Satie ‘La Diva de L’Empire’.

M. Bint had certainly been insistent. Marguerite had stalled him because he had the smell of a flic, a copper, and she didn’t want him sniffing around her. There were a few things in her past that wouldn’t hold up to police scrutiny.

She had a feeling he had some scheme in mind; somehow his insistence on becoming her escort seemed like a sham – a gambit to see how she’d react - though there was no doubt that he’d have been in bed with her in a second if she’d let him, the old goat. Marguerite wasn’t sure she’d passed his test or what it might mean if she had. He’d left very soon after she’d stepped back onto the stage. So it’s not my singing that attracted him after all, Marguerite noted with a wry smile. No, it was definitely something else he was interested in. She would have to find out more about the drab little man.

***

Adrienne Montclair was dressed in a new outfit. The modern slimmer lines flattered her, she thought, the corset emphasizing her tiny waist. Raymond Duclos had left her alone with coffee and a cognac and withdrawn to the patio for a cigar. She would have dearly loved to have joined him, but in a conservative dining room like this, it would have turned heads and that was the last thing Raymond would want.

Anyway, Duclos wouldn’t be there. He was off burgling one of the rooms, she was sure of it. Just then her erstwhile dinner companion re-entered the dining room. He looked a little flustered somehow, furtive in a way she’d never noticed before. Perhaps that was how he always looked when he was in the act of thieving. His face changed as he saw her; a suave smile replaced that other look.

“Ah, my dear, I’m so sorry that I was detained. I ran into Louis - you remember Louis?” He covered Adrienne’s lack of response with a peck on her cheek. He whispered in her ear. “Bad luck. I was spotted where I shouldn’t have been. I don’t think the manager will call in the gendarmes – more likely he’ll just question me himself. I’m putting a little something in your handbag for safekeeping. We’ll split up at the door. Louis and the boys will see you back to your rooms.”

Whilst leaning toward her like a repentant lover, he opened her handbag and with a deft touch, slipped in a package. “Give this to Louis and tell him I tossed a second package out the window into the garden. He can pick it up as you leave.”

The scene unfolded as Duclos had predicted; He left her at the door and Louis ghosted to her side. “What’s up with the boss?”

Just then the doorman walked toward Duclos and politely requested that he please come to see the manager.

“He got spotted,” she explained, “it can’t be too bad because the manager didn’t call the flics.” Louis growled and spat at the mention of the Paris police force, the Sûreté.

“He gave me this to give to you,” she rummaged in her handbag for the package Duclos had put there. “Raymond said he dropped a second one out the window,” she continued.

“Raymond, is it now?” Louis smirked widely at her familiar use of Duclos’ name, “I’ll get the butin and be right back.” He used the Paris underworld slang word for stolen goods.

“No, I’d better stick with you.” She didn’t want him taking the loot and leaving her here, “I wouldn’t want someone recognizing me as Raymond’s dinner companion.”

“Yeah, I guess. Come on.”

They skirted the building and entered a dark courtyard behind the hotel. Louis looked up along the rows of windows until he picked out the room they had staked out. In the dried grass beneath it, a small satchel lay on its side, the clasp agape, a string of pearls coiling out of the opening.

“Merde! The damn bag broke open.” Louis swore under his breath. Scattered on the bare ground were bracelets, necklaces and rings. Louis and Adrienne bent to retrieve the gems. Adrienne rose to her feet after a few minutes. Her corset made it impossible for her to breathe while bent over that far. She couldn’t take her eyes off the glimmer of the jewels in the dim light as Louis scuttled across the lawn, grabbing the errant baubles and thrusting them back in the satchel. Under a low shrub she caught a faint gleam – copper it looked like, a tube-shaped object that looked like it might hold a small telescope and beside it a dark lump – could it be a bag of jewellery?

“Louis,” she said automatically, raising her hand to point out the hidden items.

“What?” he replied, turning toward her.

Her hand fell to her side. “Just wondering if you had them all?” She tried for an off-hand tone.

“Yeah, I think so. We’d better get out of here. I’ll get the boys to take a better look tomorrow when it’s light.” Louis straightened to a stand and fastened the satchel.

“Good idea. I’m just going back to the bar. If you’d rather do something with that,” she gestured at the bag, “I can just walk home from there with Madge.”

“I guess so. I don’t want to get nabbed with this swag, that’s for sure.”

They split up at the Metro. Adrienne waited on the platform until she saw Louis catch his train. She looked in her handbag as if something were missing then headed back to the garden where she had conveniently dropped her hanky by the shrub. She picked it up and in the same motion reached to grab the tube and the other item which turned out to be a velvet pouch tied with a ribbon. She stuffed the items into her handbag and pulled the draw-strings. She casually made her way back to the Métro. If Le Larron’s skulking vagabonds were tailing her, she hoped they’d seen nothing to excite their interest. She walked up the hill from La Pigalle Métro stop to the back entrance to the Fat Man’s bar and waited in the shadows outside the stage door, waiting for Marguerite to leave for the night.

***

She met a man, made a deal -and didn’t follow through with her part of the bargain.

“Madge,” Adrienne said, stepping out of the shadows and placing her hand on her friend’s arm. She was startled to find her wrist twisted behind her back and held in a firm grip. “Madge – Marguerite, it’s me.”

“Adrienne? What are you doing, sneaking around out here when you’re supposed to be home sick?” Puzzled, she released her friend’s arm.

“Madge, I’ve got to talk to you. But not here. Let’s go home,” Her voice dropped to a murmur, “out of the range of prying ears.”

Her friend’s eyes widened in surprise but she made no reply, merely nodded and began the walk to their pension.

“Well, what’s going on?” Marguerite closed the door of their apartment and leaned against it as Adrienne sat on a chair and kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief.

“I know you are going to be angry with me, but the most marvellous thing happened tonight.” Adrienne’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Le Larron did a job and I – I was there – he asked me to be his cover.” Her speech quickened as she saw the look of exasperation and fear, in her friend’s eyes. “He almost got caught, but it’s alright and I’ll get paid – a lot. And, Madge,” Now that she was about to tell her friend what else she had done, Adrienne suddenly faltered.

“Well?” Intrigued despite her misgivings, Marguerite tried to draw her out.

In a flood of words, Adrienne described the nocturnal hunt for the scattered jewellery, the glint under the bush, her furtive return to pick up the metal tube and the velvet bag. As she spoke she pulled the items from her handbag. She opened the bag first and slipped out a strand of perfectly matched lustrous black pearls. Both women gasped.

Marguerite took the necklace gently out of Adrienne’s palm to inspect it more closely. The large perfectly round pearls were graduated in size – one single splendid strand - smoky and iridescent like the feathers on a pigeon’s breast.

“These are natural pearls – from the South Seas,” Marguerite murmured, “largest I’ve ever seen.”

“They’re beautiful,” gushed Adrienne, holding them up to her throat.

“They’re expensive – too expensive,” warned Marguerite.

Adrienne’s face fell. “They are, aren’t they? Impossible to fence. What if we broke up the set? One at a time would be easier to get rid of. But what a shame to break them up – half their value would be lost. Damn, every fence in Paris knows Le Larron. Word would get back to him. Somewhere else, maybe?” Once again, excitement coloured her cheeks. “Madge, you know people in London. If you went there…”

“No. And don’t ask me again. This is crazy. We’ve got to put them back – throw them back under whatever shrub you found them in.”

“I’m not putting them back. This is our chance. To leave this dump, to have a better life.” Adrienne looked beseechingly at her roommate.

Marguerite turned away. “I’m not having any part of this. Those pearls will be our death warrant.” Her voice had grown shrill with fear.

In some vague way Adrienne realized this was a Marguerite she’d never seen before. Her friend usually made her points with shrugs and sarcasm. Now the brunette was deadly serious and very afraid.

“I’m not going to do anything foolish, Madge, honest. There must be some way that will work. We just have to think on it.” In an effort to deflect her friend’s further objections, she gestured toward the metal tube. “What’s in there?”

Marguerite screwed off the top and peered into the cylinder. She pulled out some pieces of parchment that were rolled up inside and perused them, frowning.

“What does it say?” Adrienne, disappointed that there was no money or jewellery inside the container, was only mildly curious.

“I’m not sure,” Marguerite returned in a non-committal tone, “It’s written in German.”

“Can you read German?” Adrienne asked curiously. She knew Marguerite was very intelligent; maybe her roommate could speak another language.

“No, not really, just a word here or there.” Marguerite was reluctant to share the knowledge of her talent for linguistics even with her best friend.

She continued to read, puzzled by the contents. It seemed to be a report of some sort, for some kind of business most likely, two pages long with a couple of blank pages behind it. It looked like a shipping and distribution schedule but the conclusion referred to an order for thousands of leaflets to be shipped along with ‘manufactured goods’. Thoughtfully she rolled up the pages and replaced them in the tube. Why were these innocuous pages locked up in a safe with the valuables? Was there some deeper meaning to the words on the page?

Marguerite was not naïve about the secret goings-on in the clubs in Montmartre. It seemed like half the clientele was involved in some scheme or another – bomb-throwing revolutionaries, police spies, foreign agents – all enjoying the opportunities for clandestine meetings provided by the free and easy atmosphere of the café-bars and nightclubs of Paris. Maybe there was more to this report than met the eye. Information was power in this world. When she was alone she would like to take a better look at the papers. But right now she had to convince her friend to return the jewels. Not to do so would be madness.

After two hours of bitter argument she won grudging consent from Adrienne. The unhappy dancer promised that she would arise early, catch the first autobus of the morning to the Tuleries and return to the hotel. Somewhere in the courtyard Adrienne would let the tube and pearls fall to the ground. Then they could wipe their hands of Le Larron’s loot. Exhausted Adrienne took to her bed, leaving her roommate sitting pensively in the chair.

Marguerite sat at the table unable to sleep. Her feeling of uneasiness hadn’t gone away. She was very afraid of Le Larron’s gang of thugs; Louis Depard was a particularly cold-blooded character. She couldn’t understand why Adrienne had taken such a risk. Her friend was just a country girl eager to make her fortune; she didn’t realize what lengths ruthless men like Le Larron and Depard were willing to go to.

Without really thinking, she reached out and opened the metal tube to remove the papers. She read them over once more. The report appeared complete so why were there empty pages as well. She’d read some of the more lurid modern fiction including Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes series. Could the report be in code or more likely was there an additional report written in invisible ink on the empty pages. She held one sheet above the candle. Suddenly words formed as bold brown handwriting on the paler page. With a chill of fear she realized that the manufactured goods referred to in the earlier pages were actually munitions – pistols, rifles, bombs – all designed to instigate a rebellion in India. She hastily removed the page from the heat and the words faded away as it cooled. With shaking hands she replaced the pages in the canister and screwed the top back on.

Oh Adrienne, what have you gotten us into? It would have been safer for her to have picked up a bomb with a lit fuse than what she had stumbled on to. Bad enough what Le Larron might do if he found out she’d tried to cheat him, but what of the other – the unknown man to whom the secret message belonged. This communiqué meant that Germany was plotting to incite a revolution in India. If this report got into the hands of the British, there would be a diplomatic uproar. Whoever it had been stolen from would be desperate to ensure its safe return. They were sitting on a powder keg. She and her friend would have to get as far away from this as they could.

But a strange little feeling of guilt nagged at her. She was English by birth, she was pretty sure. She had lived there as a young girl and thought of herself as British. This plot could constitute a grave threat to that country. Perhaps she should tell someone at the embassy. She quashed that patriotic notion ruthlessly. She was no secret agent and it was pure chance that she had even seen the report. Britain was a big country and could take care of itself. Besides who would believe her, a bar singer? She would concentrate on keeping herself and Adrienne alive. The canister and the pearls would go back.

<To be continued>

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