Fata Morgana Read Free Page A

reward for a private job. A detective can do well for himself in Paris if he’s efficient and discreet; the young woman who’d threatened the Prince with blackmail had been persuaded to desist, the six-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Lefaucheux held between her eyes on a dark night, in a narrow street. She was in Amsterdam now, repairing her jangled nerves.
    He picked up the Colt; his hand trembled uncontrollably, and the far wall at which he aimed was made of rubber, swaying and bending in a sickening dance.
    A sudden knock on the door spun him around like a thief in hiding.
    “Who is it?”
    “Bissonette.”
    Picard uncocked his pistol, unlocked the door. Inspector Bissonette touched the edge of his hat in a drunken little salute, as Picard’s heart sank.
    The ruined old detective smiled at Picard in his pajamas, and emitted an absinthe-soaked cloud toward him as he spoke. “How are you feeling?”
    “All right,” said Picard. “Come in.”
    Bissonette stepped through the doorway into the gloomy apartment. Picard understood the message before it was spoken. That Bissonette should call on him was proof that his stature at the Prefecture had taken a serious drop—Bissonette, swaying where he stood, kept on the force only because of his long years of service, reduced now to being the Prefect’s errand boy, and unimportant errands at that, for it was well known he would stop at every bistro along the way.
    “Having a little target practice?” Bissonette nodded toward the Colt, which Picard still held in his hand.
    “I was about to shoot myself.”
    “Forgive me for interrupting. I can come back later, after you’ve finished.”
    Picard walked to the kitchen cupboard, returned with a bottle of cognac and a glass. Bissonette removed his hat, looking at the bottle with a misty glaze across his eyes. His suit was wrinkled, his nose swollen, and he smiled cheerfully as he watched Picard pour the drink.
    “You don’t look well, Picard,” he said, lifting the glass. “Here’s to your health.” He drained the glass in one gulp. “Yes, I’ll have another.”
    “The Prefect sent you?”
    “The Prefect sent me, of course.” Bissonette poured the second drink and drained it more slowly. “Do you mind if I smoke my pipe? I’m trying to develop new and better habits.” He fumbled in his pocket, came out with matches, studied them for a moment, continued his search for the pipe.
    “What message does the Prefect have for me?”
    “He wishes you the best, my friend, all the best in the world.” The pipe was stuffed clumsily, Bissonette sprinkling tobacco over the table, his suit, and the floor. “He understands you were badly smoked. We all understand, and naturally we’re completely sympathetic.”
    “I’m grateful for your concern,” said Picard. “Is there anything else the Prefect wishes me to know?”
    “He’s eager for you to return to service. Sent me here expressly to tell you... of his eagerness...” Bissonette’s eyes cleared for a moment as he stared across the table at Picard, and Picard saw the truth there, hidden behind the drunkard’s clumsiness.
    “Out with it,” said Picard. “Am I washed up?”
    “The general feeling around headquarters...” Bissonette’s eyes fogged again, stupidity clouding his gaze, but something drove the cloud away and he looked straight at Picard. “... yes, I would say so. It was unfortunate that the building you were in burned to the ground. And those on either side of it.” He reached for the bottle again. “It causes embarrassment for the Prefect. Won’t you join me? I hate to drink alone. A few drinks, a quiet afternoon...”
    “I’m dismissed then?”
    “No, no, no, my friend, of course not. Our Prefect isn’t a barbarian. You’ll continue on as usual... when you’re able, when you’re well. I must say you’re looking poorly, Picard. You need a drink to bring the color back to you. Sit right where you are, I’ll get another