India Black in the City of Light Read Free

figure and the ability to charm the fleas off a rat.
    My coach was serviceable but could have used some sprucing up; the seats were sprung and the exterior rather shabby. However, it would serve its purpose. I tossed in my single case, for I had packed lightly in anticipation of purchasing an entire wardrobe in Paris.
    I had no idea if French would make the run into the city in one go, but I knew that traveling by coach would take a good long while and require numerous changes of horses along the way. I prepared myself for the worst and purchased a few bottles of ale and brandy and a hamper filled with numerous delicacies. If I was going to arrive in Paris with a damaged spine and bruised kidneys, I planned to at least be well fed.
    On the following morning, in the wee hours, the driver picked me up at my hotel and we stationed ourselves at the entrance to the dockyard where French and his Russian spy were due to arrive. It was a long wait, I can tell you, with the coachman muttering from time to time in that guttural way that Frenchies do and climbing down to thrust his head in the window (emitting a gust of garlicky breath each time he did so) to ask if
mademoiselle
was
certainement
that we were in the right spot.
Mademoiselle
was not, but it is never wise to give the help any cause for concern, so I replied cheerily that of course we were at the correct location and he need only be patient. For good measure I reminded him that for the fee I was paying, I expected him to wait all day and all night, if necessary. Each time, he mumbled disapprovingly under his breath and climbed back onto the seat.
    I will admit that I had begun to doubt my own deductions about French’s arrival when the coachman leaned over and called out to me that a British frigate had just passed the breakwater and was sailing slowly toward the pier. I clambered out and told the driver to wait a moment, reminding him of the coins he’d earn for his patience, and then scuttled off to watch the ship glide neatly to the wharf where our splendid naval chaps secured her by dropping loops of massive rope over the bollards. I huddled in the shelter of a doorway and watched the activity on deck until I espied French accompanied by a small fellow sporting a bowler hat and a grey overcoat. Even from this distance I could see the man’s hands were bound in front of him, secured by a pair of handcuffs.
    Two sailors escorted the pair down the gangway and to a waiting brougham. Obviously French did not intend to slum it on the way to Paree. The carriage was painted a glossy black. The glass in the windows had been washed recently and the sunlight glinted on them. The driver was nattily attired in a frock coat and he doffed a top hat to French when he appeared. French helped the little chap aboard and the sailors began to load baggage. I recognized French’s small trunk and his Gladstone bag, but there was much else besides: a veritable mountain of luggage consisting of various sizes of boxes, parcels and trunks. The amount of luggage did not appear commensurate with a brief sojourn in France, until I recollected that Albert Cutliffe’s exit from England was permanent. Obviously he’d been allowed to bring along all his worldly possessions. I’d have given him a boot in the backside and sent him back to the Russians without a penny in his pocket, but I am not consulted on these matters, more’s the pity.
    When the sailors had secured the last case and covered the lot with a canvas tarp, the coachman clambered aboard and released the brake. I could see that to exit the dock the brougham would pass right by my vantage point, so I turned tail and scampered back to my own coach. I leapt aboard, shouting at the driver to turn his vehicle and to follow, at a safe distance, the black brougham that would be passing shortly.
    I slid down the cushions to avoid being seen as my driver coaxed his nags through a tight circle and then we waited until I heard the grating of the