Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris Read Free

year.’
    ‘But do you know Orlandu Ludovici? And is he among those few?’
    ‘The Maltese has not lodged here since, oh, Michaelmas last.’
    ‘Do you know why he moved out?’
    ‘I am not privy to Master Ludovici’s thoughts, still less his motives.’
    ‘Do you know where I can find him, or where he lodges now?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, sire.’ This ignorance, too, appeared to please him.
    Tannhauser had been warned that any interaction with Parisian officialdom, no matter how petty, would require considerable tenacity.
    ‘But he remains a member of the college.’
    ‘As far as I know, sire.’
    ‘When did you last see him?’
    ‘I don’t recall, sire.’
    ‘A week? A month?’
    ‘I don’t recall.’
    ‘You recall his moving out a year ago but not when you last saw him.’
    ‘At my age, sire, memory becomes unreliable.’
    Tannhauser had last written to Orlandu four months ago, before the voyage that had detained him in Velez de la Gomera and parts far beyond. He pointed to the rack of lettered pigeonholes that hung at the rear of the porter’s domain. Filed in the box marked ‘L’, he saw papers. He propped his rifle against the counter.
    ‘Has he any messages or letters?’
    ‘No, sire.’
    ‘I’d be grateful if you’d make sure.’
    ‘I am already sure, sire.’
    Tannhauser swung open the hinged flap and strode to the pigeonholes.
    ‘No one is allowed behind the counter, sire.’
    Tannhauser shuffled the papers from box ‘L’ through his fingers. There was nothing for Orlandu. The box marked ‘O’ was empty. He turned.
    There was a smile in the old man’s eyes. His lips didn’t move yet conveyed the depth of his scorn. Tannhauser had the disconcerting sense that the porter had been expecting him, that his visit had been foretold; that the porter knew who he was.
    ‘You know who I am.’
    ‘A gentleman of very great eminence, I am sure, sire.’
    ‘Orlandu must have friends, tutors.’
    ‘No doubt, sire. But it’s not my job to be expert in such matters.’
    ‘Is there anyone else here I can question?’
    ‘On a Saturday, sire?’
    ‘Then, so far as the college is concerned, Orlandu has vanished.’
    ‘There are ten thousand students in Paris, sire, from all over Europe. Who knows what such young men get up to? Especially in times such as these?’
    ‘Orlandu is my stepson. He is dear to me.’
    The porter’s indifference had been hardened by an endless horde of whining youths, each of whom believed himself the most notable person in the world. Perhaps a whiff of royal intimacy would loosen his tongue.
    ‘Orlandu may be with his mother, Lady Carla, Countess of La Penautier. She was the Queen’s guest at the royal wedding. Do you know where I might find her?’
    ‘If you don’t know where your wife is, sire, how should I?’
    Tannhauser ignored the pain in his skull and deployed a final stratagem.
    ‘If you have any information at all that would help me find Orlandu, or Lady Carla, I can show my gratitude with gold. A contribution to the college, perhaps.’
    The porter arched a hairless brow as victory was delivered into his hands.
    ‘A bribe? You do me a grave injustice, sire.’
    Tannhauser had offered said bribe with all due delicacy. Any insult offered lay in the porter’s reply and the old scab knew it. Tannhauser dropped the papers and put an index finger against the old man’s chest. He sensed the mean, sinewy carcass under the greasy coat. He pushed the porter backwards from the stool. The porter’s limbs jerked outward as he crashed to the floor. The groan that arose therefrom was the first sincere sound to have escaped his lips. Tannhauser ignored him. He rummaged beneath the counter and found paper and ink. Amid a bundle of used quills he found one whose tip looked functional. He wrote in Italian, in a crude hand.
    Dearest Orlandu, I am in Paris. I do not yet have lodgings. Leave a message here, at the college. Tell me where I can find you and your mother.
    He