Tender the Storm (57 page)

Tresier had some difficulty in expressing himself. "I beg your pardon. I did
not . . .
I could not . . . forgive me if I gave you a few unquiet moments there."

"You did," said Rolfe, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. "But I
do
forgive you. You saved my life."

More shots were heard, and soon after, they were joined by their seconds.

"He got clean away," said Charles Lagrange.

Tresier gripped Rolfe's hand. "Why did you fire first?" he asked. "Why did you put yourself at my mercy?" It was plain that the answer to his question was of grave significance to the younger man.

Rolfe's stare was long and level. "I fired first," he said, "because the damn fool pistol went off in my hand. It was an accident. You may believe, Monsieur Tresier, that I would not have spared your life
had our positions been reversed. When I raised that pistol, I aimed to shoot you straight between the eyes."

For an interval, Tresier looked to be stunned. A moment later, a deep-throated chuckle escaped him. Rolfe frowned, but soon after, he too let out a burst of suppressed mirth. Their seconds looked at them as if they had gone mad.

"Who was he? Did anyone recognize him?" asked someone, referring to Rolfe's assailant.

It was Tresier who put a name to him. "Andre
Va
- laze," he said. "He hangs out with the
jeunesse doree."

Rolfe wasn't thinking of the
jeunesse doree.
He was remembering the young man whom he had met on the stairs when he had gone to Madame Montansier's Theatre to rescue Zoë. At that time, Andre Valaze had been Paul Varlet's companion.

Housard was known to have the patience of Job. He reminded himself of that fact as he felt his control slip away from him. He never lost his temper. In his field of work, he could not afford the luxury. Once, not so long ago, he had followed the profession of law. Logic, clarity, and an unshakable sang-froid — these were his hallmarks. To lose one's temper was to allow one's emotions to cloud one's judgment. An enemy could soon use that weakness to advantage.

But the Englishmen
wasn't
an enemy. He was a colleague. He was more. Housard genuinely liked the younger man. He wished him well. And now that his mission in France had been successfully concluded, by and large, the English aristocrat's first thought should be to remove
himself
from the danger zone.

And he, Housard, should be congratulating himself on a job well done.

Contrary to every expectation, the Englishman had embroiled himself in a boyish scrape —a duel, in the name of God! Housard suffered agonies when he lost an agent in the line of duty. That Rolfe should flirt with death for no good reason strained his patience to breaking point.

For a full five minutes, he gave vent to his spleen. The walls of his small office in the Swedish Embassy seemed to reverberate with the volume of his voice. When his harangue finally ran its course, Housard could tell at a glance that the object of his vituperation was in no way chastened.

Rolfe lounged in an oversized armchair, his booted feet propped negligently against the fender.
In the chair on the other side of the empty grate, equally negligent, lounged his young brother-in-law, Leon Devereux.
A long look passed between them before Rolfe half-turned and made to answer Housard's long litany of reproaches.

"Hush, man, I was never in any real danger. We were only going through the motions for form's sake. Tresier insulted my wife. I demanded satisfaction. Honor must be satisfied. What would you have had me do?"

Through set teeth, Housard grated, "What we agreed that you should do —take your wife and her brother and get the hell out of France."

"How could I? Until the other night, Leon was still a fugitive. But you may believe, now that I have him under my hand, that I shall follow your advice as soon as may be."

This reasonable answer, far from mollifying

Housard,
only increased his ire. "Your cover is blown, man! Hasn't that fact penetrated whatever passes for brains inside your head?"

"My cover?"

"Valaze.
He tried to assassinate you. You know as well as I do that
Le Patron
is still on the loose. This whole episode has shades of what happened to you in England after we smashed their network. Someone is out for your blood."

"I'm aware of that," said Rolfe, turning serious. "But I'm not convinced that Valaze is involved with
La Compagnie.
What do you think, Leon?" Rolfe's eyelids drooped lazily. "Do you know anything of Andre Valaze?"

Since Leon had been taken into custody by Housard, he had told them very little, though, by degrees, the hard edge of his hostility had softened. His captors knew who and what he was. He did not need to be told that he was not in the hands of the regular deputies of the Committee of Public Safety. His fate, in those circumstances, was a foregone conclusion — summary execution. Still, Leon was suspicious.

His expression was inscrutable as he returned Rolfe's stare. This man was not the older man he had once pretended to be. The limp was no longer in evidence. The old-fashioned wig had been thrown off and lay discarded on top of the desk. This was the man his sister vowed she loved. He claimed that he was Zoë's husband. It seemed entirely possible that he was the English husband she had divorced.

Ignoring Rolfe's question, Leon put one of his own. "Why did my sister divorce you?"

Rolfe straightened in his chair. Something very unpleasant moved at the back of his gray eyes. His nos
trils flared. "I don't answer to anyone, least of all to a young cub like you, for what transpires between my wife and
myself
. Furthermore, you may discard the notion that your abominable sister obtained
a
divorce. In England, I take leave to tell you, that piece of paper would not hold up in a court of law."

"I would not be too sure of that," interjected Housard with something close to glee. When Rolfe emitted a rough expletive, Housard forgot about his anger and chuckled. At last, he was thinking, he had pierced the Englishmen's insufferable indifference. And to add insult to injury, he promptly needled, "If I
were
in your shoes, I would lose no time in making the lady my wife, else the children she bears you may find themselves bastards."

"The lady
is
my wife," said Rolfe with so much menace that the very air seemed to crackle with electricity.

Nothing daunted, Housard smoothly responded, "Of course. What I meant to say was
the you
should persuade her, if she can be persuaded, that is, to go through a second wedding ceremony, just to be on the safe side, you understand."

Belatedly conscious that Housard was deliberately baiting him, Rolfe modified his rigid posture. He inclined his head as though acknowledging a hit. "Zoë is stubborn," he admitted, "but not so stubborn that she will thwart me on so grave a matter. Your point is well taken, Monsieur Housard."

"Stubborn, is she?" mused Housard, enjoying himself immensely. "Yes, I think one may say that Zoë can claim that distinction and no one would dispute it. She has certainly led you on a merry chase since you first clapped eyes on her."

To keep a curb on his tongue, Rolfe snapped his teeth together.

Leon, who had been observing this curious byplay with growing interest, offered innocently, "My mother was used to say that Zoë had a will of iron. Once she made up her mind to a thing, nothing could sway her."

Rolfe scowled. Housard laughed. Leon cleared his throat.

"To
get back to Andre Valaze," said Leon, and there was a slight softening around his unsmiling lips.

"What about him?" asked
Rolfe.
His mind was still occupied with the unpleasant problem Housard had raised.

"I shouldn't think that he was a member of
La Compagnie.
The members, at least the ones in my cell, were fanatics. Valaze took opium. He would do almost anything to lay his hands on that narcotic."

At the same moment, the two older men raised their heads like wolves sniffing a fresh scent. A quick look of comprehension was exchanged before their glances fell on the darkly handsome youth. In the space of a few minutes, it was evident that something—a stray look or word —had persuaded Leon Devereux to relax his guard. He had never yet volunteered any information.

"Good lad," said Rolfe.

The next several minutes were taken up in putting a series of questions to Leon. And though the boy's attitude had undergone a material change, the results were disappointing. He could add very little to their knowledge of
Le Patron.
One interesting fact, however, did emerge.

"The three section heads make up the fourth cell," he told them. "They are the only ones who report to
Le
Patron "

"And are therefore the only ones who can identify
Le Patron?"
murmured Rolfe.

The boy nodded.

"And you say that your section head was one of the first to fall foul of the authorities?"

"He was the first of my cell to go," corrected Leon. "But if the authorities were involved, that is news to me. No. He and his mistress were found murdered in their beds. They had both been shot."

A look passed between Leon's companions. "It all fits," said Rolfe.

"What fits?" asked Leon.

"The fourth cell," answered Rolfe. "It would seem that as soon as
Le Patron
scents danger, he eliminates his lieutenants. That way, he is in the clear. We'll never discover his identity now."

When they met with Deputy Tallien some time later to make their final report, Rolfe diplomatically allowed Housard to voice that unwelcome fact.

"I am sorry to inform you, Deputy Tallien,"
intoned
Housard gravely, "that our chances of ever discovering the identity of
Le Patron
are remote, to say the least. It seems that the only members of the sect who might have identified him were the first to be sacrificed. In short, my friend here and I agree that
Le Patron
made sure that the members of the fourth cell were eliminated before he passed information on to the authorities."