The Three Mystic Heirs by Lawrence Ellsworth

Author:Lawrence Ellsworth [Ellsworth, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Monsieur de Fontrailles,” Aramis said, in the Posset-Cup the next evening, “allow me to present Gitane, Beaune, and Parrott.”

“A thousand thanks, Monsieur Aramis,” said Fontrailles. “You said they were all experienced men, and I must say, they do seem to have a certain … air about them.”

The air the men had about them was causing the other patrons of the Posset-Cup, a respectable neighborhood tavern, to look at them sideways and edge toward the door.

“I knew you’d be pleased,” Aramis said. “Let me fill you in on their backgrounds. This is Gitane.”

A dark-faced fellow with a patch over his right eye and a scar trailing down his right cheek took a step forward and removed his hat respectfully. Why do all these spies wear eye patches? Louis thought. I swear they do it just to look sinister.

“Gitane is a shipping expert,” Aramis said, “specializing in the evasion of governmental inspections and imposts.”

“You mean he’s a smuggler,” Fontrailles said.

“Perhaps so, mon ami, but there’s no need to insult the man.”

“He doesn’t look insulted. Are you insulted, Gitane?”

The man’s dark face split in a jagged grin. “Not the least bit, Monseigneur.”

“Good,” Fontrailles said. “Well, I think I can use a thick-skinned shipping expert. And who’s this? Beaune, you said?”

“Quite so.” Aramis beckoned forward a fair-haired, burly brute with hands the size of roast hens but a mild and amiable expression. “Beaune was an interrogator for the Duc de Vendôme,” Aramis said, “Before the Duc was….”

“…Taken away to be interrogated, after the recent conspiracy,” said Fontrailles. “What else can you do besides persuade people to talk, Beaune?”

The big man smiled shyly and opened one immense fist to display a half-dozen slim slivers of metal. “With these, I can open just about any kind of lock you like, Monseigneur,” he said, in a surprisingly high voice. “I had lots of time to practice, on manacles, and cell doors, and suchlike.”

“Improving yourself in your spare time; I like that. Shows real initiative,” Fontrailles said. “And you—Parrott, was it? What kind of name is that?”

“English, may it please your lordship,” said the third man, stepping forward. He was another big man, though not nearly as outsized as Beaune, and would have been handsome but for a great purple birthmark that sprawled across the left side of his face. He said, “My mother was French. She never liked England, and brought me back to France when I was fifteen. That’s where I learned my trade.”

He had a slight accent, but his French was relatively refined: perhaps he was a by-blow of some English aristocrat, brought up in a noble household. “And what is your trade, Mister Parrott?” Fontrailles asked.

“Parrott has a talent for replicating useful correspondence or official documents,” Aramis said, “thus obviating needless bureaucratic oversight.”

“Monsieur Aramis means I’m a forger,” Parrott said. “I’m also a good man at following people without letting on I’m doing it.”

“Splendid,” Fontrailles said. “Very well, lads, you’re engaged. I hereby induct you into the Political Squad of the Cardinal’s Guard.”

“Will we be wearing them red floppy cloaks with the crosses on ‘em?” asked Gitane.

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