The Black Throne

Emerson seemed to have taken a fancy to her and she patted him several times as she spoke, as if he were a large dog. This seemed to please him in the extreme, and he cavorted about the cabin till Peters growled something at him which resulted in his immediate retirement beneath the table.

" ... So, if there is anything I can help you with," she said, "just ask."

"All right," I said. "I will. We are following the inventor Von Kempelen. Or rather, we are following someone who is following Von Kempelen. I suppose it comes to the same thing—"

"The man has been seen in Paris," she interrupted. "He enjoys the reputation of being worth watching, here on the Continent. So we should be able to give you some assistance. Pray, continue."

I told her of A

"And so," I concluded, "we were about to go in search of Monsieur Dupin when you arrived."

She nodded.

"A good choice," she said. "I have worked with the man and can vouch for his brilliance and his integrity. And while I have not yet spoken with him on the matter, he may well know more about the Von Kempelen affair than I do. Shall I take you to him?"

"He is still at 33, Rue Dunot? I inquired.

"Indeed," she replied.

"How soon might we see him?"

"It is likely he would be there now. The seriousness of the situation suggests we dispense with formalities."

"Then let us visit him immediately," I said.

"Very well," she answered. "If he does not have the information we seek he will obtain it quickly. The man's reasoning abilities are legendary."

We started for the door and Captain Guy pointed out that Emerson was immediately behind us, having removed himself from beneath the table and approached in total silence. It was decided that he might make a rather conspicuous companion, and so Peters ordered him to remain a guest of the captain's.

Then with a shrug of his wig and a hitch of his trousers, he was out the door and we were on our way.

Down the gangway and onto the pier we proceeded, past dock laborers and crates of goods, making our way up to an avenue which led us past taverns, shops of cheap goods, and an occasional streetwalker.

"Finding a carriage hereabout is an uncertain matter," Marie a

I nodded, fascinated by the gracefulness of Peters' movements, though they were still governed by the rolling gait the sea had taught him. "I hope that I can persuade you," I told her, "to act as our interpreter full-time. Whatever extra cost this might involve, you're certainly welcome to it."

"I see no problem, Monsieur Perry," she replied.

"Make it 'Edgar,' " I said.

" 'Edgar,' " she repeated, accenting the second syllable. "Very well. Turn here—Edgar."

We turned onto a side-street, down which a carriage was slowly jouncing. A ragman, soiled bag over his shoulder, was picking through some trash in a doorway. From far ahead, I heard voices raised in a tuneless work song, heavy on the beat. There were deep puddles in the street and the usual random heaps of horse manure, as pungent here as back home.

At the corner we turned left upon a broader thoroughfare. Here, considerable carriage and cart traffic hurried past, as well as horseback riders and pedestrians.

"Along this way we should find transportation," Marie remarked.

Five minutes later we were passing a flower seller's stall, a number of people gossiping or staring before the racks of dried arrangements. Just as we went by an elderly man stepped toward us from beyond the next stall—where cheap scarves were being sold—and the moment his eyes fixed upon mine, a bright glint of lunacy within them, I knew that all was not quite well. He was poorly dressed, save for an expensive ring on his left hand, and in that instant I realized it was not the hand of an old man. A quick step and he was at my side, right hand emerging from behind his hip, a flash of steel within it.

I moved forward as he struck, blocking the thrust with my forearm. I punched toward his midsection, and though he blocked it his breath was expelled and he jerked as if my blow had landed. It was several moments before I realized that Peters had delivered a kidney punch at that instant. By then the man had lurched past me and commenced ru

"'E is but a common thug," she said. "I have seen him about. There is no need to pursue. We will know his employer by this evening."

The man had already disappeared into a space between two buildings. I shrugged and kicked the knife. It slid about eight feet. Gri

As we rode along she gave me a quick lesson on the town's disposition and taught me my first words of French. We rattled on for some time through the Fauborg St. Germain. The skies spat a few drops of rain upon and about us for perhaps two minutes then desisted. Occasional wraiths of fog hovered at the feet of hills and among trees.

At length we found ourselves traversing the Rue Dunot. The carriage slowed as we neared a grotesque and time-eaten mansion. Its crumbling eminence caused me to construct visions of the impoverished nobility when I saw its number to be the one we sought.

"C'est le maison de Monsieur Dupin?" I said proudly.

"La maison," she said.

"But that's the place all right?"

"Indeed."

She paid the driver and we descended. As the carriage rattled away we approached the doorstep, where Marie drew upon the bell-pull. Shortly thereafter the door was opened by an elegant young man—both in appearance and dress—who was obviously not a servant. He and Marie exchanged rapid-fire French for several minutes before he shifted his attention to Peters and myself.

"I am sorry," he said in an unusually rich tenor, "but the information could not wait. You are looking for Von Kempelen." It was a statement, not a question. "Please come in."

He stepped aside and held the door for us. We entered, and he closed it behind us. "Come this way."

The place was musty and filled with shadows. The floor creaked beneath our feet. He led us down a corridor past dim rooms filled with ancient furniture. At length, we came to a study, somewhat better illuminated but as venerably furnished as the chambers we had passed. Within, a goblinesque voice shouted an amazing litany of obscenities as we entered.

"The same to you, mate!" Peters retorted, turning quickly to seek the source of the challenge.

"Grip, be still!" Dupin ordered. "Attend now! Repeat! The flames in Spain burn heretics amain!"

"Rawk!" said what I then saw to be a raven perched on a shelf above the door. It followed this with the sounds of champagne bottles being uncorked.

"Nevermore, Grip. Nevermore," Dupin persisted.

"Rawk," repeated the bird, followed by obscenities I had heard but seldom for all my years in the Army, save from the lips of an Arkansas mule driver who had complained earlier that day on the recurrence of a vicious rectal itch.

"Nevermore," said Dupin.

"Je m'en fiche," said the raven.

Our host swept past us, saw us seated in attractive and uncomfortable chairs of a gold and rose floral pattern, then offered us sherry.

"I write a bit of poetry," he confessed, "and it amuses me, teaching a few aphorisms to the bird.

However, his previous owners were less than careful when it came to influences."

I refrained from inquiring concerning Grip's former residence.