“They thought it was in the grave?”
“They didn’t know. A lot of odd items were placed in that coffin. Someone thought maybe the answer lay there. It’s believed that was one of the reasons why the Brits agreed to the exhumation—to have another look.”
“And did they find anything?”
She sipped her wine. “Nothing.”
She watched as her words took root.
“They didn’t look in the right place, did they?” he asked.
She was starting to like this Dane. “Not even close.”
“And you, Madame Larocque, have you discovered the right place?”
“That, Herre Thorvaldsen, is a question that may well be answered before this day is completed.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
THIRTY-EIGHT
MALONE FOUND THE NAPOLEONIC EXHIBITS AND EXAMINED relics of both the emperor’s triumph and his fall. He saw the bullet that wounded the general at Ratisbon, his telescope, maps, pistols, a walking stick, dressing gown, even his death mask. One display depicted the room on St. Helena where Napoleon died, complete with folding cot and canopy.
A scraping sound echoed through the hall.
The metal doors a hundred feet behind him were being forced.
He’d settled one of the construction pallets against the doors, knowing that he would soon have company. He’d watched as Ashby had left the church and calmly walked into the Invalides. While Ashby and his entourage stopped to admire the Court of Honor, he’d hurried inside. He was assuming that Ashby was privy to the same sort of inside information Stephanie had provided him. He’d called her last night, after leaving Thorvaldsen, and formulated a plan that accommodated her needs while not compromising his friend.
A juggling act. But not impossible.
The pallet guarding the metal doors scraped louder across the floor.
He turned and spied light seeping into the dim hall.
Three shadows broke the illumination.
Before him, resting inside a partially opened glass case were some silver cutlery, a cup used by Napoleon at Waterloo, a tea box from St. Helena, and two books. A small placard informed the public that the books were from Napoleon’s personal library on St. Helena, part of the 1,600 he’d maintained. One was Memoirs and Correspondence of Joséphine read, the placard informed, by Napoleon in 1821, shortly before he died. He’d supposedly questioned its veracity, upset by its content. The other was a small, leather-bound volume, opened to pages near its center that another placard identified as The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D., from the same personal library, though this book had the distinction of being specially identified in the emperor’s last will and testament.
A click of urgent heels on hard floor echoed through the hall.
ASHBY LOVED THE CHASE.
He was always amused by books and movies that depicted treasure hunters as swashbucklers. In reality, most of the time was spent poring through old writings, whether they be books, wills, correspondence, personal notes, private diaries, or public records. Bits and pieces, here and there. Never some singular piece of proof that solved the puzzle in one quick swoop. Clues were generally either barely existent or undecipherable, and there were far more disappointments than successes.
This chase was a perfect example.
Yet they may actually be on to something this time.
Hard to say for sure until they examined The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D., which should be waiting for them a few meters ahead.
Eliza Larocque had advised him that today would be a perfect opportunity to sneak into this part of the museum. No construction crews should be on the job. Likewise, the Invalides staff would be anxious to be done with the day and go home for Christmas. Tomorrow was one of the few days the museum was closed.
Mr. Guildhall led the way through the cluttered gallery.
The tepid air smelled of paint and turpentine, further evidence of the obvious ongoing renovations.
He needed to leave Paris as soon as this errand was completed. The Americans would be waiting in London, anxious for a report. Which he would finally provide. No reason to delay any longer. Tomorrow would prove a most interesting day—a Christmas he’d certainly remember.
Mr. Guildhall stopped and Ashby caught sight of what his minion had already seen.
In the glass case where the assorted Napoleonic relics and books should be waiting, he saw one volume. But the second book was gone. Only a small card, angled on the wooden easel, remained.
A moment of silence seemed like an hour.
He quelled his dismay, stepped close, and read what was written on the card.
Lord Ashby, if you’re a good boy,
we’ll give you the book.
“What does that mean?” Caroline asked.
“I assume it’s Eliza Larocque’s way of keeping me in line.”
He smiled at the fervor of hope in his lie.
“It says we’ll.”
“She must mean the club.”
“She gave you all the other information she had. She provided the intel on this place.” The words were more question than statement.
“She’s cautious. Perhaps she doesn’t want us to have it all. Not just yet, anyway.”
“You shouldn’t have called her.”
He caught the next question in her eyes and said, “We go back to England.”
They retreated from the gallery and his mind clicked through the possibilities. Caroline knew nothing of his secret collaboration with Washington, which was why he’d blamed the missing book on Larocque and the Paris Club.
But the truth frightened him even more.
The Americans knew his business.