“Damn your impudence and shut your yap!” Monsieur snarled. “I have no time to waste on you.”
“I speak only the truth. I have no choice but to speak the truth. If you wish otherwise, please feel free to deprogram me, and I will quit your presence immediately.”
“When I die you can depart, and not a moment before.” The slight old man addressed Darger and Surplus: “I have little time, gentlemen, and in that little time I wish to leave my mark upon the world.”
“Then — forgive me again, sir, but I must say it—you have surely better things to do than to speak with us, who are in essence but glorified scrap dealers. Our project will bring its patron an enormous increase in wealth. But wealth, as you surely know, does not in and of itself buy fame.”
“But that is exactly what I intend to do — buy fame.” A glint came into Monsieur’s eyes, and one side of his mouth turned up in a mad and mirthless grin. “It is my intent to re-erect the ancient structure as the Tour d’Etranger!”
“The trout has risen to the bait,” Darger said with satisfaction. He and Surplus were smoking cigars in their office. The office was the middle room of their suite, and a masterpiece of stage-setting, with desks and tables overflowing with papers, maps, and antiquarian books competing for space with globes, surveying equipment, and a stuffed emu.
“And yet, the hook is not set. He can still swim free,” Surplus riposted. “There was much talk of building coffer dams of such and so sizes and redirecting so-many-millions of liters of water. And yet not so much as a penny of earnest money.”
“He’ll come around. He cannot coffer the Seine segment by segment until he comes across the buried beams of the Tower. For that knowledge, he must come to us.”
“And why should he do that, rather than searching it out for himself?”
“Because, dear fellow, it is not to be found there. We lied.”
“We have told lies before, and had them turn out to be true.”
“That too is covered. Over a century ago, an eccentric Parisian published an account of how he had gone up and down the Seine with a rowboat and a magnet suspended on a long rope from a spring scale, and found nothing larger than the occasional rusted hulk of a Utopian machine. I discovered his leaflet, its pages uncut, in the Bibliothèque Nationale.”
“And what is to prevent our sponsor from reading that same chapbook?”
“The extreme unlikelihood of such a coincidence, and the fact that I later dropped the only surviving copy in all the city into the Seine.”
That same night Darger, who was a light sleeper, was awakened by the sound of voices in the library. Silently, he donned blouse and trousers, and then put his ear to the connecting double doors.
He could hear the cadenced rise and fall of conversation, but could not quite make out the words. More suspiciously, no light showed in the crack under or between the doors. Surplus, he knew, would not have scheduled a business appointment without consulting him. Moreover, though one of the two murmuring voices might conceivably be female, there were neither giggles nor soft, drawn-out sighs but, rather, a brisk and informational tone to their speech. The rhythms were all wrong for it to be one of Surplus’s assignations.
Resolutely, Darger flung the doors open.
The only light in the office came from the moon without. It illuminated not two but only one figure — a slender one, clad in skin-tight clothes. She (for by the outline of her shadowy body, Darger judged the intruder to be female) whirled at the sound of the doors slamming. Then, with astonishing grace, she ran out onto the balcony, jumped up on its rail, and leaped into the darkness. Darger heard the woman noisily rattling up the bamboo fire escape.
With a curse, he rushed after her.
By the time Darger had reached the roof, he fully expected his mysterious intruder to be gone. But there she was, to the far end of the hotel, crouched alongside one of the chimney-pots in a wary and watchful attitude. Of her face he could see only two unblinking glints of green fire that were surely her eyes. Silhouetted as she was against a sky filled with rags and snatches of moon-bright cloud, he could make out the outline of one pert and perfect breast, tipped with a nipple the size of a dwarf cherry. He saw how her long tail lashed back and forth behind her.
For an instant, Darger was drawn up by a wholly uncharacteristic feeling of supernatural dread. Was this some imp or fiend from the infernal nether-regions? He drew in his breath.
But then the creature turned and fled. So Darger, reasoning that if it feared him then he had little to fear from it, pursued.
The imp-woman ran to the edge of the hotel and leaped. Only a short alley separated the building from its neighbor. The leap was no more than six feet. Darger followed without difficulty. Up a sloping roof she ran. Over it he pursued her.
Another jump, of another alley.
He was getting closer now. Up a terra-cotta-tiled rooftop he ran. At the ridge-line, he saw with horror his prey extend herself in a low flying leap across a gap of at least fifteen feet. She hit the far roof with a tuck, rolled, and sprang to her feet.
Darger knew his limitations. He could not leap that gap.
In a panic, he tried to stop, tripped, fell, and found himself sliding feet-first on his back down the tiled roof. The edge sped toward him. It was a fall of he-knew-not-how-many floors to the ground. Perhaps six.
Frantically, Darger flung out his arms to either side, grabbing at the tiles, trying to slow his descent by friction. The tiles bumped painfully beneath him as he skidded downward. Then the heels of his bare feet slammed into the gutter at the edge of the eaves. The guttering groaned, lurched outward — and held.
Darger lay motionless, breathing heavily, afraid to move.
He heard a thump, and then the soft sound of feet traversing the rooftop. A woman’s head popped into view, upside down in his vision. She smiled.
He knew who she was, then. There were, after all, only so many cat-women in Paris. “M-madame d’Etra —”
“Shhh.” She put a finger against his lips. “No names.”
Nimbly, she slipped around and crouched over him. He saw now that she was clad only in a pelt of fine black fur. Her nipples were pale and naked. “So afraid!” she marveled. Then, brushing a hand lightly over him. “Yet still aroused.”
Darger felt the guttering sway slightly under him and, thinking how easily this woman could send him flying downward, he shivered. It was best he did not offend her. “Can you wonder, madame? The sight of you…”
“How gallant!” Her fingers deftly unbuttoned his trousers, and undid his belt. “You do know how to pay a lady a compliment.”
“What are you doing?” Darger cried in alarm.
She tugged the belt free, tossed it lightly over the side of the building. “Surely your friend has explained to you that cats are amoral?” Then, when Darger nodded, she ran her fingers up under his blouse, claws extended, drawing blood. “So you will understand that I mean nothing personal by this.”
Surplus was waiting when Darger climbed back in the window. “Dear God, look at you,” he cried. “Your clothes are dirty and disordered, your hair is in disarray — and what has happened to your belt?”
“Some mudlark of the streets has it, I should imagine.” Darger sank down into a chair. “At any rate, there’s no point looking for it.”
“What in heaven’s name has happened to you?”
“I fear I’ve fallen in love,” Darger said sadly, and could be compelled to say no more.
So began an affair that seriously tried the friendship of the two partners in crime. For Madame d’Etranger thenceforth appeared in their rooms, veiled yet unmistakable, every afternoon. Invariably, Darger would plant upon her hand the chastest of kisses, and then discretely lead her to the secrecy of his bedroom, where their activities could only be guessed at. Invariably, Surplus would scowl, snatch up his walking stick, and retire to the hallway, there to pace back and forth until the lady finally departed. Only rarely did they speak of their discord.