Pascale Auber & the Ruritanian Riddle

LXVIII The Truth - 2

The door creaked open, revealing nothing but the empty hallway. I was very conscious of the two-way mirrors lining the corridor as I stepped in, and pulled the door shut behind me. I stood, my wet skirts dripping on the polished floor, until I heard the low rumble of the door lock tumblers locking the door. I sniffled, childishly wiped my nose with my sleeve, and continued down the corridor.

I opened the oak door stencilled with a yellow "1", and let myself into the waiting area. I did not sit on the petit point sofa; I did not stand on the hand-knotted rug. I stood shivering in a corner, where I would drip only on the terrazzo, and prepared to wait.

To my surprise, the door into the sanctum sanctorum opened almost immediately – with my boss, a man I knew only as M.H., himself standing in the doorway. His eyes surveyed my shivering form, and he said, "Auber. You're dripping."

"Boss!" I began, tripping over my own words, "Simpelstur has my brother, Hentzau knows Simpelstur knows me, Cartimandua Silverstar is his niece, and Hentzau wants to know the truth!"

My boss raised a thick, dark eyebrow. "Theophilus von Hentzau is Cartimandua Silverstar's uncle?"

"What? No! Simpelstur is!"

"Ah. That isn't news."

"It isn't? He has Blaise! Simpelstur, I mean, not Hentzau!"

"Calm down, Agent. There is no need to become hysterical."

"Yes, there is!" I retorted. "He kidnapped my brother!" After an instant, I added, "I think."

"Oh, no, you are quite right," M.H. said, calmly. "You know you are not the only operative watching Simpelstur. Your brother was abducted from the aerocab stand outside of the Aosta theatre and taken to an airship with which you are, I believe, quite familiar. The airship belongs to Roderick Simpelstur, who lives there with his niece, the only child of his late brother, Peregrine."

"Cartimandua Silverstar is the daughter of Peregrine Simpelstur?"

"Did I not just say so? Come in to the office, Auber. You may sit on the wooden chair – but do not touch any of my books."

~*~

M.H. worked as we spoke, writing notes at an angle where I could not read them, packing them into the clear glass cylinders, and sending them off via the vaccuum tubes and telegraph-tapped instructions to who-knew-where. It was very clear that I was still in disgrace and not worthy of his full attention. Nevertheless, he reassured me; according to his sources, Blaise was alive.

"So, then, boss, you are going to send someone to liberate him?" I asked, hopefully.

My boss sighed, loudly. "I will try. But there is a bigger problem, Auber."

"Bigger than my brother's life?!"

"Your brother's life is safe. If Simpelstur wanted him dead, he already would be. No, Dr. Auber is bait – bait to attract you, and by extension, this agency."

"So you're going to take me off the case?" I asked, hopefully.

"Hardly, Auber. You are the only member of my staff who holds a standing invitation to the Ruritanian Embassy."

"But, boss," I knitted my fingers together in my still-damp lap, then pulled my hands apart. "Hentzau knows Simpelstur and I are involved. He told me to meet him at the embassy and tell him the truth. So obviously, I cannot go."

I believe I have mentioned before that I find MH intimidating. He is my superior, has exacting expectations, and is a large man. The electric light he favours for his office, void, as it is, of the soft, warm flickers of gas light, does not make me feel more comfortable. Much my boss's menacing aspect, however, derives from his expression. It is rarely mild, and often critical. I was, therefore, shocked by his reaction to my statement – he laughed.

"Auber," He finally said, wiping a tear from his eye, "You are refreshingly naive. Merely because a young man asks you to tell the truth, it does not mean that you will. Your job is a bridge consisting of enormous falsehoods suspended by a network of small truths."

I frowned.

My boss narrowed his eyes. "Tell him the story is embarrassing and then tell him you did it to impress Dantès. Easy, believable, almost true. Go."

A cold lump at the base of my stomach, I went.

I was very grateful to emerge back into the waiting room. One of M.H.'s constant messages must have been instructions on my behalf. Neatly folded in the centre of the hand-knotted rug there was a change of clothing – clean, dry, and exactly my size – and beside it, balanced carefully, a large china cup, full of rich beef broth, still steaming.