Devil May Care Part 12/?
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimer and notes see parts 1 - 11.
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"Your cause of sorrow/ Must not be measured by his worth, for then/ It hath no end." ~ Ross, Macbeth, William Shakespeare
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The East End, the Abandoned Warehouse
Marguerite was very politely led back to Karl's temporary headquarters. Schroeder would not disobey his superior but he was leagues ahead of him in manners, taste and intelligence. And yet, at that moment, there were few people she hated more than him: the man who was leading her back into the lion's den. The only ones to top him on the list were Tom and herself- Tom for allowing them to capture him and her own foolish self for caring.
Schroeder pocketed the pistol as soon as they entered the abandoned building. As the sun had set during their journey to reach the place, the vast, empty interior was gloomy and dark. A chill ran up Marguerite's spine as she walked towards the only light in the building, coming from Karl's office, her footsteps and Schroeder's echoing loudly off the walls.
She entered the office first, at Schroeder's quiet insistence, and he closed the door behind them. Karl sat at his desk, the dim light casting an even more sinister air to his face.
"Guten Abend," he said as Schroeder pulled forward one of the red plush armchairs for her.
"Good evening, Karl," she replied nonchalantly. "What is it this time? Did you want to know how the apple gets into the dumpling?" she cooed patronizingly.
"Bitte?" Karl asked confused- he always did have a problem catching hold of idiosyncrasies, Marguerite thought wryly.
"Never mind. Care to explain yourself?" she tapped the arm of the chair conspicuously.
"Baroness. Do not think that you can play your games with me any longer. This," he said, tossing the book onto the table with a thud, " is not what was required."
"It's Alice in Wonderland, is it not?" she asked simply, batting her eyelashes.
"Yes," he hissed angrily and came around the side of the desk to stand over her. "But it is not the codebook."
"Yes it is."
"No it is not."
"Karl, I went to the General's house, that was the book he had. He died to protect it."
"To protect the real codebook, perhaps. But that you gave to someone else an old friend Poldi, is that what you call him?" he sneered, looking down at her. "My father would never address a Count so informal."
Marguerite clenched her jaw. Damn you, Poldi, she thought angrily. So this is your payback for stealing your book and giving you a fake? Selling me out to the Germans?
"Lucky for you, Count Berchtold was kind enough to let me purchase it from him so that I may send the real book to Berlin."
That double crossing son of a bitch. Not only had he set me up, he was now pulling the wool over Karl's eyes too. I wonder what his father will think when Berlin receives not a forged codebook but an unaltered version of Alice, she thought anxiously.
"However, our good friend drives a hard bargain. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to remit your payment as well as seven thousand more to make up the difference."
"Bastard," she hissed between her teeth. "And if I say no?" she glared up at him.
"Schroeder!" Karl barked. Schroeder nodded and left the room to return moments later with a struggling Tom, who promptly kicked him in the shins. Grappling with him, Tom finally was subdued once Karl extracted the knife from the sheath at his belt. The boy whimpered through his gag and looked intently at Marguerite.
Karl raised the knife in the dim light and the sharp blade glinted ominously. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to your little friend, now would you?"
"I don't have your money, Karl. It's useless to threaten me to produce what I don't have!" she raised her voice pleadingly.
"A woman with talents such as yours could never have a lack of resources," he spoke with clipped consonants, dangling the knife ever so close to Tom's exposed throat.
"So you'll kill him?"
"Yes."
"And I suppose you'll hold him as collateral until I return with your payment?"
"You do not miss much, Baroness."
"And then probably, kill him anyway, just for fun. Maybe add me as well to your little list of chores."
"Perhaps," he grinned.
"He means nothing to me, Karl. Do what you like," she rose from her chair.
"Ah, I shall prove the maternal instinct in you yet, Baroness," he said lowering the knife to Tom's throat.
"I have none, just as I have no money to give you," she said flatly and continued her way to the door, though her steps were slower and more measured.
As she passed by an endtable, she picked up the lamp resting on its polished surface and swung it out from behind her, knocking Karl to the floor. Grabbing Tom by the arm, she promptly slapped him down, as the boy had scrambled to start fighting against the much larger man, and he slipped to the floor unconscious. For your own bloody good, Marguerite thought satisfactorily, now trapped in a dance around the furniture with a very irate Karl.
"You should not have done that Baroness," he hissed angrily, waving his knife and making jabs at her as she dodged away.
"And you should have listened to me," she replied in the same dark tones while watching another pillow get hopelessly torn to shreds by Karl's angry movements. Schroeder stood just outside the room and yet nothing. Marguerite darted quick glances at her only exit. She had to try it was her only hope.
She was nearing the door and running out of impediments to block Karl's progress across the room. When the handle became just within her reach, Karl made his move. Swinging the knife, he charged at her and she fell against the wall, both of her hands forcing his backwards. With an effort, she drew her knee up, weakening his hold on the knife and grabbed it from him, now doubled over in pain. Raising her knee again, she flung his head backwards and he had not hit the ground before she administered yet another swift kick to his chest.
Karl was motionless on the floor. Curling her lip and selecting a few choice insults, she moved to the other side of the room where Tom was groggily coming to. With Karl's knife, she cut his gag.
"Why'd ya haf ta knock me out? Aye knew ya'd beat 'im, Aye woulda stayed right outta the way but Aye wanted to see ya do it," he grumbled, nursing his cheek.
"You will never learn, will you?" she said disgustedly, rising to her feet and helping the boy up as well. "Come on, I'll take you home." She gestured towards the door and was pushed full force towards it by two tiny hands as the shot went off.
Marguerite turned in horror to see the pistol in Karl's hand. Tom clutched at his stomach, the blood already beginning to seep through his thin, dirty shirt. Tom's lips moved and he shot a scared glance at Marguerite before he fell to the floor.
"You know what, Karl? You're right," she said as he grinned, thinking he'd won. "I do care." And with that, she pulled her own pistol from her purse and shot him in the chest, emptying out the cartridge.
At the sound of the rapid fire shots, Schroeder burst in through the door to find his employer on the floor, his lifeless body slowly being soaked by his own blood.
Marguerite had lifted Tom's head into her lap and one of her hands covered his, pressing down on his stomach.
"Lady"
"Shhh, don't talk. It'll only make it worse," she chided in a whisper. "Don't worry- you're, you're going to be just fine. Just fine."
"Even Aye could tell a better lie than that," Tom coughed.
"Shut up, you silly brat, can't you listen to me for two seconds? I said you'll be fine and I meant it."
Tom's eyelids began to flutter closed and she patted his cheek furiously with her free hand.
"Don't do this, Tom. Don't give up. Come on, stay with me. Who am I going to order around if you don't stay with me?" she pleaded, her eyes beginning to tear.
"You woulda been a great mum," he whispered raggedly.
"Yeah, right," she scoffed tearfully.
"Margueriiiiiiiite" he trailed off, his eyes closing. Marguerite hung her head in shame and let her tears fall, not giving a damn about whether Schroeder cared to shoot her in the back or not. Bloody hell.
Angrily, she leapt to her feet and whirled around to begin kicking furiously at Karl's corpse, screaming at the top of her lungs as the tears continued to stream down her face.
Schroeder tugged her away, pulling her towards the opposite end of the room, away from Karl and Tom.
She sniffed imperially and searched her purse for a handkerchief. Finding one, she made a display of drying her eyes and then looked steadily at Schroeder who was watching her blandly, his hand slack at his side and holding his pistol.
"If you were going to kill me, I assume you would have done so already. How much time do I have?" she inquired in a soft voice.
"An assassin was due to arrive soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. When it is discovered that Karl is dead, the Field Marshall will order your death. I must report it- he deserves to know his son is dead. But-" he hesitated slightly, " I do not know where you go when you leave here."
Marguerite nodded slowly to show her understanding. "I am in your debt."
"Consider us even. You bought me a drink once," Schroeder said, reholstering his pistol. "But know this: should our paths cross again, and if you choose the wrong side, I will not hesitate to do my duty, whatever it may be."
"I understand," she said solemnly and walked up to him to kiss his cheek. "You're a good man, Schroeder."
He blushed scarlet and nodded, clicking his heels together and fully straightening out his spine. "Yes. Erm, well. I will see him properly cared for," he said formally, motioning towards Tom.
"Thank you," she said sincerely, and tears brimming in her eyes again, she quickly left the warehouse, grateful for the cover of darkness.
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The Zoological Society's Club Rooms
"Another whiskey and soda, please," Ned Malone requested of one of the waiters making the rounds in the Red Room of the Zoological Society Club.
"Another one? My dear chap, it's only we British who are known for a stiff upper lip," Nigel Wainwright scoffed, idly sipping his port.
"Well, I think I've lived here long enough to know how to hold my liquor, thanks," Malone replied sullenly.
"Oooh, the American's getting cheeky," Nigel raised a supercilious eyebrow and giggled to himself, sinking further back into the over sized armchair he had claimed as his own.
Malone just glared at him and retreated once more to his own thoughts. He had recently been informed this morning that his big story was a flop: the Roxton jewel theft hadn't really been the heist of a century but a child's practical joke. His editor at the Herald had been glad enough to give him some leads on the city beat and all day long he had done his job, duly following unexciting stories around city.
He sighed audibly. Gladys was due to return from France with her father in a few days. He had been so hoping to impress them both with his investigative journalism- for a couple days he had thought he might even succeed in capturing the culprit before Scotland Yard. Gladys could hardly be indifferent to a hero and her father would finally consent to hire him for the Times.
And now, everything was ruined. He had no story, no tales to regal them with over dinner, nothing. His pocket book was slowly dwindling down to nothing and he had slept at the club rooms for the past two nights instead of returning to his flat to encounter his irate landlord who was expecting the month's rent, a week overdue. No wonder Gladys remained unaffected- all I have to offer her is boyish charm and that isn't enough to marry on, he thought disgustedly.
The waiter returned with his drink and he mumbled his gratitude into his glass. Nigel, he could tell, was about to make another nasty comment, when he apparently recognized someone behind where Malone sat.
"St. John! Old sport, over here!" Nigel waved hello. "Come and sit and let me listen to your sins," he said with affected seriousness, spoiled by his drunken giggle at the end of his sentence.
As if I'm the one with the drinking problem, Malone thought nastily.
St. John took his place in an armchair across from Malone and next to Nigel. "Oh Nigel, you'll never guess. Not in a million years, what good fortune I've had!"
"You do have that air about you, doncha know? Like that canary that swallowed the cat. Wait, no, no that's not right. Cat swallowed the canary look."
"Yes, because tonight I agree with everybody!" St. John said beatifically, taking a glass of port off a passing waiter's tray.
"Well, come on, then out with it," Nigel whined impatiently.
"Mabel has just consented to be my wife!"
"Huzzah, old chap! Good for you, tying the old noose, the old knot, whatnot. Lovely. Isn't that lovely?" Nigel asked pointedly to Malone, who had been trying his best to ignore them.
"Yes. Congratulations," he said courteously to St. John, raising his glass to him before taking another hearty swig of his drink.
"Yes, yes, congratulations!" Nigel chimed in and the two men drank their ports. "Don't mind him," he said conspiratorally to St. John, "He's just a bitter, drunken American."
St. John cocked his head to one side and considered Malone, who simply glared in their direction. "No, no. I bet I know what your trouble is, chap." He paused dramatically before wagging his finger at Malone. "Women trouble, isn't it? I bet I'm right."
Malone shifted uncomfortably in his chair. How the fool knew, he had no idea but it was disconcerting.
"Oh, I wager you're right," Nigel said eagerly.
"Of course I'm right. Most men, they're perfectly fine, can deal with most everyday problems but not women. Women are a whole 'nother kettle of fish."
"Different species," Nigel nodded.
"Don't work on the same level," St. John assented and took the air of one lecturing on state economics before Parliament. "Now, take me for example. Perfectly wretched about Mabel- my dear old aunt wouldn't let me marry her. But now that Uncle will get to go on his expedition all is right as rain. Auntie is forced to see the error of her ways- they always do eventually- remember that."
"Right. You are so right. Just like me and my dear heart" Nigel began before getting choked up.
"Best forget about her, old chap. She's not going to make it much longer- ought to stick it out for someone who's gonna live another year at least," St. John patted his friend's knee sympathetically.
"Wait a minute," Malone said, suddenly interested in the two idiots. "What was that you just said?"
"Oh, pay no attention to him," St. John leaned forward and whispered to Malone. "Hung up on an older woman. Six months to live. Horrid business."
"No, not that," Malone said exasperatedly. "I meant about your uncle- what was that about an expedition?"
"Oh, well, don't suppose a Yank has heard of the great George Challenger?"
"He returned from the Maplewhite expedition months ago. Used to lecture at Oxford," Malone said authoritatively.
"Oh, er, I guess you've, um, proved me wrong," St. John stuttered, smiling wide. "Well, he's planning his own expedition, you see. To this plateau in the Amazon. Lost world or something or other. Very dangerous, very exotic. Plans to revolutionize science as we know it," St. John said without much interest, toying with his empty glass.
"Well, if what I've heard concerning Challenger's work is true, I don't doubt that he will come up with discoveries of monumental importance," Malone said, half to himself. This was just the sort of opportunity he was looking for. The ultimate story: revealing a lost civilization to the world! He could write a book- have a lecture series- Gladys would marry him in a heartbeat with her father's heartiest blessing. A chill of excitement shuddered through him. He had to find a way to make sure that he was a member of the expedition.
"Has he found his crew yet?" Malone asked, feigning an air of disinterest.
"No, no. He's going to propose it all in a couple days when the senior club members meet. Will pass with no problem, now that he's got this old widow's money backing him up. At least women are good for something right? Now about your female problem, my lad" St. John began just as Malone quickly rose from his seat.
"It was nice talking to you two," he said in a rush, heading out of the room to start preparing. He needed to know everything there was to know about the Amazon and George Challenger before that meeting and by hook or by crook, he would be on that expedition.
St. John called "Cheerio!" to his retreating back and Nigel snorted into his port before starting up a conversation on cricket.
Unbeknownst to all three, a fourth person had been in the room during this conversation, nursing his whiskey in a dark, far corner. Lord John Roxton, senior member of the Society ever since the death of his elder brother, was boring a hole into the polished tabletop, his eyes staring into space seeing nothing.
He had arrived much earlier than the others, after a particularly vexing day of not finding Miss Krux or the governess. He had even gone so far as to visit the home of the supposed child prankster, and had been informed by the maid that yes, they had just sacked a governess - but for drunkeness- and that there were young charges in the house- two young boys that kept the footman busy but no girls with flaxen curls.
He was furious at her, at himself. The situation had gotten completely out of hand. From the first moment they had met, she had manipulated him in the most imperious manner, nearly shot him in his own home, and made a mockery of him. It wasn't often that he pulled rank, but it was more than an annoyance to be held in such esteem by his peers as a Lord and yet unable to match wits with a woman! It could not be borne.
She had flashed those changling eyes at him and he had subserviently allowed himself to be conned and tricked in the most devious of fashions. A mere woman! He wagered that both his father and brother were turning over in their graves with disappointment in younger son John, ineptly managing the estate as usual, almost losing the jewels to nothing more than a pretty face.
He could have more satisfaction if she had just taken the jewels and left, knife wounds, disguises and all. But instead, she returned them, under his mother's very nose, almost as payment for services rendered. He was no hired man and he would be damned if he would be seen as such by anyone, much less her.
She had consistently deceived everyone, he had thought as he heard Nigel bring her into his conversation with the journalist. Six months to live, hah! She had played him like the fool he was, and he would not be surprised to know that it was she who had taken his pocketbook and his potty mother's pearls.
This is what happens when you spend too much time in the city, he thought angrily. Away from the hunt and your instincts go soft. Well, no more, he resolved taking another drink from his glass. He had heard Smythe's conference. So Challenger was going to try for an expedition. He had to admit, he had heard vague references from the other members that he had tried this before, but the nephew seemed to think that this time it was a done deal. Some old hag with money to burn had finally been persuaded to the scientist's rantings. A lost world? So be it. He owed Challenger a debt that needed to be paid, and an adventure was an adventure was an adventure. He'd get away from bloody London, and bloody Miss Krux.
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TBC