* * * * * * * * * *
MEMENTO VIVERE
- Quartus -
Ne Absorbeat Eas Tartarus
"Phileas, slow down, we are attracting attention," Rebecca hissed, tugging at his arm with her not inconsiderable strength. Reluctantly, Phileas moderated his pace, with a sideways look at the few people that were also out in the streets. The hour was late, but not extremely so. The street lamps had been lit at sundown, but the sky still retained a deep velvety blue-back tinge.
"I'm still worried about leaving Passepartout alone," she said, a bit at random. Words were a comfort around Phileas, who seemed to emanate an almost tangible cloud of silence. If not for the harsh, clear sound of his half-boots on the cobbles, punctuated by the higher clicks of his sword stick, one could have thought that he was a silent gaunt shadow haunting the town.
"He will be perfectly safe," he said, startling her. She hadn't expected an answer. "We couldn't leave the =Aurora= moored down there, it's not exactly discreet."
Rebecca nodded. They had sent Passepartout aloft, to hover out of sight, with instructions to come down and check the rendezvous place they had chosen, first at dawn, then again at sunset.
"If we are not there at sunset," Phileas had told him in a flat voice, "do not wait further: go back to London immediately. Here are some documents. Take them to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, he will take care of things." Passepartout had looked at him wide-eyed, shifted his gaze to Rebecca, found there the same iron-clad determination, and finally, gulping, lowered his eyes and nodded.
"There's Bridehsaw's house," Rebecca said, coming back to the present with a slight start. It was a small house, two stories high, on the corner of a moderately wide street. She felt Phileas's arm stiffen, as if for battle. She let go of his arm, gently, and saw the small hesitation as his gloved hand went for the knocker.
The man who opened the door had a paunch, thin legs, and an elongated head half covered in wispy light-brown hair. He was dressed in a shabby nightgown and gave the impression of being at the same time under-boiled and over-worked. His watery eyes opened for a moment in alarm at the sight of Phileas Fogg at his door, and no wonder, thought Rebecca. Her cousin's black form stood as stiff and sharp as something chiseled out of the very night. She peered from behind him and gave the man an ingratiating smile.
"Good evening, Brideshaw. Rebecca Fogg. Sorry to bother you at this late hour," she said in her politest voice, to counteract Phileas's grim looks, "but we are here about your telegram. My credentials."
Brideshaw took the papers, studied them for a full couple of minutes, and then his eyes went again to Phileas.
"Ah... This is my cousin, Phileas Fogg. It's perfectly all right, Brideshaw."
"Yes. Yes, of course, excuse my manners," Brideshaw said, stepping aside to let them in, and then he seemed to realize something. "Oh dear. =Do= excuse me. Mister Fogg, may I say how sorry I am about the death of your brother. Such a loss. It is an awful business we're in, awful."
They sat down at a sturdy oaken table half covered in papers and books. Coffee was offered and politely refused by Rebecca, and finally Phileas drew a deep breath and gave Brideshaw a wan smile.
"Mister Brideshaw, forgive me. I thank you for your condolences, and I apologize for my previous rudeness. However, I must tell you that the matter that brought us here bears heavily on my mind. I would be deeply thankful for any way in which we can speed the matter up."
"I understand, of course."
"How did you come about the news, Brideshaw?" Rebecca interjected. "Your job does not usually involve patrolling the morgues." Phileas flinched, and Brideshaw looked uncomfortable.
"Indeed, no, Miss Fogg. I simply report on the town's gossip, the daily life, the public's feeling. I'm no more than a linguist, I never had any pretensions of being a field agent. You see, every spring, the river..." Brideshaw hesitated, cleared his throat, swallowed, "Every spring there are a number of bodies, released when the winter ice melts, that are recovered in the river's banks. Accidents, suicides. When they can't identify a body immediately, they publish a note in the papers, along with a description, and so..."
"I see. And have you seen the body yourself?"
"Well... no. I confess I am of a rather nervous nature. I would do it, of course, if no other options were available," Brideshaw said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "The description was rather detailed. The age, height and clothes all matched, but since I was not personally acquainted with Mister Fogg - young Mister Fogg, I mean - I could not presume to send a confirmation, even if I had actually seen the... the remains."
"Mister Brideshaw," Phileas said, "I wonder if it would be at all possible to see m... to see the body tonight."
"Tonight?" Brideshaw yelped. "Oh, wouldn't you rather wait until morning, sir?"
"We would prefer to avoid spending any more time in Prussia than is strictly necessary," Rebecca interjected smoothly. "Phileas is well known as a British agent in Prussia; every moment he spends here is dangerous for him. I trust it is not too late to go to the morgue. Is it very far from here?"
"I..." Brideshaw looked at Phileas and relented, "No, not at all. Thirty minutes, give or take. It is a trifle late, but I believe we shall have no problem getting in. The caretaker lives there."
The chair scraped noisily on the wooden floor as Phileas rose with all the determination of a tidal wave. Rebecca, too, was rising.
"Shall we?" she said, a little tensely.
Brideshaw sighed.
"Give me some minutes to change into my street clothes."
* * * * *
"Kreutzmer!"
"Colonel?" Kreutzmer rose his head from the briefings he was reading. Von Kessler strode to his desk as if he was charging, his face twisted into a mask of fury.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, waving some papers. Kreutzmer, taken aback by the sheer rage in the Colonel's voice and expression, didn't react until von Kessler put the pages under his nose.
"This, man, this! Why wasn't I informed!?"
"But... Sir, this is nothing but a report about some silly visions of the peasants... Some nonsense about a flying ship."
"Silly! Silly visions! Haven't you read the latest reports about dirigibles? Don't you know that one such machine has been sighted recently over Paris? If there is one, there can be another! And if there is another, Fogg is on it!"
"Colonel... Karl, calm down, I'm sure..."
"Sure!" Throwing himself across the desk, von Kessler grabbed Kreutzmer by the neck. The Colonel wasn't a tall man, but under the elegant fabric of the uniform his muscles were as strong as steel. "If there is anything in the world that you can be sure about, Wilhelm," he hissed venomously on the choking man's ear, "it is that Fogg will always find the fastest method to go =anywhere=. It =is= Fogg, I tell you."
He withdrew. Kreutzmer wheezed and coughed, trying to catch his breath. Von Kessler perched a hip on the corner of the desk and watched him coldly.
"Find a group of men at once," he said. "All armed, but no guns: I don't want a shooting in the streets if I can help it. We are going to Brideshaw's house this very moment. And if they are not here, we know where they are going next."
Kreutzmer rubbed his throat. He was about to ask if it was wise, but seeing von Kessler's flushed face, the slight twitch of his mobile, expressive mouth, and his clenched, white-knuckled hands, he thought better about it.
"Yes, Colonel," he said meekly. Von Kessler jumped from the desk.
"I'm going to pick some weapons. Let them be ready outside the building in five minutes, =not= in uniform. You are coming, too: arm yourself. And, Kreutzmer..."
"Colonel?"
"My name is Colonel von Kessler, Colonel, or sir. If you ever call me Karl again... I shall kill you." Von Kessler's voice harbored only naked threat now. "Are we absolutely clear on this?"
Kreutzmer swallowed, hard.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Don't ever forget." Von Kessler flashed his impish grin and withdrew. Kreutzmer wiped his brow with a trembling hand, and, collecting himself, went to get the men.
* * * * * * * * * *
End of Chapter Four
MEMENTO VIVERE
- Quartus -
Ne Absorbeat Eas Tartarus
"Phileas, slow down, we are attracting attention," Rebecca hissed, tugging at his arm with her not inconsiderable strength. Reluctantly, Phileas moderated his pace, with a sideways look at the few people that were also out in the streets. The hour was late, but not extremely so. The street lamps had been lit at sundown, but the sky still retained a deep velvety blue-back tinge.
"I'm still worried about leaving Passepartout alone," she said, a bit at random. Words were a comfort around Phileas, who seemed to emanate an almost tangible cloud of silence. If not for the harsh, clear sound of his half-boots on the cobbles, punctuated by the higher clicks of his sword stick, one could have thought that he was a silent gaunt shadow haunting the town.
"He will be perfectly safe," he said, startling her. She hadn't expected an answer. "We couldn't leave the =Aurora= moored down there, it's not exactly discreet."
Rebecca nodded. They had sent Passepartout aloft, to hover out of sight, with instructions to come down and check the rendezvous place they had chosen, first at dawn, then again at sunset.
"If we are not there at sunset," Phileas had told him in a flat voice, "do not wait further: go back to London immediately. Here are some documents. Take them to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, he will take care of things." Passepartout had looked at him wide-eyed, shifted his gaze to Rebecca, found there the same iron-clad determination, and finally, gulping, lowered his eyes and nodded.
"There's Bridehsaw's house," Rebecca said, coming back to the present with a slight start. It was a small house, two stories high, on the corner of a moderately wide street. She felt Phileas's arm stiffen, as if for battle. She let go of his arm, gently, and saw the small hesitation as his gloved hand went for the knocker.
The man who opened the door had a paunch, thin legs, and an elongated head half covered in wispy light-brown hair. He was dressed in a shabby nightgown and gave the impression of being at the same time under-boiled and over-worked. His watery eyes opened for a moment in alarm at the sight of Phileas Fogg at his door, and no wonder, thought Rebecca. Her cousin's black form stood as stiff and sharp as something chiseled out of the very night. She peered from behind him and gave the man an ingratiating smile.
"Good evening, Brideshaw. Rebecca Fogg. Sorry to bother you at this late hour," she said in her politest voice, to counteract Phileas's grim looks, "but we are here about your telegram. My credentials."
Brideshaw took the papers, studied them for a full couple of minutes, and then his eyes went again to Phileas.
"Ah... This is my cousin, Phileas Fogg. It's perfectly all right, Brideshaw."
"Yes. Yes, of course, excuse my manners," Brideshaw said, stepping aside to let them in, and then he seemed to realize something. "Oh dear. =Do= excuse me. Mister Fogg, may I say how sorry I am about the death of your brother. Such a loss. It is an awful business we're in, awful."
They sat down at a sturdy oaken table half covered in papers and books. Coffee was offered and politely refused by Rebecca, and finally Phileas drew a deep breath and gave Brideshaw a wan smile.
"Mister Brideshaw, forgive me. I thank you for your condolences, and I apologize for my previous rudeness. However, I must tell you that the matter that brought us here bears heavily on my mind. I would be deeply thankful for any way in which we can speed the matter up."
"I understand, of course."
"How did you come about the news, Brideshaw?" Rebecca interjected. "Your job does not usually involve patrolling the morgues." Phileas flinched, and Brideshaw looked uncomfortable.
"Indeed, no, Miss Fogg. I simply report on the town's gossip, the daily life, the public's feeling. I'm no more than a linguist, I never had any pretensions of being a field agent. You see, every spring, the river..." Brideshaw hesitated, cleared his throat, swallowed, "Every spring there are a number of bodies, released when the winter ice melts, that are recovered in the river's banks. Accidents, suicides. When they can't identify a body immediately, they publish a note in the papers, along with a description, and so..."
"I see. And have you seen the body yourself?"
"Well... no. I confess I am of a rather nervous nature. I would do it, of course, if no other options were available," Brideshaw said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "The description was rather detailed. The age, height and clothes all matched, but since I was not personally acquainted with Mister Fogg - young Mister Fogg, I mean - I could not presume to send a confirmation, even if I had actually seen the... the remains."
"Mister Brideshaw," Phileas said, "I wonder if it would be at all possible to see m... to see the body tonight."
"Tonight?" Brideshaw yelped. "Oh, wouldn't you rather wait until morning, sir?"
"We would prefer to avoid spending any more time in Prussia than is strictly necessary," Rebecca interjected smoothly. "Phileas is well known as a British agent in Prussia; every moment he spends here is dangerous for him. I trust it is not too late to go to the morgue. Is it very far from here?"
"I..." Brideshaw looked at Phileas and relented, "No, not at all. Thirty minutes, give or take. It is a trifle late, but I believe we shall have no problem getting in. The caretaker lives there."
The chair scraped noisily on the wooden floor as Phileas rose with all the determination of a tidal wave. Rebecca, too, was rising.
"Shall we?" she said, a little tensely.
Brideshaw sighed.
"Give me some minutes to change into my street clothes."
* * * * *
"Kreutzmer!"
"Colonel?" Kreutzmer rose his head from the briefings he was reading. Von Kessler strode to his desk as if he was charging, his face twisted into a mask of fury.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, waving some papers. Kreutzmer, taken aback by the sheer rage in the Colonel's voice and expression, didn't react until von Kessler put the pages under his nose.
"This, man, this! Why wasn't I informed!?"
"But... Sir, this is nothing but a report about some silly visions of the peasants... Some nonsense about a flying ship."
"Silly! Silly visions! Haven't you read the latest reports about dirigibles? Don't you know that one such machine has been sighted recently over Paris? If there is one, there can be another! And if there is another, Fogg is on it!"
"Colonel... Karl, calm down, I'm sure..."
"Sure!" Throwing himself across the desk, von Kessler grabbed Kreutzmer by the neck. The Colonel wasn't a tall man, but under the elegant fabric of the uniform his muscles were as strong as steel. "If there is anything in the world that you can be sure about, Wilhelm," he hissed venomously on the choking man's ear, "it is that Fogg will always find the fastest method to go =anywhere=. It =is= Fogg, I tell you."
He withdrew. Kreutzmer wheezed and coughed, trying to catch his breath. Von Kessler perched a hip on the corner of the desk and watched him coldly.
"Find a group of men at once," he said. "All armed, but no guns: I don't want a shooting in the streets if I can help it. We are going to Brideshaw's house this very moment. And if they are not here, we know where they are going next."
Kreutzmer rubbed his throat. He was about to ask if it was wise, but seeing von Kessler's flushed face, the slight twitch of his mobile, expressive mouth, and his clenched, white-knuckled hands, he thought better about it.
"Yes, Colonel," he said meekly. Von Kessler jumped from the desk.
"I'm going to pick some weapons. Let them be ready outside the building in five minutes, =not= in uniform. You are coming, too: arm yourself. And, Kreutzmer..."
"Colonel?"
"My name is Colonel von Kessler, Colonel, or sir. If you ever call me Karl again... I shall kill you." Von Kessler's voice harbored only naked threat now. "Are we absolutely clear on this?"
Kreutzmer swallowed, hard.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Don't ever forget." Von Kessler flashed his impish grin and withdrew. Kreutzmer wiped his brow with a trembling hand, and, collecting himself, went to get the men.
* * * * * * * * * *
End of Chapter Four
