THE NIGHT OF THE DEADLY OPERA
By Andamogirl
WWW
ACT THREE
The next morning
It was past dawn when James West came back to the hospital. A soon as he entered the hall he knew that something was wrong: unconscious people were lying on the floor: nurses, doctors, visitors, even patients dressed in their hospital pajamas.
His gun in his hand he knelt beside a young nurse and touched her throat: she was still alive, but apparently deeply asleep. He ran towards Artie's room, opened the door and found the bed empty. He spotted traces of blood on the floor and touched a red smudge. "Artie!"
He noticed part of a very large, almost giant footprint in the nearly dry blood – which could belong to one man only: Voltaire.
Loveless had kidnapped Artie! He deduced.
He left the hospital room and met Colonel Richmond in the corridor holding his gun. "Colonel! Loveless has kidnapped Artemus!" he said, very worried.
Richmond nodded. "I just came from the prisoner's room. Nat Hopper is dead. There are marks of strangulation around his neck, left by one sole hand! A very big one."
Jim nodded. "Voltaire's hand no doubt. I was right, Sir. Hopper worked for Loveless and Loveless ordered his giant henchman to kill the man because he could testify against him. Loveless wanted to kill the President, Sir." He looked down at his hand reddened with Artie's blood. "I have to find Artie, and I think I know where Loveless has taken him. I'm going to need the help of the local police."
Colonel Richmond nodded. "I'll give the orders."
WWW
Later in the opera house
On the stage, curtain closed
Miguelito Loveless looked up at his unconscious prisoner tied to a pole (he had found it in the props along with some ropes), proud of himself. While the agent was passed out, he had dressed Artemus Gordon in Leonora's clothes (he had found a dress in his dressing room and had found his long haired wig abandoned on the stage) over his pajamas soaked in blood.
He clapped his hands in glee and then kicked the bleeding agent's leg. "Come on Mr. Gordon! Wake up! You don't want to miss the grand finale, don't you? Your grand finale." But Artie remained dead to the world. Annoyed, Loveless looked up at Voltaire. "Slap him!"
Smiling, the giant slapped Artemus once, twice and… Artie slowly cracked open his eyes, which were bloodshot and raw.
Voltaire took a step backward. "He's awake," he said.
Loveless grinned. "Ah! Mr. Gordon, it's good to see you awake." He gestured towards the four goons dressed as soldiers standing behind Voltaire. They held a rifle each: a Winchester 73. "Gentlemen, stand ready for the coming execution." He looked up at Artie, barely conscious and kicked the man's leg again. "Stay awake for your execution Mr. Gordon – or I should say, Leonora."
Groaning, Artie whispered, "Leonora wasn't executed in the opera…"
Loveless nodded. "I know, but I decided to change the end of the opera. I told you, I like tragedies. You're bleeding to death – I'm going to shorten your suffering by doing so." He lifted his hand and the fake guards took a step forward. They aimed at Artie. "Do you have something to say before meeting your inevitable death Mr. Gordon?"
Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, Artemus nodded weakly. But he was smiling. "Yes, two words: turn around…" He rasped. Then he blacked out.
Miguelito Loveless frowned, puzzled, then he turned around and let out a gasp of surprise: Jim West was pointing his Colt at him. He saw too, that two policemen holding guns were framing him. A dozen others were aiming their rifles at the fake guards.
He scowled. "You have just ruined everything Mr. West!"
Looking down at the diminutive man with a fierce look, Jim said: "I saved my partner's life. Drop your weapons! Hands up!"
The henchmen complied and lifted their hands above their heads.
Loveless grimaced. He didn't like bad surprises, and even less to feel trapped like a rat. He didn't want to be sent in prison either, he thought.
He raised his hands and moved backward towards the edge of the stage – Voltaire doing the same. "You're partner is dying, Mr. West. I think that you should say goodbye to him before it's too late." He waited for the other secret agent to look at Artemus – which he did – and slid to the wooden floor of the orchestra pit, before disappearing into an opening beneath the stage.
Immediately, the giant Voltaire followed his master with less agility. When two policemen tried to enter in their turn, a thick cloud of red smoke made them retreat. They coughed, their nose and throat irritated, their eyes red and watering as if they had received pepper in them.
Moving towards Artemus, Jim, upset, ordered: "Search the whole place! Find them!" But he was sure Loveless and his giant henchman were long gone.
Using his knife he rapidly freed his partner, and gently laid him to the floor of the stage, cringing as he saw the set of bruises around his throat.
Artemus slowly regained consciousness. He peeled his eyes open and they fluttered. "Jim…" He whispered weakly.
Smiling Jim said, "Got you buddy, everything's going to be alright. You're safe. You'll be back to the hospital in no time."
Closing his eyes, Artie nodded and soon he drifted off to a welcome darkness.
WWW
Much later in the Wanderer on its way to Washington
Parlor car
President Grant folded the San Francisco Gazette, which headlined "President Grant narrowly escapes death in the San Francisco Opera House" on the table, took a sip of coffee and then he grimaced. "Where did you learn to make coffee Jim? It's really awful," he said, forthright as usual.
Dr. Henderson didn't even take his full cup, abandoning it on the table. "I know where, during the war. People needed strong coffee to stay awake," he said.
Grant nodded. "That beverage could revive dead people! ... It's as thick as molasses and as bitter as old vinegar, even with two pieces of sugar in it!"
Feeling a bit huffy, Jim said, "I'm sorry, Mr. President, Doctor. I have always prepared coffee that way. For my defense, it's Artemus who usually prepare coffee and… breakfast, and lunch and dinner too, and brunch sometimes. The galley is his domain."
The swinging door suddenly opened and said Artemus Gordon appeared, his hair wild, with dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks unshaven. His face was pale and drawn, showing lines of deep fatigue. He was dressed in his pajamas and robe, both unbuttoned. He was barefoot and had his hand pressed on his bandaged aching side.
Frowning in concern Jim said, "Artie? I thought you were sleeping. What are you doing up? You should be in your bed!"
Half-asleep Artemus mumbled, "Morning." He suddenly swayed on wobbly legs. "Oooh! The room's spinning, not good," he whimpered.
Stephen Henderson immediately sprang to his feet and maneuvered his patient towards the sofa, where Artie sat down gingerly, wincing. "Jim is right, Artemus, you should be in your bed, resting. I don't want to stitch your wound again." He checked Artie's pulse and touched his forehead. "Your heart rate is a bit elevated and you're running a mild fever." He stood and headed towards the desk where his black bag was sitting. He opened it and took out a glass bottle containing a brown liquid. Taking a large spoon from the table, he filled it with the thick syrup and approached Artie's mouth. "Open up!"
Frowning, Artie shot a black look at the physician. "I'm not a child! – Sir." He took the spoon, and sniffed the dark brow liquid with an expression of disgust. "Ugh!"
Colonel Henderson frowned and ordered. "Swallow that, it's good for you."
Hesitating for a couple of seconds, Artemus finally and reluctantly swallowed the syrup. He immediately grimaced in revulsion and coughed. "Gaaaaaaah!" and gave the spoon back to Henderson. "What's that horrible stuff? It's even worse than Jim's coffee!"
Henderson chuckled softly. "I know, it tastes awful, but your fever will be ancient history in a couple of hours. It's an old remedy coming from my grandmother."
Still grimacing, Artie wiped his tongue on his robe sleeve – like a child. "I should introduce you to American Knife, Doctor, he has Cheyenne remedies that taste awful too – no offense to your grandmother, or you, Sir." Then he whined, "I don't want to stay in my bed. I'm bored to death in my bed."
Jim chuckled. "Sometimes, Artie's behaves like a child when he's sick. I don't know why. Artemus Gordon aged forty four becomes a six-year old boy." And giggled when Artemus shot him a black look, before sticking his tongue out at him. "See?"
Grant smiled and then suspiciously eyed the plate of chocolate-covered biscuits sitting on the middle of the table beside the coffee pot, wondering if he was not going to eat something resembling chocolate pebbles on which he was going to break his teeth.
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes in front of Grant, Jim said, "Artie made them, Sir. Not me. There's no risk you can't like them. They're delicious."
Artemus frowned, puzzled, suddenly realizing something. "Why am I here in the Wanderer and not at the hospital?"
The President took one chocolate-covered biscuit and looked at Artemus. "Why? Because you weren't safe at the hospital with Loveless and Voltaire still at large, son. So I decided to bring you back home, to the Wanderer. Stephen is going to take care of you here, then, once back in Washington you'll go to the Military Hospital to finish your convalescence there." He saw Artemus opening his mouth to protest, eyebrows knitted, and he added with both a commanding voice and a stern look, "That's an order, Major, no discussion!" Then he pointed at the swing door, "And you're going to go back to your bed, now. We will talk later."
Still in child-mode Artie pouted. Grant kept his face severe. "It's not going to work. Bed, now!"
The Secret Services officer straightened his spine, suppressing a wince as his punctured side twinged. "Yes, Sir." Then his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Going back to bed."
Henderson helped Artie to stand. Jim offered his partner his arm. "Come on buddy. I think I have some good dime novels in my room. I'm going to lend them to you. You won't be bored anymore."
Grinning, Artie said, "No, I'll be dead of boredom." He looked at Grant. "Are you and Dr. Henderson traveling with us, Sir?"
The President nodded. "Yes, but not on the same train. Mine is following the Wanderer. But I'll pay you some visits from time to time, of course." He smirked. "And if you still are bored, Artemus, I could use a secretary the time we reach the Capital. You did a remarkable job when you were stuck in my tent after Jim shot you at Petersburg. I still remember that."
Turning white, Artie looked at Jim. "I think I'm going to enjoy your dime novels, Jim. See you later gentlemen; I'm going to bed, as ordered."
Grant chuckled.
WWW
Later
Holding a cup of coffee - which he had prepared himself and added a secret ingredient (bourbon) to it that he had found in the sideboard of the kitchen, Ulysses S. Grant sat on a chair beside Artemus Gordon's bed. The other man was sleeping and snoring lightly, an open dime novel resting on his chest.
He smiled as he saw Artie's eyes flutter open. Like his agent, he slept with one eye open since the war, he mused.
He knew too, that Artemus, as a former spy in permanent danger of being captured and then hanged, when on a mission had developed the ability to detect someone approaching him when sleeping: a sixth sense. That talent had saved his life several times.
He ended his reflection there and asked, "How are you feeling, Artemus?"
Slowly, gently, Artie pushed himself into a sitting position and, with a wince, touched an exploratory hand to his punctured side. "Like I've been stabbed with a bayonet, Sir. It's a first for me. I have been shot with bullets and arrows; I have been whipped, burnt, and stabbed with assorted knives… but never with a bayonet." He took the cup of coffee that the President held out to him. "Thank you, Sir."
He took a tentative sip, smiled and said, "It's not Jim's coffee. You prepared it, Sir." He gave Grant a knowing look. "I recognize that secret ingredient…" Then he gulped it in three swallows. "The last time I drank your special coffee was after the battle of Appomattox Court House."
Grant nodded. "I remember. It was on the morning of April 9, 1865… and I remember too that you drank a whole bottle of my secret ingredient after that coffee, but you needed it to dull the pain until Stephen could take care of you – you had a bullet in your leg and lost a good pint of blood on your horse."
Artie rapidly built a pillow fort behind his back, against the bulkhead, then leaned against it, hand pressed on his throbbing side. "I had crossed the enemy lines at full gallop – took a bullet in my leg, and my horse took a dozen of them at least… he died under me just in front of your tent Sir… it was a good horse, gentle, big and strong… I still miss him."
Grant moved to the side of the bed. "I wanted to thank you, Artemus. You saved my life at the opera – again. I'm going to give you a commendation for that."
Pleased and proud, Artie smiled broadly. "Thank you Sir."
Grant chuckled. "I wanted to tell you too, that I really loved your performance. You sing remarkably well Artemus, I was very impressed."
Pleased and proud - again, Artie smiled - again. "Thank you Sir. But I was unable to finish the opera and I regret it. The end was close when that assassin fired at you."
Grant nodded. "And he missed, because of you. Thank you again. Jim told me that you learned playing the piano at six along with the violin."
Placing the empty on bedside table, Artie said, "Yes Sir. I learned to play all the instruments I could put my hands on: the flute, the drum, the guitar… and I was singing in the local choir too." He frowned. "Do you want me to play something for you?"
Grant nodded. "I'd like to hear you play the piano, Artemus. If of course, you agree. I don't want to force you. The annual masked ball ar the White House is scheduled in two weeks. You could perhaps play a piece or two, I would be pleased."
Artemus grinned. "With great pleasure, Sir. But I'd like to stay incognito. I don't want to be recruited again by some maestro. I just want to be a special agent."
He already knew what he was going to play. He knew those pieces by heart.
Tbc.