Chapter Four

"What a mess," Remi said, looking out at the streaming morass the evening had become.

It was ten minutes later, and they were back where they had started, outside the newspaper office. Beyond the front portico of the building, the rain fell steadily, showing no signs of letting up anytime soon.

After an impatient wait beneath the awning of the antique shop, Remi had decided that they should take their chances and run for it. He was actually relatively dry, his overcoat having borne the brunt of the downpour; but Martin, who had once again wrapped the bag of equipment in his own coat to protect it, was by now more than a little drenched. At Remi's words, he looked down ruefully at his outfit. All the care and consideration he had put into dressing for his first day of work had been quite literally washed away. His crisply-pressed shirt, which had been a cheery shade of yellow earlier in the day, was now soaked a sombre mustard, hanging limply on his slender frame. His trousers bore thick streaks of mud at each hem, almost from ankle to knee.

The dog did not help matters by shaking out its fur between them, showering them both with a fine spray. When they dared voice their displeasure, it gave them a haughty look, as if to say: You would do it too, if you were able.

"At least I have a spare pullover in my bag," Martin said, shuffling his feet inside his sodden socks. He had tried his best to avoid the puddle-strewn gutter, but it hadn't made much difference.

"You certainly did come well-prepared," Remi said, with an ironic smile; it seemed this would become a running joke between them. He thoughtfully looked the boy up and down. "Still, you might as well go home, lad."

"Sir-?" Martin turned on him, eyes wide with alarm.

The reporter chuckled apologetically. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you; that was not your dismissal. I simply meant that you should go home for an hour or so, change clothes, have some dinner, feed that new pet of yours - all this dashing about must have given him the appetite of a Doberman." The dog eyed Remi favourably; it seemed to more than agree with this suggestion. "Take the opportunity to spend a bit of the evening with your family. You won't have the chance to do so again for a while after this. New recruits always work the late shift. You must first prove that your spelling and grammar are indeed far better than Emile's; only then will you be allowed to sleep at night."

Martin grinned at this. Though he was certainly eager to prove himself, he was grateful for Remi's suggestion. It had already been an eventful first afternoon on the job. He wouldn't mind a short reprieve; especially since he had some business close to home...

"Very well. I appreciate how generous you are being; I take it that this kind of leisurely pace won't come about too often."

"Not on my watch," Remi affirmed, without a hint of remorse. "Pass me the bag - no point running around in the wet with it any more than we already have - and the notebook too, please. While you dash home, I'll go over your notes, see how you fared at taking down shorthand. Once you get back, I'll show you how to go about drafting your first article."

He watched with approval as Martin beamed at the prospect: his first official article. It wouldn't have the boy's name on it just yet; however, it couldn't be denied that the new cadet had already contributed significantly to the fine profession of reportage. The dog at his heel was proof enough of that.

Martin handed over Remi's belongings. The reporter took them; then, as if he were paying a valet, passed him a ten-franc note in return. "Here, this is for taxi fare. Make sure you stay dry on the way home and back. That should cover it, I think; unless you live on the outskirts of Schaerbeek."

"N-no, I don't. Thank you." Martin took the proffered note, surprised. To think that professional reporters could be so cavalier with expenses...

"Don't look so impressed," Remi smiled, evidently reading his thoughts. "I'm not made of money, though our accounts department very nearly is. I can claim it back on business expenses, so don't be shy about taking it." He waved the lad towards the nearby taxi stand; its signpost was just visible through the teeming rain. "Now go on, be off with you. I expect you back within the hour, and the clock is already ticking. You'll probably have a hard time finding a cab that will take that wet mutt."

The dog huffed softly at him, unimpressed by this last remark; Martin, however, brushed it aside. "We will return punctually," he said, standing to attention in proper Scout style, "and I shall bring you back the change from the cab fare."

Remi snorted. "I doubt you'll have very much," he said, as he watched the dog trail a line of dainty paw prints along the rain-slicked pavement.

Once inside, Remi divested himself of his wet outer garments, lodged his recent expenditure with accounts; and then, seeing as his cadet wasn't back yet, brewed a pot of coffee in the break room himself.

"Shouldn't your new little shadow be doing that?"

Remi looked up to find Annalise leaning in the doorway, a heavy ledger propped against her hip. "Did he shrink in the rain, or get washed into a gutter? He certainly looked skinny enough to fit down a drainpipe."

"How uncharitable," Remi retorted, though he privately couldn't help agreeing with her - boy scouts must teach these lads to live on fresh air alone! "He's safely out of the way, where he won't hear such remarks at his expense. I sent him home to get something to eat and change into dry clothes."

"Just like a good papa," Annalise commented, with a broad smirk.

Remi gave her the most dignified look he could muster. "He's a grown boy and can take care of himself, I'm sure. I have too many deadlines to be bothered with parenting."

"I suppose so. You do always treat your next article as if it were your own prized progeny."

"Quite right." For years Remi had been married to his work; he didn't deny it, nor did the fact bother him. Besides, Annalise's needling was alike enough to marital sparring to keep him from feeling too deprived. "If it so concerns you, I can hand the boy a note when he returns, telling his mother to feed him up a bit."

"Little good that would do," Annalise retorted, red lips curving up in the grin she reserved for those instances when she knew more about a story than any reporter on the floor; she tended to smile a lot. She flipped open the ledger, which she had been taking to personnel. "According to the forms he filled in, our lad has his own place of residence, no parent nor legal guardian currently listed. Quite the independant little soul, isn't he? No wonder he matched up so well with you, Papa Remi."

"Ha, ha," Remi muttered in response. Though his manner was outwardly sarcastic, his mind was rapidly processing what Annalise had told him. Fourteen years old and already living alone?! Typical of today's youth - so eager to grow up!

But was that really all it was? Remi wondered to himself, recalling Martin's comment about his age. What kind of boy didn't know his own birth date?

It was odd, just as so much else about the lad was odd. From the very beginning, this new cadet had struck Remi as one-of-a-kind; though just what kind that was, he couldn't yet begin to fathom. He was certainly quite different to the usual buttoned-up, over-coddled school-leaver that usually turned up at their doorstep, looking for an easy profession that wouldn't keep them tethered to a desk (how misguided they all were!). This description hardly applied to Martin. There was something singular about him, something subtler. Remi rather doubted that he was a spy, as Emile had so outlandishly suggested; yet there certainly seemed to be something irregular about him. He had something that Remi had seldom seen, despite his long and varied career, and never in one so young: a finely-honed social conscience, which could not be wholly attributed to Scouts alone.

There's a story here, Remi thought to himself, as Annalise sashayed away, eager to retrieve her purse from her desk and head home for the night. There's something about the lad that doesn't quite add up... almost a sort of mystery to him...

He sighed and checked his watch. After all these years, he was starting to see everything as a potential headline. He had said it to Martin himself, just minutes earlier: the boy was hired to help write the news, not make it.

Though he wouldn't be doing even that much, unless he got back soon - his hour's break was very nearly up.

It had been an hour and twenty-three minutes. Remi impatiently tapped his pen against the edge of his desk, trying not to lose his temper.

So much for Scouts, he muttered inwardly to himself. Apparently there is no badge for turning up on time...

He grimaced as he sipped his cup of coffee - just cool enough now to be no longer palatable - and flipped open the notebook on the desk in front of him. Martin's neat handwriting filled the page he turned to, succinctly stating the major points of Mrs Hubbard's statement. Though he had already read it about a dozen times during the past hour-and-a-half, Remi read it again, for no reason other than to pass the time. The lad had done a good job of it, he had to admit; a seasoned reporter couldn't have done much better.

Which made it all the more disappointing that he seemed to have bailed, dog and all, halfway through his first assignment. The allotted hour was well and truly up, yet there was no sign of his return. He had apparently taken the cab money and run.

Remi sighed, idly running his thumb over the edge of the book's pages. He stopped abruptly as it flipped over and fell open on a new page, half-filled by the same staid lines of boyish handwriting. Remi hadn't noticed this before; he had assumed that the notes from Mrs Hubbard's had finished on the previous page. Leaning forward, he peered down at the few brief lines penned there:

Dog bite - needs treatment
Evade police detection
Facility furthest from crime scene

Remi stared at it. This had nothing to do with Mrs Hubbard, surely. Was it about that infernal scrap of fabric, the one purportedly from a robber's suit? Was that what was keeping the boy right now? He could just picture Martin in some kind of holding cell, waving his fragment of yellow tweed in the air, while concerned police officers summoned the city asylum to come collect their newest patient. Remi had vaguely wondered whether such delusions would prove to be dangerous. If the boy had gotten foolish thoughts of adventuring into his head...

His musings were interrupted by the shrill peal of the telephone ringing at his elbow. Startled by the sudden clamour in the silence of the near-empty office, he came back to himself and lifted the receiver, trying to focus his mind on the task at hand.

"Office of Le Petit Vingtieme, Field Reporter Remi speaking."

"Mr Remi...?" said a familiar voice, only slightly distorted by the connection.

The reporter swung bolt-upright in his chair, nearly dropping the receiver in his surprise. "Martin?!" he gasped, hastily identifying the caller; he had expected the lad to return to the office in person, not via the phone line. "Martin, w-wh-... How did you get this number?!"

"You gave it to me, sir," came the steady reply from the other end of the line. "On your card, remember?"

So he had; he had completely forgotten about it. "I did, too." He forced himself to relax, leaning back in his chair again. "What is it, Martin? Already run out of money for the cab? If you have, I can only-"

"No, that's not- I mean, where I am now, I don't need it. The reason I'm calling is..."

It occurred to Remi, for the first time, that the boy was nearly whispering. There was a furtive note of urgency in his voice that Remi should have recognized right off; he had heard enough foreign correspondents in far-flung war zones use just such a tone. He had the sinking feeling that his cadet had somehow landed himself in some kind of dangerous situation.

"Where are you?" he asked, suddenly terse, all signs of levity gone in an instant.

"At the Saint-Michel Clinic," came the answer. Remi grunted to himself; he knew it, a small medical hospice halfway across town. "Mr Remi-" the voice changed now, from cautious to exultant "-I found him!"

"Found who?" Remi was feeling increasingly bewildered, and he didn't at all like what he was hearing.

"The robber! I thought I'd look for him at this clinic, since it is the farthest medical facility from the scene of the crime as one can get - and I found him!"

"Your man in the yellow suit?" Remi asked, with a sense of foreboding.

"Yes! It wasn't difficult at all! I just walked in, and he-"

"How on earth did you get past the nurses and staff?" Remi interrupted. If their over-enthusiastic cadet had wandered into a hospital and unwittingly made a scene...

"The dog helped me," Martin replied, as if this was the most natural statement in the world. Remi heard a soft snuffling in the background of the call. His heart sank.

"You took the dog into a hospital?!"

"Yes," came the chipper reply; Martin evidently had more patience than Remi did, as he calmly set about explaining. "It was the only way to make sure that the suspect was the right one. You saw how he reacted to the little piece of fabric. I knew that when we found the rest of the suit - and its owner - he'd be able to verify that we had the right man. And he did!"

He evidently patted the dog's head; there was a soft ruffling of fur, and a contented sigh.

"H-he did-"

Remi stopped before he completed that sentence. His voice was gradually rising; if he wasn't careful, he'd start yelling his exasperation down the line at the boy, who was clearly oblivious of his ire. He slowly counted to three before he spoke again. "Okay, wait, start at the beginning. You were on your way home, when you decided to visit the nearby hospital, to see if there were any yellow-suited men there who'd been bitten by dogs?"

"Well... yes," Martin admitted, a little sheepishly. "I had actually already been home, and was on my way back in... sorry, I should have been at the office well before now, it's very late-"

"And you found a yellow-suited man who'd been bitten by a dog?" Remi interposed. He didn't bother to mask his disbelief. It hardly mattered, since the boy ploughed on regardless, carried away by his enthusiasm.

"Yes, I did! It was a long-shot, I admit; but it was actually a lot easier than I thought it would be. All I had to do was tell the nurses that I was looking for a friend who had been injured and that I was worried about him, I hadn't seen him since, he might be unconscious and alone in a hospital somewhere. I told them that he was last seen wearing a yellow suit, and he'd sustained a dog bite-"

"-with the dog in question beside you the whole time?" Remi asked this in a voice that was almost a monotone; he couldn't register much more amazement than he already had.

"Yes, but I told them that it wasn't this little fellow. 'Don't worry, he's very friendly,' I said, and they all gather round to pat him. He even licked a few of them - which they didn't mind at all, they just laughed and patted him some more - so it wasn't really a lie. Well, not much of one."

Remi couldn't help but smile as he pictured the little dog charming a room full of nurses. He also couldn't help but admire how brazenly the boy had used a well-placed falsehood to follow up a story. His less-scrupulous professional self silently applauded; however, the responsible side of him stopped short of lauding the boy out loud.

"And they had a patient who matched your description?"

"Yes. He was admitted just after noon today, which matches up well with the time of the robbery. The nurses said he came in feeling woozy, with light puncture wounds on his arm, consistent with a dog bite. The sleeve of his suit had a tear in it; that's why they remembered it when I asked, the colour of it was distinctive. They showed me in and here he was, laid out in a bed, with the jacket of his suit folded up by his bedside - a perfect match! And the dog wouldn't stop growling at him, I had to leave the room quickly in case it woke-"

"Where is he now?" Remi interrupted again, his heart rate spiking rapidly. It was all well and good to play at detective, but there really was a man with a dog-bite nearby. Even if he was completely innocent, Remi doubted he would take kindly to such an accusation...

"Still asleep, last I saw, and I doubt he'll come round anytime soon. He was in a pretty bad way when he first turned up, the nurses said; they insisted he stay for observation, though he was reluctant to. He's been conked out in his bed ever since. What should we do about him, Mr Remi? We should act before he wakes up, don't you think? Once he's discharged, we'll have a hard time catching him. Once I've rung off, I'll call the police, and th-"

But he never found out what Martin intended to do after that, for he abruptly stopped talking in mid-sentence. Remi heard him give a cry of surprise that sounded distant, farther away from the phone's receiver. It was followed a moment later by a snarl; Remi thought at first that it was the dog, then hastily realized that it sounded vaguely human.

"Martin?"

There was no reply; if there was, it was drowned out by the dog's frantic barking. Beneath it, Remi could just make out the sounds of a struggle. There was a series of scuffles and dull thuds, like furniture overturning, and slaps which could have been blows striking flesh. He could hear Martin's voice raised in some kind of protest; the same hostile man's voice answered it with what was undoubtedly a wordless threat.

There was a loud thump. Martin's voice uttered a groan. The dog stopped barking, instead giving a tragic whine.

"Martin?! MARTIN!"

There was no immediate reply. Remi strained his hearing for any sign of his cadet, his heart thudding in his throat. After a moment, he heard what sounded like a muttered curse, followed by the approach of heavy footsteps.

"Martin...?"

No, it wasn't Martin. Remi heard a snatch of harsh breath, and a soft clink as the receiver, which must have fallen on the floor, was picked up. Then the line went dead.

"Martin! MARTIN! M-"

It took a moment for Remi to realize that he was shouting at an unresponsive phone. He had heard it all with such immediacy, he had nearly forgotten that he wasn't actually there. He had heard the conflict between the two men, and Martin's cry, and the villain's curse, as if it were all happening right here in this very room. But it had all been occurring across town, far from here, far from help... and even now, Martin could be-

Remi dropped the receiver without bothering to replace it in its cradle. Two strides took him to the hat rack; he scooped up his bag and coat, more out of practice than any conscious thought, stuffing his scarf and hat into his pocket as he strode for the door. The remaining workers all looked askance at him - they had heard a lot of shouting coming from his office - but he didn't look left or right as he sprinted across the floor and out through reception.

It was still raining outside. Remi hadn't bothered to put his coat on, and he was getting soaked, but he didn't notice. He blinked rivulets of water from his eyes, searching the street desperately for the sight of an unengaged cab. He saw one coming and flagged it down; when it didn't appear to be slowing, he leapt from the curb, forcing it to grind to a shuddery stop a mere foot shy of him. Remi wrenched the door open as soon as it was stationary.

"Zooks, mate, you scared me half to death! Sorry, you may have places to go, but I'm not on duty anymore, just clocked off for the night. You pop round the corner to the taxi stand, I'm sure you'll find someone t-"

"Saint-Michel clinic, please," Remi cut him off, already hauling himself half-in over the footplate. "It's an emergency, " he added, almost pleadingly.

The cabbie looked him up and down, noting the coat hanging limply over his rain-drenched shoulder, the haggard set about his features, the white-knuckled hand clenched nervously on the door handle. He looked Remi straight in the eye, nodded once, and said: "Right away, sir. I'll make the best time I possibly can."

Uttering a quick word of thanks, Remi climbed in and slammed the door. No sooner had he done so then the cab sped away, weaving purposefully in and out of the slow-moving after-work traffic. Usually, Remi would have been clinging to the handrail, cursing the driver's lack of regard for road safety. Now, he silently begged him to pick up the pace, painfully aware of every minute that ticked by.

"Not hurt, are you, mate?" the cabbie asked, turning away from the road for a moment to eye Remi with concern.

The reporter started at the question, preoccupied as he was. "N-no, I'm fine. It's... a friend of mine..."

The cabbie nodded grimly. "Worst night for this sort of thing to happen; roads are slow in the wet. Just sit tight, sir, and I'll have you there in a jiffy - or the nearest to a jiffy I can manage in all this." He put on the brakes as a line of motorcars blocked the way ahead of them. He swatted the steering wheel in frustration, backed up a bit, then veered down a nearby alleyway. Circumventing the block, he managed to put them back on relatively clear road.

Feeling slightly reassured, Remi took the opportunity to properly put on his coat and scarf. He sat on the cab's worn seat, nervously twisting his hat in his hands, all along the drive to Saint-Michel's. With every street corner and intersection they passed, more and more possibilities were forming in his mind, each more terrible than the last.

For all that Martin was an odd sort, he had come to rather like their newest cadet. He sincerely hoped that the lad's first day on the job wouldn't also be his last.

Author's note: so, I hope early paragraphs explain just what Martin is wearing - a bit different from the blue pullover and plus-fours! I chose to use 'pullover' instead of 'sweater' or 'jumper', it seemed like the most likely European terminology. The things you have to think of when you write a story!

Please don't ask me why the cab driver speaks like Sir Percy Blakeney. I have no idea what Belgian cabbies sound like; and since all cabbies are vaguely related to London cabbies in my mind, he came out sounding pseudo-British.

Sorry to leave it at that point, I'll try to get started on the next chapter soon! ~ W.J.