Camera Obscura (4 page)

  The Vespuccian man was dressed immaculately in a childsized suit, a pocket watch hanging on a chain from his pocket. "Since you left the circus," he said.

  "It's been a while."

  "I have your publicity poster," the small man said proudly, gesturing at the wall.

  "I saw," she said, not following the gesture. Looking at
him.

  "Last I heard you were in England," he said. He rubbed his thumb and finger together. "Married to some
lord
."

  She said, "He died."

  The grin grew larger. "They tend to do that, don't they?"

  She let it pass. For now. She said, "Last I heard
you
were in England."

  He shrugged. "Had to leave in a bit of a hurry, didn't I."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  The small man shrugged again.

  "Still fomenting revolution?"

  "Nah, mate," Tom Thumb said, "I'm legit now. Out of the revolutionary business. Minding my
own
business, for once, and liking it that way."

  "The quiet life," she said.

  He nodded, watching her carefully, no longer smiling now.

  She said, "I find it hard to believe."

  Tom Thumb shrugged. Believe what you want, the shrug seemed to say. See if I care. And now
she
smiled, and the little man shrank a little from it.

  She took out the box of matches from her pocket, played with it. Tom Thumb watched her fingers. "You smoking now?" he said. "You never used to."

  She flipped the box over, not answering him. Printed on the cover was
Thumb's Tobacco, Montmartre
. The painting showed the front of the shop, a little figure just visible behind the glass. She threw it across the counter at him and he flinched back but caught it.

  "One of yours?" she said.

  He looked at it, put it down on the counter. "Got my name on it, hasn't it?" he said.

  "It does, at that," she said.

  "So?"

  He was watching her warily now, caged but not yet knowing why. Or maybe he did… maybe he'd been expecting her, or someone like her, to come eventually to his shop.

  So… "Popular shop?" she said, looking around her at the empty space.

  "Doing OK," he said, using the Vespuccian expression. It almost made her smile – she hadn't heard it in a while.

  "That's a nice suit," she said instead.

  "Thank you."

  "Must be expensive."

  "Oh, you know…" he said.

  "And that watch. Gold?"

  "This old thing? Nah. Just looks like it."

  "It certainly does. Looks new, too."

  Tom Thumb stared at her, expressionless. "You a copper now?"

  It was said less as a question – more an accusation.

  "We've all got to make a living," she said. "Don't we, Tom?"

  "I'm
making
a living," he said. "I sell tobacco."

  "So I see."

  "Well, it was nice seeing you," he said, "
Milady
. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to–"

  She reached across the counter and picked him up. He said, "Wha–"

  "I'll dismiss
you
," she said. "When I'm done with you.
OK
, Tom?"

  She dropped him. He glared at her, smoothed his jacket where she had grabbed him. Suddenly he grinned again. "Come see the ferocious Dahomey Amazon!" he said. "Remember? I used to love your act. Got your publicity poster right there–"

  "I know, Tom. I saw it."

  "Yes, well, we're old friends, you and I, aren't we? There's no need to get rough."

  "I hope so, Tom."

  She waited him out. He stood, watching her – she could see him thinking. She didn't hurry him. At last he said, "Sit down, I'll make us a brew."

  
Sit down, I'll make us a brew
. As if they were back at the circus, and the last show had finished – everyone winding down, but not yet ready to let go – the rush still there, the shouts of the crowds, the smell of sweat, and smoke from the torches, roasting peanuts and piss from the animal enclave… sawdust. Sometimes she really missed the smell of fresh sawdust.

  It always became less and less fresh as the evening progressed.

  She said, "OK."

 
 

 
 

Tom Thumb made coffee. He put a coffee set down on the counter between them – sugar cubes, small jug of milk, a couple of pastries, cups and saucers and spoons.

  She took hers black and drank it through a sugar cube. "It's not bad," she said.

  "It's from–" he said, and then he hesitated.

  She said, "You selling coffee now?"

  "Amongst other things."

  "What sort of things?"

  "Cleo–" he said, then checked himself, almost saying her full name, the way she was billed back in the show. "Fine, fine! Milady, then."

  She waited.He said, "Is this going any further, or is this between us?"

  She thought about it, said, "It depends."

  "On what?"

  
On a corpse that was no longer there…
She said, "I don't care what you do. I'm just trying to find something that's missing."

  "What sort of something?"

  "I'm not sure yet."

  He shrugged, letting it go. "Fine," he said. "What do you want to know?"

  "I want to know who bought that box of matches from you."

  Tom Thumb looked exasperated. "How the hell should I know?"

  "He was Asian."

  She saw him noticing the
was
. And now his eyes narrowed, and his hand played with the pocket watch, releasing and closing the lid, working it.

  "An Asian man who needed a place to hide out in…" she said, "Where did you say your coffee comes from again?"

  "I didn't."

  "But you were going to."

  "Was I?"

  Open, shut, open, shut. She took another sip of her coffee. "Leave that alone," she said.

  "Lots of Asians in Paris," Tomb Thumb said at last. "Indochina. Siam. Doing business. So what?"

  Making a connection, and she threw him a line: "You selling opium?"

  … and he bit. Tom Thumb shrugged. "A little. Not illegal, is it?"

  "No," she said. "But this isn't a smoking den, so what, you deal bulk?"

  He didn't answer.

  "Got a contact over there? Sends you stuff over?"

  No reply.

  "Coffee, for instance?"

  "It's good coffee," Tom Thumb said. "Good opium, too."

  "What else does he send you?"

  Nothing from Tom, staring out through the window into the night.

  "People, sometimes?"

  Tom, still staring out at the night. Thinking. How much could he tell her? She knew that look.

  "People who need somewhere to hide, for a little while?"

  Tom turned to her. No smile, eyes calm like grey skies. "Is Yong Li dead?"

  And now she had a name. "Yes."

  Tom said, "Damn."

 

  
What stuff? You know. Stuff.

  
You don't know?

  
But you want to.

  
It's nothing serious, Cl – Milady. Milady de Winter, huh? Seriously?
Think I met Lord de Winter once, back when I was still living across
the Channel. Whatever happened to–

  
Fine. Yes. Arms. Sometimes. And literature.

  
What do you mean what literature? How should I know?

  
I'm more of a drop point, now that you press me on it. Don't think
I'm the only one working for this guy. So sometimes they drop off little
packets for me – mostly paper. I don't know what's in them though.

  
Did I look? No.

  
Fine, maybe I did a couple of times. Didn't make much sense,
though. Technical stuff. Like, you know those Babbage engines? That's
what some of it looked like. Technical specifications. Once this mechan
ical beggar came into the shop, a proper derelict, could barely move,
one of those old people-shaped ones, moving one leg after another, you
can hear the motors inside they were so loud, doesn't say a thing but
drops off this box – I open it, it's got an arm inside.

  
No, a metal arm. Real artwork. Only, I open the box, this arm
reaches out, tries to strangle me. After that I didn't look again.

  
Yes. I'm getting to that. So, we do business, you know, mostly legit,
a little bit of it under the counter – don't you dare make a joke – only
sometimes there's people need to get from here to Indochina don't want
to be going through the usual channels. I don't ask questions. Usually
I know to expect them. Then off they go with the next shipment.

  
Got his own ship, ships, I don't know.

  
Sometimes he sends people over. No papers, half of them don't speak
the language. I mean, any language. Don't know what they want. If
they need it I arrange a safe house, somewhere to put them, lie low
for a while. If not then
poof
– they disappear into the city, I never see
them again.

  
Where the safe house is? You don't think I'm going to tell you, do you?

  
How did you know?

  
Oh.

  
So that's where you found him. Poor bastard.

  
He came in about a month ago. Nervous little guy, fat belly, gave
him lots of problems, cramps, I don't know. He kept holding it, almost
looked pregnant. I put him up for a couple of nights. Nice guy. Taught
me this drinking game–

  
I don't know where he was from. Don't know what he was doing
here. I don't ask questions. A couple of days later L'Espanaye tells me
the place is free, I send him over.

  
The mother, yes. She's the one I've been dealing with. Wouldn't
mind dealing with the daughter though, if you know what I mean.

  
Right. Sorry.

  
No, never saw him again. Didn't think I'd hear about him again
either, until you walked through my door.

  
The poor bastard.

  
He was a nice guy.

 
 

She finished her coffee. Tom Thumb lit a cigar. She watched him – trimming it first, then using the matchbox that came from a dead man's pocket. Tom blew out smoke. She said, "Do you have any idea what he was carrying?"

  "Ask no questions," Tom Thumb said, "hear no lies. That's my policy."

  He knew more than he was telling her. She was sure of that much, at least. But Tom Thumb wasn't going anywhere. He'd been going nowhere for a long time. She said, "And the name of the man you deal with? The one in Indochina?"

  Tom shrugged. "Never asked his name."

  She let it pass. "What does he do, exactly? Beyond selling you coffee?"

  "No idea."

  But she had an idea.

  "You've always been a revolutionary," she said. "What were you doing in England, Tom?"

  "Minding my own business," the little man said. He blew smoke towards her and she smiled and reached over and pulled the cigar from his mouth and put it out on his hand.

  Tom screamed.

  "I'll come back," she said. "When you're feeling better."

  She walked away, thinking of the dead man, but thinking of someone else now, too – a man somewhere in Asia, a man with no name. He would be a very careful man, she thought – cautious, a planner. And ruthless – she thought of Yong Li lying on the floor of the apartment in the Rue Morgue with his stomach cut open where someone had opened it before and hid something inside. Was Yong Li meant to have died in Paris?

  Somehow she didn't think so. No doubt Tom would be in a hurry to send word back, and that was all right – she wanted to know what they would do.

  She was still thinking when the shadows moved around her. She ducked but even so the blow caught her on the side of the head, knocking her out of balance. They were very quiet. There were four of them that she could see, dressed in black, faces masked and covered. She backed away. None of them seemed to be armed.

  She pulled out her gun.

  Too fast – one of the shadows rushed her, aiming an impossibly high kick at her gun hand – no time to think – her finger was on the trigger and she pressed and the gun went off, an explosion of thunder in the silent street, and the man fell back, half of his head missing.

  One of them came at her again from the side, and she felt a savage blow to the head – the same place – and dropped the gun. Her mouth filled with blood. Her eyes stung with tears of pain. Another kick took her in the ribs. She lashed back, going back in time years, when the streets were her home. Her leg caught one of the assailants on the shin. She rolled, kicking again from below, dropping one – but he gracefully turned his fall into a jump and came back at her, another kick throwing her back – but now the gun was close. She picked it up, almost blind, and used it as a club, all discipline forgotten, and caught the man in the face, hearing bones breaking, delighting in the sound. She flipped the gun around and shot him in the knee.