Tender the Storm (61 page)

Without haste, she leveled the pistol at Rolfe's chest, and Zoë, half rising from her chair, cried out, "Francoise! This is madness! Rolfe has never done anything to hurt you."

"I think I must have done," said Rolfe. "Before you pull that trigger, since, as you say, there is time and enough, indulge me a little. Why have you singled me out for death? We weren't onto you, you know. You were quite safe from detection. You have put yourself at some risk in your determination to get at me. I think you owe me an explanation."

The pistol lowered imperceptibly. Francoise's lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. "By all means," she said. "Do you know
,
I am rarely given the opportunity to explain myself?"

"I should imagine," said Rolfe pleasantly, "that your position as head of
La Compagnie
is a singularly lonely one."

Francoise's eyes narrowed on Rolfe. "I am
Le Patron,
yes. You must have surmised as much when you walked in here and found Paul Varlet at his desk?"

"Is this Varlet's house?" asked Rolfe, looking around interestedly.

"No. The house belongs to me. Not that that is common knowledge, of course. Very soon, I shall be in a position to openly take up residence. For the moment, however, the records show that the house is let to Paul Varlet."

"I'll wager Varlet did not know it," said Rolfe dryly. "So, you lured him here with the promise that he could have Zoë. As a matter of interest, did you set this up before or after you knew the duel was to take place?"

"You are doing so well," said Francoise, employing the same conversational tone as Rolfe, "that I think I shall let
you
tell
me."

Zoë
had to choke back a sob. If one did not hear the words, she was thinking, one would imagine that her companions were engaged in polite drawing-room conversation, so sanguine, so pleasant, so utterly civilized was their manner towards each other. She, on the other hand, was near to fainting with panic.

"Correct
me
if I am wrong," said Rolfe, "but I see it this way. You hoped that Varlet's scheme to get rid of me would save you the trouble?"

"You have it exactly," agreed Francoise.

"What scheme?" demanded
Zoë.

"The duel," answered Rolfe shortly. His attention reverted to Francoise. "The assassin —was that your idea or Varlet's?"

"That was Varlet's doing. There is no place in
La Compagnie
for the likes of an Andre
Valaze
. He was one of Varlet's lovers. He's addicted to opium. I shouldn't think you were ever in any real danger from him."

"Your hopes were pinned on Tresier?"

She shrugged faintly. "He's known to be a crack shot. However, these things have a way of going awry."

Rolfe's brows rose fractionally. "And you were prepared for the worst?"

She laughed, very softy, and there was something in the sound that was more chilling than anything that had gone before. "Varlet's obsession for Zoë played right into my hands. It's common knowledge that you and he are rivals. When your bodies are found, it will be assumed that you killed each other over Zoë."

"Masterly!" said
Rolfe,
and his eyes gleamed with admiration.

"Thank you," said Francoise.

"But there is more, if I am not mistaken?"

'You're very astute," allowed Francoise.

"If I were astute," said Rolfe, with a small ironic smile, "I would not be here with you now."

There was a silence, then they both laughed softly, and Zoë pressed a hand to her eyes, wondering if her companions were truly demented.

"You've left evidence to implicate Varlet in
La
Compagnie
?
said
Rolfe, turning sideways to glance over his shoulder at the papers which strewed the desk.

"More than enough," agreed Francoise. "When this is over, the authorities will have all the proof
they need to convict Varlet twice over as the head of the society."

"But he never was involved, was he?"

"What do you think?" she returned provocatively.

"Do you know
,
I was coming to suspect your husband?"

"Charles?" Amusement laced her voice. "I will admit
,
it did occur to me to set him up as the scapegoat. But all things considered I think you will agree
,
Varlet is the more logical choice."

Zoë's shocked gasp turned the heads of her companions, "But Francoise! You
love
Charles!"

The mask of cool politeness slipped. Francoise's eyes flashed fire. "How could I possibly love that boring old fool? I married him because it was the expedient thing to do. Because of your husband,
La Compagnie
was crushed. We were being hounded like dogs. I had to return to France. Charles moved in the right circles. What choice did I have?"

"But . . ." Zoë shook her head as if to clear the confusion of her thoughts. Hoarsely, she whispered, "You were devoted to Charles."

Francoise made a small sound of derision. "In my whole life, I was devoted to only one man, and he was my brother, Betrand."

"Ah," breathed Rolfe theatrically. "So Betrand was your brother! Now I begin to understand."

He moved slightly, and the pistol jerked up. "It fits," said Rolfe.

"What fits?" asked Zoë.

"The attack on me in London which nearly cost me my life.
All this . . ." He waved one hand vaguely.

Rolfe's words only added to Zoë's confusion.

Seeing her blank look he explained, "This is in the nature of a personal vendetta. Your friend, Francoise, holds me responsible for the death of her brother."

"You
were
responsible," cut in Francoise.
"You and that little actress between you.
I saw you with her outside the theatre." In an aside to Zoë, she said, "Do you remember that night, Zoë? You saw them too. The spectacle was disgusting." Turning once more to Rolfe, she went on, "You and the girl were locked in a passionate embrace. I knew you were Zoë's husband. I knew that my brother had been seeing that actress before his death. I began to put two and two together. Within days, I discovered that you worked for British Intelligence. The last thing I did before I left England was order your execution."

"And the girl?
Did you order her execution also?" For the first time, a trace of steel edged Rolfe's words.

Francoise's lip curled. "She deserved to die. She betrayed my brother."

Zoë's panic-stricken tones cut across the terse words. "I don't understand any of this. What has either of you to do with
La Compagnie?"
In point of fact, she was coming to have a fair idea. But her brain refused to accept it.

It was Francoise who answered her plea. "Your husband, as you must know, is with British Intelligence. Evidently, his assignment was to infiltrate and destroy
La Compagnie
in England. He succeeded."

Rolfe acknowledged her words with a slight inclination of his head. "And your friend, Francoise, as you must have gathered, is the prime mover in that secret society of which everyone goes in terror. In short, she is
Le Patron."

The words seemed to hang on the air. Zoë had never heard of
Le Patron
and was still trying to make sense of what Rolfe said when Francoise began to speak again.

"Do you know I was never more shocked than when I finally realized that you and Ronsard were one and the same person? It struck me, then, that the spate of bad luck that had dogged
La Compagnie
in recent weeks was more than mere coincidence."

"No!" said Zoë faintly. "Rolfe came to Paris for one reason only and that was to persuade me to return to England with him. Tell her, Rolfe."

"I think not," said Francoise.

"So," said Rolfe, ignoring Zoë's imperative, "you penetrated my disguise. Why not simply denounce me? Why go to so much trouble to get rid of me?"

"Obviously," said Francoise, "you have friends in high places. I could not take the chance, you see, that they would not protect you. Was I wrong?"

"No. As it happens, you were right."

The amusement in Rolfe's tone only added to Zoë's sense of unreality. She had begun to grasp, however, something of what was going on. This was no misunderstanding, no hoax. All was in deadly earnest. Francoise was set on doing away with first Rolfe, then Zoë, just as soon as the conversation was exhausted.

But, as Rolfe had said, it was two against one. Surely Francoise could not suppose that she would sit tamely by and see her husband murdered before her eyes? Evidently, Francoise had put her, Zoë, down as little more than an annoying gadfly, and just as easily dealt with.

Belatedly, Zoë remembered the letter opener in the upstairs chamber, and she groaned. She had left it there, on the floor, after she had retrieved the key. She shut her eyes, thinking that she must be the stupidest woman in Christendom. The pair before her
were
made of much sterner stuff. They were evenly matched. That thought gave her hope. Perhaps all was not lost. Rolfe's confidence was something to behold.