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#4
DEC 08 |
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“Tales of the Guild, 1834: Birth of a Madman”
Remy LeBeau limped down the stairs of the brownstone into the library. The newest thief to bear the name of Tome hurried to his side. “Mr. LeBeau,” he said. “This is a surprise.”
“To you and me bot’,” Remy said as Tome pulled a chair to a desk for him.
“What happened?” Tome asked, indicating Remy’s limp.
“Nut wit’ a knife,” Remy said. “I can’t believe I’ve let myself get dat slow.”
“That is a surprise,” Tome said. “I can’t believe that it was only one person who was able to stab you. I would have expected an entire gang.”
“Ha, ha,” Remy said. “What’d you need? I was lookin’ forward to a day full o’ sleep.”
Tome pulled a book from a shelf and brought it to the desk. “I discovered this not long after your last visit,” he said. “It’s what you’ve been looking for.’
Remy’s jaw dropped. “Fleur’s diary?” he asked.
Tome smiled as he placed the book down on the desk in front of Remy. “Yes,” he said. “Feel free. Just call if you need anything.”
Remy could just nod as he carefully opened the book. I can’t believe dis, he thought. Fleur’s always been one a’ my idols, and now to read dis…
New Orleans
1834
The young thief inspected himself in the mirror. He was 16 and newly initiated into the Guild. He smiled, revealing his perfect white teeth. He raised his head slightly so he could make sure his tie was tied neatly. He pulled on a vest and slowly buttoned it up, thinking about his mission today. He had been asked to steal a particularly valuable jewel from one of the city’s most well-known residents. He smiled into the mirror again. She can’t resist these looks, he thought. And even if she tries, well, there’s more than one reason I keep in shape. He pulled on his jacket and walked out, grabbing a hat as he left the small apartment.
He stopped outside and bought a red carnation for a penny from a street vendor. Fleur slid his namesake into his buttonhole and set off down the streets into the French Quarter, his boots clacking on the cobblestones as he walked.
The wind blew against Fleur’s cheeks as he turned onto Royal Street. He squinted as he studied the home he would be infiltrating. He tapped his pocket. Inside were cards for a certain jewelry firm, owned and run by the Guild. He opened the wrought iron gate and walked to the door. He rapped on the door and waited.
“Yes?” the butler asked as he opened the door.
Fleur handed the butler his card. “John Smythe, from London,” he said in a flawless British accent. “Madame LaSalle is expecting me.”
The butler took the card and ushered Fleur inside. “Wait here,” the butler instructed.
Fleur smoothly removed his hat as the butler closed the door. “Of course,” he said. He watched as the butler disappeared up the stairs. While he waited, Fleur idly looked around the foyer. His mind was working as he calculated how much the furnishings in the room had cost, and how much they’d bring on the black market. His eyes widened as he saw a diamond hatpin lying on a small table. Despite himself, he resisted the urge to slide it into his pocket.
“Monsieur Smythe!” Fleur turned as he heard the voice. He smiled as he recognized the lady descending the stairs.
“Madame LaSalle,” he said, stepping forward and kissing the daintily offered hand. “It is a pleasure.”
“Shall we step into the parlor?” she asked.
“Of course,” Fleur said, following her into the parlor.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.
“No thank you, madam. I was dispatched from the firm regarding your recent acquisition.”
“Ah, yes.” LaSalle leaned back on the settee, her fingers toying with the charm on her necklace. Despite himself, Fleur felt his eyes being drawn toward her bustline. “The so-called Ruby of Rangoon.”
“That is the one,” Fleur said. “I am the one who is to examine the gem for your insurance policy.”
LaSalle’s eyes had never left his face. She finally leaned in so close he could feel her breath on his ear. “I find business so dry,” she whispered. “Perhaps we should go upstairs and discuss this.” Fleur gasped as her hand dropped into his lap.
Fleur licked his lips and tried to control himself. “I believe that we could postpone our discussion for a few minutes,” he said. With a smile, LaSalle ushered him up the grand staircase.
Later, as LaSalle dozed, a barefoot Fleur padded over to the window and looked out over the courtyard. He smiled as he studied the small ledge that ran around the building. Throwing a robe on for modesty, he walked out into the hall and into the bathroom. He examined the window for a moment, then pulled the chain to flush the toilet. The noise covered the sound of the window’s latch snapping off. Fleur quickly removed some lotion from a container near the sink and greased the window’s track so it would open silently. With a smile, Fleur shoved the latch into a small hole in the baseboard and returned to the bedroom.
Late that night, Fleur, now dressed in black, climbed from a tree onto the ledge. All the lights in the mansion were now extinguished. Fleur carefully shimmied across the ledge and slid the window open. Like a cat, he dropped into the bathroom and looked around for any signs that he’d been detected. When there were none, he made his way down the stairs.
In the library, Fleur quickly opened a safe hidden behind a painting and withdrew the ruby. He quickly slid it into a velvet bag that he dropped into his pocket. He smirked as he decided to increase the haul, and grabbed a handful of cash from the safe and added it to his take.
Fleur froze as he heard sobbing from the kitchen. He quietly closed the safe and began to creep out. Still, he stopped as the crying continued. Despite himself, he peeked into the kitchen. He saw a slave woman kneeling there, chained to the oven. The back of her dress was covered in blood. Her lip was split and one eye was swollen shut.
“What has happened?” Fleur whispered in French. “Who did this to you?”
The woman looked up. “The mistress said that her tea cakes were too sweet,” she replied. Fleur innards twisted as he remembered biting into one of the cakes earlier and remarking how good they were.
“What is your name?” Fleur asked.
“Belle,” she replied. “And I am damned to hell with this woman!” Fleur reached for the chain. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to get you free and then take you to the police,” Fleur said. “The law forbids you to be treated this way.”
“No, monsieur,” Belle said. “Don’t do this for me. Go upstairs. In the attic. Look there.”
Fleur nodded and crept up the stairs again. He followed Belle’s instructions and came to a locked attic door. He made quick work of the lock and eased the door open. His blood turned to ice when he saw what was there. “Sacre Marie, mere de Dieu,” he whispered.
“You saw?” Belle asked.
“Yes,” Fleur replied. He thought of what he’d seen and shuddered. “How can I help you?” he asked.
Belle looked toward the fireplace. “All I need is one of those logs,” she said.
Understanding, Fleur slowly walked across the room and pulled a log from the fire. One end of it was aflame. He handed it to Belle.
“God give me strength,” she whispered.
Overcome at the thought of what she had been forced to endure, Fleur leaned forward and gently kissed the woman’s forehead. “May He give you the peace you deserve,” he said.
Belle smiled as tears began to run down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she replied.
Fleur smiled back and was gone.
Belle laughed and began to touch the flame to tables in the kitchen.
Half an hour later, a crowd had assembled outside the burning mansion. Madame LaSalle had gone to a neighbor’s house, where what possessions had been saved were gathered. Fleur looked around the crowd and began his next assault.
“De slaves!” he yelled. “Where are de slaves?”
The woman next to him took up the cry, and soon the entire crowd was calling for the servants. Undaunted, firefighters ran back into the house. Fleur, his job finished, quietly backed away from the crowd. He fingered the papers under his jacket as he walked down the street toward his apartment. After all, he thought, I don’t think I want to be in the middle of what’s coming.
Back at LaSalle’s home, the firefighters broke through to the attic room and gasped in horror. Slaves were chained to tables and walls. Grotesque surgeries had been performed on each one. Most were dead, but a few still moaned in agony. One firefighter saw a slave that had had the top of his head sawed off so that his brain was exposed. When the slave turned his head and the firefighter saw what remained of the slave’s tongue hanging out of his mouth, he ran out of the room, finally collapsing to his knees to vomit.
The word spread and the slaves were soon being brought out on stretchers and taken to the hospital. Within an hour, a mob had assembled. The house was stormed and all of LaSalle’s precious furnishings were thrown out into the street and destroyed before the house itself was set ablaze. Of LaSalle herself, no one ever spoke again of what they did to her when she was taken from the neighbor’s home.
Fleur paused, tapping his pen against his teeth. Finally he returned his attention to the journal.
I know how extraordinary these events may seem, but I do offer a solemn oath that they are true. As I write this, the police are attempting to return order to the city, with limited success. I can still see the flames from that damned house from my window. I do not know whether the fire brigade is even attempting to extinguish it. I hope only that Madame LaSalle herself receives her just rewards at the hands of our city’s fine citizens.
Fleur paused again, this time reaching out and picking up the ruby. He studied it for a moment and then returned to his writing. There is one thing I record here that could tear the city apart. In some papers I appropriated before the house was burned, I made a shocking discovery. Madame LaSalle was only an accomplice. Another was the one responsible for those horrors. I record now the name that was on those papers. The surgeon’s name was
“Nathaniel Essex,” Remy said, finishing the entry.
“I’m sorry?” Tome asked, coming to his side. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Remy said. “Can I keep dis for a while? I need to study some of dese notes.”
“Normally it is discouraged, but a great many things change for the son of Jean-Luc LeBeau. You are welcome to it. All I ask is that you care for it.”
“T’anks,” Remy said as he slid the book under his arm and stood a bit unsteadily. As he walked down the hall out of the library, one thought kept running through his head.
Nathaniel Essex. What was Mr. Sinister doing here?
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To Be Continued...
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