Casino Infernale (20 page)

The Armourer threw the door open with a flourish, revealing row upon row of clothing racks, groaning under the weight of more good tatt and schmutter than you could shake a fashionable stick at. It looked like the world’s biggest jumble sale, or a going out of business sale. The Armourer looked at me hopefully. It was obvious he’d brought me here to try to cheer me up. So I did my best to play along.

“I don’t normally get to use this place,” I said.

“Because you hardly ever come home,” said the Armourer. “You can’t go to Casino Infernale looking like that, now can you?”

“What’s wrong with this?” I said, looking down at myself. “This is my best casual outfit.”

“That’s so casual it’s downright careless,” said the Armourer. “You look like you’re wearing your favourite old suit so your wife can’t throw it out. You need something more fitting, more glamorous, to make the scene at Casino Infernale. You have to dress up if you’re going to mix with gambling celebrities and Major Players. A Drood wouldn’t, but Shaman Bond would.”

“What about me?” Molly said immediately. “Do I get a new outfit too?”

“Of course!” said the Armourer. “Help yourself to anything you fancy!”

“Oh, you will regret saying that,” I said.

Molly gave the Armourer a hard look, to show she wasn’t finished with him yet, and then gave me a searching look. Asking without asking whether I’d be okay on my own. I nodded briefly. Molly gave my hand one last squeeze, and then went charging into the costumes department with the light of battle in her eyes.

“Caradoc!” the Armourer said loudly. “Where are you, man?”

“Is he still in charge?” I said. “He’s a bit . . .”

“He’s a lot,” said the Armourer. “But everyone in the family has the job that fits them best, and this is his. He reads all the fashion magazines, you know. . . .”

Caradoc Drood came striding forward to greet us. He knew everything there was to know about outfitting a field agent with just the right look, to blend in. Though looking at Caradoc, it was hard to think where he might ever blend in. Tall and spindly, with his overlong arms and legs, Caradoc was wearing a bright pink frock coat over white leggings and court shoes, and all in all he looked very much like a mad flamingo. He had long, slicked-back white hair, a sharp angular face, and piercing blood-red eyes. He stopped before us, struck a pose, ruffled his cravat of gold cloth with the long fingers of one hand, and looked down his nose at me.

“So!” he said, in a dark dramatic voice. “You are the incredible Edwin Drood! I was hoping they’d let me run up something special for you, to mark you as the family’s new head, but you didn’t last long enough. Hey ho . . . alackaday. And now you’re off to France, home of la belle couture. I am so jealous I could just spit. Well, well . . . what are we to make of you, so that you can walk through Casino Infernale with your head held high, Mr.
Shaman Bond
?”

If Caradoc were any more artificial, he’d be an android.

“I’m sure my measurements are on file here somewhere,” I said.

“Oh, we have everyone’s measurements,” said Caradoc. “If only so the shroud will fit . . . what am I going to do with you? Is there time for plastic surgery? My little joke . . .” He considered me for a long moment, tapping at his chin with one slender finger. And then he turned and darted back into the clothes rack, disappearing into the rows. I looked at the Armourer.

“He’s got worse, hasn’t he?” I said.

“Hard to tell,” said the Armourer. “Admit it, though, you are having fun.”

“For all the wrong reasons,” I said. “Now hush—Caradoc returns from the clothing jungle.”

Caradoc deigned to offer me several outfits in a row, all of which I dismissed out of hand, just to watch his nostrils flare. I might have to play dress-up doll, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for anybody.

“Far too everyday and acceptable,” I said loftily. “Shaman Bond wouldn’t be seen dead in anything so . . . mundane.”

“This is the kind of thing they will be expecting at Casino Infernale,” said Caradoc.

“Then they’re going to be disappointed,” I said. “Which is as it should be. Shaman Bond has a long history of disappointing people.”

I strode forward into the racks and started taking things off, rejecting them, dropping them in crumpled heaps on the floor, and moving on. Caradoc hurried after me, grabbing up the clothes and hugging them to his chest, while making loud bleating sounds of distress. I was actually starting to feel a bit better. My mood always improves when I get to torment authority figures. As authority figures went, Caradoc didn’t go far, but he was present, and annoying me, so he would do. He really shouldn’t have looked down his nose at me. That’s always dangerous.

Molly kept reappearing with something big and bold and horribly expensive-looking, hanging around just long enough to say
I’m having this!
before dropping whatever it was onto a growing pile, and then darting back in for more. Every now and again I could locate her exact position in the fashion jungle through loud squeals of delight and the odd cry of
New shoes!

I finally settled on a black goatskin leather jacket, over a blindingly white shirt, and black slacks. A bit stark, but it suited how I was feeling. Molly came back out of the clothes racks wearing a Little Black Dress, took one look at me, muttered something about not being a member of the Addams Family, and went back in again. I admired my new look in a full-length mirror, and then looked at the Armourer.

“Well?” I said. “What do you think?”

“Words fail me,” said Caradoc, bitterly.

“You’ll certainly make an impression,” said the Armourer.

Caradoc insisted on offering me a display of Old School Ties, everything from Eton to John of Gaunt, Cambridge to Oxford. On the grounds that they might impress somebody. I dismissed all of them. Shaman Bond wouldn’t wear such a thing, unless he was running a con. His past is a mystery, and quite deliberately so, so that he could claim to be from anywhere, as needed.

“Have you got any bow-ties?” I asked Caradoc. “Bow-ties are cool. The Travelling Doctor said so.”

Caradoc raised his eyes, to address the heavens. “I’m being punished for something, aren’t I? I’ll go and look. . . .”

He stomped off just as Molly returned, wearing a marvellous burgundy red evening gown, complete with all sorts of expensive accoutrements. She did a twirl for me, and the Armourer and I applauded politely. Molly grabbed up all the dresses she’d dumped in a pile, and hugged them to her.

“Designer labels, all of them! And they’re mine, all mine! Don’t they look amazing?”

The Armourer and I exchanged a look. We didn’t speak fashion.

“Wonderful,” said the Armourer.

“Charming,” I said.

“You’d better pick out some spare socks and underwear, and things,” the Armourer said vaguely. “No telling how long you’ll have to spend at the Casino. I’ll go round up some decent luggage for you. Leather, with straps. You can never have too many straps. . . .”

He disappeared into the frocky depths of the department, in search of the still missing Caradoc. Molly looked me over.

“Not bad . . .”

“Scrub up nice, don’t I?” I said.

“We can still drop everything and run,” said Molly, perfectly seriously. “They’d never find us.”

“I want my torc back,” I said. “And, I want to be the one who breaks the bank at Casino Infernale.”

•   •   •

All too soon we were back in the old chapel and standing before the retrieved Door, dressed to the nines, with a whole bunch of heavy designer luggage. Most of it Molly’s, though I had a pretty good idea who’d end up carrying it. I’d settled on a burgundy red bow-tie, to match Molly’s dress, and then broke Caradoc’s heart by insisting on a clip-on.

“I still don’t see why we can’t use the Merlin Glass,” I said. “At least then we’d have a way out if we need it.”

“You can’t use the Glass,” the Armourer said patiently, “because Casino Security is set up to recognise the presence of anything that powerful. Its ownership would be a dead giveaway as to who you really are.”

“I could always say I’d stolen it,” I said. “They’d accept that, from Shaman Bond.”

“Shaman might possess the Merlin Glass, but he wouldn’t know how to keep himself safe from the Glass’ defences,” said the Armourer. “No, Eddie. Best not to risk it. The Glass stays here.”

He stepped back from the Door, shouted
Nantes! France!
at it, and the Door swung open at once, revealing a bright sunshiny city view. The Armourer gestured frantically for us to go through, so Molly and I quickly gathered up our luggage and made a run for it. The Door slammed shut behind us the moment we were safely on the other side, and then disappeared itself.

•   •   •

We were standing on an old bridge, looking out over a river. Don’t ask me which one. Very blue waters, with barges tied up at regular intervals. Bright sunshine, midday from the look of it, and the air smelled wonderfully fresh and clean. Well-preserved historical-looking houses on all sides. On the whole, I approved. People passed us by, paying us no attention at all. Which was just a bit odd, considering that as far as they were concerned, we must have appeared suddenly out of nowhere. I mentioned this to Molly, and she just shrugged.

“Part of the Door’s magic, I suppose. I’m sure they’ll start noticing us in a moment. They’d better. I didn’t squeeze into this dress with the help of a crowbar and a warm spoon just to be ignored.”

“No one would dare,” I assured her.

She looked at me steadily. “How do you feel, Eddie? Really?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I never felt like this before. Naked to the world, with all its threats and dangers. Maybe this is what being Shaman Bond really feels like. If so, he’s a braver man than me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about Shaman as though he was someone else,” said Molly. “He’s just your cover! You’re both the same man!”

“It doesn’t always feel like that,” I said. “Do you love Shaman the same way you love Eddie?”

“Of course!” she said. “They’re the same person!”

“No,” I said. “They’re not. You’re always much easier around Shaman, because you still hate Droods. . . .”

“You are a psychologist’s dream,” said Molly. “Or his worst nightmare . . . Someone’s looking at us.”

I looked round quickly, and sure enough one particular young man was heading straight in our direction. A happy, smiling sort in a striped jacket, over a Johnny Hallyday T-shirt, with battered blue jeans and cowboy boots. Smart and handsome, and just full of joie de vivre. He wore a black beret, with a cigarette protruding from a corner of his mouth. He couldn’t have looked more like someone trying to look French. As he drew nearer, still smiling determinedly, it seemed to me that he had far too much character for his own good. I was pretty sure I knew him from somewhere. . . .

He came to a halt before Molly and me, bouncing up and down on his springy soles, nodded to me and winked to Molly. He leaned forward to kiss me on both cheeks, and I stopped him with a hard look. He turned to Molly, and quickly thought better of it.

“Welcome to Nantes,
mes braves
,” he said, in a fake French accent that wouldn’t have fooled a deaf person. “Francois Greyson, at
votre
service.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I said, as the penny finally dropped. I finally recognised the face, and the bad acting. “Francois, my arse. You’re Fun Time Frankie.”

“Well, yes, if you insist,” said Frankie, in a posh English accent that was just as fake in its own way. “Just trying to blend in, old bean. . . .”

Molly looked at him, and then at me. “Is this a good or a bad thing?”

“Hard to tell,” I said.

“Why . . . Fun Time Frankie?” said Molly.

“Because this disreputable little toad never met a party he didn’t like,” I said. “Been everywhere, had everyone.”

“That is an awful rumour, only spread by people who know me,” said Frankie.

“A useful enough tour guide, I suppose,” I said. “Just don’t turn your back on him.”

“You’re too kind,” said Frankie.

“No, I’m bloody not,” I said. “You’re really the best local contact the family could provide?”

Frankie then provided an excellent version of the Gallic
Couldn’t give a damn screw you move along
shrug. “I’m the only one in the area, just now. The Droods really are being run ragged, trying to keep the lid on things. Even friendly associates such as I are in short supply. Frankly, you’re lucky to have me. I know the area, I know the local underground scene, and I have direct knowledge of Casino Infernale. Which I’m happy to provide. For the just about generous fee your family is currently providing.”

“Frankie is another of my uncle James’ half-breed offspring,” I explained to Molly. “Dear God, that man did put himself about. Half the up-and-comers in secret organisations and hidden underground bunkers have his eyes.”

“I am a Grey Bastard and proud of it!” Frankie said cheerfully. He spat the cigarette out the side of his mouth, over the side of the bridge and into the river. “Never did care for Gauloises. . . . Welcome, welcome; what can I do to help?”

“To start with, you can carry the bags,” I said.

Molly looked at Frankie in a thoughtful way that made him visibly uncomfortable. “So,” she said, “another Bastard . . . like Hadrian Coll.”

“Trickster Man?” said Frankie. “Splendid fellow! You know him?”

“He tried to kill us,” I said.

“And now he’s dead,” said Molly.

“Never liked the man,” Frankie said briskly. “Welcome to Nantes! France’s sixth biggest city! Lots of nightlife here, if you know where to look, and some fantastic restaurants. . . . We get a lot of tourists here, particularly when Paris gets a bit crowded. No Crazy Horse, as such, but I’m sure we can find you something a bit tasty, if your tastes run that way.” He winked roguishly at us, took in our expressions, and hurried on. “Nantes was built along the River Loire, at the confluence of the Rivers Evdre and Sevre. . . . Why are you looking at me like that and I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Do we look like tourists to you?” I said.

“Not really, no,” said Frankie. He scuffed his cowboy boots in an awkward sort of way. “I learned all that specially, too. . . . Still! Never mind, eh? Always happy to do work for the exalted Drood family. If the price is right. Come along with me, everything is prepared.”