Read Online Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle - Free Book Online

nobility. I know this for a fact, but no complaint came forth, nor was a single charge laid against him. Are you certain you wouldn’t care to hook on the other tube? Tobacco like this...”
    “Why weren’t charges brought against him?”
    “Fear, I should think. I put a man on his track, one of my best men. You’ll find this hard to believe, no doubt—” The Chief leaned forward, the silken hose hanging from the corner of his mouth. “He visited Lazare’s salon, on Augustin Strasse, a very good address, you know. Lazare had—a crystal ball. His guests looked into it, a parlor game, that sort of thing. My man looked into it and saw...” The Chief paused, rekindled his charcoal. “...saw himself lying dead on the pavement. He reported back to me, terribly rattled.”
    “And...?”
    “He was found dead on the pavement the next day. On Augustin Strasse.”  
    “The cause of death?”
    “Apoplexy.” The Chief inhaled slowly, blew a long stream of smoke in the air, his face growing suddenly pale. “If I should collapse... would you be good enough to... ring for my secretary...”
    Picard handed a tumbler of water to the Chief, who sipped it, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He pushed the pipe away, stared at the smoldering bowl. “Well... I made a... thorough inquiry into Lazare.” He slowly wrapped the silken hose into a coil, and sprinkled water in the bowl, sending a sizzling cloud into the air. “I could find no trace of him anywhere else in Europe. He came to us out of the mists. If you want my advice, let him run his course in your city. Let him have his way—if you value your life.”
    “Surely you don’t think he caused the death of your detective?”
    “A word to the wise, Inspector. There are very few sidewalks in our city and the traffic is swift, so watch your step. I was nearly run down by a carriage yesterday. Sorry I have nothing more for you on this Lazare fellow. Take care then, adieu...”
     
    * * *
     
    Picard went through the streets of the city, descending into the dark passageways which had been tunneled beneath the great monolithic buildings, and came out again, a bloodhound with his nose in the wind, chasing a fox who’d left no track.
    He entered a lane filled with the carts of peasant tradesmen. They were Greeks and Hungarians and Moldavians, all in native dress. The street was dry and the passing carriages raised the dust; he and Veniot had found the track of Roger Givan, the bomb-throwing anarchist, while staring at an exhibit of artificial teeth. One never knows—the mind is vast, and works with secret precision. Threads, the hidden threads.
    That’s my card, Monsieur Lazare; you have your fortune-telling machine which tells you all, and I have learned that the earth itself will play when the chase is on. Something will appear, of that I’m certain. Call me superstitious, and think of me as an easy target for your hocus-pocus. But I’m speaking of real magic, Lazare, which no man can control.
    He found himself drawn to a narrow canyon-like street, and walked along it, in the shadow of high noble buildings where Austrian princes were entertaining their ladies this winter afternoon. Candles burned in the high windows, and servants came and went, while Picard paused, watching the inner life of the street, his nerves quivering delicately, as they had when he and Veniot were searching for Givan, through this same city. The air had positively crackled, and strange pieces were moved right beneath their noses. Even the phlegmatic Veniot was convinced of it—an invisible hand was at play in the chase.
    The street was joined by an intriguing little alleyway which he followed, walking past a row of servants’ quarters. An old man in livery was struggling up the alley, a bucket of water in each hand, drawn from a fountain at the alley’s end. He entered a kitchen doorway; Picard heard the voices of the kitchen staff for a moment, before they were sealed again behind a