looking you in the eye.
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
Her accent was English, I noticed. “I’m in a hurry,” I said.
She took a step closer. I watched her hands.
“I just want to talk to you.”
I stepped back. “No, I really must go.” I’d heard the pretty ones sometimes distracted you while two or three of their burly men came up behind and thumped you on the head.
“You can’t be afraid of me,” she said, half-amused.
“I don’t know you.”
“Are you Matt Cruse?”
“How did you know?” I asked foolishly.
“Monsieur, is this woman troubling you?”
I turned to see a gendarme approaching with a lantern and a billy club.
“No, officer. But I must go. I’m late.”
The gendarme turned to the girl. “You heard the gentleman now, he doesn’t wish to speak with you any longer. Are you living here in Paris, or just passing through?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s precisely my business when dealing with your sort.”
“And what sort is that?”
“Gypsies, mademoiselle.”
“I’m a Roma.”
“Call it what you will—”
I walked away, feeling guilty at leaving the girl in the clutches of the gendarme. But I was truly unsettled now. Was she the one lurking in the doorway of the Academy? Had she followed me all the way? Perhaps Dean Pruss was right, and there were many people hungry for information about the
Hyperion
, people who might wish me harm.
I quickened my pace and within minutes I was in the Place Vendôme, encircled by sparkling restaurants and bars and boutiques. The Ritz, with its blazing windows and honeyed stone, radiated luxury and safety. An enormous doorman, clad in a brass-buttoned coat that looked like it could sink a battleship, stood before the hotel’s entrance.
“Can I help you, monsieur?” he inquired.
I pulled Grunel’s card from my pocket and held it out to the doorman. He glanced at it, and then pushed the door wide.
The Ritz had no lobby. I’d heard they didn’t want to give room to undesirables who might come hoping for a peek or a photograph of the rich and famous. I stepped quickly towards the elevators.
“Which floor, sir?” The elevator boy couldn’t have been more than ten. He looked tired, the poor lad. I hoped they didn’t work him too hard here. Paris was filled with young working boys, and girls too, their eyes ringed with soot and exhaustion.
“The Trafalgar Suite, please.”
As he was closing the mesh screen I saw the gypsy girl rush into the hotel, nimbly pulling free from the doorman’s grip. Her eyes swept the hall and locked with mine.
“Matt Cruse, wait!” she called out, hurrying towards me, but the elevator was already starting to rise. “Just a moment of your time, please!” she shouted as we lifted out of sight. The last thing I saw was the doorman striding angrily towards her, telling her in no uncertain terms to clear off.
“Pestering you, is she, sir?” asked the elevator boy.
“I don’t know her,” I muttered. And yet she had known my name. My heart was pounding. She was just a girl—not some hooded thug—but the blazing urgency in her face and eyes shocked me. I wondered who on earth she was.
“Old Serge will have her out in no time,” said the elevator boy. “Now then, the Trafalgar Suite is just down the hall to your left, sir.”
“Thank you.”
I gave him all the spare change in my pocket and made my way to the door. It was a vast expanse of darkly lustrous, coffered wood, with a single button in the middle. I pressed it.
The man who opened the door was dressed in a velvet dinner jacket. He was a big fellow, and might have appeared a brute except for his trim ginger beard, which lent him an air of distinction. He smoked a long brown cigarette.
“I’m Matt Cruse,” I told him.
“Matthias Grunel.” He held out his free hand and we shook. His grip was powerful. “Please come in.”
He led me through a small foyer into a large sitting room, sumptuously
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
Her accent was English, I noticed. “I’m in a hurry,” I said.
She took a step closer. I watched her hands.
“I just want to talk to you.”
I stepped back. “No, I really must go.” I’d heard the pretty ones sometimes distracted you while two or three of their burly men came up behind and thumped you on the head.
“You can’t be afraid of me,” she said, half-amused.
“I don’t know you.”
“Are you Matt Cruse?”
“How did you know?” I asked foolishly.
“Monsieur, is this woman troubling you?”
I turned to see a gendarme approaching with a lantern and a billy club.
“No, officer. But I must go. I’m late.”
The gendarme turned to the girl. “You heard the gentleman now, he doesn’t wish to speak with you any longer. Are you living here in Paris, or just passing through?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s precisely my business when dealing with your sort.”
“And what sort is that?”
“Gypsies, mademoiselle.”
“I’m a Roma.”
“Call it what you will—”
I walked away, feeling guilty at leaving the girl in the clutches of the gendarme. But I was truly unsettled now. Was she the one lurking in the doorway of the Academy? Had she followed me all the way? Perhaps Dean Pruss was right, and there were many people hungry for information about the
Hyperion
, people who might wish me harm.
I quickened my pace and within minutes I was in the Place Vendôme, encircled by sparkling restaurants and bars and boutiques. The Ritz, with its blazing windows and honeyed stone, radiated luxury and safety. An enormous doorman, clad in a brass-buttoned coat that looked like it could sink a battleship, stood before the hotel’s entrance.
“Can I help you, monsieur?” he inquired.
I pulled Grunel’s card from my pocket and held it out to the doorman. He glanced at it, and then pushed the door wide.
The Ritz had no lobby. I’d heard they didn’t want to give room to undesirables who might come hoping for a peek or a photograph of the rich and famous. I stepped quickly towards the elevators.
“Which floor, sir?” The elevator boy couldn’t have been more than ten. He looked tired, the poor lad. I hoped they didn’t work him too hard here. Paris was filled with young working boys, and girls too, their eyes ringed with soot and exhaustion.
“The Trafalgar Suite, please.”
As he was closing the mesh screen I saw the gypsy girl rush into the hotel, nimbly pulling free from the doorman’s grip. Her eyes swept the hall and locked with mine.
“Matt Cruse, wait!” she called out, hurrying towards me, but the elevator was already starting to rise. “Just a moment of your time, please!” she shouted as we lifted out of sight. The last thing I saw was the doorman striding angrily towards her, telling her in no uncertain terms to clear off.
“Pestering you, is she, sir?” asked the elevator boy.
“I don’t know her,” I muttered. And yet she had known my name. My heart was pounding. She was just a girl—not some hooded thug—but the blazing urgency in her face and eyes shocked me. I wondered who on earth she was.
“Old Serge will have her out in no time,” said the elevator boy. “Now then, the Trafalgar Suite is just down the hall to your left, sir.”
“Thank you.”
I gave him all the spare change in my pocket and made my way to the door. It was a vast expanse of darkly lustrous, coffered wood, with a single button in the middle. I pressed it.
The man who opened the door was dressed in a velvet dinner jacket. He was a big fellow, and might have appeared a brute except for his trim ginger beard, which lent him an air of distinction. He smoked a long brown cigarette.
“I’m Matt Cruse,” I told him.
“Matthias Grunel.” He held out his free hand and we shook. His grip was powerful. “Please come in.”
He led me through a small foyer into a large sitting room, sumptuously
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