Napoleon's Pyramids by William Dietrich Read Free Book Online Page B

head. “Give it up and I let you go,” he whispered.
    I hesitated, my gun empty. My opponent had the skilled stance of a pikeman.
    Then something flew out of the darkness below and banged off the lantern bearer’s head, staggering him. I charged, using the barrel of my rifle like a bayonet to thrust against his sternum, knocking his wind out. He lurched and tumbled down the stairs. I clattered after, vaulted his sprawled body, and stumbled outside, colliding with Talma.
    “Are you mad?” my friend asked. “Police are coming from every direction!”
    “But I got it,” I said with a grin. “What the devil did you hit him with?”
    “A potato.”
    “So they’re good for something after all.”
    “Stop them!” Madame Durrell was shouting from a streetside window. “He tried to have his way with me!”
    Talma looked up. “I hope your gun was worth that.”
    Then we were flying down the street. Another gendarme appeared at the end of the lane, so Talma jerked me into the doorway of an inn. “Another lodge,” he whispered. “I sensed we might need this.” We burst inside and quickly pulled the proprietor into the shadows. A quick Masonic handshake and Talma pointed to a door leading to the cellar. “The order’s urgent business, friend.”
    “Is he a Freemason too?” The innkeeper pointed at me.
    “He tries.”
    The innkeeper followed us down, locking the door behind us. Then we stood under stone arches, catching our breath.
    “Is there a way out?” Talma asked.
    “Past the wine barrels is a grate. The drain is big enough to slip through and leads to the sewers. Some Masons escaped that way in the Terror.”
    My friend grimaced, but did not quail. “Which way to the leather market?”
    “Right, I think.” He stopped us with his hand. “Wait, you’ll need this.” He lit a lantern.
    “Thanks, friend.” We scampered past his barrels, pried off the grate, and skidded thirty feet down a tunnel of slime until we popped out into the main sewer. Its high stone vault disappeared into darkness in both directions, our dim light illuminating the scurrying of rats. The water was cold and stinking. The grate clanged above as our savior locked it back into place.
    I examined my smeared green coat, the only nice one I had. “I admire your fortitude in coming down here, Talma.”
    “Better this and Egypt than a Parisian jail. You know, Ethan, every time I’m with you, something happens.”
    “It’s interesting, don’t you think?”
    “If I die of consumption, my last memories will be of your shouting landlady.”
    “So let’s not die.” I looked right. “Why did you ask about the leather market? I thought the stage left near the Luxembourg Palace?”
    “Exactly. If the police find our benefactor, he’ll misdirect them.” He pointed. “We go left.”
     
     
     
    S o we arrived: half wet, odiferous, and me without baggage except for rifle and tomahawk. We washed as best we could at a fountain, my green traveling coat hopelessly stained. “The potholes are getting worse,” Talma explained lamely to the postman. Our standing wasn’t helped by the fact that Talma had purchased the cheapest tickets, economizing by perching us on the open rear bench behind the enclosed coach, exposed and dusty.
    “It keeps us from awkward questions,” Talma reasoned. With my own money mostly stolen, I could hardly complain.
    We could only hope the fast stage would get us well on the way to Toulon before the police got around to querying the stations, since our odd departure would likely be remembered. Once we reached Bonaparte’s invasion fleet we’d be safe: I carried a letter of introduction from Berthollet. I masked my identity with the name Gregoire and explained my accent by saying I was a native of French Canada.
    Talma had his own valise delivered before accompanying my adventure, and I borrowed a change of shirt before it was hoisted to the coach roof. My gun had to go in the same place, with only the