My mouth went dry. Good god! Someone was being operated on? Had someone been shot? But it couldn’t be Mr Ambrose, right? She said something about an admiral. What the heck was a naval officer doing posing as a doctor? And had he gotten his hands on Mr Ambrose yet? I shuddered. Whatever dark, twisted intrigue was going on here, I was putting a stop to it!
‘Where?’ I demanded, grabbing the lady’s wrist. ‘Où? Où?’
Startled, she drew back and pointed down the street. I whirled and sprinted in the direction she had indicated. As I ran, a thousand dark scenarios flashed through my head. Was I going to march into some kind of murderers’ den? Who was the admiral? And what did he have to do with Mr Rikkard Ambrose? Pumping my legs like never before, I raced down the street like a favorite at the Ascot races. Every now and again, I stopped and waved the scrap of paper with the address under someone’s nose. But always they pointed farther ahead, always I had to run on and on and on, until—
‘Là.’ The portly man pointed to the other side of the street. ‘Juste là.’
‘Merci bon coup!’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Merci bon coup d’etat!’
Turning, I faced the building he had pointed out—and gaped. If out of all the buildings in Paris I’d had to pick one place that I would least expect to find Rikkard Ambrose in, this would be it. No, that wasn’t quite true—the donation office of the biggest Paris orphanage would probably be topmost on my list, but this would come in as a close second. The building was magnificent. The façade in baroque style was majestic and at the same time playful, with tall columns topped by curly decorations cut from stone and elegant arches connecting the row after row of pillars. Above rose a majestic dome, supporting glittering golden statues of ancient gods and goddesses.
Golden statues.
Luxurious decorations.
And Mr Ambrose was supposed to be in there? Had the world gone mad?
I was just contemplating whether or not to pinch myself—just to check if I was still in the coach, fast asleep and caught in some strange dream—when from inside the building, a terrible, ear-splitting scream erupted. The scream of a woman in terror. Instinctively, my hand went to my revolver.
Not a dream, Lilly. Just a nightmare. Time to face it!
And, pulling my revolver, I dashed forward, up the steps and into the building.
The Truth
I can tell you, the doorman seemed pretty surprised when an armed man dashed past him into the building. Not nearly as surprised as I was, though, to meet a doorman at the entrance of a villain’s lair. What kind of bloody place was this? The Villain Hotel for Megalomaniacs and Masterminds?
Another scream ripped through the air. If I’d had any doubt left that there was danger threatening in this place, it was gone now. Whoever that poor woman was, she sounded as if she were having her toenails pulled out with hot tongs. I had to find her! I had to find Mr Ambrose!
Following the distant sound of voices, I rushed down a corridor, the doorman’s shouts echoing behind me—but I was too fast for him to catch up! Soon, I reached a big set of double doors, and in front of them—damn! Another doorman!
‘Out of the way!’ I ordered.
‘English, n’est-ce pas?’ The doorman smiled, extending his hand. ‘Tickets, please.’
Tickets? Tickets? What kind of sick show were they running in there? Were they demanding money so people could watch some poor woman being tortured?
I raised my revolver. ‘Out of my way. Now!’
The doorman paled and ducked behind the nearest column. Pushing open the double doors, I ran on, past a staircase, up another, through a door, and…
Light and sound engulfed me.
My chin dropped. Flabbergasted, I stared at the sight before me. I stood at the entrance to a huge room, a hall really, decorated in gold, silver, brocade and every imaginable luxury—more than I had ever seen squashed together in one place, except maybe Buckingham Palace. Seats stretched out as far as the eye could see, an ocean of people filling them. On the gold-decorated walls, boxes with velvet drapes half hid the richest patrons, but from the shadows, pearls shone and diamonds sparkled. At the opposite end of the room from me rose a stage, and on the stage stood two people. A handsome man and a woman, clasped in his arms. The woman parted her lips and screamed.
No.
Not screamed.
Singing. She was singing. The fancy building. The doorman. The audience.
Oh, vous êtes admirateur de l’opéra?
Bloody hell. How could I have been so stupid?
By not learning French, Lilly. That’s how.
But…wait just a minute.