A loud knock sounded on the warped wooden door.

I opened it to see Meslay, my brother-in-law. His tall bearing in my cramped quarters; a blue cape masking his regimental uniform but not his glistening black boots seemed out of place. "Pet.i.t, eh, just a little work, but steady," he said, joining me in Montmartre that February day.

"I appreciate your help, Meslay. Our connection hasn't been close, since Norton's death." Meslay, in fact, owed me little, so I was grateful for any consideration.

"My patron needs an American expatriate's services in Paris," he said, smoothing his tapered mustache.

Meslay, who usually sparred with conversational counterpoints and endless discussion in the Gallic tradition, seemed unusually direct.

"Not to mention such an accomplished and beautiful one as you, Irene."

After his brief brush of charm, I hoped he'd continue his direct approach and get down to business.

"Only you can do this."

Surprised, I looked up from the stiff black taffeta bodice I was attempting to tame with a high handled metal iron. The smoky looking gla.s.s showed my striped morning dress with bustle, the only decent one I kept, and my rag-rolled long hair looped around my head.

I felt hopeful. At least I could earn something besides the little I pocketed at the theater and from the cafe-cabarets. The heat dissipated from the dying embers in the iron, frustrating me. Once someone had ironed for me, all morning long; now how I appreciated such effort!

"And the work?" I asked.

"We'll make it worth your while," Meslay said.

As I hung the semi-wrinkled taffeta costume over the three-quarter dressing screen and gave him my attention, I wondered why he'd not answered my question.

Curious but feeling the need to play hostess even in a limited fashion, I set two thick-bottomed gla.s.ses on the rough wood table and poured from a carafe of vin rouge. Meslay accepted and raised his gla.s.s.

"Salut!" I said.

He raised his gla.s.s, clinked mine and downed the rotgut I got cheap from the bistro below. "Certain underpinnings in the Third Republic warrant scrutiny," said Meslay, his gaze on my wall with theater posters. "Ongoing surveillance, if you know what I mean."

Sounded oblique to me.

"Dear Meslay, my espionage roles have only been played on the stage." I grinned. "Norton performed those in real life, which only recently came to my knowledge, but I'm an excellent translator ... ."

"Your acquaintances in the demimondaine are what I refer to," he interrupted. "You float among gypsy girls, pert ingenues in knickers, reclining odalisques and diaphanous veiled models riding circus horses."

Meslay made it sound exotic and lush, but little did he know that to survive the underside of this rock-hard unglamordus life, a woman needed a tenacious will, supple intelligence, and to appear submissive and alluring at the same time. Women jumped on tightropes. That way one avoided the streets. Perhaps, one could even triumph.

"Oui, Meslay, I'm acquainted with the milieu," I said. "Mais not with much else."

"But you have an entree behind the scenes where few can go," he said. "Backstage, in the casinos and bordellos, in dens among languid addicts smoking opium, a discreet visit, of course, in a way that a man would be suspected."

His eyebrows tented in supplication.

Holmes had said much the same thing. What did Meslay want me to do?

The five-hundred-sou note in his gloved hand tempted me. My costumes were p.a.w.ned, our last hotel bill from rue de la Paix still unpaid and my maid, Leonie Guerard, had gone to the workhouse when I'd been unable to afford her. My conscience nagged seeing her child begging on the street.

Now I could at last pay Leonie's overdue wages and get her child off the curbside begging.

"What specifically do you mean, Meslay?" I asked.

He set down the half-drunk gla.s.s and smoothed his mustache. "Irene, we propose for you to weave a web-you might say"-he smiled-"of informants in music halls, theaters, and the bordellos in Montmartre. Make acquaintances with concierges, cleaning women, cafe habitues, and restaurant maitre d's."

I waited for the guillotine to drop-when he would tell me the goal of what he sought. But his rapt gaze followed the crinkled silver mist creeping over the b.u.t.te hill on the right. Below us, the wood cart selling charcoal thumped over the cobbles as the seller cried "charbon." He'd paused and I prodded him further.

"Meslay, to do that I must know why or I can't find the right ..." Here I hesitated almost saying mouchard, but stool pigeon wasn't a nice connotation in French or any language.

He shrugged. "D'accord. We're interested in the habits of certain French officers. The artillery officers, their vices and peccadilloes."

My mind went again to Holmes's mysterious appearance and his begging me for information of a Comte in the military. Could this be connected ... but how?

"With an eye to blackmail, Meslay?"

"Possibly, but more along the lines of bribery," said Meslay. "We want to know who's connected to Captain Dreyfus."

At that time, Dreyfus, a little known military officer, had been court-martialed and exiled to Devil's Island. His name was not yet a household name. This was before the infamous article by Zola, J'accuse.

"This seems difficult," I said. Theater crew were close-knit, a camaraderie existed in the demimonde, and irreverent humor characterized the intellectuals.

"A judicious scattering of these will help," he said, pulling a wad of ten-sou notes from his pocket.

He had a point and I certainly hoped so.

"Let's say your communication with me will be indicated when," he said, picking up the wine bottle, "the bottle sits on your window ledge. We shall meet here."

"Your visits could draw attention," I said, thinking of my inquisitive concierge to whom I owed a week's back rent. "Come to the bouillon de Peres, the Pigalle soup canteen run by the good fathers to save wayward souls. At least it gives a respite and something warm for the stomach." I winked. "The canteen sits between the restaurant de la Boheme and Club Boum-Boum in Place Pigalle. Pere Angelo can be trusted with messages in case one of us might not make it."

"Aah, a dead-letter drop," said Meslay.

Fine, let Meslay define our arrangement as a sophisticated cloak and dagger routine. That bothered me little.

We arranged our next meeting then he ducked his head under the slanting timbered roof and left. I watched his long-strided gait as he turned into wet slick rue Lepic. He didn't turn back, though I'm sure he knew my eyes followed him from the window.

Finding information about this Captain Dreyfus or the Comte shouldn't prove too difficult, or so I hoped. Once I'd gathered up courage, the actual rounds in Montmartre and Pigalle proved curious. Fearing hoots of derisive laughter, I'd been taken aback at the Gallic shrug and open palm my mission received. To legitimize my quest, I implied the honor of the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VII, a known habitue of night life and certain "houses," was at stake.

So far, I'd bribed a crooked-nosed bouncer at the Cabaret aux a.s.sas sins to inform me of officers' visits, greased the palm of painters' models in Montmartre ateliers over a bottle of absinthe, enlisting the aid of Rose la Rouge, a streetwalker and occasional cabaret singer, and arranged with a pianist who entertained in an infamous Sentier brothel to keep his eyes out for officers' preferences.

I also enlisted my former maid Leonie's services. Since Esterhazy, a commissioned officer in the French army, worked at the Military ministry, Leonie, frequenting the office on the pretense of seeking work, would keep another eye on him.

To Leonie's and my good fortune, she was offered a job cleaning offices and a.s.sisting the concierge, who had a bad leg and approached retirement.

But how to get invited to the gambling den Holmes mentioned? I thought much on the way to rehearsal. I pa.s.sed the round metal TABAC sign above the dark wood shop at the foot of rue Tholoze deep in thought. I pondered Holmes's words again and wondered if he and Meslay worked for the same side. Or not.

But I wondered how to gain Bijou's confidence. The brick-red moulin visible at the top loomed in the distance, the sails of which had long ceased to turn. I climbed the wide stairs with crownlike dark green gaslights dividing the staircase. Every so many steps grilled landings to the tall apartments and shops branched off from its spine.

By the time I reached Le Chat Noir, I felt no wiser. I forged my way backstage past clowns, ventriloquists and belly dancers towards Bijou, the revue's contortionist, limbering up. Bijou lifted her ruffled pantalooned leg straight up and notched the ankle behind her neck. After another vigorous stretch she collapsed into a full-split to my immense admiration. "Fantastique," I said. "Bijou, you must be triple-jointed."

She grinned.

A bottle of expensive scent sat on the dressing table.

"Or in love," I said.

"Ask my new paramour," she said, her supple arms in an arc. "He's a grand mec, an aristocrat, not that you'd know it in the bedroom," said Bijou, her gap-toothed smile infectious. Bijou's boudoir philosophy seemed refreshing, if not accommodating. She loosened her dark brown topknot of curls, shook her head, then retied them. She stretched her long legs, then arched her back like a cat. "Enjoys the good life, does he?" I asked, hoping she'd rise to the bait.

"He likes the tables," she said.

"A poker or chemin de fer aficionado?"

She shrugged. "Both of course."

"I'm partial to baccarat." I let out a loud sigh. "Believe it or not, but I helped many a 'friend' at the Grand Casino. We broke the bank at Monte once. Of course, a Moldavian prince kept buying me chips. Blue ones. And I kept winning more. Piles and piles of them. At the end of the night I treated all the waiters to champagne."

"But you're down on your luck now, eh, americaine?" Bijou had street savvy.

"Let the chips tell the story, but when I feel lucky nothing gets in the way. Bijou, there's no other way to say it but, I attract good luck."

Chill cold emanated from the damp stone walls little dispelled by the small charcoal stove. The smell of greasepaint and fug of bodies weren't hidden by the cheap rosewater the cancan girls liberally applied.

"Why don't you introduce me, Bijou?" I said applying powder in front of the mercury gla.s.s mirror running the length of the small dressing room. "I have a gift."

"Only one?" Bijou grinned, her ruffled pantaloons frayed in places. "Eh, americaine ... he might go for that. He's got friends who'd like you."

Le Chat Noir revue's curtains opened with a whistler, in a black-and-white Pierrot costume with white face and tears, whose tune rivaled the birds. Strains from an accordion wheezed in the background while Bijou and Frederique, the contortionists, performed. Then followed my skit; a parody of the English. Anglo-French relations had been rocky since the Battle of Waterloo. I pantomimed Napoleon's famous phrase that the British were a nation of shopkeepers. For the stuffy bureaucrat, I'd pick on the nearest portly gentleman in the crowd, sit on his lap and literally got him to eat peanuts out of my hand. The audiences loved it every time.

To my disappointment, there seemed no trace of Bijou's count in the audience. Nor the next day. No sign of Bijou either. Time for me to check in with my informants, loosen their tongues with more sous.

"ca va, Anton?" I asked the doorman at the Cabaret aux a.s.sa.s.sins, as I trudged through Pigalle the next evening. I joined him under the fan-shaped gla.s.s and iron awning.

"Fine, but the world looks heavy on your shoulders," said Anton.

"Nothing some interesting news won't lighten," I said, under my breath. Several bearded men emerged from the cabaret door, stamped their boots on the wet cobblestones. Anton motioned me to wait.

Good, I needed a lead or promise of one.

Surprised at the men's refusal of Anton's offer to hail them a hansom, I watched them trundle down the steep winding street.

"So those a.s.sa.s.sins prefer to walk?" I eyed the rain dancing over the cobbles.

He grinned and his crooked nose shone in the lamplight. "Just Czechs from Prague with full bellies wanting to work off their repast," he said. "But they were inquisitive, waited for a friend. A Hungarian officer. A count."

"The Hungarian count didn't show up?" I asked, my ears perking up. The rain beat down and I hugged myself against the chill.

"This Hungarian's a commissioned French officer. No love lost there, I'd say, from their conversation."

Intrigued, I narrowed my eyes. "You speak Czechoslovakian?"

"My mother was Czech," he said. "But I don't share that with many."

"Did they mention a Comte Esterhazy?" I said. I knew Esterhazy was a Polish name.

"Esterhazy?" He tugged his beard. "Ferdinand Walsin was who they mentioned. He came, but I didn't see him leave."

Where had I heard that? I thought hard.

Of course, from Holmes! Marie-Charles-Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy ... Comte Esterhazy. "You didn't see him leave?"

"Don't have eyes in the back of my head when I take my dinner, do I?" I grinned. "But I thought all doormen had another set."

At least now I knew that Esterhazy visited and others looked for him as well.

"Anton, what goes on here besides the cabaret and the food?"

"And the high-stakes chemin de fer game?" he said, in a low voice.

I nodded. "Higher stakes than the game above the printing shop in place Clichy?"

"Many an inheritance has traded hands here as dawn rose over Montmartre."

This sounded like the type of game Esterhazy would be drawn to ... as the cliched moth to a flame.

I pressed franc notes in his hand. "If this Walsin shows up, later or anytime. Send a runner, find me, or leave a note with my concierge."

But tramping home from Pigalle that sleeting, frigid evening I noticed a stocky side-whiskered man following me. Had been since the Bateau Lavoir, the old washhouse taken over by artists, which fronted the cobbled square. Apprehension filled me.

Past the small park, and up the steep winding cobbled streets I was followed.

I ducked into the local alimentaire. The man who followed me waited outside. He eyed the window but I could see his large form, through the letters painted on the shop window, heaving to and fro.

After selecting a hub of cheese, I paid the amount owing on my credit and scribbled a quick note to the proprietaire. The ap.r.o.ned proprietaire bagged my purchase, rubbed his hands on his stained ap.r.o.n, then gave a quick nod indicating the rear of the shop. And a wink.

I scooted to the shop's rear, past the tubs of brined fish, the freshly slaughtered rabbit haunches on ice, leaning flour sacks. Behind rue Lepic, the narrow cobbled street lay ice sheathed and icicles hung from handcarts.

Relieved to see the narrow street deserted and to have lost the man, I battled the sleet to my oval courtyard in the adjoining street. After paying off my many debts, not enough had remained to find alternative lodging. So I remained, appreciative of my luck in having a warm garret.

Madame Lusard, the concierge, a wire-haired battle-ax of a woman, thrust a batch of letters in my cold hands. She pulled her shawl tight around her, opened the door of her loge, and returned to a purring cat in front of her glowing grate. My excitement crested as I mounted the grooved worn stairs of the building, feeling the embossed vellum envelopes. Surely, evidence of a wealthy sender.

Inside, I struggled out of my wet cloak, leaving puddles on the rough wood floor. After sticking sc.r.a.ps of newspaper in the window cracks to block the drafts, I pulled on my one dry pair of leggings and lit the gaslight. The small room warmed up quickly thanks to Madame Lusard's fire below. I hung the cloak on a peg to dry. Often, I slept by the brick radiating heat and dried my clothing in several hours. Unlike others who shivered and caught pneumonia every winter, I counted myself lucky.

I opened the thick envelope to find an upcoming audition announcement at Theatre Anglais.

Not forgotten ... wonderful! A secondary role in a George Bernard Shaw drawing room farce. I knew most of the first act, could learn the rest in a day. Joy filled me. A real part and someone had thought to send it my way!

I sat down, my back against the warm brick with a gla.s.s of vin, the audition announcement, and full of wonder. It was then I noticed the bottle on the window ledge. Turned and indicating a meeting with Meslay. Something I was supposed to do, but he had obviously entered my garret, beat me to it.

My stomach knotted in unease. The little information I'd gleaned made me an unworthy informant. And the idea of trudging out again in the bitter cold of a dark winter's night filled me with less than antic.i.p.ation.