Sole Remedy

by Caroline Miniscule

I. Emma Peel lay on her back on a weight bench, grasping the upright bars with her hands, her legs elevated and extended in front of her. Slowly she brought her knees up to her chest, and then equally as slowly extended them back out into space. She repeated this twenty four times more, breathing slowly and evenly. She was in a martial arts dojo called Kadoban. Although it was located in the heart of London, very few people knew of its existence, for its clientele was very exclusive. The dojo consisted of a very large room, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on all four walls, and dozens of thick mats scattered over a highly polished wooden floor. In one corner were several weight benches and free weights, punching bags, and various sized rings hanging from the ceiling The men’s locker room was spacious, as befitted the fact that the majority of people using the dojo were men. The locker room that Emma Peel used was small and makeshift, but she didn’t complain. She wasn’t there for the amenities, she was there to keep fit. Emma lowered her legs to the bench and lay there for several seconds, breathing deeply. Her limbs ached, and it felt good. She’d completed her regimen for the day - performing several sets of repetitions with light weights. Fifty pounds for bar work such as bench presses and curls, a hundred pounds or more for leg work such as curls and extensions. It wasn’t her aim to bulk up, but to maintain a hard, firm body. Emma toweled perspiration from her face and looked up to see John Steed standing before her. He wore slacks, turtleneck and an apologetic expression. ‘’Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Peel.’’ ‘’Hullo, Steed. Sensei Cheesoo gave me your message that you were detained.’’ ‘’You’ve finished?’’ ‘’Just have to do my final stretching exercises, then I’m done.’’ She accepted Steed’s hand with a smile as she rose to her feet, and released it as she sank down on one of the mats and started doing hurdler stretches. Steed replaced her on the weight bench, watching her movements with appreciation. She was so dedicated to honing her skills - both mental and physical, and it was a joy to watch the utter concentration with which she worked. Every day in every way she intended to become better and better. John Steed had joined Kadoban when he and Mrs. Peel first became partners, and they’d trained together at least three times a week for several months, developing their tag-team skills. Recently they’d cut their workouts down to once a week (as they’d have plans for evenings three times a week, instead), but Mrs. Peel still came here on her own every other day, as she had for years. Today, they were supposed to have worked out together. Emma rose to her feet gracefully, accepting the towel Steed held out to her. ‘’I’ll be out in ten minutes,’’ she told him, heading into her locker room. Steed passed the time watching a few uniformed men on the dojo floor. It was a beginner’s karate class. They were being taught the various stances - front, rear, horse, cat, and how to deliver blows from within those stances. It wasn’t how he’d train anyone to fight. Go after a student with his umbrella, swinging this way and that, and have the student skitter along the floor figuring out the best way to block, sidestep, and use ingenuity to get the umbrella away from him - that’s how he’d do it. Mrs. Peel had caught on real fast, he thought with a reminiscent smile. Not that she was a beginner. She was good. Very good. In fact, her reflexes were probably a smidgen faster than his. (They needed to be, with the flamboyant style of fighting she liked to use, he thought tangently. He’d have to do something about that.) He had her beat on speed by a fraction, however, so they evened out in that department. ‘’All right, Steed,’’ Emma said, resting her hand on the shoulder. He rose, smiling. ‘’Well, Mrs. Peel,’’ Steed said as they walked out of Kadoban. ‘’I hated to miss our workout but I had to meet my sister. You’ve heard me speak of my sister?’’ ‘’I’ve heard you speak of your aunts, and your nephew,’’ Emma replied. ‘’The one who likes space guns.’’ ‘’Ah, yes. That would be the son of my sister. A charming child.’’ Steed shook his head doubtfully. ‘’Anyway, I’ve been persuaded to take on a side job. You are now looking at the acquisitor-at-large for my sister’s transport museum.’’ ‘’Steed. How lovely!’’ ‘’I think I’ll be able to enjoy myself,’’ Steed agreed smugly. ‘’I’m sure you will.’’ She’d been walking beside Steed as he took turn after turn. Now she glanced at him. ‘’What’s our target for today, Steed?’’ ‘’I thought, the British Museum.’’ Emma arced an eyebrow at him. ‘’How very....stodgy of you.’’ ‘’The British Museum? Stodgy? In addition to bouting together, Steed and Emma’s current training day program, as proposed by Steed, was to visit a business establishment and plot a spectacular theft. He’d gotten the idea after the case of the Ransack Organization some months ago (and indeed, Emma had established a foundation to take over that organization and turn it back to its original purpose). After they worked out the details of the ‘caper’, they’d send their plans, anonymously, to the people in charge, with suggestions on how to increase their security. But The British Museum? What was there to be stolen, wondered Emma Peel. Everything there was so.....stodgy. II. ‘’You have got to be kidding,’’ said Mrs. Emma Peel, giving Steed one of her patented ‘Peelish’ looks. ‘’Not up to the challenge, Mrs. Peel?’’ ‘’It’s a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Steed. It’s a lot of old bones!’’ ‘’Shhhh.’’ Steed hissed urgently. His ex-partner Cathy Gale still worked at the British Museum, and though he had no intention of looking her up today, if someone went around criticizing ‘old’ bones she’d sense it and be on them in no time. And the lecture on bones - from archaeological to anthropological - she would give! Emma gave him another Peelish look, but he didn’t explain his sudden apprehensive glances. ‘’All right, Steed,’’ Emma said, humoring him. ‘’Why a Tyrannosaurus Rex? Yes, it would be a challenge to make off with it, but it would be even more of a challenge to fence it.’’ ‘’Oh, I don’t know,’’ Steed said airily. ‘’Lots of museums these days want dinosaur bones. And the Tyrannosaurus Rex is the dinosaur. So, let’s give it some thought, shall we?’’ ‘’It’s easy,’’ Emma said, glancing at the sole, ancient security guard perched on a stool in a far corner. ‘’We forge, out of plaster of paris, all of the bones of this dinosaur, then every Sunday we come in here. While I fascinate the guard in my own inimitable style, you nip up onto the dinosaur and replace our cast of one of the bones for the real thing. We’ll have this dinosaur out of here in, oh, about fifteen years.’’ ‘’You’re not taking this seriously, Mrs. Peel.’’ III. They decided to take tea at the Charing Cross Hotel. Emma found them seats on a sofa in the Tea Room while Steed went to get their refreshments. While Emma waited, she people-watched. The clientele was mostly American, eager to sample the British experience of tea and cucumber sandwiches. She noticed three people come into the tea room. An elderly lady, flanked by a young and a middle aged man, walked, with the aid of a cane, to a seat on the opposite side of hers. By the cut of their clothes she suspected that at least two of them were foreigners...French, she guessed. Her suspicions were verified seconds later, when they began to speak. Mrs. Peel did not normally listen in on other’s people’s conversations, at least not those that took place in the genteel atmosphere of the Charing Cross Hotel, but this time she did, and when Steed joined her with a tray of teacups and biscuits, she waved him to silence. IV Madame Dominique Truffaut walked slowly through the lobby of the Charing Cross Hotel. She was an old woman, and her legs hurt her. Beside her on her right walked Ulrich Edlon, a young German with a fresh, eager expression on his face, and on her left, Philip Reynard, a middle-aged Englishman with a tooth-brush mustache, exuding dignity and grace. The two men waited while Madame Truffaut lowered herself down with difficulty onto one of the comfy chairs in the lounge. ‘’May I get you some tea, Mrs. Truffaut?’’ Reynard asked her solicitously in French. ‘’Oui,’’ the old woman told him with a smile. Reynard gestured for Edlon to sit down as well. ‘’Tea for you, Herr Edlon?’’ he asked in German ‘’Ja.’’ said that young man. The two people, young and old, sat stiffly in their seats, exchanging the universal language of smiles. Behind them, on a chair facing in the other direction, could be seen the auburn hair of a woman. They neither of them paid any attention to her. Neither did Reynard, when he returned with a tray. ‘’The hotel clerk assured me it will not be much longer before your room is ready, Madame Truffaut,’’ Reynard told the old woman in perfect French. He then turned to Edlon and told him the same thing in impeccable German. ‘’I am very tired, but I understand these things, of course,’’ Mrs. Truffaut told him. ‘’The business of the hotel, it is a difficult one.’’ She sipped tea. ‘’I am so excited, Monsieur Reynard. When I came here to London to auction my Vermeer, I had no idea what would result from it. Except for the money, of course,’’ she said with a smile. ‘’But to meet the son of Emil Edlon. What an honor!’’ ‘’It was indeed fortuitous that he saw your name in the Sotheby’s catalog. He has traveled all the way from Germany to meet you,’’ Reynard told her enthusiastically. ‘’He had heard the rumor that you and your husband had purchased some of his father’s work. Imagine his joy to find out that was true! He so wants to see your collection.’’ ‘’Well, he must certainly come to my chalet for a visit! We must arrange it so. I would be pleased to let him view the works as much as he likes. But, we are ignoring him.’’ Reynard smiled at her, and with a hand on her arm, turned to Edlon. ‘’Herr Edlon, I have wonderful news.’’ he said in German. ‘’Mrs. Truffaut says that, although these paintings of your father have been in her family for a long time, she would be delighted to sell them to you.’’ (It was at this point that Emma Peel’s ears pricked up.) “‘Wunderbar,’’ he exclaimed. ‘’Wunderbar.’’ He leaned across Reynard and shook hands with Mrs. Truffaut excitedly. ‘’How charming he is,’’ she told Reynard indulgently. ‘’So enthusiastic.’’ ‘’You are doing him a great service, Mrs. Truffaut,’’ Reynard told her in French. ‘’He has been searching for his father’s paintings for a long time. The chance to see them, all gathered in one place...he is overwhelmed. He will return home a happy man.’’ Reynard looked up. ‘’Ah. Here comes the concierge of the hotel.’’ A tall, slender gray haired man approached, along with a woman who was clearly Madame Truffaut’s maid. ‘’Mr. Reynard, Herr Edlon, Madame Truffaut, allow me to apologize for the delay. Madame Truffaut, your room is now ready.’’ ‘’Your room is ready, Madame Truffaut,’’ Reynard translated. ‘’But not Herr Edlon’s? I cannot...’’ ‘’No, please, Madame. You are tired. Let the concierge escort you to your room, and your maid help you settle in. You must rest. Herr Edlon understands.’’ ‘’Well, I am very tired.’’ Reynard and Edlon watched Madame Truffaut totter away on the arm of her maid, and then they began to speak much more animatedly, in German. ‘’Herr Edlon, this discovery of a cache of your father’s work is stupendous. It will be as famous as would be the discovery of the Amber Panels or the Crown Jewels of Troy.’’ ‘’And she will sell it all to me?’’ ‘’Assuredly. She is not interested in the money - she is only interested in returning those paintings to who she views as their rightful owner. The Entartete Kunst was a terrible thing, Herr Edlon.’’ ‘’You do not need to tell me that, Herr Reynard,’’ Edlon said, a trifle sharply. ‘’Of course, of course,’’ Reynard said. ‘’Please forgive me. I meant no insensitivity.’’ ‘’No, please, I apologize also, Herr Reynard. I did not mean to be brusque.’’ The two men rose, as the concierge appeared at the doorway and signaled to them. V. Emma Peel and John Steed looked at each other. ‘’I know what the Amber Panels are,’’ Steed said. ‘’And I know what the Crown Jewels of Troy are. And I firmly believe they are not missing but were ‘liberated’ by the Soviets and are buried deep in the Hermitage and no one will see them again until the present government of the Soviet collapses...may that not be far off. But what is the Entartete Kunst?’’ ‘’For Emil Edlon, it was poetic justice,’’ said Emma Peel grimly. ‘’He was a Nazi, Steed. More than that, he was an Old Comrade.’’ ‘’Someone who joined the Nazi party before Hitler came to power,’’ Steed said, nodding. ‘’Right. He was a virulent anti-Semitic who lauded every time the Jews were stripped of some part of their German citizenship. He didn’t think they had the right to hold a job, to teach in German schools or universities, to publish in German magazines, to live wherever they wanted.’’ ‘’And the poetic justice?’’ Emma’s lips curved. ‘’He was also an artist. A very prestigious artist, a professor at a top university, President of the Art Council. But, he was an Impressionist painter. And if there’s one thing Hitler hated more than another it was an Impressionist painter. When he came to power, all art that wasn’t representative - that didn’t look exactly like the model it was painted from - was purged. Labeled decadent. Even though he was an Old Comrade, Edlon was stripped of his titles, fired from the University, his paint and brushes were taken from him, and he was forbidden to paint ever again. He was pretty much rendered a non-citizen.’’ ‘’That is ironic.’’ Steed said with a grin Emma nodded. ‘’And that’s where the Entartete Kunst came in. 1936. The Nazis held an exhibition of Degenerate Art. They pulled all Impressionist, Expressionist, Cubist and other art from the walls of museums and private homes, and put it into a single collection. The main exhibit was in Berlin, but they sent a traveling exhibit all around the country, and people came to see it by the thousands. Every painting or sculpture included in the exhibit was ridiculed, mislabeled, the artists slandered. It was a pretty vicious affair. Then, the art was sent into Switzerland, where the pieces were auctioned off, giving the government of Germany a lot of much needed capital.’’ ‘’And that was the fate of Edlon’s paintings?’’ ‘’Apparently. And as apparently, Madame Truffaut is the one who acquired them.’’ Steed and Emma looked at each other. ‘’Mr. Reynard was one lousy interpreter.’’ Emma said. ‘’Mr. Reynard was telling lies.’’ Steed retorted. ‘’It’s incredible that he would do it here, though. In the Tea Room of the Charing Cross Hotel.’’ Emma shrugged. ‘’There’s that old joke. What do you call someone who speaks only one language? American. Perhaps Mr. Reynard thought that only American tourists stay here.’’ ‘’It wouldn’t surprise me,’’ commented Steed. ‘Though I must say, your average Englishman is a monolinguist as well.’’ ‘’Unless he spent his formative years sneaking into France and Germany,’’ Emma agreed, caressing Steed’s arm. . ‘’Or has an affinity for languages and insatiable desire knowledge,’’ Steed returned with a smile. Emma sipped her tea. ‘’So, what do we have? Mr. Reynard tells Madame Truffaut that Herr Edlon just wants to see the paintings. He is going sell him the paintings. What can we extrapolate from that?’’ ‘’That a crime is going to be committed. Mr. Reynard seemed to be quite captivated with the thought of a Big Discovery. Once he gets those paintings away from Madame Truffaut, he can’t let her live - or she’ll ruin everything.’’ Emma nodded. ‘’Exactly what I was thinking. What are we going to do about it?’’ John Steed laced his fingers behind the back of his head and stretched out his legs. ‘’I can see myself as a artist. A Salvador Dali type.’’ ‘’No, Steed.’’ He looked at her reproachfully. ‘’You always get to play the flamboyant role. It’s my turn. Now, me....I see myself as the Madwoman of Chaillot....and that would be quite an appropriate role, too.’’ ‘’How so?’’ The play was written by Jean Giraudoux. In addition to being a playwriht he was a French politician. He was killed by the Nazis.’’ Steed nodded. ‘’All right, Mrs. Peel. The Madwoman of Chaillot you shall be.’’ Go to the finale of Sole Remedy

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