CHAPTER FIVE
In Which Passepartout Makes A Chilling Discovery
The train trip to Calais had gone on without incident, giving both Passepartout
and Verne a chance to catch up on some much-needed sleep. They had managed to
snag seats not very far from the five men they had been following. The hour
being as late as it was, there were very few people in the car, which meant that
the pair couldn't get as close as they would have liked without looking
suspicious. But it also meant there would be fewer stops to make along the way,
cutting the trip to the coast by a good hour.
By the time the train pulled into the city of Calais, the sun was just beginning
to rise.
The five men arose quickly as the train stopped and walked out onto the platform
of the station, still completely oblivious to the fact that they were being
followed. After a quick stretch they turned and headed toward the shipping
docks where Verne was convinced they would be taking the ferry to Dover.
"What will be doing once we get to England?" Passepartout inquired as they
picked their way among the early morning crowd. He had been hoping that Jules
had come to his senses during the night and would allow him to fetch the Foggs
before taking any action against the five men. Sometimes he got the feeling
that Verne was picking up all the wrong traits from his master.
Verne could sense the apprehension in his friend's voice and he smiled. "Don't
worry, Passepartout. I promise once we know for sure what's going on, we'll
alert the authorities. I just don't think we need to bother Phileas and Rebecca
with this. It's not a matter for the Secret Service, it's a simple matter for
the police."
"Passepartout always worries when someone tells him not to. We should be
calling the police now."
"And tell them what?
"About the robbery. If they be searching the men, they be finding the stone."
"Will they?" Verne threw his hands up in the air. "We haven't even seen the
stone. This could all be a wild goose chase. But if it's not, wouldn't it be
better to turn over both stones?"
Passepartout raised an eyebrow as he regarded his young friend. "Would you be
impressing Miss Rebecca or Mister Fogg with this little escape?"
Jules felt his face flush and quickly turned away. He had hoped that his
attraction for Rebecca would go largely unnoticed by both her cousin and
Passepartout. Now it was obvious that at least the valet had taken some notice.
And as for impressing Fogg, that seemed nearly impossible, although he was
always wont to try for reasons even he couldn't perceive.
"Neither," he finally responded when the silence proved too embarrassing. "It's
just that I'm growing rather tired of always being in the shadows. How can I
write a convincing novel full of adventure and intrigue if I know nothing of
them?"
Passepartout raised the other eyebrow. "How can you be saying that, Master
Jules? We have had plenty of adventures together. You and Passepartout and
Miss Rebecca and Mister Fogg...."
"That's it, Passepartout." Verne exclaimed, his motions becoming more animate as
he spoke. "Once the excitement starts, Fogg or Rebecca steps in and suddenly
I'm out of the picture...."
"Well, that's only because they care about you. They don't want to be seeing
you hurt."
"Oh, I know that. And I appreciate it...really. But just once I'd like to be
the one doing the rescuing instead of the one being rescued."
Passepartout couldn't help but smile. "But this is what they be doing for a
living, Master Jules. It is their job to be doing the rescuing and capturing
the bad men."
Verne glanced sidelong at his friend. "And you, Passepartout. What is your
job? You're right in the middle of it all."
Without missing a beat, the valet replied, "Passepartout's job is to take care
of his master...."
And that was the end of that discussion, at least as far as Passepartout was
concerned. For no matter how many questions Verne postulated, nor how many
times he asked them, the valet's mouth remained firmly shut. Sometimes a little
secrecy was best.
They had reached the docks by now, with the five men they had been diligently
following only a few paces ahead. With the early morning dawn came more people
and increased chances of losing their quarry if they allowed too much space
between them. But at this point, the men turned left, away from the commercial
aspects of the fishing community and walked instead towards the private docks.
It became quite obvious to both Verne and Passepartout that these men were not
going to Dover. At least not by the ferry.
"This not be good." Passepartout commented as the people started to thin out,
knowing that soon it would
become obvious to the men that they were being followed. Suddenly Verne grabbed
his arm and pulled him away from the dock, dragging him behind a ramshackle
building just this side of falling completely apart.
"No," Verne agreed, peering cautiously around the side of the shack. "This not
be good at all."
Passepartout raised an eyebrow, "Passepartout's been telling you that for
hours."
Verne half turned his head to look at him. "No, I don't mean that,
Passepartout." He turned away again. "I mean that."
A confused look passed across the valet's face. He had not seen anything that
would have caused Verne
such apprehension. He inch around to the other side of the shack and peered
around it himself, hoping to catch a glimpse of what Verne was speaking of.
"Ceci ne peut pas être!" escaped from his lips before he had a chance to stop
it.
"My thoughts exactly."
All thoughts of following the men disappeared completely. There was no need as
the two men knew exactly where they were heading.
"We can contact Mister Fogg and Miss Rebecca now?" Passepartout inquired
hopefully.
Verne pulled back away from the edge of the shack and glanced over at the valet.
His face had gone a pasty white, all thoughts of intrigue and adventure
vanquished from his mind. He nodded. "I think that would be the prudent thing
to do, Passepartout." he replied, trying to sound nonchalant and failing
miserably.
Passepartout was wont to say 'told you so' but did not think this the proper
time. Perhaps when all was said and done and they were enjoying tea in the
parlor of the Aurora he would bring it up again, but not now.
"Passepartout will go send the telegram while Master Jules stays here and keeps
an eye on things." The valet explained matter-of-factly.
Again Verne nodded. He was still a little too shocked by what they had found to
speak. This was a turn of events he had not quite expected. If he had, he most
certainly wouldn't have spoken as boldly as he had before. To his credit, he
was very glad Passepartout did not bring that up.
Passepartout straightened out the jacket sleeve Verne had rumpled and nearly
ripped off in his haste to get the valet out of sight. Even in times of great
distress it was beneficial to look ones best. "You will be all right while
Passepartout is gone?" he asked Verne, noting the slightly faraway cast to the
younger man's eyes.
"I....I'll be fine, Passepartout."
Of this Passepartout was not so sure. Whenever the League of Darkness was
involved he was not sure. "Passepartout will be back soon, Master Jules. Very
soon."
Verne nodded for the third time, glad to be alone. With a frightened sigh he
fell back against the wall of the shack and slowly sank to the ground. He hated
the fact that just the mention of the League of Darkness could cause such
foreboding in his very soul. Would there ever be a day when he could hear the
name and feel something other than fear? Even anger would be preferable. At
least anger would spur him into action - like Phileas Fogg. Fear caused him to
sit here trembling behind a run-down shack while Passepartout went off to.....
The sound of a gruff voice brought him back to reality with a startled gasp that
almost betrayed his position.
"Hey, you! What are you doing here?!"
He looked up, half expecting to see that familiar dark blue uniform he had
himself once worn, but there was no one there. No, the voice had come from the
direction of the dock. The direction that Passepartout had just started in.
Passepartout...
On his hands and knees, because he was just too terrified to try gaining his
feet, he crawled over to the edge of the shack and peered around. Then just as
quickly shrank back as he found the valet confront by four League of Darkness
men not more a foot from where he knelt.
* * * * * * * *
"Hey, you! What are you doing here?!"
Passepartout stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the voice. Despite his
bravado in front of Verne, the sight of a large boat-load full of League of
Darkness men had sent shivers down his own spine as well. Although he had only
had one real contact with the group since coming in to the service of Phileas
Fogg, that one experience had been quite enough. He had seen the damage done to
Jules Verne as well as to Miss Rebecca. And the look in his master's eyes
whenever the name was mention would cause the hair on the back of his neck to
rise.
"Passepartout is in bad trouble..." he mumbled to himself. "Very bad
trouble...."
The sound of approaching footsteps caused him to put on a fake smile and turn
around. Perhaps if he acted innocent they would simply send him on his way.
Four men in the blue uniform of the League of Darkness stopped before him. The
smile wavered.
"I said, what are you doing here?" one exclaimed in perfect French.
"I think I am lost," he answered, hoping the frightened look that crossed his
face could pass for confusion instead.
"Hey, don't I know you?" a second one replied, closely examining the valet's
face. And for one sickening moment Passepartout thought he recognized the man
as well. The man's face scrunched in thought for a few moments and then a broad
smile crossed his face. At that very moment, Passepartout wondered if he could
possibly outrun them. "Yes. Yes, I do. You're the cook over at the Bistro on
Boneparte. Are you not?" Without waiting for a response the man clapped his
fellow comrade on the shoulder and pointed a finger at the valet. "Yes. Yes, he
is. Looks like the captain's going to be eating well this trip. He's bringing
his favorite chef!"
Passepartout's smile faltered for just a moment before he came to a decision.
Passepartout could tell them they are mistaken and hope they send him on his
way. Or Passepartout could tell them they are mistaken and let them kill him
for spying. Or Passepartout could tell them they are correct and go with them
to big ship....where they will find out he is lying and kill him anyway. Or
where he could find out what they are doing and then sneak off ship before
anyone be suspecting he is spying.
Sometimes he really wished he had shown Mister Fogg the Baron's cards that first
night they had met after Sir Bonafice's funeral. He'd still be flying the
Aurora for the Baron to places that had never heard of the League of Darkness.
Or Count Gregory. Beautiful places far from the ugliness of what was happening
in the real world. Places that didn't require the assistance of the British
Secret Service. Places that had never heard of Rebecca Fogg or Phileas
Fogg....or Jules Verne....
Sometimes he wished that...but not often...and certainly not now. His life had
forever been change that night and there was no possibility of ever going back.
Not that he ever wanted to. Where he had felt loyalty towards the Baron, he
felt love for the Foggs and for Jules Verne. And like all three of them would
be willing to do for him, he would be willing to die for any or all of them.
"Yes," he replied shortly, his voice sounding strong and confident, perhaps a
bit arrogant. The smile on his face broadened as he realized he almost sounded
like Mister Fogg. He knew the bistro well and he also knew her head chef. He
was certain he could affect a good impersonation of the man...at least until an
opportunity arose where he could make good his escape. There was a very good
chance that no one on board the ship would know the chef personally as he was
rumored to be a very reclusive man. Not even the captain. At least that was
his feverant prayer. "I am Monsieur Devereaux of the Bistro d'Angelo and I seem
to have lost my way to the ship."
"Then it is most fortunate that we came along when we did, Monsieur Devereaux."
The first man replied. "We are on the way there ourselves for the ship sails
within the hour. Let us escort you there personally and perhaps you can return
the favor by sending some of that famous food our way. I cannot possibly
stomach that garbage the Egyptians call food."
Passepartout struggled to keep his eyebrow from rising in surprise. So they
were bound for Egypt. How very interesting. What could possibly be in Egypt
that would concern the League of Darkness? And what did it have to do with the
stones stolen from the museums?
"Perhaps I can." the valet finally replied. He waved his hand in the air in
what he hoped was an effectually pretentious way and said. "Carry on then. I
must check my supplies before we depart."
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout and the four men were well out of sight before Jules Verne
remembered to breathe again. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to calm the
rapid beating of his heart. That had been a close one. A very close one. But
the valet was not out of danger yet. He had taken quite a risk which would come
to naught if Verne did not do his part. It was up to him now to contact the
Foggs and get them here as soon as possible. If the ship did indeed set sail
within the hour it would have enough of a head start to make it rather difficult
to catch up to - even in the Aurora. Crossing over land, of course, would get
them to the continent quicker, but they had no idea where in Egypt the ship was
headed.
No, their best bet would be to follow it to it's destination. Or better yet,
destroy it before it reached it's destination.
* * * * * * * *
Jean Passepartout was a blessed man. A blessed man indeed.
At least that's how Jean Passepartout saw it. He was still in one unmolested
piece and his impromptu plan was proceeding accordingly. The four League of
Darkness sailors had been rather pleasant fellows - despite the fact that they
were evile servants to the most despicable Count Gregory - and had shown him
post haste to the ship's dock where he could check out the food supplies for the
long journey to Egypt. And since he had been escorted no one else on the dock
or the ship paid much attention to him as he proceeded to poke and prod at the
bags and boxes that were currently being loaded.
For the most part the items being loaded were typical food staples and items
that would be needed by a rather large amount of people for a long journey by
sea. He found nothing there that would cause one trepidation. It was very
untypical of the League of Darkness and therefore caused the valet great
anxiety.
As he continued to ponder just what the devil the League was up to now, he took
a step back and actually looked at the ship for the first time.
It was a huge steamboat. The kind they used for transatlantic voyages. Only
this one was much larger. It took up most of the dock in this area, save for a
few pleasure crafts moored at the other end. Passepartout had little doubt
that she was well armed as well. It belonging to the League of Darkness and
all. Count Gregory was not known for thinking small.
He realized then, that his only hope of finding out what was truly going on was
to climb aboard the ship and snoop around it's insides. He knew he had less
than an hours time and stood a very good chance of being discovered if he went
aboard. But he also knew that once his master and Miss Rebecca found out about
the League's involvement with the heists at both the British Museum and the
Louvre, one of them would insist on sneaking aboard themselves to find out what
was going on. If he went himself, giving the fact that he was already here and
had some form of cover - flimsy as it might be - circumstances might be more
favorable for a stealth-like reconnoiter. If Miss Rebecca was discovered
aboard, she could in no way be mistaken for a League man nor a member of the
crew. Mister Fogg, despite his vast years of experience in the Service, had a
tendency to go off too quickly when it came to dealings with Count Gregory and
the League of Darkness. He would, no doubt, end up having to fight his way off
the ship.
"No, Passepartout must be doing this," he said aloud. "It is best way."
So he grabbed one of the boxes filled with spices and with determined steps
started up the gangplank that would take him to the upper deck of the ship. At
the top he stepped aside to allow those behind him to continue on their way,
and waited for a heartbeat. Waited for someone to shout that he wasn't allowed
on board, or worse yet for the sound of a gun firing and the sharp pain of the
bullet to pass through. But no one yelled, no gun was fired. No one even paid
him much mind. They were all very busy doing their jobs. Probably figuring
that no one was stupid enough to be on board that shouldn't be.
Ha - they didn't know Passepartout!
He glanced about the crowded deck of the ship for a few moments, deciding which
course would be the best to take. He spotted the location of the hold which
would no doubt contain the bulk of the ship's supplies and probably the area he
would find what he sought. But at the moment it was overrun with League men,
both loading and guarding. His best chances of checking on the cargo would be
after it was all loaded and the ship was very close to casting off. He could
spend his time now searching for the door at the bottom of the hold where he
could enter undetected.
He turned his head and watched several of the men carrying boxes come up the
ramp and go off to the left, away from the main deck, toward the cabins, and the
innards of the ship. He waited until the last of the men passed and then moved
in behind him, bringing up the rear of the chain.
Passepartout dropped his box beside the others then busied himself by pretending
to unload it. The rest of the men, noting briefly that he was not dressed in a
uniform but looked quite at home in the kitchen, turned and filed out of the
room, presumably going for more boxes.
Leaving Passepartout alone.
The valet dropped the two spoons he had been holding back in the box and stepped
away. Giving the room a brief scan he found what he sought - a large butcher's
knife lying on the counter beside several knives of lesser stature. If he was
caught spying now, at least he stood a fighting chance of escaping. He gently
scooped up the knife and slid it carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He would just have to remember it was there and not make any sudden twists or
turns....the results would be...he winced at the mere thought...catastrophic to
say the least.
Now, armed with a decent weapon and feeling a little more heroic, he turned to
leave the room when his gaze fell upon a pile of white jackets and trousers.
Obviously the uniforms for the cooking staff. A little devilish grin crossed
his face.
"My plan be brilliant," he exclaimed. "All falling together."
He grabbed one of each and scurried out of the room before the next batch of
boxes could be delivered.
* * * * * * * *
Jules Verne had waited until the figures of Passepartout and his companions had
all but faded from sight before finally gaining his feet. He was wont to remain
sitting there, hidden from the sight of anyone save a person coming into the
back yard of the house before him. He figured at the moment it was the safest
place for him to be. What with the city of Calais literally crawling with the
minions of the League of Darkness, the Foggs sitting blissfully unaware of the
danger somewhere in London, and Passepartout about ready to enter into the mouth
of H-ll. No, if he were really as intelligent as everyone seemed to think he
was, he should turn around and take the next train back to Paris where he could
lock himself away in the safety of his garret. Safe, at least until the next
time Count Gregory found the need to pick his brain.
"Jules, you're a complete idiot and a shameful coward," he mumbled to himself in
embarrassment. "Pull yourself together and get on with it. They don't even
know you're here!"
Which was true. The League had no idea he was here. And for the most part very
few of them knew what he actually looked like. Those lucky few who had managed
to escape the clutches of either Phileas or Rebecca Fogg. All the others were
either dead or rotting in some prison - or wherever the Secret Service deemed to
send their prisoners of war. But somehow he had the feeling that even those
lucky few had been "done away with" after reporting their failure to Count
Gregory.
"You're perfectly safe...." he went on, feeling a tad bit better. "Unless they
catch you talking to yourself," he continued with an almost hysterical laugh,
"and send you off to a lunatic asylum!"
A small smile crossed his face then and he felt his courage bolstered. Taking a
deep breath to calm his nerves, he checked the dock once more for any activity
and finding none he slid out from behind the shack and headed back toward the
city.
* * * * * * * *
Miss Rebecca Fogg
C/O of White Hall
London, England
Rebecca,
Unsettling developments in Calais. L.O.D. activity. Ship headed for Egypt
within the hour. Passepartout
aboard. Bring Fogg and the Aurora. Meet at the Calais docks.
Jules
It was short and sweet and to the point Verne thought as he dictated the
telegram to the man at the desk. He would send a similar telegram to the Aurora
as well as to Fogg's London address on Saville Row. It was his fervent hope to
catch the pair at least at one of the addresses. If they could not be found at
either the Aurora or on Saville Row, the Secret Service would know where to find
Rebecca. That was why he mentioned the League, if rather cryptically, in the
message. The Secret Service was just as "enthusiastic" as the Foggs to bring
the League down.
It would take a while for the telegrams to reach London and then their final
destinations. Verne only hoped it would not be too late. What the Foggs would
do once they arrived, he had no idea. It was highly doubtful the four of them
would be able to bring the whole ship down in port or on the high seas anyway.
He highly doubted the entire Parisian police force could do it either. It was
at times like this that he was very glad he didn't need to make such decisions.
He had done his part and now he was perfectly happy to let the Foggs do theirs.
But what of Passepartout?
Verne paid the man for his services and hurried back to the dock. The streets
were now crowded with merchants hawking their goods and customers haggling for
better prices. The breeze grew stronger again as he approached the docks,
coming off the sea, tangy with the scent of ozone.
The North Sea was a metallic grey, flecked with white where waves broke, spray
bursting across the long mole that protected the harbor. Ships rocked there,
mostly caravels that plied the coastal trade through the Straits of Dover and
English Channel, and fishing boats that were dwarfed by their larger companions
Verne felt much safer with the larger morning crowds and soon lost himself
amongst them. He walked with the flow to a small dirt path that followed
parallel to the wooden dock off to his left. He figured if he followed that it
would take him to the boat without leaving him within view of the men on deck.
At some point along the path he planned on cutting through a deserted yard and
sneaking up to the dock unseen.
Again. The best laid plans of mice and men.
He had just turned onto the dirt path when the sound of a large whistle cut
through the air. For a brief moment all activity on the dock stopped and heads
turned to seek out the source of the noise. From somewhere nearby, Verne caught
a snatch of conversation.
"It's the strange boat that docked late last night from Dover." one voice said.
"The big one?" asked another.
"Yes. Heard tell they bought up most of the food supplies at the mercantile.
They've been loading all morning. I also heard they won't allow anyone near the
ship. Gave quite a few onlookers a quick bath in the water that tried."
"Well, sounds to me as if she's preparing to leave."
Verne turned and ran as fast as he could down the dock toward the large ship.
He didn't care now whether he was spotted from the deck or not. All he cared
about was getting to that boat. Of course he hoped Passepartout would jump out
of whatever space he found to be hiding in and stop him before he got too far.
But the valet never made an appearance. In fact there was not a soul to be
found as the large steamboat slipped away from the dock and headed out of the
harbor.
Then the dock and dry land suddenly dropped away and the young man could go no
further. He skidded to a halt with a very loud curse. Then shaking his fist in
the direction of the departing ship, he cried out n utter desperation,
"Passepartout!"
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout had found an empty cabin shortly after leaving the kitchen where he
was able to change into the white uniform of the kitchen help and secretly stow
away his own clothes. Fortune had smiled on him, too, for the uniform had come
with an apron where he could effectively hide the strange bulk of the cleaver he
carried.
Peering cautiously around corners as he made his way through the maze of
corridors into the bowels of the ship, he was pleasantly surprised to find most
of them empty. Most of the crew must be on the poop deck either loading or
getting the ship ready to set sail, he mused. He knew he had precious little
time remaining then in his search so he quickened his steps.
He passed various crew's quarters and several large rooms where crewmembers
could meet and comfortably play cards or read. At one intersection he even came
across a corridor that was not quite so void of life. Two guards stood before
an open door at the end of the companionway. From that door he could hear
voices although he could not make out what they were saying. He was just about
to rush across the open space of corridor when a scream from the room stopped
him dead in his tracks. Both guards snapped to immediate attention as a third
man appeared in the doorway.
"The bandages have dried upon the wound," Passepartout heard the man exclaim.
"I must have water to soak them off."
"We are not permitted to leave our post." One of the guards replied matter-of-
factly.
"He will die if I don't clean that wound."
"Then let him die," the other guard replied. "We have no need of his foul
presence aboard our ship."
"I'd dare say your boss would have something to say about that."
Just then the man in the doorway glanced up and his eyes met Passepartout's.
The valet thought of fleeing, but something held him there, his legs unwilling
to carry him on. He stared like a deer caught in the light of the torch of a
hunter.
"You there!" The man called out and the guards turned to follow his gesture.
"Bring my a bucket of clean, hot water from the galley! And make it quick. I
have a dying man here!"
I can still run, Passepartout thought. Just say yes and then run.
But that same something that kept him from running before, kept him from running
again. Instead he heard himself say yes and then he turned and headed back
toward the galley.
"What Passepartout be doing?" he muttered to himself as he clanged about the
galley looking for a large pot. "Passepartout be dying if they be catching him
here..."
He found a large pot stowed in a cabinet above the sink and brought it down,
filling it almost to the top with hot water from the tap. As it filled, he
glanced about and found several clean cloths in a drawer not far away. The man
- obviously a doctor of some kind - had noot asked for them, but he figured it
wouldn't hurt to bring them. Passepartout had seen his fair share of mortal
wounds in his lifetime and they could be quite messy.
He shoved the cloths in the pocket of his apron and hoisted the pot up out of
the sink, water sloshing over the rim as he did so. He would lose more as he
hurried down the corridor back to the room, but there would be a sufficient
amount left.
The two guards eyed him as he came scurrying down the companionway toward them,
but they made no move to stop nor hinder him. They simple stepped aside and
allowed him to walk in.
"Here is your water, sir."
The man, the doctor, was sitting on the edge of the single bed in the cabin, his
back to the door, as the valet walked in. Without turning he motioned for
Passepartout to bring the pot over to him and to set it on the small table he
had pulled over to the bedside.
"Do you know anything of doctoring?" the man inquired.
"I know some, sir."
"Good. Then lend me a hand or this gentleman will not make it through the
night."
Passepartout nodded as he set the pot down. Also on the table the doctor had
laid out bandages, several knives, and a few bowls of what appeared to be salves
of some sort. At the moment he was bent over the patient, working at the
bandages that were wound around the man's waist. The patient's vest had already
been removed and discarded on the dirty floor and his white shirt tails, now
stained a dark burgundy in places, had been pulled free. Most of the strips of
cloth that had wound around his waist had been cut off save for two swaths that
appeared to be plastered to his left side, both front and back, by dried and
still drying blood.
"I've gotten what I can of the bandages off the wounds, but the rest has dried.
We'll need to soak them loose before I can administer to the wound."
Passepartout nodded and moved around the table to the head of the bed. His eyes
glanced upon the vest as he stepped over it and something caught at his chest.
And it was with mounting fear that he lifted his gaze to the bed once again,
catching a glimpse of the patient's face for the first time.
"Master..." was torn from his throat before he had a chance to stop it.
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