3.
Chauvelin leaned forward on his desk, staring down the fat little gentleman. The so-called "Duc de Calmet" had laid his bad wig aside for a red, white, and blue beanie. "Citizen Shenard," Chauvelin said evenly, "would you care to enlighten me as to why you were found emptying your living quarters this morning, and intending to leave the city? You were assigned a very specific task, to bring back evidence of the scarlet pimpernel, and determine his next move. This, you said, for a man such as yourself, would be mere child's play!"
"I was mistaken," Shenard said.
"Ah! But what could possibly have thwarted the efforts of the great Citizen Shenard?" Shenard stared at his shoes. "Explanation," Chauvelin demanded, "or I'll have you arrested for treason."
"Ghosts."
"What's that? Speak up, Citizen Shenard! Ghosts? But of course! A half-dozen English dandies with bedsheets over their heads. A wonder they didn't think of that before. Citizen, claims that the pimpernel works with spirits are nothing but rumors started by ignorant peasants. We are always able to determine his plans -- after he has escaped, that is -- and he has never once had the aid of supernatural powers."
"But you should have seen it," Shenard went on in a whisper, "near seven feet high, with such a ghastly face as you've never seen, and ice-cold..."
Chauvelin ordered Shenard out of his sight. The old man was clearly going mad. He had more important business to attend to. Apparently the prisoner Leon had been up to more than hiding his aristo relatives...
The air was silent. Not even Shenards's plodding footsteps could be heard from behind the closed door of Chauvelin's office. Suddenly the silence was shattered by a loud, unearthly, rippling laugh. Chauvelin nearly fell out of his seat. "Blakeney!" he rasped to himself, groping madly for his pistol.
"A ghastly face," a low, British voice drawled. "Demmed impolite of him. I don't think I shall ever get over that. Ghastly!"
The voice was unmistakable. Chauvelin, his mind racing, saw a six-foot figure in front of him and shot. The bullet passed directly through the man before him and bounced against the wall. The man, a blazing pearly white, floated closer to him. Blakeney's voice spoke, but the spirit's lips did not move.
"I was delighted to learn you were in town," Blakeney drawled, "and just couldn't resist paying you a small visit. I was meaning to ask you a favor -- about the whereabouts of our mutual friend Leon Daggauseau?" The spirit floated, several feet above the floor, to his desk and peered at the papers on it. "One has to take care," Blakeney's voice said. The spectre looked him in the eye, and nonchalantly removed his head. "Unless, of course, one wishes ro end up like me," the ghost finished.
Chauvelin rushed toward the door, to call for guards -- whatever help that would do -- but the spectre was in his path. The spectre's head was flopping back and forth, barely attached to his neck, as he advanced toward Chauvelin -- and stepped through Chavelin's body. Chauvelin, momentarily paralyzed with cold, watched wide-eyed as the ghost popped his head back on and propelled itself around the room, rushing around him in circles, skimming the ceiling, gliding on the floor. The ghost took one step backwards through the wall and poked just his head through, eyes darting from side to side. Then the ghost crawled under his desk, popped his head up through the wood, and stuck his tongue out at Chauvelin.
Seized with fury, Chauvelin rushed toward the apparition, which stepped cooly through the door. Chauvelin nearly fell into it. Fumbling with the doorknob, he finally wrenched it open, to find that Citizen Shenard was bound and gagged in the hallway just outside his door.
"The Englishman," Shenard said as Chauvelin reluctantly untied his mouth. "He took off down the street but five minutes ago --"