Curse of the Pharaoh: A Brock Stone Adventure

He crossed the street and headed east to the Pont Neuf, the three-hundred-year-old stone bridge that joined the Left and Right banks of the Seine. He strolled across the old bridge flanked by a group of young ladies carrying parasols, and gentlemen clad in three-piece suits and bowler hats. Stone was similarly dressed, and he felt like a fool. Give him fatigues or dungarees any day.

“Quel est ton nom?” A girl with big blue eyes peered up at him from underneath the wide brim of her picture hat.

“Sorry, I don’t speak French.” That wasn’t true, but Stone was here on business. Making new acquaintances was not part of the mission.

“What is your name?”

“Smith.”

“Is that your first name or your given name?” She batted her lashes at him.

“I’m Brock…” Cripes! He had used his real name. Lying didn’t come easy to him, which made this cloak-and-dagger assignment a challenge. “Brock Smith.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Brock. My name is Marianne, but if you are nice to me, you can call me Manon.”

Stone couldn’t deny her beauty, and there was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. Give her an independent spirit and a stubborn streak a mile wide and she would be exactly his type.

“Nice to meet you.” He lengthened his stride, but Manon matched his pace with ease.

They walked along in silence as they crossed the western point of Île de la Cité, or City Island. Situated in the middle of the river Seine, the island was home to Notre Dame Cathedral.

“The Romans built a fortress on the island in the fourth century,” Manon said unprompted. “In 508, Clovis, the first King of the Franks, built his palace here.”

Stone nodded. In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the history lesson.

“Are you impolite or are you merely con comme un balai?”

Stone cocked his head. “Am I stupid as a broomstick?”

Manon giggled. “I thought you did not speak French.”

“I understand it better than I speak it.” Why wouldn’t this woman go away?

“You are a terrible liar, Brock ‘Smith’.”

“The only thing I am is late for a meeting. Good evening.” He tipped his boater and made to walk away but Manon grabbed him by the arm.

“Un moment, s'il vous plaît.” Manon’s sly wink said she knew full well he understood her. “You interest me, Brock. I do not know what your business is in Paris, but I sense you will get yourself into trouble before it is through. If you need help, come to the Boulangerie Dantes. My appartement is above it.”

“Won’t it upset your husband if I show up unannounced?” Stone deadpanned.

“I am my own woman. I understand that is unpopular with American men. It is much the same in France.”

“I like a strong woman.” Stone wanted to kick himself. Why was he engaging with her, much less revealing anything at all about his real self?

Manon flashed a pitying smile and gave him a gentle, condescending pat on the cheek. “I find you charmant in a clumsy way. I think I will see you soon. I have a sense about these things.” She swept away with a confident grace and melted back in with her group.

“Am I really that transparent?” Stone muttered. “If she sees through me, what chance do I have?”

3 The Search

“I positively adore your hat,” Trinity said. “I wish I could dress with such elegance, but it’s a man’s world and I have to work in it.”

“Believe me, I understand. The men in my industry are dogs.” Magda Fischer rolled her big blue eyes and smiled knowingly.

“That is why she only spends her time with men who know how to treat a lady. I am John Kane.” They shook hands. Kane was a tall man with an athletic build. His jet-black hair, sprinkled with silver at the temples, was perfectly coiffed, and his toothbrush mustache precisely trimmed.

“A pleasure. I am Nellie Benton.” Nellie Benton was the name Trinity gave when hiding her identity. It combined the names of two of her personal heroes: Nelly Bly, the legendary investigative reporter, and Jessie Benton Frémont, the writer and political activist whose writings had brought fame to her husband, John C. Frémont.

“Miss Benton is a reporter,” Fischer said.

“Really?” Kane arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but every reporter I’ve ever met has been a peaked-looking man with thick glasses and at least one ink stain on his suit.”

“You just described half my colleagues,” Trinity said.

“What newspaper do you work for?” Kane asked.

Trinity said the first name that came to her. “The Washington Warbler.” She wondered if the Warbler even had any female staff. If Kane suspected her, he could easily find out she had been lying. But Kane merely nodded and flashed a polite smile. Relieved, Trinity turned to Fischer.

“I don’t suppose I could have just a few minutes of your time?”

“Our viewing begins in a few minutes,” Kane said.

“You go on. I’ll catch up.” Fischer turned to Trinity and grinned. “Women should support one another, don’t you think?”