Flashman And The Tiger

I had to admire him. "Crafty little half-pint, ain’t you, though? Here, give us another squint a t that picture … by Jove, lucky old Shovel-off ! But hold on, Blow—she may romp each day’s doings out of him, but she can’t get you the treaty word for word—and that’s what you want, surely?"

"Mais certainement! Am I an amateur, then? No … I absorb her reports by the day, and only when all is concluded, and the treaty is being drafted, do I approach a certain minister who holds me in some esteem. I make it plain that I am au fait with the entire negotiation. He is aghast. `You know it all?' he cries. `A matter of course,' I reply with modesty, `and now I await only the text of the treaty itself.' He is amazed … but convinced. This Blowitz, he tells himself, is a wizard. And from that, cher ’Arree," says he, smiling smugly, "it is but a short step to the point where he gives me the treaty himself. Oh, it is a technique, I assure you, which never fails."

It’s true enough; there’s no surer way of getting a secret than by letting on you know it already. But I still couldn’t see why he was telling me.

"Because one thing only is lacking. It is out of the question that Caprice should communicate with me directly, for I shall be jealously observed at all times, not only by competitors, but by diplomatic eyes—possibly even by the police. It is the price of being Blowitz." He shrugged, then dropped his voice. "So it is vital that I have what you call a go-between, n’est-ce pas?"

So that was it, and before I could open my mouth, let alone demur, his paw was on my sleeve and he was pattering like a Yankee snake-oil drummer.—

"’Arree, it can only be you! I knew it from the first—have I not said our fates are linked? To whom, then, should I turn for help in the greatest coup of my career? And it will be without inconvenience—indeed, to your satisfaction rather—"

"So that’s why you wangled me the Order of the Frog!"

"Wangle? What is this wangle? Oh, my best of friends, that was a bagatelle! But this what I beg of you … ah, it imports to me beyond anything in the world! And I would trust no other—my destiny … our destiny, would forbid it. You will not fail Blowitz?"

When folk yearn and sweat at me simultaneous, I take stock. "Well, now, I don’t know, Blow …"

"Shall I give you reasons? One, I shall be forever in your debt. Two, my coup will enrage Prince Bismarck … that pleases, eh? And three …" he smirked like a lascivious Buddha "… you will make the acquaintance … the intimate acquaintance, of the delicious Mamselle Caprice."

At that, it wasn’t half bad. It was safe, and I could picture Bismarck’s apoplexy if his precious treaty was published before he could make his own pompous proclamation. I took another slant at the photograph lying between us … splendid potted palms they were, and while her pose of wanton invitation might be only theatrical, as Blowitz had said, I couldn’t believe she wasn’t enjoying her work.

"Well … what would I have to do?"

D’you know, the little villain had already reserved me a Berlin hotel room for the duration of the conference? Confidence in des-tiny, no doubt. "It is in the name of Jansen … Dutch or Belgian, as you prefer, but not, I think, English." He had it all pat: I would rendezvous with Caprice at her apartment near the French Embassy, and there, in the small hours of each morning, when she had sent Shuvalov on his exhausted way, she would give me her reports, writ small on rice paper.

"Each day you and I will lunch—separately and without recognition, of course—at the Kaiserhof, where I shall be staying. You will have concealed Mamselle’s report in the lining of your hat, which you will hang on the rack at the dining-room door. When we go our respective ways, I shall take your hat, and you mine." This kind of intrigue was just nuts to him, plainly. "They will be identical in appearance, and I have already ascertained that our sizes are much the same. We repeat the performance each day … eh, voila! It is done, in secrecy the most perfect. Well, my boy, does it march?"

The only snag I could see was being first wicket down with the lady after she’d endured the attentions of blasted Shovel-off, and would be intent on writing her reports. Happy thought: being a mere diplomat, his performance might well leave her gnawing her pretty knuckles for some real boudoir athletics—in which case the reports could wait until after breakfast.

Well, if I’d had any sense, or an inkling of what lay years ahead, or been less flown with Voisin’s arrack, I’d have given the business the go-by—but you know me: the promise of that photograph, and the thought of dear Otto smashing the chandelier in his wrath, were too much for my ardent boyish nature. And it never hurts to do the press a good turn.

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