Shelby sat crouched in the bushes as she had done for almost a year now. Every night, since last November, she’d skulk down dark old lanes, darting from shadow to shadow in an effort see her idol at work; the cat burglar Le Bec. Shelby would sneak into theaters during the day, napping and dreaming along with her screen heroes. When she grew up she was going to be Robin Hood.
“Maid Marian is for girls who went to school,” she would think.
But no character played by Errol Flynn or Douglas Fairbanks could hold a candle to Le Bec. Le Bec had the advantage of being real. Shelby would sit, unseen and observe, learning.
Tonight, Le Bec sat crouched on the ledge of a third story window. The house belonged to the Professor Emeritus of Anthropology at Tulane, Giles Parker. Le Bec had overheard a conversation Parker was having at a recent social gathering to celebrate the re-election of Verne Sturgis to the Louisiana Circuit Court of Appeals. The exchange concerned the relocation of an artifact of great power to Parker's house. Le Bec remembered Parker sounding reluctant, but was eventually brow beaten by Judge Sturgis who seemed keen to have it relocated from his home.
"We drew the lots, Parker. It's your turn to house the Jade Peregrine," Sturgis growled.
"But you haven't kept it long enough, it's not fair," protested Parker.
"The witch Winthrop has caught wind of its location. It can't remain in my keep. If she gets ahold of it there will be trouble beyond what even we can handle," said Sturgis.
"Winthrop was dealt with years ago. Hanged. We saw to that. How can she be of any concern to us?" interjected the chief of police, Len McCallen.
"She's been dead before," replied Sturgis. "Look, Parker. The plan is in motion, you won't have to hide the Peregrine for long."
"Not long at all," said Le Bec from his perch as he pulled a diamond glass cutter from his belt.
He sliced a smooth arc in the glass in front of the window latch. He poked his finger in and unfastened the sash. He threw the sash and slid into the room, quiet and fluid. Le Bec scanned the room,finally fixing his eyes on a pillar in the middle of the room. On the pillar sat an ornate safe. Le Bec glided over and began twiddling the knob. The safe door clicked and popped open, just a sliver. Le Bec pulled it open. Inside sat a small peregrine figurine carved out of what appeared to be jade, the surface was a flowing iridescence. Le Bec lifted the figurine and placed it in his palm. He examined the ebb and flow of the finish. The jade’s green had a depth to it that demanded his attention. He found himself in a green and flowing conduit. Vines curled the walls and erupted in Catherine wheel blooms. Every form of life marched, passed and evolved with every step. At each end of the verdant hall was a world. At one end he felt the power of creation itself and at the other, the wisdom to wield it. A vine reached up and grabbed him by the ankle. Le Bec felt the the vine pulling, entangling his leg and driving its roots in. He winced.
A voice spoke to him in a clear voice.
“Life nourishes life.”
Le Bec snapped his head. He tipped forward and caught himself on the pillar.
“Jesu,” he said himself. “Get a grip, old man.”
He looked away from the figurine, opened a pouch on his belt and slipped it in. He flew back to the window pane and sat on the ledge outside, sliding the slash down and latching it.
“Don’t want just any old riff raff getting at what’s in there,” he whispered.
Le Bec scanned the ground below and saw a pair of green eyes staring at him through the dark.
"And what could I do for such a pretty pair of emerald eyes?" he asked them.
The eyes widened and retreated further into the bushes from which they peered.
"Oh, come now. You went through all this trouble to get a look at legendary Le Bec at work," Le Bec said into the darkness. "Don't run off on me now."
Le Bec jumped down from the window ledge, slowing his descent by grabbing a tree branch then dropping to the ground. He switched on his flashlight and scanned the bushes and lifted his Zanni commedia dell’arte mask, by the nose.
"Come on out little mouse," Le Bec said to the shrubbery.
"You can't hide in the ivy all night."
The shrubs started to rustle. Le Bec put his hand near the stock of his pistol. A small girl clad in a black leather suit, much like the one Le Bec wore, emerged looking sheepish.
"So it was a little mouse after all," Le Bec laughed.
"I'm not so little," said the girl.
"It's all relative, isn't it?" said Le Bec, "What's the little mouse's name, then?"
"Stop calling me that, my name is Shelby."
"Well then, ma petite souris. Why are you peeking at me from the bushes, eh?"
"I wanted to see you work."
"Eh, well, I wouldn't call it work," said Le Bec. "It's more of a leisure pursuit. How long have you been watching me?”
“A few months,” Shelby replied.
“I meant tonight, but…” Le Bec paused. “Months?”
“Since November.”
“Eleven months….”
“I can be very quiet.”
“Just like a mouse, it seems,” Le Bec grinned. “Why are you following me?”
“I want to do what you do for a living.”
“I don’t do this for a living.”
“I could.”
“I have no doubt,” said Le Bec. “But what kind of life is this for a little girl to dream of?”
“A better one than I got,” replied Shelby.
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.
“Don’t your parents notice you out of the house at night?”
“Ain’t got parents.”
Le Bec paused. “Look at me,” he said, lowering himself on his haunches.
“Do you truly wish to learn this art?”
Shelby shrunk when their eyes became level.
“Yes,” she squeaked.
“You must be absolutely sure. If I am to train you, you must do precisely as I say.”
“Yes,” she said raising her chin.
“It will be difficult. What I do isn’t for preservation. It’s a siren song. I’m compelled by the muse.”
“I’m ready,” Shelby snapped.
“Ok, Little Mouse. Ok.”
“My name is Shelby,” she said jabbing a finger at Le Bec.
“That’s a perfect first lesson,” Le Bec replied, “Only use code names in the field.”
“Can I make it up?”
“ ‘Mouse’ will do for now.”
Shelby opened her mouth to protest, but he covered it with his gloved hand.
“We’ve made enough noise under the window of a dangerous and powerful man at two in the morning. I will have a room prepared for you at my home.”
“I got a gang I stay with,” said Shelby.
“That’s a perfect second lesson,” said Le Bec. “Gangs are dead weight, you need to be nimble in every way. Doing what we do we can’t afford the millstones of hangers on.”
“But they’re my friends.”
“Friends are fine. A healthy social life is essential to provide cover for our nocturnal activities. But these activities are solitary. Like a composer or an artist at the canvas. It’s the lone artist inching his way toward absolute beauty. Come along. Get some sleep. We’ll begin tomorrow.”
***
Anatoli sat staring at the thin strips of shadow cast on the wall by the Venetian blinds. The shadows always seemed to be there regardless of outside light or time of day. Over the past few weeks he had grown more annoyed than curious that they always seemed to fall across Delareux's eyes when he had something particularly odd to say. Delareux was occupied with a recalcitrant pendulum that didn't seem to want to sway in any meaningful pattern.
"I gave these thieves half my rum, they can't give me half a crumb," Delareux said, dropping the pendulum.
"Who got your rum?" asked Anatoli.
"Papa," Thomas replied.
"Why did you give your dad your rum?"
"No man, Legba."
Toli had made himself a strict policy of not pressing these things much further than this point, but since leaving behind his burgeoning business to pursue the nagging call of private investigation, he drafted a new policy of always asking where the next job was coming from.
"And who is Legba?" Anatoli asked.
"A Loa," replied Delareux.
"Do Loa require the services of skid row investigators?" asked Toli.
Delareux looked up from his desk, "No. Maybe. Sometimes. There was that one time."
"I don't mean to belly ache, but it's been three weeks since the Rasputin case and all we've done was find a cat..."
"A familiar.”
"Buried a lamp..."
"Evil genie."
"And dug up some lady's front lawn."
"The grass was dead in a circle pattern. I thought it was faeries."
"It was a leaky septic tank," Toli groaned. "None of those jobs yielded a thin dime. The only paying job we've had was staking out that mob hitman with the theatrical flair. And you turned that one down."
"He walked through a wall. I'm not messing with mob guys that can immaterialize."
Toli sighed patiently and began to speak, but was interrupted by the jingling of the bells hanging on the office door.
Toli and Delareux eyed the lanky gentleman who stood the full height of the door frame.
"Is this the office of Mr. T. J. Delareux?" the man asked in a voice that sounded like wind through dry reeds scratching out from behind a scarf that covered his face to the bridge of his nose. His unblinking eyes, magnified by impossibly thick lenses, wobbled between Toli and Delareux.
"Merci beaucoup, Papa," Delareux whispered to himself. "Step right up, mister."
"Barclay," the man replied as he loped toward an open chair. “I’m here on behalf of my employer, the heiress Sylvia Winthrop.”
“Sylvia Winthrop?” Toli’s head swiveled.
Barclay’s head turned to meet Toli’s eyes, making a scratching noise against his stiff, worn collar. Toli sat fixated. Barclay returned his attention to Thomas.
“For personal reasons I will not go into, my employer prefers to keep a...” Barclay paused “...low profile. And she would like it kept that way. Can you be discreet, Mr. Delareux?”
“Well, from time to time I do like to indulge in the teachings of the Buddha, Lao Tsu or the Hindus, and feel that on some level, like Indra’s Net, there is a oneness in reality. But being raised as a Westerner I’m inclined to feel that individuals, myself included, are separate and distinct entities each with their own agency,” replied Thomas.
“Not ‘discrete’, Mister Delareux, ‘discreet’ as in; can you make sure the Lady Winthrop is not disturbed at any point in the process of your investigation?” said Barclay curling the corners of his thin, dry lips.
"I don't know," replied Delareux.
"You don't know?"
"You haven't told me what the job is."
“The Lady Winthrop has lost a rather precious heirloom. One that has been in her family for centuries,” Barclay explained.
“Centuries?” Toli chimed in. “Must be very valuable.”
Barclay’s head rotated toward Toli and laid another unblinking stare on him, then back to to Delareux.
“My wish is to employ you, Mister Delareux, to retrieve it.”
“How did she lose it?” asked Thomas.
“It was stolen. Burgled from her estate and by a thief. A second story man. A scoundrel known as ‘Le Bec’,” said Barclay.
“I’m familiar with him,” said Delareux. ”From what I’ve heard about him, if you just wait a few days, he usually returns whatever items he’s taken.”
“I fear that won’t be the case here. You see, this heirloom is an arcane object of great power. ‘Le Bec’ fancies himself something of a...sorcerer. I’d say illusionist at best. This is where you come in, Mister Delareux.”
Delareux sat staring at Barclay with a barely concealed grin. Toli choked back the urge to verbally scoff at the notion of ‘an arcane object of great power,’ but he reasoned that this was probably a paying gig. Plus, he really didn’t want Barclay to look at him again.
Shelby awoke to the sound of a knock on her bedroom door.
“Wakie, wakie, wakie little sleeper,” said Le Bec opening the door.
“What time is it?” Shelby yawned.
“The crack of dawn. Ten thirty,” said Le Bec. “I had Landers put out breakfast.Come down when you’re ready.”
“Who’s Landers?” asked Shelby.
“My butler,” replied Le Bec. “He’s mostly harmless.”
“Mostly?”
“He has his moments.”
By eleven Shelby was daydreaming at a pile of waning gibbous pancakes and tormenting the over-easy eggs with her fork.
“Is everything to your liking, Miss....ummm?” said Landers from his post in the corner of the dining room.
“It’s just way more than I’m used to eating in one sitting,” Shelby replied.
“And it’s Herveaux. Shelby Herveaux.”
“Very well, Miss Herveaux. I’ll have the staff clean up. Mr. Corbin is waiting for you in the study.” said Landers.
“Who’s Mr. Corbin?”
“Le Bec,” Landers replied in a drawn-out sigh.
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