Emma by Gaslight Ch 3

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 3 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

Part Three:

You Can't Go Home Again

I.

Emma Peel sat alone at a table just beside the entrance doors to the Milano restaurant. She'd requested the table deliberately - her back was to the wall, and she'd be able to see anyone who entered the restaurant before they saw her. And she'd be able to make a quick exit if she had to.

Precautions that she never thought she'd have to take again, but due to the event of this morning…

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that lined the wall on the other side of the large room, and stared at it, as if she'd never seen it before.

Unbidden, a voice rose in her mind. "You can't go home again." She'd come to Monte Carlo as Mrs. Emma Peel, and she'd more than half expected to leave it as Emma Knight, but…

Emma lifted a glass of champagne in a toast to her solitary reflection. "No…you can't go home again."

It was 8 pm., and she was dining alone. She'd come to Monte Carlo alone, and she intended to stay alone, now and for the next six months, if not longer.

It was a new experience. She'd never been on her own before.

First there had been her parents, always there when she needed them while she was growing up. Then they had died in a car accident and she'd become head of Knight Industries…but within months she'd married test pilot Peter Peel. Would she have found that quick wedding to have been a mistake…if they'd been together for more than six months? Or would everything have

been so different…what sort of a person would she be now…?

She shook her head quickly. Too late to think about that now.

Six months. That's all the time they'd had together until he disappeared whilst test flying a plane over the Amazon jungle. Even then she hadn't been alone, at least not for long. Within weeks, she'd met secret agent John Steed, and spent three years in close partnership with him…saving the world…

And then Peter had returned, and like the dutiful wife that she'd wanted to be, she had returned to him, leaving Steed behind.

She had wanted things with Peter to be exactly the same as they had been…but they weren't. She'd changed too much…and she didn't want to change back. After six months of stilted co-habitation, they'd decided on a trial separation.

She needed to think things through.

She had no need to work. A millionaire, she had a steady income coming in from the business that now ran smoothly without her. But work was a joy, not a burden, and in any event one must keep active - something Peter hadn't wanted to accept. Or rather - it was which activities she chose that he'd seemed to have problems with...

So she'd decided to "get outta town," spend some time as a roving journalist, contributing articles to the many magazines that one of her subsidiary companies published, and she'd decided to start with an investigative report into the luxurious tax haven of Monte Carlo.

Only to see someone that she thought had been dead for over a year. A fellow agent, who'd supposedly died in a car crash. But unlike her prodigal husband, that man's body had been found - albeit burned to a crisp. Identification had been made via dental records. That was the thing - identification had been made. And yet she'd seen him getting into a taxi not five hours ago.

She'd reacted instinctively - jumping off the roof and running for another cab. She spared a smile at the thought of what her table companion must have thought of her.

II.

Her driver had been marvelous…she smiled at the memory of it.

"You are a James Bond girl, eh?" he'd asked, in a rapid-fire monologue of questions that left her no time to answer. "Or the Princess, in charge of the Network? A secret agent on the trail of a master criminal? Always I have dreamed of such a moment as this…trailing the desperate criminals in my little cab…what has he done…broken the bank at the Casino, perhaps?"

"No, I…"

But he'd merely pressed on with his monologue.

"We are passing through many historic districts, madame," he'd commented finally, while the tires squealed as he took a corner on two wheels. "Shall I describe them all to you?"

"Perhaps another time, Pierre," she'd told him with amusement. "Right now I want to concentrate on that cab in front of us."

"Yes, yes, never fear. I do not…. Sacre bleu!" He stomped on the brakes as a lorry cut them off. Several precious seconds went by as the lorry did, and then several more seconds as Pierre leaned out of the window and hurled abuse at its driver as it proceeded, unheeding, up the road.

Emma had peered around anxiously, to no avail. The other cab was gone.

"Do not distress yourself, madame," Pierre said airily. "You forget I know the driver of that cab. It is Phillipe Reynaud. When he returns to his space at the port - that is our…how you say… home base…. I will ask him where he take his passenger."

"Pierre. That's marvelous! Such an easy solution."

"Of course! I will ask him…and then I will tell you. How can I get in touch with you?"

"I'm at the Grand Hotel. Leave a message for me at the desk. Mrs. Emma Peel."

"I shall, Madame. I shall be the Watson to your Holmes, eh?" and he'd laughed cheerfully.

"Well, I think I'll get out here…" she peered into her purse for money, and remembered for the first time that she had not brought her tablet with her. She'd left it on the table at the Grand's roof-top café. She needed that tablet.

"On second thought," she said briskly, "I'll return with you to the hotel."

III.

She'd breathed a sigh of relief to see the same maitre-d as before, and she gave him her most charming smile.

"Messieur, I am so ashamed. This morning I left without paying for my breakfast."

"It is all right, madame," he'd said cheerfully. "M'sieu King, he paid it for you."

"Did he? How kind of him."

"Oh, Mr. King, he is a gentleman. You must have heard of him. He is the creator of Mark Caine."

Emma shrugged her shoulders. She didn't read much non-fiction.

"He is better than James Bond," the maitre-d said enthusiastically. "The bookstore in the lobby carries all his books - in French translations of course. You should look at them."

"Yes, I will. Now, tell me….did he by any chance turn in a tablet that I'd left on the table."

"No, madame, he did not."

"Ah, well. Anyway, I can't let him pay my debts for me. If you'll give me the bill…"

The maitre-d searched through his tickets, and took out one. He glanced at the bottom line before handing it to her. "Not very much, for a coffee and a brioche."

Emma scanned the bill, and saw the writing across it.

Jason King, Room 382.

She handed over the money.

"Merci, madame. I shall remove this from M'sieu King's account."

Emma had left the roof-top café and went immediately to room #382. She knocked briskly. No reply.

Well, she'd stop by later.

Emma returned to the harbor, and sought out the MonteCarlo Sailing Club, where she proceeded to rent a sail-boat. She didn't feel like setting up appointments to talk to bankers today...that could wait until tomorrow. She felt like tasting the freedom of the seas. And indeed, she spent the rest of the day sailing close to the coast of the French Riviera…enjoying the sun and the wind and the intricacies of coaxing more knots of speed out of the little boat.

She returned to shore and, her appetite burgeoning, went immediately to the Milano for dinner, as it was a restaurant that catered to the yachting crowd, and it was not necessary to dress formally to dine there.

Finally, she walked back to her hotel, and stopped on the corner to pick up a newspaper. She paused to read the headlines.

Cab driver drives into harbor, drowns

Oh, no...

Emma read the article quickly, standing there at the street corner, fingers crumpling the pages with the force of her grip - then she looked up and stared blindly at the taxis still waiting at their stands for possible customers.

His death was her fault. She should have seen how eager he was, how convinced that he was playing some kind of game. He must have done more than ask the other cab driver a simple question...he must have tried to snoop. And been killed for his pains.

This was what came of letting amateurs get involved in serious business. She wouldn't make that mistake again. She'd discover what was going on, without involving anyone else. And poor Pierre Jouvert would be avenged.

Emma By Gaslight ch 2

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 2 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

The file on Monte Carlo

The Principality of Monaco, a country in Western Europe located along the French Riviera between the Mediterranean Sea and France, is the most famous of the six "microstates" located in Europe. It is the world's most densely populated country and second-smallest independent nation; with a population of about 32,000 in an area of 485 acres.

The city of Monte Carlo is not the capital of Monaco - the country doesn't have one. It's just the most famous and wealthy city in the world. The permanent population is about 3000 - most of them incredibly wealthy immigrants from other countries - the city is a tax haven for wealthy individuals from all over the world.

In addition to its famous casino, Monte Carlo is home to the Formula One Monaco Grand Prix; the Monte Carlo Masters, and the Monte Carlo Car Rally.

...File ends

Part Two:

Emma, by Jason King

I.

Well, how to find her, thought Jason to himself.

Chances were she was staying at the Grand Hotel - the hotel beneath this very café, and the hotel in which he himself was staying.

However...just to be on the safe side... Jason peered down at the handful of cabs parked along the streets. All of the cabs at the port used that square there as their "home base," just as only selected cabs were allowed to ply their trade at each hotel, at the casino, and so on. If he wrote down the numbers of all the cabs that were still parked down below, he could eliminate them from any future inquiries, when he would discover exactly what the lady had instructed her driver.

His eyesight was 20-20, but he couldn't see the license plates for all that. However, there was an easy solution. He pulled a pair of collapsible binoculars from an inside pocket of his jacket, and trained them on the cars far below, jotting down the numbers for ten cabs. That'd do to get on with.

Jason nodded to himself, and, finishing off his coffee, took his own l'addition to the maitre-d. He handed him both slips of paper. "Charge these to my room. #382. Jason King."

"D'accord."

II.

Jason never liked taking lifts in old buildings. He never quite trusted the machinery. So he trotted down the five fights of stairs to the ground floor of the hotel and strolled over to the check-in desk.

He spoke briefly and flatteringly to the girl there, before asking her if a Miss Emma Knight was registered.

She obligingly looked through their registration cards. "No, Jason, no Emma Knight."

"Look, would you be a dear, and call around all the hotels in Monte Carlo, and ask if she's registered anywhere else."

The girl pouted at him prettily. "I suppose I could do that, Jason, but..."

He took her hand and brought it up to his lips. "You'll be doing me a tremendous favor, my dear."

She withdrew her hand with a smile. "Oh, very well. I will make calls as I have spare time throughout the day."

"You're a darling. I'll be back after lunch to check on your progress."

Jason walked out of the hotel, pausing by the door to light a cigarette. Was there any point in quizzing the cab drivers now? Perhaps...yes...prime them to be on the lookout for the driver he wanted to see.

Jason walked over to the taxi-stand, judging by eye where Emma Knight's cab had been in the string, and stopping at the one he judged to have been just behind it.

"The cab, just in front of you a few minutes ago," he began in fluent French.

The driver eyed him warily.

"A young lady entered that cab. Blue slacks and a white shirt. Did you notice?"

The driver smiled a lascivious smile. "Of course, m'sieu."

"Do you know the name of the cabby?"

"Of course. It was..."

"Yes?"

The driver held out a hand and rubbed two fingers together.

Jason smiled, withdrew a banknote from his wallet and handed it over.

"Pierre Javert. He is always here."

"I'd like to speak to him. Will you be seeing him later today?"

"Doubtless, m'sieu."

"Will you have him call me? I'm at that hotel, the Grand. Have him ask for me at the desk, any time of the day or night."

"I shall tell him, m'sieu."

"Thank you."

III.

"The Grand Prix of Monaco is taking place on June 3, this year," Jason King told the microphone he held close to his mouth. His portable tape recorder was slung over his shoulder. "It is a Formula One race. The "Formula" in the title refers to the set of rules which all participants and cars must meet. The race takes place on a circuit built in the center of the city - it takes three weeks to construct the circuit...and it'll take a week to tear it down after the race is over. The race is in four days time."

Jason walked along the observer's platform, where the people of the city could watch the track being constructed.

"Jackie Stewart, the great Scottish racing driver, is retiring this year, so this will be his last Monaco Grand Prix. [Note to self - ask Nicola to see if Stewart would like to review the book when it's finished. An account of the race will be wonderful local color for my next Mark Caine adventure."

Jason turned off the recorder and tucked the microphone back into its slot in the carrying case. He had intended to spend the day tracking down some of the drivers who had already arrived in the city, but he couldn't get the mystery of Emma Knight out of his mind. He would return to the Grand Hotel and see if any of the two hares he'd set in motion earlier in the day had borne fruit.

Hares set in motion earlier in the day had borne fruit, he said to himself with a grimace. "Talk about a mixed metaphor. Oh well, never mind I'll come up with something better when I start writing it."

IV.

Yvette, the girl at the check in desk, was his first disappointment.

"I have called all the hotels, Jason, and she is not registered anywhere."

"Well, not registered as Emma Knight, anyway," thought Jason to himself. Perhaps that was the meaning behind her hesitation when he'd asked her her name earlier. Not that she'd recently been divorced, but that she was traveling under false colors and hadn't yet gotten used to her pseudonym.

There was also no message from a cab driver named Pierre Jouvert, either.

Jason sighed and went up to the roof-top café to have lunch. This was out of character for him - he generally liked to sample new restaurants every day in his travels, but as long as he was here...

The same maitre-d who had been on duty for breakfast was there for lunch. His eyes lit up as he saw King.

"M'sieu King. You will notice the adjustment to your bill at the end of your stay?"

"I will? Why?"

"The young lady, you remember, with whom you shared the table this morning. She returned a few minutes ago, and apologized for leaving without paying her bill. I said that you had paid it, and she insisted on reimbursing you."

"How kind of her," said Jason warmly. (He was indeed touched. He hadn't expected her to do such a thing.) "But how long ago was this?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Perhaps half an hour."

"Is she staying in this hotel, then?"

The maitre-d shrugged gallically. "She paid cash to me. And I have just taken it off your bill. Now, what can I get you for lunch?"

Jason placed his order absently.

If she had returned...had she returned in a different cab? Why hadn't Jouvert contacted him? Well, perhaps he'd picked up another fare straight away. One mustn't be paranoid or impatient in these matters. There was still the afternoon and evening to go. He'd track down Jouvert soon enough.

V.

Jason King spent the rest of the day speaking to various racing car drivers. He returned to the Grand Hotel around 8 o'clock, taking a cab because his feet - encased as they were in snake-skin boots - ached from all the walking. He had picked up a paper - fresh off the delivery trucks - to read on the journey. The headline caught his eye.

Cab driver drives into harbor, drowns

A cold chill ran down Jason's gut. His eyes moved to the first paragraph.

Yes...it was as he suspected. The cab driver had been Pierre Jouvert, and he'd driven full speed into the harbor at around 3 pm that afternoon. Witnesses reported that another car had been chasing his. That one did not stop, but continued on its way.

There had been no passengers in Jouvert's cab at the time.

Jason took a deep breath, and then lit a cigarette. His death was too much of a coincidence. It had to have had something to do with Emma Knight.

And if it did...chances were she was on the run now, from God knew what villains. He had to find her...help her.

Playtime was over, he thought grimly, as he waited for his cab to wend its way through the streets toward his hotel. Now, things were serious.

Emma by Gaslight

(Peter Wyngarde)
Another Avengers fan fic story that I wrote a while ago. I do intend to get back to Erotica by Bravo but life is crazy right now....

This story is a crossover with the Avengers and a TV show called Jason King, which starred Jason Wyndarde.

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 1 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

The file on Jason King

Jason King was a successful writer of spy novels when he was tapped to join Department S, a secret government agency dedicated to solving "impossible" crimes. He served in Department S for two years, from 1969-1970, before growing disenchanted with government work. Although he resigned from the service, the Department was loath to let him go and frequently drew him back into the fold by means of trickery. After 1973, however, they declined to use him again.

King is distinguished by a bouffant hairstyle, Fu Manchu moustache, and utter narcissism. He is attracted to women of all ages and appearances - although he prefers those who do not evidence an interest in "women's lib," and the surest way to gain his affections is to praise his books to the skies.

...File ends

Part One:

Emma, by Jason King

Jason King stepped out onto the rooftop café and paused by the door to light a cigarette. Whilst simultaneously taking a deep drag of the cigarette and returning the lighter to his pocket, he scanned the various tables to see if there was anyone of interest about.

Couple. Young couple. Elderly couple. Group of men and women...tourists...Italian by their gestures. Two men. Elderly couple. Well, well, well...who was that?

At the far end of the rooftop - her table practically at the edge of the roof, a woman sat alone. He could see only her back, as she faced outward, looking over the scenery below, but her brunette hair fell about her shoulders in a stylish wave. By the set of her shoulders he could tell that she was young. Relatively young, at any rate. She also seemed to be resting her chin on her hands as she gazed seaward.

Gazing contemplatively seaward... (Jason had a habit of processing everything he saw as if it was taking place in one of his books.)

Jason took a couple of steps to one side to get a better view, and caught his breath. What a lovely profile. She was in her early thirties, he estimated, with flawless features. She wore a short-sleeved white linen shirt and dark blue slacks...he clicked his tongue at this...he so preferred women to wear dresses. She'd obviously just had breakfast - a tray was pushed to one side of the table.

As he watched, she picked up a pen and tablet from the table and began to write. Almost immediately she stopped. She gazed out to sea again, tapping the pen against her teeth. Finally, she made a little moue of disgust and tossed both pen and tablet back onto the table.

Aha, thought Jason. Writer's block, if he'd ever seen it. Perhaps she'd appreciate some assistance from the famous author, Jason King.

It was 1973, and Jason King was the best-selling author of spy novels featuring protagonist Mark Caine. His photo decorated the back jacket of all his books - hair in a rather bouffant style, a Fu Manchu moustache. His only regret was that the photos were in black and white - and so his brown eyes, brown hair and deep tan didn't show up to their best advantage. Still, he was recognized all the time, which was as it should be.

Jason withdrew a notebook and pen from his own pockets and paused beside the table the aspiring writer.

"All the tables seem to be full," he said cheerfully in his perfect French. (He had been born in France of English parents, and had been traveling the world ever since - not the least because tax difficulties at home made it impossible for him to return there for more than six months out of the year.)

"May I join you?"

She looked up at him, with her dark brown eyes under straight brows, and lovely lips that smiled only faintly as she gestured at the other chair.

Jason sat down and devoted his full attention to her. Her arms were tanned, with a smooth curve of bicep muscle which he found quite attractive. So many women had arms that were stick-figure thin! Her hands were well kept, with long, tapering fingers, but the nails were cut short. She wore no rings.

"My name's Jason King."

She smiled faintly, again, but it wasn't a smile of recognition, more's the pity.

"Emma... Knight."

She'd hesitated there. He wondered why. Newly married? Newly divorced? She couldn't be newly married - she wouldn't be sitting here on her own, let alone not wearing a wedding ring. So she must be newly divorced.

"You're English," he said, dropping into that language.

"Yes."

Jason took a drag on his cigarette. She was playing hard to get.

He gestured at the tablet before her.

"I see you're a writer."

"Yes."

He raised an eyebrow at her laconicalness..(is that a word, he asked himself mentally), but persevered.

"I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to be having difficulties. I saw you throw that pen down in disgust - an emotion I'm familiar with. Are you having writer's block?"

"I wouldn't call it writer's block," she said calmly. "I'm just...not in the mood to do any writing yet. It will come. I'll just sit here and enjoy the view."

"It is lovely, isn't it?" said Jason, running her eyes over her. But she wasn't paying attention to him and didn't notice this implied compliment. Instead, she was looking out over the scenery. He turned his own attention to it.

Below them stretched the Port of Monte Carlo. Dozens of piers stretched out into the azure water, and moored to each of these piers were dozens of luxury yachts. Across the harbor, hotels lined the beach. People dotted the white sand, stretched out in the typical pose of sun-worshipers every where.

"Have you been in Monte Carlo long?"

"No, not long."

This was turning out to be a real battle, but Jason was intrigued. He wasn't used to women ignoring him in this way, and the harder the chase, the more he liked it.

Suddenly, she leant forward, as her eye caught something on the quay below. Her eyebrows raised in what seemed to be astonishment.

"I don't believe it," he heard her murmur.

"Something the matter?"

She didn't take her eyes off whatever she was watching below. Jason turned to try to see what she was looking at. People - tourists - were walking to and fro. There was a man, getting into a taxi...could that be it?

She darted a quick look at him...an expression on her face that he couldn't quite fathom. Was she going to ask him for help? But then, she made a grimace, as if she had mentally dismissed his ability to help her. "I just saw someone I have to talk to," she said with a bright smile. "Do excuse me."

She stood up, and slung the strap of a small purse over her shoulder. And then, to his complete surprise, Emma Knight stepped over the short fence dividing the rooftop from the empty space beyond it, and then, jumped.

Jason blinked for a few seconds, then stood up and peered downward. Twenty feet below, the intriguing woman was just regaining her feet. She must have dropped and rolled in the soft grass. She must be a splendid athlete.

He watched her trot across the sward of grass in front of the café, and out into the street. She hailed a taxi - they were plentiful here - get into it, and it drove off.

Jason sat back in his chair, smoothing his moustache meditatively. A waiter appeared, and he ordered a large brandy. He felt the need of it.

Then his eyes fell upon the paper on the table. In her haste she had left her tablet behind.

Jason drew it towards him. He couldn't help but smile a little at the evidence of a writer without a clue. There were doodles of boats, of men in bowler hats, various geometric shapes, all surrounding a few words of text at the top of the page.

Obviously a title: Politics and Women in 20th Century Europe.

Jason was vaguely disappointed. Not another feminist! They were all the rage these days. It was so unnecessary. Perhaps he wouldn't bother with her after all.

A shadow fell over the table, and he looked up to see the maitre-d.

"The bill, messieur."

"I beg your pardon? I've only just started."

"Your companion at this table. The young woman. She did not pay for her petit dejeuner. You will remedy this oversight, non?"

Jason plucked the bill out of his hand. "Oui."

The maitre-d bowed and walked away.

Jason ran his eye over the bill casually. She'd had only a cup of coffee and a brioche. Not the type of order from someone intent on defrauding café owners out of the price of a full meal. But had that been the meaning behind it all? Had she deliberately been waiting for someone to sit next to her, so that she could stick them with the bill?

Hardly. A 20-foot drop was not something to be undertaken likely - certainly not for the cost of a coffee and a brioche!

No...something was going on.

Idly, Jason flicked over another page of the tablet. And his cigarette froze on the way to his lips. Quietly, he completed its journey and took another long drag.

On this page, it seemed she'd had no problem writing text. But it was funny. A couple of sentences, with words formed out of letters that didn't spell English words. Below them, letters in blocks of five, stretching across the page.

It was as if she was trying to figure out some kind of cipher.

He turned more pages. Each page was full of such jumbles of letters. And apparently ineffective attempts to solve them.

Why would an English woman summering in Monte Carlo be trying to figure out page after page of codes?

Jason felt a thrill run through him. More than his interest in a beautiful woman was his interest in a beautiful woman with a secret. And if he was not mistaken - Emma Knight had plenty of secrets. He'd have to find out what they were.

Jason picked up his pen and pulled his own notebook towards him. He wrote down the title for his next novel.

Emma.