The Porthole

I woke the morning after the dinner party to discover I’d slept through my alarm and missed the day’s classes. I bolted upright in bed and whacked my head on the sloped ceiling of my garret (attic) room. Three cups of coffee and four painkillers later, I took a seat in front of my computer and typed an email to Kiki that detailed the previous evening’s adventure.

Claire hadn’t been able to account for Maurice’s disappearing act. He wasn’t the sort, she’d said, to hide out in subway tunnels, particularly if it meant getting one of his custom-made suits dirty. Still smarting from his snub, I’d suggested that Maurice was a spy, but Claire wouldn’t buy it. He was too rich—and lazy—to sell his friends out. And who on earth would want information about the Ariadne Society anyway?

I wondered if Kiki might have an idea or two, but she didn’t respond to my email, and the rest of the day passed slowly. As I waited for the evening’s explorations to begin, I Googled Maurice’s family. I discovered that many of his ancestors had lost their heads during the Revolution, and that his father had been a notorious playboy, but I found nothing about Maurice. When the clock struck seven, I abandoned my research, gathered my supplies and set off to meet Claire.

After several wrong turns, I finally reached our meeting place in an alley in the 6th Arrondissement. I found Claire dressed in black and swinging a heavy crowbar as if it were a stick.

“Are you ready?” It was a challenge, not a question.

When I nodded, she dug the tip of the crowbar under a manhole cover and wrenched it out of the street.