Lawless by John Jakes Page A

was speaking accented French and had his back to Matt. But there was something familiar about his sleek yellow-brown hair.
    A second, gnomelike fellow was copying down the information the first man rattled off. Paris was tolerant of the eccentric, so no one paid any attention except Matt, who thought the man might be carrying a watch.
    “I beg your pardon—” Matt began. The man pivoted smartly. Matt recognized him at once, even though this afternoon he was turned out in expensive civilian clothes, including a tan sack coat with dark brown edging, fawn spats on his dark brown pumps and, tucked under his arm, a tan felt hat with a round-blocked crown and wide brown ribbon.
    The man had twice been at the café where Matt and his friends congregated. The first time he’d evidently come in by accident. He’d gotten interested in the barmaid, Lisa, and had come back to see her again. On both occasions he’d been wearing a uniform of dark blue with polished jackboots, a sabre and sabretache and a pickelhaube with an ornate Prussian eagle plate on the front and a wicked-looking vertical spike on top.
    Lisa hadn’t been impressed or even slightly interested in the man’s heavy humor, his heavy palm slapping her bottom or his heavy-handed announcements that he was attached to the Prussian diplomatic mission in Paris and, therefore, important. Both times, the Prussian had left the café in very bad humor.
    Damn funny crowd, the Prussians, Matt thought as the fellow removed a monocle from his eye. They’d whipped the Austrians in ’66 by utilizing the railroads effectively. And here the officer was, boldly copying French railroad schedules in one of Paris’ major depots.
    “Well, hello, my friend!” the Prussian said with a lingering look at Matt’s mouth. Uneasily, Matt wondered whether the officer was one of those types who found pleasure with persons of either sex.
    The Prussian was just a few years older. He had healthy pink cheeks, bright pale eyes and a dazzling grin. “It was the Café Guerbois, wasn’t it? You’re one of that Batignolles crowd—”
    “Good memory, Herr Lepp.” Matt nodded, trying to be cordial despite his dislike of the man’s mixture of arrogance and smarmy charm. The officer stood with one knee turned out and slightly bent.
    “Colonel Lepp.” he corrected. “To be quite precise about it, von Lepp. May I ask what you want? I’m rather busy.”
    Matt burst out laughing. “Doing what? Fixing up an invasion timetable?”
    It was meant as a joke, but Lepp lacked a sense of humor. He stiffened, turned red in the face. The gnomish older man hovering near him scowled.
    Abruptly, Lepp realized he’d reacted too strongly. He tried to smile. “Oh, no. I’m merely putting together some information for a commercial study.”
    Matt didn’t believe it for a minute. Prussian officers didn’t study rail schedules in order to facilitate freight shipments.
    “Believe me,” Lepp went on, “if there is ever any—difficulty between France and the new, unified Germany, it shall not be Prussia who is the aggressor. But it shall not be Prussia who is the loser, either.”
    “Look—” Matt raised a placating hand. He forgot he was carrying violets. Lepp snickered. Matt fought to hold his temper. “All I wanted was the correct time. I’ll ask someone el—”
    Lepp interrupted with a snap of his fingers. The gnome took out a cheap plated watch and showed Matt the dial: twenty-five until six. He was in time.
    He murmured a thank-you and started away. Lepp caught his arm, closing his fingers on Matt’s sleeve in a way Matt found repellant. Lepp’s anise-scented breath washed over him.
    “Wait one moment, please. Tell that charming if slightly grubby young woman at the café that I still think of her. Twice refused, I do not consider myself refused permanently.”
    A chuckle, a squeeze, and then he let go.
    “You must remember Prussia and the Prussian people are accustomed to getting what they