The Arnifour Affair by Gregory Harris

whom this pub intended to cater.
    I spotted Mademoiselle Rendell at once curled up in a booth near the back with a dark, bearded man. She seemed well in the throes of a rampant flirtation and it made me fear that all my efforts had been for naught. The nearer of her hands was already settled on the man’s leg and her other was flitting about like a hummingbird in search of nectar.
    Once again I sucked in a quick breath and steeled myself before moving to a barstool just beyond Mademoiselle and her mark. I ordered a stout and laid my cloak across my lap, turning sideways so I could better listen in on the conversation happening between the two of them. What I expected to hear I cannot say, but between the throaty giggles, playful slaps, and whispered innuendos I heard nothing less than the most blatant form of seduction.
    â€œYer makin’ me ’eart pound like a race ’orse,” she purred at one point. “Care ta feel?”
    â€œI fear ze cost of such an act,” her companion snorted, his accent thick and guttural, definitely a Slavic tongue but certainly not Russian, which surprised me given the bar’s obvious allegiance.
    â€œThis one’s on me,” she parried back.
    â€œVe are done here,” he answered, obviously not tempted by the course of her prodding. “I leaf this veekend. You know vhere to find me if you have reason; udderwise I vill consider our vork finished until I return.”
    â€œAnd when will that be?” she whined, all pretense of seduction dropped with the haste of a flicked ember.
    â€œZix months . . . eight months . . . I dun’t know.” I watched him reach out and take her arm, carefully removing her hand from his leg. “You vill hear from me.” He pushed himself out of the booth and gave a curt nod.
    â€œI ain’t ’appy ’bout this,” she called, but it was too late, as the man had already made his way out the door.
    For a minute I considered following her companion rather than staying here to watch what she might do next, but then another man approached her table and quickly slid in beside her. Given that it was she whom I was here to shadow I decided to stay put, though I committed the hairy Slavic man to memory, as I was certain their business dealings were nefarious at best. At least then, if I did return to our flat with little more than tales of her flirtations I would do so having been successful in the intent of my purpose.
    I casually nursed my stout and feigned a look of boredom and inapproachability so as not to be sidetracked by someone who might want to spill his every thought onto the first fool who looked like he was alone. My frustration quickly mounted, however, as I could hear little of the conversation with Mademoiselle and her new companion. If I had any hope of learning anything further I was going to have to find a way to twist around to see what the two of them were up to. I only hoped I would not turn to find them glaring at me.
    Shoving my cloak onto the seat beside me, I slumped against the bar and peered around with what I thought was extraordinary restraint, only to find Mademoiselle Rendell slowly sinking beneath her table. A table that held no cloth atop it. Instantly it became apparent to anyone who cared just exactly what she was up to, so it was hardly surprising when I felt a great rush of air barrel past me as the establishment’s owner brusquely moved in to save the reputation of his pub.
    â€œGet out from under there!” he growled. “I’ll not have such goings-on in me pub!”
    â€œFor a quid ya can be part a the goin’s-on,” the unperturbed mademoiselle snorted from below.
    â€œPiss off!” her companion snapped. “You’re ruinin’ me stiffy.”
    â€œI will not have this!” the man thundered, pounding a meaty fist onto the table’s top.
    â€œBugger!” Mademoiselle Rendell bellowed as she came scuttling out.