The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

have the right place? This doesn’t look like an office to me.”
    “We have to go around to the courtyard entrance. LeFleur occupies the second floor.”
    A small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-wrought iron, opened before them, making them free of a courtyard paved with flagstones. In the center a tall tree shaded the flower bed at its foot and threw shadows upon the first of the steps leading to the upper floors. The Ralestones frankly stared about them. This was the first house of the French Quarter they had seen, although their name might have admitted them to several closely guarded Creole strongholds. LeFleur’s house followed a pattern common to the old city. The lower floor fronting on the street was in use only as a shop or store-room. In the early days each shopkeeper lived above his place of business and rented the third and fourth floors to aristocrats in from their plantations for the fashionable season.
    A long, narrow ell ran back from the main part of the house to form one side of the courtyard. The ground floor of this contained the old slave quarters and kitchens, while the second was cut into bedrooms which had housed the young men of the family so that they could come and go at will without disturbing the more sedate members of the household. These small rooms were now in use as the offices of Mr. LeFleur. From the balcony, running along the ell, onto which each room opened, one could look down into the courtyard. It was on this balcony that the lawyer met them with outstretched hands after they had given their names to his dark, languid young clerk.
    “But this is good of you!” René LeFleur beamed on them impartially. He was a small, plumpish, round-faced man in his early forties, who spoke in perpetual italics. His eyebrows, arched over-generously by Nature, gave him a look of never-ending astonishment at the world and all its works. But his genial smile was kindness itself. Unaccustomed as Val was to sudden enthusiasms, he found himself liking René LeFleur almost before his hand gripped Val’s.
    “Miss Ralestone, it is a pleasure, a very great pleasure, to see you here! And this,” he turned to Val, “this must be that brother Valerius both you and Mr. Ralestone spoke so much of during our meeting in New York. You have safely recovered from that most unfortunate accident, Mr. Ralestone? But of course, your presence here is my answer. And how do you like Louisiana, Miss Ralestone?” His eyes behind his gold-rimmed eyeglasses sparkled as he tilted his head a fraction toward Ricky as if to hear the clearer.
    “Well enough. Though we’ve seen very little of it yet, Mr. LeFleur.”
    “When you have seen Pirate’s Haven,” he replied, “you have seen much of Louisiana.”
    “But we’re forgetting our manners!” exclaimed the girl. “We want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Rupert said to tell you that while he doesn’t care for beans as a rule, the beans we found in our cupboard were very superior beans.”
    Mr. LeFleur hooted with laughter like a small boy. “He is droll, is that brother of yours. And has Sam been to see you?”
    “Sam and—Lucy,” answered Ricky with emphasis. “Lucy has decided to take us in hand. She has installed Letty-Lou over our protests.”
    The little lawyer nodded complacently. “Yes, Lucy will take care of you. She is a master housekeeper and cook—ah!” His eyes rolled upward. “And Mr. Ralestone, how is he?”
    “All right. He’s going over the farm with Sam this afternoon. We were sent in his place to give you the papers he spoke to you about.”
    At Ricky’s answer, Val held out the envelope he had carried. To their joint surprise, LeFleur pounced upon it and withdrew to the window of the room into which he had conducted them. There he spread out the four sheets of yellowed paper which the envelope had contained.
    “What were we carrying?” whispered Ricky. “Part of Rupert’s deep, dark secret?”
    “No,” her brother hissed back, “those are the plans of the Patagonian fort which were stolen from the Russian Embassy last Thursday by the beautiful woman spy disguised with a long green beard. You know, the proper first chapter of an international espionage thriller. You are the dumb but beautiful newspaper reporter on the scent, and I—”
    “The even dumber G-man who spends most of his time running three steps ahead of Fu Chew Chow and his gang of oriental demons. In the second