"N is for New Orleans" for the 7 Days of Halloween- Day 4

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

A chapter from one of the ABC Affair Challenges

“I think this is the quietest I’ve ever seen New Orleans,” Napoleon remarked. He and Illya were walking along the sidewalk in the French Quarter, and though there were strains of jazz echoing out into the street, it was indeed oddly quiet.

There seemed to be few takers as most of the bars were fairly empty.

“Perhaps the calm before the storm?” Kuryakin pointed to a darkening sky. “Looks like it might be a bad one.”

“Then we better hurry up before it starts to rain,” Napoleon said. When it came to predictions he always trusted  Kuryakin’s uncanny ability to judge the weather.

Illya once said it was his grandmother who taught him to read the signs in nature.

“Smart woman, like her grandson,”Napoleon thought to himself.

For once they didn’t have a dead drop or a courier run that put them in one of the many necropolises located throughout the city. They’d had their fill of those along with their run ins with voodoo magic, spirits and zombies.

They were picking up a pouch in a local hotel, one of the oldest in the French Quarter, the Hotel Monteleone.

First opened in 1886, it was still one of the few remaining family-owned and operated hotels in the city that had survived the great Depression; it was built in the Beaux-Arts architectural style.

It also had one of the richest histories of all the hotels in the area as. Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway had all been former guests, the latter of whom had often been spotted at the Monteleone Carousel Bar that revolved every fifteen minutes which slow-spun its drinkers past a bank of windows facing Royal Street.

As with many New Orleans hotels, the Monteleone apparently played host to several resident ghosts as well, but it was daytime and the agents knew the ghost made their appearance at night, for the most part.

It was located only blocks from the St. Louis Cemetery  No.1 where Napoleon and Illya had a rather bizarre experience at the tomb of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie Laveau several years prior. *

Napoleon had been stricken by the effects of a so-called voodoo doll and they sought out the services of one Mama Luc to free him of it. After what happened there in the cemetery would have made anyone’s hair stand on end, though in the end the ever pragmatic Kuryakin still remained skeptical. *

The storm finally arrived, sending heavy drops of rain to plip-plop around them just as they made it to the hotel entrance; once inside the skies opened up. The winds blew wildly and thunder boomed, rolling off into the distance.

They entered the lobby and were immediately struck by the opulence. Neither man had ever stepped foot in this particular locale before; it was too expensive to book rooms here, especially by UNCLE standards.

The floors were of polished marble and the ceilings were at least twelve feet high, with intricate moldings, and recessed panels that were ornately painted. White fluted ionic columns trimmed in gold led one’s eyes to several immense crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling near the front desk, which was long enough that it spanned the width of the room.

Inviting looking brown leather chairs and sofas, some with crushed red velvet, were set about the lobby and looked to be somewhat antebellum in style, recalling a bygone era.

Just before they neared the desk, they spotted their meeting place; it was a dark oversized antique grandfather clock. As they eyed it the chimes came to life on the half hour.

They were a little early, and seated themselves nearby to wait for their contact who was due on the hour.

As Napoleon looked over he saw an older grey haired man who hadn’t been there seconds before; he was dressed in clothing that looked more apropos to the turn of the century and was working on the grand antique.

Solo thought nothing of it and looked back at his partner who was reading a discarded newspaper.

When Napoleon glanced back at the clock, the man was gone and was nowhere to be seen.  How could he have moved that fast?

Illya looked up from his paper,” Something wrong?”

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind and merely shook his head.

He looked up and the old man was back again, tinkering away at the clock. It struck on the hour and he was gone just like that.

Solo couldn’t believe what he just saw and quickly rubbed his eyes, blinking them a few times to clear his vision.

“That is our cue,” Illya said. He rose from the armchair, leaving the paper there. Napoleon rose as well.

The contact arrived as soon as they stood, and after approaching him the hand off was made; no need for passwords as they knew him and he knew them.

Napoleon tucked the pouch into his inside jacket but he paused, deciding to ask a question.

“Mike, did you see an old man standing here working on the clock when you arrived? He was here and then he wasn’t. I feel as though I was seeing things; maybe I need a vacation.”

“Napoleon,” Illya chided, “you just had a vacation in Fort Myers.”

The courier chuckled. “No Napoleon, you’re fine. You saw the ghost of the clockmaker.  He’s seen working on his clock whether it’s day or night. As a matter of fact there’s quite a few ghosts here; those people who enjoyed owning the hotel, or working here or staying here as guests. They’ve chosen to spend their after-life at the Monteleone, and are more than willing to cheerfully share this grand place with the living. I love it here and worked here as a busboy when I was a kid. He looked towards the front entrance.” Shame the weather is so bad...streets are flooding. You may want to wait here,”

The weather had intensified and Napoleon made the decision to head to the Carousel bar for drinks. There was no rush with the pouch. He turned to ask Agent Fontenot to join them, but the man had already left.

“Tovarisch, let’s get a drink. I think I sort of need one.”

Illya nodded saying nothing, but he took note that his partner seemed oddly pale. There was little that could shake Napoleon Solo, but this supposed encounter with yet another ghost apparently did, or was it something else?

Before settling in at the bar they sequestered themselves behind a group of large potted palms for cover.

Napoleon pulled his communicator, quickly assembling it. “Open Channel D.”

“Yes Mister Solo,” Waverly answered.

“Sir we’ve picked up the courier pouch from Agent Fontenot, but we might be a little delayed getting out of the city as New Orleans is being hit by a bad storm.”

“What the devil? That’s impossible, “the Old Man blurted.

“The weather is really bad sir, I’m not exaggerating. I was told some of the streets are flooding.”

“Dash it all man, it’s not the weather, it’s Agent Fontenot. He was killed in a car accident not forty minutes ago. So whoever gave you that pouch could not have been him.”

Solo didn’t know what to say, but he reached into his jacket, finding nothing where the small pouch should have been.”

“Are you there Mister Solo?”

“Yes sir. I’m at a loss. Illya and I saw Fontenot and spoke to him, but the pouch he gave me has now mysteriously vanished.”

“The courier pouch was recovered at the scene of the accident and was dispatched by another agent out of our New Orleans field office; he’s returning it here to New York.”

“But…”

“Mister Solo, I am beginning to think your three weeks in Florida might not have been enough.”

“Sir, I feel fine. Mister Kuryakin will verify that we both saw Agent Fontenot.”

“Tsk,” Waverly was beginning to sound annoyed. “You and Mister Kuryakin are to return to New York immediately, weather permitting. Out.”

“Let’s get that drink Illya, I think I need it even more. You saw Mike Fontenot didn’t you?”

Kuryakin screwed up his face. “Yes I did, and now I think I need a drink too.”

“What is it about this town?” Solo asked.

“I do not have a clue.”

As they approached the Carousel Bar it began its regular rotation.

“Napoleon, do you mind if we do not sit there? I have a feeling it will make me ill.”

“You’re kidding right? Like in seasick ill?”

“You forget seasickness is motion sickness, slow moving things like that contraption could cause it,”he pointed at the bar.

“I would prefer to be able to enjoy my drink and keep it down, please. Plus I am still trying to process the incident with Agent Fontenot.”

“No problem,”Solo gave him a sideways glance. He too was a bit shaken by it, as he was sure Illya was as well, though the Russian would never admit it…

* ref to “That Voodoo that you do so well”