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he regarded necessary for my nursemaiding of Irene or as fit for my foreign and female ears.
    I could hardly prod Irene to dissect the matter in every lurid detail yet, since her long-time companion Nell had vanished at the height of the horrors. The only concrete result of our pursuit of the Paris Ripper was one missing English spinster and a sinister sign later in our hotel room that Irene’s English husband, Godfrey, journeying from Prague to Transylvania on business for the enormously influential Rothschild banking family, was also in unknown but likely hostile hands.
    It had not been a good night for the British.
    If Sherlock Holmes had not as good as threatened me with arrest to keep me at Irene’s side, I would be off on investigations of my own. I so resented being pent up on the sidelines with the women while the men made history.
    “I suppose,” Irene said, apparently unaware of my irritation, pausing to gaze at the fountains exploding like Old Faithful beneath the pierced iron silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, “that you would like to analyze the crimes that occurred here as they fit into a larger picture.”
    “You bet I would! But I daren’t ask the natural questions any reporter would want to know because of Nell vanishing so abruptly at the height of the atrocities. The last I saw of her was you yelling at her to leave the cavern when that madman James Kelly came rushing at her. Do you suppose he caught up with her? And, if so, why so far away from where we all were? And why did Kelly go for her particularly?”
    Irene’s gaze lowered to meet my eyes. I saw then that they focused on something far different from spectacular fountains or my humble opinions.
    “You almost sound envious of Nell being the Ripper’s target, and indeed it could have as easily been you and not Nell missing now. Perhaps.” Did her soft monotone almost hint that this would be the far, far better thing for all concerned?
    I would not be shamed, not by her. Not again. “Certainly I am better qualified to fend for myself in desperate circumstances than Nell is. I have survived a madhouse, after all, a sweatshop, and brothels on two continents.”
    “If fending for oneself is still an issue.” She turned her gaze again at the plumes of tumbling water.
    “Nell must be alive!”
    “Why?”
    “Why not leave her body at the panorama building where she was apparently abducted, then?”
    “Perhaps he needed her for future…rites.”
    “From what I understand, which is too little, the participants were willing sacrifices. I do not see Nell ever becoming a willing sacrifice.”
    “The people controlling events wished to leave no trail, that much is true,” she said absently. “In that they failed. Nell was able to unclasp her lapel watch, so that it dropped to the floor to mark the spot where she was taken. That clue allowed Red Tomahawk to note the signs they’d left and begin tracking the party immediately.”
    “They left in the gypsy wagon, isn’t that right?”
    “In a gypsy wagon. There may have been more about than the one we observed by the campfire earlier.”
    “‘The one we observed!’ I was allowed to observe very little that night in that mob of people. Observation is my work, my gift, my livelihood. You should have brought me to the forefront. I might have noticed something vital.”
    “Nell would have been incensed if I’d given you preference. It was bad enough you went to the morgue along with me.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake! This petty rivalry has cost us all a pretty penny. You would be only half so distracted if only one of your…associates were missing.”
    “You are saying that I would not take your abduction as seriously as Nell’s?”
    “You know that I can take care of myself.”
    “Nell may do better than you think.”
    “If she is alive.” I had not meant to be brutal, but Irene had pointed out the reality first, after all. Apparently reality was harder to face when it was turned back