| General Fiction posted October 18, 2018 | Chapters: |
...17 18 -19- 20... 
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Chapter 19: Charles decides to tail Helen to her rendez-vous
A chapter in the book The French Letter
A Car Chase
by tfawcus
| Background After their meeting with Alain Gaudin, Charles intercepts a strange message reminding Helen of a meeting at noon the next day. He decides to follow her. |
Continued from Chapter 18:
"Hello, is that Alamo Car Hire? I'd like to book a rental for tomorrow. Yes, twenty four hours. A small car, please. I'll pick it up from the Gare du Nord at nine o'clock. My name is Charles Brandon. Yes, a VISA card. The number is - "
I hung up, hoping that my driving skills would be good enough to keep on Fifi's tail.
Chapter 19
The following morning, I woke early to noisy banter between Monsieur Gerard and his neighbours, as they unloaded materials for the repair of his greenhouse. I opened the window and looked down.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Brandon. Sorry if we disturb you with our clatter."
"Not at all! I am already up and about. I see you have better help today than on Tuesday! It looks like a fine day for fixing up the storm damage."
Monsieur Gerard laughed. "How's that cut on your forearm, monsieur?"
"Much better thank you - despite all the blood, it was barely a scratch."
"I'm glad to hear it. Have a good day, monsieur - it's going to be a hot one." With that, my landlord turned his attention back to the job at hand.
Two streets away, the rising hum of rush hour traffic along Boulevard de Clichy suggested I would be almost as quick to walk as to take public transport. The Gare du Nord was, after all, only a mile away, and the exercise would do me good. I also had a feeling that I might soon be spending more than enough time sitting in a car, 'staking out the joint', as they say in American crime thrillers.
When I reached the station, it was already thronging with people. The line of flustered tourists queuing for taxis suggested that a high-speed Eurostar train from London must have recently arrived. I hoped that not too many of the passengers would be hiring cars, for I could do without a long wait.
As it turned out, there were only two people ahead of me at the Alamo service desk. However, the man being served was expostulating with the clerk, and making heavy weather of the paperwork. He insisted on every detail being gone over twice and, by the time he was satisfied that all was correct, a lengthy queue had started to form behind me. Even so, I was on my way by a quarter to ten, and still had plenty of time to drive across to Helen's apartment on Avenue de Villiers, a few hundred yards north of Parc Monceau.
There was a parking spot near Café Gabrielle, on a street corner almost opposite her apartment. The café had plenty of outdoor seating, and I selected a table with a good view of the entrance. A young waiter swept towards me, arriving with a flourish.
"Bonjour, monsieur. Que puis-je faire pour vous ce beau matin?"
"Un café blanc et une brioche, s'il vous plaît."
I placed my order, thinking how much more pleasant it would be if Helen were sitting here with me, instead of me tailing her like an amateur sleuth - a role I was already feeling uncomfortable with. It had begun to dawn on me that I had no idea if Helen would be driving to her destination in Fifi, or travelling there by bus. The Wagram Metro station was also just down the street, and that presented a third alternative. I started measuring distances with my eye, wondering if I would be quick enough off the mark to keep on her tail when she finally emerged from the building.
I insisted on paying the bill for my coffee straight away, so that I would be able to leave without delay. The surprised look on the waiter's face showed that he thought this unusual, but he humoured me, no doubt privately thinking what strange customs foreign tourists had. I over-tipped him to compensate, and shortly afterwards saw him gesturing in my direction as he stood in the doorway talking to one of the other waiters. They both laughed.
Half an hour later there was still no sign of Helen, so I ordered another coffee. The café was by now quite busy and I occupied myself by watching the other customers. A pigeon fluttered down and landed on a nearby table. The matronly patron shooed it away in disgust, with an exaggerated sweep of her menu that upset the water bottle over her husband's trousers.
"Merde!" he cried, leaping to his feet.
In the ensuing consternation, I almost missed the black Citroen as it pulled up on the other side of the road. Two men in dark suits got out and entered the building. I slipped a ten-euro note under my water glass to pay for the now redundant coffee and hurried back to the car. My heart was racing, both from the unaccustomed exertion, and from this unexpected turn of events.
Helen appeared a few minutes later, writhing and kicking as she was propelled across the pavement by the two men and man-handled into the back seat. Within seconds, the car joined the stream of traffic heading west. By the time I found a gap in the traffic, it was almost out of sight. I cursed and put my foot down, narrowly missing a cyclist as I accelerated past a large tourist bus. My manoeuvre unleashed a cacophony of blaring horns. I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the cyclist being helped to his feet, and two or three angry fists being waved in my general direction by nearby pedestrians.
Undeterred, I continued the chase. A minor snarl up at the Place de Maréchal Juin allowed me to catch up enough to see the Citroen turn up Rue de Courcelles. I knew that if I didn't close the gap before they reached the Paris ring road, I risked losing them.
The car beside me was slow to move forward, and gave me the opportunity I needed to swing out into a clearer lane. This was my last chance, for there were only a few hundred yards before the ring road and no way of knowing if they headed north or south - but I caught a glimpse, and saw them carry straight on over the dual carriageway, towards the Seine.
At this point Rue de Courcelles becomes Rue du President Wilson where, in the nick of time, the US cavalry came to my rescue. Not actually the cavalry, but a portly gendarme, who decided to exercise his authority by blowing his whistle and raising a hand to stop the traffic. A dejected carthorse pulling a load of bric-a-brac ambled out from the side street. It was coaxed forward by a bewhiskered old gentleman sitting comfortably among cushions on a bench seat. When he reached the middle of the road, he pulled on the reins, and the carthorse came to a leisurely halt in front of the gendarme, who was evidently a friend.
One of Helen's captors leant out of the window and shouted what sounded very much like an obscenity. The old man affected to take no notice. In due course, he waved the gendarme farewell and turned to face the Citroen, touching his forelock in a most subservient fashion, then raised the middle finger of his left hand in an internationally recognised salute, before teasing his horse forward down the side street.
Shortly afterwards, they turned left down Rue Paul Vaillant-Courturier, a street named in honour of one of the founders of the French Communist Party. If his spirit still lingered, it would have approved of the old carter exercising the rights of the common man - possibly almost as much as I had done.
A few moments later, Helen's abductors pulled up opposite a small urban park. As I drove past, I saw 'Jeanne Durand et Cie, Literary Agents' painted in bold white lettering on the fascia panel above the door. My suspicions were confirmed. JD clearly stood for Madame Jeanne Durand.
Stopping a little further up the street, I watched in the rear-view mirror as Helen was hustled into the building. What now? I thought.
"Hello, is that Alamo Car Hire? I'd like to book a rental for tomorrow. Yes, twenty four hours. A small car, please. I'll pick it up from the Gare du Nord at nine o'clock. My name is Charles Brandon. Yes, a VISA card. The number is - "
I hung up, hoping that my driving skills would be good enough to keep on Fifi's tail.
Chapter 19
The following morning, I woke early to noisy banter between Monsieur Gerard and his neighbours, as they unloaded materials for the repair of his greenhouse. I opened the window and looked down.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Brandon. Sorry if we disturb you with our clatter."
"Not at all! I am already up and about. I see you have better help today than on Tuesday! It looks like a fine day for fixing up the storm damage."
Monsieur Gerard laughed. "How's that cut on your forearm, monsieur?"
"Much better thank you - despite all the blood, it was barely a scratch."
"I'm glad to hear it. Have a good day, monsieur - it's going to be a hot one." With that, my landlord turned his attention back to the job at hand.
Two streets away, the rising hum of rush hour traffic along Boulevard de Clichy suggested I would be almost as quick to walk as to take public transport. The Gare du Nord was, after all, only a mile away, and the exercise would do me good. I also had a feeling that I might soon be spending more than enough time sitting in a car, 'staking out the joint', as they say in American crime thrillers.
When I reached the station, it was already thronging with people. The line of flustered tourists queuing for taxis suggested that a high-speed Eurostar train from London must have recently arrived. I hoped that not too many of the passengers would be hiring cars, for I could do without a long wait.
As it turned out, there were only two people ahead of me at the Alamo service desk. However, the man being served was expostulating with the clerk, and making heavy weather of the paperwork. He insisted on every detail being gone over twice and, by the time he was satisfied that all was correct, a lengthy queue had started to form behind me. Even so, I was on my way by a quarter to ten, and still had plenty of time to drive across to Helen's apartment on Avenue de Villiers, a few hundred yards north of Parc Monceau.
There was a parking spot near Café Gabrielle, on a street corner almost opposite her apartment. The café had plenty of outdoor seating, and I selected a table with a good view of the entrance. A young waiter swept towards me, arriving with a flourish.
"Bonjour, monsieur. Que puis-je faire pour vous ce beau matin?"
"Un café blanc et une brioche, s'il vous plaît."
I placed my order, thinking how much more pleasant it would be if Helen were sitting here with me, instead of me tailing her like an amateur sleuth - a role I was already feeling uncomfortable with. It had begun to dawn on me that I had no idea if Helen would be driving to her destination in Fifi, or travelling there by bus. The Wagram Metro station was also just down the street, and that presented a third alternative. I started measuring distances with my eye, wondering if I would be quick enough off the mark to keep on her tail when she finally emerged from the building.
I insisted on paying the bill for my coffee straight away, so that I would be able to leave without delay. The surprised look on the waiter's face showed that he thought this unusual, but he humoured me, no doubt privately thinking what strange customs foreign tourists had. I over-tipped him to compensate, and shortly afterwards saw him gesturing in my direction as he stood in the doorway talking to one of the other waiters. They both laughed.
Half an hour later there was still no sign of Helen, so I ordered another coffee. The café was by now quite busy and I occupied myself by watching the other customers. A pigeon fluttered down and landed on a nearby table. The matronly patron shooed it away in disgust, with an exaggerated sweep of her menu that upset the water bottle over her husband's trousers.
"Merde!" he cried, leaping to his feet.
In the ensuing consternation, I almost missed the black Citroen as it pulled up on the other side of the road. Two men in dark suits got out and entered the building. I slipped a ten-euro note under my water glass to pay for the now redundant coffee and hurried back to the car. My heart was racing, both from the unaccustomed exertion, and from this unexpected turn of events.
Helen appeared a few minutes later, writhing and kicking as she was propelled across the pavement by the two men and man-handled into the back seat. Within seconds, the car joined the stream of traffic heading west. By the time I found a gap in the traffic, it was almost out of sight. I cursed and put my foot down, narrowly missing a cyclist as I accelerated past a large tourist bus. My manoeuvre unleashed a cacophony of blaring horns. I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the cyclist being helped to his feet, and two or three angry fists being waved in my general direction by nearby pedestrians.
Undeterred, I continued the chase. A minor snarl up at the Place de Maréchal Juin allowed me to catch up enough to see the Citroen turn up Rue de Courcelles. I knew that if I didn't close the gap before they reached the Paris ring road, I risked losing them.
The car beside me was slow to move forward, and gave me the opportunity I needed to swing out into a clearer lane. This was my last chance, for there were only a few hundred yards before the ring road and no way of knowing if they headed north or south - but I caught a glimpse, and saw them carry straight on over the dual carriageway, towards the Seine.
At this point Rue de Courcelles becomes Rue du President Wilson where, in the nick of time, the US cavalry came to my rescue. Not actually the cavalry, but a portly gendarme, who decided to exercise his authority by blowing his whistle and raising a hand to stop the traffic. A dejected carthorse pulling a load of bric-a-brac ambled out from the side street. It was coaxed forward by a bewhiskered old gentleman sitting comfortably among cushions on a bench seat. When he reached the middle of the road, he pulled on the reins, and the carthorse came to a leisurely halt in front of the gendarme, who was evidently a friend.
One of Helen's captors leant out of the window and shouted what sounded very much like an obscenity. The old man affected to take no notice. In due course, he waved the gendarme farewell and turned to face the Citroen, touching his forelock in a most subservient fashion, then raised the middle finger of his left hand in an internationally recognised salute, before teasing his horse forward down the side street.
Shortly afterwards, they turned left down Rue Paul Vaillant-Courturier, a street named in honour of one of the founders of the French Communist Party. If his spirit still lingered, it would have approved of the old carter exercising the rights of the common man - possibly almost as much as I had done.
A few moments later, Helen's abductors pulled up opposite a small urban park. As I drove past, I saw 'Jeanne Durand et Cie, Literary Agents' painted in bold white lettering on the fascia panel above the door. My suspicions were confirmed. JD clearly stood for Madame Jeanne Durand.
Stopping a little further up the street, I watched in the rear-view mirror as Helen was hustled into the building. What now? I thought.
 Recognized |
|
Cast of Main Characters
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer
Helen Culverson: A woman of mystery, also purporting to be a travel writer
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church
Madame Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Image source: Citroen, Lane Motor Museum, Citroenet.org
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer
Helen Culverson: A woman of mystery, also purporting to be a travel writer
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church
Madame Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Image source: Citroen, Lane Motor Museum, Citroenet.org
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