| General Fiction posted November 17, 2018 | Chapters: |
...25 26 -27- 28... 
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Chapter 27: The jigsaw begins to take shape
A chapter in the book The French Letter
A Meeting with Madame Durand
by tfawcus
| Background Charles's plan to flee to England with Helen and Jeanne has been delayed by Jeanne's sudden seizure. While she and Helen are at the hospital, he starts to read Helen's journal... |
end of Chapter 26
I was about to continue reading when my phone rang. It was Helen, from the hospital.
"Hello? Listen, Charles, I can't join you at the restaurant tonight. Something has come up."
"What's the problem? Is everything all right?"
"Yes, but the doctor has just examined Jeanne. He wants to speak to me about her condition, and get more details about her collapse." There was a slight pause, then she continued in a voice barely above a whisper, "Can you meet me here at the hospital in half an hour? I'll explain everything then."
Before I could answer, the phone went dead.
Chapter 27
It seemed strange that Helen should cut off the conversation so abruptly, and even more so that she should forego the opportunity of dinner with me in one of the city's best restaurants. Distinctly out of character, I thought.
I caught myself idly questioning her relationship with me, and sensing a tug between it and her relationship with Jeanne. Why couldn't she talk more openly on the phone? Surely she wasn't becoming paranoid about someone eavesdropping on her conversation?
I have to admit it also irritated me to have my reading of the journal interrupted. What had Jeanne been doing in the company of a delegation of Pakistani businessmen? Was it just a coincidence that she was in the nightclub at the same time as them, or was there a connection? I needed to know more about this before returning to the hospital.
'Can you meet me in half an hour?' Those had been Helen's words. Well, since it was only a five minute walk, there was no particular hurry. I raised my hand to signal the waiter. Time for a cheese platter, a glass of wine and a few grapes. No need for us both to go hungry.
"Serveur, apportez-moi un verre de Chambertin, un plateau de fromages et quelques raisins, s'il vous plaît."
I already knew that Jeanne had expressed a wish to publish a story based on Helen's experiences in Thailand and that she had offered her a trip to Paris. She had said Helen's rescue from her predicament in Bangkok came 'at a high price' and that she'd 'taken advantage of her'. Did she mean at a high price for herself, I wondered, or at a high price for Helen? She'd certainly been generous - too generous, I thought - an airline ticket, new clothes, an advance on a publishing contract, accommodation in Paris. There had to be something in the journal that answered the central question. What was in it for Jeanne? I settled back to read more.
December 21st
I met with the French lady this morning in the foyer of her hotel, as arranged, but was surprised to find one of the Pakistanis with her. She introduced him to me as Mr Bukhari. He shook hands formally and greeted me in Urdu. He seemed pleased when I was able to reply fluently in his native tongue. He went on to explain that he and Madame Durand were business associates, and that they might have a proposition for me. They both congratulated me again on my singing of the ghazels of the Hindu-Kush and asked me where I'd learnt them. So far, so good, I thought.
I told them I'd grown up in Chitral and that my mother was a Kalasha, and that she used to teach them to us when we were growing up. Mr Bukhari immediately switched to Kalasha-mun, the local dialect of my homeland, and asked why I had left there. It almost seemed that he was testing the truth of my story. He noted that I'd said 'we', and asked if I had any brothers or sisters. I remembered what Kayla had said about being careful what information I shared, so, after complimenting him on his command of the dialect, I switched back to English and addressed both of them, asking what their proposal was.
At that point, Mr Bukhari rose to his feet, saying how nice it had been to meet me, and he excused himself, saying that he had an important business meeting to attend. 'Madame Durand will be able to explain everything to you. I'm delighted to have met you, Miss ...?' I gave him my name without thinking, and then immediately regretted it. Kayla's warning re-echoed in my mind.
Putting the journal to one side for a moment, I cut a sliver of brie and spread it on bread. How well the burgundy enhanced its flavour! As the French say, 'Un repas sans fromage est comme une journée sans soleil' - 'A meal without cheese is like a day without sunshine'.
As the sunshine burst upon my palate, my mind began to make connections. The mountain range separating Afghanistan from Pakistan ... backstreets of Bangkok ... large amounts of money being spread around ... Mafia involvement. The jigsaw was beginning to take shape, though some pieces were still missing. Amongst other things, I needed to find out how deeply Helen was involved, and what Jeanne had done to upset the Mafiosi.
A sinister scenario was beginning to take shape in my mind. It occurred to me that the kidnapping must have been to involve Helen more deeply in whatever was going on. I guessed that she had already been used, possibly without her knowledge, as a courier smuggling drugs between Thailand and France. Now, perhaps, the strong-arm men were trying to coerce Jeanne to pressure her into a more significant role - maybe on the drug run between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where her local knowledge would be invaluable.
I wondered if their crude knife work back at the studio had been mainly for Helen's benefit, a demonstration of what could happen if she didn't cooperate. It stood in her favour that she had not acquiesced. Indeed, she had been able to take them by surprise with her martial arts skills and send them packing - not without a little help from Henri Carron and his dog, Bonaparte - and, of course, from me.
A whole new batch of questions buzzed around my head as I walked to the hospital. There was a stillness in the air, as one sometimes experiences before a storm. A temporary lull in the traffic noise was filled by a clock chiming the hour, perhaps from the façade of the Gare du Nord. Only ten minutes late, I thought.
A few large drops began to fall, and I quickened my step. Why, I wondered, did it always have to rain when I was on my way to meet Helen? Apparently, there is no cheese induced sunshine after dark - just the growling prospect of nightmares.
There was a crack of thunder and almost simultaneous lightning, indicating that the storm was directly overhead. I reached the sanctuary of the building in the nick of time before the heavens opened. I found Helen waiting for me downstairs in the cafeteria. She was seated at a small table, eating an egg sandwich.
“Hello, Charles. At last! You took your time, didn’t you?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. “It would have served you right if you’d got a soaking.”
“You said half an hour, so I didn’t see any point in rushing. You know how much I love hanging around hospitals. Anyway, what’s the problem?”
“I already told you on the phone. The doctor knew that we were about to board the Eurostar when Jeanne collapsed, and he was concerned. He thought he should give us more details about her condition.” Helen took another bite from her sandwich, mumbling through the crumbs, “I’m starving!”
“That really does look revolting. Why couldn’t you have come to the restaurant, as we arranged?”
“Because he was due to finish his ward rounds in about half an hour, and there wouldn’t have been time. Anyway, I don’t suppose that you went hungry while you were waiting.”
“Well, no, as a matter of fact -”
“I don’t want to hear about it. “She pushed the empty cardboard triangle to one side and took a sip from her disposable coffee cup. “I thought you’d also want to hear what the doctor had to say.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“I was in the ward with Jeanne, and knowing how well you two get on together, I didn’t think it would be a great idea for her to know I was proposing to divulge intimate details of her medical history to a prickly and rather pompous Englishman. You know how the French are in such matters.”
I grunted, but was saved from making a reply by the arrival of the doctor.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur et Madame. I am Dr Dupont. Come this way, please. There is a private office just around the corner where we can speak.”
“Mademoiselle, actually.”
“Mille pardons, mademoiselle. Is this gentleman your father, perhaps?” Helen smiled prettily at him and nodded. Then, as he went on ahead, she turned and stuck her tongue out at me. Really! I sometimes wonder why I put up with the woman.
When we reached the office, Dr Dupont motioned us to sit in chairs opposite him. “I understand from Mademoiselle Culverson that Madame Durand was involved in a car accident a few days ago, and that she was severely concussed. This is almost certainly a delayed reaction from that, perhaps brought on by stress.” He gave me a penetrating stare. “Has she been in any particularly stressful situations recently?”
“Yes,” I answered carefully. “That is why we were taking her away for a few days holiday in England. We thought the rest would give her time to recuperate.”
“I thought as much. There were some concerning cuts on her chest that suggested self-mutilation. She will need careful watching and attention. Personally, I would not advise travelling under these circumstances. There could easily be a recurrence. However, that is your decision.”
“I thought it might have been an epileptic fit,” Helen said.
“No. The symptoms are somewhat similar, but there is no evidence of epilepsy.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get on. I just thought I should let you know my opinion, since it seems that Madame Durand is in your care.”
“Thank you, doctor. My daughter and I are most grateful. Madame Durand is a close personal friend. She has known Helen since she was in nappies.”
I was delighted to see that I had made Helen blush ...or did that reddening of her cheeks indicate fury? I wasn't sure. If I hadn't been such a gentleman, I'd probably have stuck my tongue out at her at this juncture.
I was about to continue reading when my phone rang. It was Helen, from the hospital.
"Hello? Listen, Charles, I can't join you at the restaurant tonight. Something has come up."
"What's the problem? Is everything all right?"
"Yes, but the doctor has just examined Jeanne. He wants to speak to me about her condition, and get more details about her collapse." There was a slight pause, then she continued in a voice barely above a whisper, "Can you meet me here at the hospital in half an hour? I'll explain everything then."
Before I could answer, the phone went dead.
Chapter 27
It seemed strange that Helen should cut off the conversation so abruptly, and even more so that she should forego the opportunity of dinner with me in one of the city's best restaurants. Distinctly out of character, I thought.
I caught myself idly questioning her relationship with me, and sensing a tug between it and her relationship with Jeanne. Why couldn't she talk more openly on the phone? Surely she wasn't becoming paranoid about someone eavesdropping on her conversation?
I have to admit it also irritated me to have my reading of the journal interrupted. What had Jeanne been doing in the company of a delegation of Pakistani businessmen? Was it just a coincidence that she was in the nightclub at the same time as them, or was there a connection? I needed to know more about this before returning to the hospital.
'Can you meet me in half an hour?' Those had been Helen's words. Well, since it was only a five minute walk, there was no particular hurry. I raised my hand to signal the waiter. Time for a cheese platter, a glass of wine and a few grapes. No need for us both to go hungry.
"Serveur, apportez-moi un verre de Chambertin, un plateau de fromages et quelques raisins, s'il vous plaît."
I already knew that Jeanne had expressed a wish to publish a story based on Helen's experiences in Thailand and that she had offered her a trip to Paris. She had said Helen's rescue from her predicament in Bangkok came 'at a high price' and that she'd 'taken advantage of her'. Did she mean at a high price for herself, I wondered, or at a high price for Helen? She'd certainly been generous - too generous, I thought - an airline ticket, new clothes, an advance on a publishing contract, accommodation in Paris. There had to be something in the journal that answered the central question. What was in it for Jeanne? I settled back to read more.
December 21st
I met with the French lady this morning in the foyer of her hotel, as arranged, but was surprised to find one of the Pakistanis with her. She introduced him to me as Mr Bukhari. He shook hands formally and greeted me in Urdu. He seemed pleased when I was able to reply fluently in his native tongue. He went on to explain that he and Madame Durand were business associates, and that they might have a proposition for me. They both congratulated me again on my singing of the ghazels of the Hindu-Kush and asked me where I'd learnt them. So far, so good, I thought.
I told them I'd grown up in Chitral and that my mother was a Kalasha, and that she used to teach them to us when we were growing up. Mr Bukhari immediately switched to Kalasha-mun, the local dialect of my homeland, and asked why I had left there. It almost seemed that he was testing the truth of my story. He noted that I'd said 'we', and asked if I had any brothers or sisters. I remembered what Kayla had said about being careful what information I shared, so, after complimenting him on his command of the dialect, I switched back to English and addressed both of them, asking what their proposal was.
At that point, Mr Bukhari rose to his feet, saying how nice it had been to meet me, and he excused himself, saying that he had an important business meeting to attend. 'Madame Durand will be able to explain everything to you. I'm delighted to have met you, Miss ...?' I gave him my name without thinking, and then immediately regretted it. Kayla's warning re-echoed in my mind.
Putting the journal to one side for a moment, I cut a sliver of brie and spread it on bread. How well the burgundy enhanced its flavour! As the French say, 'Un repas sans fromage est comme une journée sans soleil' - 'A meal without cheese is like a day without sunshine'.
As the sunshine burst upon my palate, my mind began to make connections. The mountain range separating Afghanistan from Pakistan ... backstreets of Bangkok ... large amounts of money being spread around ... Mafia involvement. The jigsaw was beginning to take shape, though some pieces were still missing. Amongst other things, I needed to find out how deeply Helen was involved, and what Jeanne had done to upset the Mafiosi.
A sinister scenario was beginning to take shape in my mind. It occurred to me that the kidnapping must have been to involve Helen more deeply in whatever was going on. I guessed that she had already been used, possibly without her knowledge, as a courier smuggling drugs between Thailand and France. Now, perhaps, the strong-arm men were trying to coerce Jeanne to pressure her into a more significant role - maybe on the drug run between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where her local knowledge would be invaluable.
I wondered if their crude knife work back at the studio had been mainly for Helen's benefit, a demonstration of what could happen if she didn't cooperate. It stood in her favour that she had not acquiesced. Indeed, she had been able to take them by surprise with her martial arts skills and send them packing - not without a little help from Henri Carron and his dog, Bonaparte - and, of course, from me.
A whole new batch of questions buzzed around my head as I walked to the hospital. There was a stillness in the air, as one sometimes experiences before a storm. A temporary lull in the traffic noise was filled by a clock chiming the hour, perhaps from the façade of the Gare du Nord. Only ten minutes late, I thought.
A few large drops began to fall, and I quickened my step. Why, I wondered, did it always have to rain when I was on my way to meet Helen? Apparently, there is no cheese induced sunshine after dark - just the growling prospect of nightmares.
There was a crack of thunder and almost simultaneous lightning, indicating that the storm was directly overhead. I reached the sanctuary of the building in the nick of time before the heavens opened. I found Helen waiting for me downstairs in the cafeteria. She was seated at a small table, eating an egg sandwich.
“Hello, Charles. At last! You took your time, didn’t you?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. “It would have served you right if you’d got a soaking.”
“You said half an hour, so I didn’t see any point in rushing. You know how much I love hanging around hospitals. Anyway, what’s the problem?”
“I already told you on the phone. The doctor knew that we were about to board the Eurostar when Jeanne collapsed, and he was concerned. He thought he should give us more details about her condition.” Helen took another bite from her sandwich, mumbling through the crumbs, “I’m starving!”
“That really does look revolting. Why couldn’t you have come to the restaurant, as we arranged?”
“Because he was due to finish his ward rounds in about half an hour, and there wouldn’t have been time. Anyway, I don’t suppose that you went hungry while you were waiting.”
“Well, no, as a matter of fact -”
“I don’t want to hear about it. “She pushed the empty cardboard triangle to one side and took a sip from her disposable coffee cup. “I thought you’d also want to hear what the doctor had to say.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“I was in the ward with Jeanne, and knowing how well you two get on together, I didn’t think it would be a great idea for her to know I was proposing to divulge intimate details of her medical history to a prickly and rather pompous Englishman. You know how the French are in such matters.”
I grunted, but was saved from making a reply by the arrival of the doctor.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur et Madame. I am Dr Dupont. Come this way, please. There is a private office just around the corner where we can speak.”
“Mademoiselle, actually.”
“Mille pardons, mademoiselle. Is this gentleman your father, perhaps?” Helen smiled prettily at him and nodded. Then, as he went on ahead, she turned and stuck her tongue out at me. Really! I sometimes wonder why I put up with the woman.
When we reached the office, Dr Dupont motioned us to sit in chairs opposite him. “I understand from Mademoiselle Culverson that Madame Durand was involved in a car accident a few days ago, and that she was severely concussed. This is almost certainly a delayed reaction from that, perhaps brought on by stress.” He gave me a penetrating stare. “Has she been in any particularly stressful situations recently?”
“Yes,” I answered carefully. “That is why we were taking her away for a few days holiday in England. We thought the rest would give her time to recuperate.”
“I thought as much. There were some concerning cuts on her chest that suggested self-mutilation. She will need careful watching and attention. Personally, I would not advise travelling under these circumstances. There could easily be a recurrence. However, that is your decision.”
“I thought it might have been an epileptic fit,” Helen said.
“No. The symptoms are somewhat similar, but there is no evidence of epilepsy.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get on. I just thought I should let you know my opinion, since it seems that Madame Durand is in your care.”
“Thank you, doctor. My daughter and I are most grateful. Madame Durand is a close personal friend. She has known Helen since she was in nappies.”
I was delighted to see that I had made Helen blush ...or did that reddening of her cheeks indicate fury? I wasn't sure. If I hadn't been such a gentleman, I'd probably have stuck my tongue out at her at this juncture.
 Recognized |
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List of characters:
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Helen Culverson: A woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to have become Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Henri Carron - a rag-and-bone man, owner of an heroic dog called Bonaparte.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
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, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
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.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Helen Culverson: A woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to have become Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Henri Carron - a rag-and-bone man, owner of an heroic dog called Bonaparte.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
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, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
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.
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