| General Fiction posted April 22, 2019 | Chapters: |
...52 53 -54- 55... 
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Chapter 54: Never on a Sundae
A chapter in the book The French Letter
Nearly a Cat-astrophe
by tfawcus
| Background Charles, having been coerced into working for MI6, meets with the Air Attache and his nemesis, Mme Durand in the Paris Embassy. They want him to renew his liaison with Helen Culverson... |
Last paragraphs of Chapter 53...
"Good." An urbane smile spread across the Air Attaché's face as he rose to shake my hand.
"There is one other thing, old boy. It is vitally important that her sister, Kayla, knows nothing of this. We still have her under surveillance."
"Under surveillance? What for?"
"She made some dangerous friends while in Phuket. But that need not concern you. Not for the present, at any rate."
Although I still had many unanswered questions, Bamforth cut the meeting short, pleading the excuse of another engagement.
"We'll brief you fully later," he said, then, to my surprise, he continued, "Since you are still officially my P.A., we'll be calling you back here from time to time. It would be wise to keep up appearances."
Brown had made it clear that my position as P.A. would terminate as soon as I had delivered the package to Arnoux. Either things had changed, or the headquarters' staff had not been adequately briefed by their masters. Not unusual in the civil service.
Almost as an afterthought, Bamforth added, "Perhaps you could drop your diplomatic passport off with James on your way out. You won't be needing it again."
"If I am still your P.A., I rather think I should keep it. I understood from Smith and Brown, your colourless colleagues in London, that it goes with the job."
I detected a slight crack in Bamforth's veneer. "As you wish, dear boy, but don't make the mistake of trying to use it, unless on business that I have personally authorised. That would be a grave mistake."
It had been a pointless act of defiance, but a defeated man needs to save face with small victories. As I left the building and stepped back into the sunshine, my spirits lifted. Perhaps I was not so defeated after all. My brief was to contact Helen and I couldn't think of a more pleasing prospect.
To hell with them both. I had no intention of keeping her in the dark. If we were in this together, it would be with her full knowledge and consent. As the sparrows in the Stamp Market had reminded me nine days ago, France was the land of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. I strode back down towards the Place de la Concorde whistling the Marseillaise. The first few lines were all I could remember from my schooldays, but they seemed appropriate:
Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé
Maybe the day of glory was still a little way off, but I was damned if I was going to languish under the bloody banner of tyranny. Vive la revolution!
After stopping to buy a single red rose, I hailed a taxi. "Avenue de Villiers, s'il vous plait, en face du Café Gabrielle." A single rose was more than enough, I thought, considering that it was she who had left me. No need to go overboard.
There was no reply when I rang the buzzer at the front of the apartment block. Perhaps, I should have let her know I was coming. I rang again, this time holding my finger down for several seconds. Still no reply. Blast, what a fool I am.
I was about to walk away when the door opened. There stood Madame Bisset, Helen's landlady, in her down-at-heel slippers and a violet cardigan. Her face lit up when she saw me. Her longsuffering tortoiseshell, Serafina, was tucked under one arm.
"Monsieur Charles! How good to see you again, and look! A rose! What a gentleman you are."
She dumped Serafina unceremoniously on the doorstep and stretched her arms out towards me. Fearing a kiss, I proffered the rose. She clasped it to her ample bosom, scrunching the cellophane wrapping, and a tear glistened in her eye.
"For you, Madeleine, the loveliest landlady in Paris."
I realised I had overdone things when she took a step forward, tripped over the cat and fell into my arms. I staggered under the weight, just managing to retain my balance. Poor Serafina gave a bloodcurdling screech and fled back into the building.
There was a tinkle of laughter behind me. I don't know how long she had been standing there watching as the scene unfolded. "Oh, Charles, you fickle man! And what a cheapskate! Only a single rose? I'm surprised at you, Madeleine, falling for a man like that."
I interjected with the only defence I could summon. "A rose is a rose is a rose."
Madeleine giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, ma petite chérie, I thought it was my lucky day. Tant pis!" She gave a resigned sigh, "I suppose you must have him back." Then, with a suggestive wink. "You will be able to make better use of him than I can."
With that, she blew me a kiss and, scooping Serafino back into her arms, disappeared into the gloom of the hallway. I was left facing Helen, not sure what to do next. I needn't have worried. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
"What a prize chump you are. How could I not love you?"
"How, indeed?"
She gave me a playful kick on the shin. "Mmmm? Let me count the ways."
"All right then, but not here in the street. How about a walk down to Parc Monceau? We can sit on the steps of Maupassant's statue, eating ice-cream and tearing each other to pieces."
"Trust you to choose that place. You're in love with the young lady lounging at his feet. Go on, admit it."
"She has a heart of stone, like someone else I could mention."
How easily we seemed to slip back into a teasing repartee. It was as if Madame Durand had never come between us. As the last of the ice-cream succumbed to the Indian summer and started to run between my fingers, I summoned the courage to ask the vital question. "What has become of your friend, Jeanne? Is she still as much in need of your help as you imagined?"
"I'm not sure. She's been acting strangely. Behaving - how shall I put it? - as if she wants to distance herself from me. She seems preoccupied."
"So! I've caught you on the rebound, have I?"
I regretted the words as they left my mouth. The look she gave me was one of wild confusion, as one might expect of a puppy who, expecting love, has received an unexpected blow.
"I didn't mean that."
"Oh, but you did. I knew you were angry that I wouldn't come to England with you, but I honestly thought she needed me."
"More than I needed you?"
"Now you're being ridiculous, Charles. Had you been knocked over by a hit-and-run driver, barely escaping with your life? Had you been tied up by thugs from the underworld and cut with knives? What was your selfish need, I wonder? A young woman to boost your flagging ego?"
That stung. It stung because it was the truth. It stung because I loved her and because I was too old to love her and because... and because... and because.
I got up and turned to leave, kicking an empty Coca-Cola can along the footpath like a teenager in a tantrum as I walked away. Before I knew it, I felt something cold and soft pressed into the back of my neck, something that slithered slowly down the inside of my shirt, spreading sideways as it reached my belt.
"Come back, you old fool," she whispered. "We've better things to do with our time than argue."
She put an arm around my waist and started, in a most lascivious way, to lick the remains of her ice-cream from behind my ear. "Perhaps we should go back to my apartment, so that I can clean you up properly. It would be a pity to waste any of that lovely gelato, wouldn't it?"
A shiver went down my spine. It may have been anticipation or it might only have been ice-cream. "Okay," I said.
I nearly added, "I know when I'm licked," but wisely thought better of it.
"Good." An urbane smile spread across the Air Attaché's face as he rose to shake my hand.
"There is one other thing, old boy. It is vitally important that her sister, Kayla, knows nothing of this. We still have her under surveillance."
"Under surveillance? What for?"
"She made some dangerous friends while in Phuket. But that need not concern you. Not for the present, at any rate."
Chapter 54
"We'll brief you fully later," he said, then, to my surprise, he continued, "Since you are still officially my P.A., we'll be calling you back here from time to time. It would be wise to keep up appearances."
Brown had made it clear that my position as P.A. would terminate as soon as I had delivered the package to Arnoux. Either things had changed, or the headquarters' staff had not been adequately briefed by their masters. Not unusual in the civil service.
Almost as an afterthought, Bamforth added, "Perhaps you could drop your diplomatic passport off with James on your way out. You won't be needing it again."
"If I am still your P.A., I rather think I should keep it. I understood from Smith and Brown, your colourless colleagues in London, that it goes with the job."
I detected a slight crack in Bamforth's veneer. "As you wish, dear boy, but don't make the mistake of trying to use it, unless on business that I have personally authorised. That would be a grave mistake."
It had been a pointless act of defiance, but a defeated man needs to save face with small victories. As I left the building and stepped back into the sunshine, my spirits lifted. Perhaps I was not so defeated after all. My brief was to contact Helen and I couldn't think of a more pleasing prospect.
To hell with them both. I had no intention of keeping her in the dark. If we were in this together, it would be with her full knowledge and consent. As the sparrows in the Stamp Market had reminded me nine days ago, France was the land of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. I strode back down towards the Place de la Concorde whistling the Marseillaise. The first few lines were all I could remember from my schooldays, but they seemed appropriate:
Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé
Maybe the day of glory was still a little way off, but I was damned if I was going to languish under the bloody banner of tyranny. Vive la revolution!
After stopping to buy a single red rose, I hailed a taxi. "Avenue de Villiers, s'il vous plait, en face du Café Gabrielle." A single rose was more than enough, I thought, considering that it was she who had left me. No need to go overboard.
There was no reply when I rang the buzzer at the front of the apartment block. Perhaps, I should have let her know I was coming. I rang again, this time holding my finger down for several seconds. Still no reply. Blast, what a fool I am.
I was about to walk away when the door opened. There stood Madame Bisset, Helen's landlady, in her down-at-heel slippers and a violet cardigan. Her face lit up when she saw me. Her longsuffering tortoiseshell, Serafina, was tucked under one arm.
"Monsieur Charles! How good to see you again, and look! A rose! What a gentleman you are."
She dumped Serafina unceremoniously on the doorstep and stretched her arms out towards me. Fearing a kiss, I proffered the rose. She clasped it to her ample bosom, scrunching the cellophane wrapping, and a tear glistened in her eye.
"For you, Madeleine, the loveliest landlady in Paris."
I realised I had overdone things when she took a step forward, tripped over the cat and fell into my arms. I staggered under the weight, just managing to retain my balance. Poor Serafina gave a bloodcurdling screech and fled back into the building.
There was a tinkle of laughter behind me. I don't know how long she had been standing there watching as the scene unfolded. "Oh, Charles, you fickle man! And what a cheapskate! Only a single rose? I'm surprised at you, Madeleine, falling for a man like that."
I interjected with the only defence I could summon. "A rose is a rose is a rose."
Madeleine giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, ma petite chérie, I thought it was my lucky day. Tant pis!" She gave a resigned sigh, "I suppose you must have him back." Then, with a suggestive wink. "You will be able to make better use of him than I can."
With that, she blew me a kiss and, scooping Serafino back into her arms, disappeared into the gloom of the hallway. I was left facing Helen, not sure what to do next. I needn't have worried. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
"What a prize chump you are. How could I not love you?"
"How, indeed?"
She gave me a playful kick on the shin. "Mmmm? Let me count the ways."
"All right then, but not here in the street. How about a walk down to Parc Monceau? We can sit on the steps of Maupassant's statue, eating ice-cream and tearing each other to pieces."
"Trust you to choose that place. You're in love with the young lady lounging at his feet. Go on, admit it."
"She has a heart of stone, like someone else I could mention."
How easily we seemed to slip back into a teasing repartee. It was as if Madame Durand had never come between us. As the last of the ice-cream succumbed to the Indian summer and started to run between my fingers, I summoned the courage to ask the vital question. "What has become of your friend, Jeanne? Is she still as much in need of your help as you imagined?"
"I'm not sure. She's been acting strangely. Behaving - how shall I put it? - as if she wants to distance herself from me. She seems preoccupied."
"So! I've caught you on the rebound, have I?"
I regretted the words as they left my mouth. The look she gave me was one of wild confusion, as one might expect of a puppy who, expecting love, has received an unexpected blow.
"I didn't mean that."
"Oh, but you did. I knew you were angry that I wouldn't come to England with you, but I honestly thought she needed me."
"More than I needed you?"
"Now you're being ridiculous, Charles. Had you been knocked over by a hit-and-run driver, barely escaping with your life? Had you been tied up by thugs from the underworld and cut with knives? What was your selfish need, I wonder? A young woman to boost your flagging ego?"
That stung. It stung because it was the truth. It stung because I loved her and because I was too old to love her and because... and because... and because.
I got up and turned to leave, kicking an empty Coca-Cola can along the footpath like a teenager in a tantrum as I walked away. Before I knew it, I felt something cold and soft pressed into the back of my neck, something that slithered slowly down the inside of my shirt, spreading sideways as it reached my belt.
"Come back, you old fool," she whispered. "We've better things to do with our time than argue."
She put an arm around my waist and started, in a most lascivious way, to lick the remains of her ice-cream from behind my ear. "Perhaps we should go back to my apartment, so that I can clean you up properly. It would be a pity to waste any of that lovely gelato, wouldn't it?"
A shiver went down my spine. It may have been anticipation or it might only have been ice-cream. "Okay," I said.
I nearly added, "I know when I'm licked," but wisely thought better of it.
 Recognized |
Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
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.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
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.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
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