Background
Whilst in England, Charles was tricked into acting as a courier for MI6. He discovers, too late, that the paintings he was carrying were, in fact, a bomb. He has now become an unwitting assassin.
|
Last paragraphs of Chapter 48...
As luck would have it, the two gendarmes who had been posted to guard the premises happened to be temporarily distracted, giving directions to some passing tourists.
I ducked under the chequered tape, slid along what remained of the front wall doing a fair impression of a Ringwraith from Mordor, and crept into Arnoux's erstwhile fortress. Having achieved my objective, I was at a loss to know what to do next, so I curled up on the floor in a back room and went to sleep.
Chapter 49
I woke several hours later, confused and disorientated. It was still dark, except for a sliver of light that fell across a small portrait painting that hung on the opposite wall.
My hip bone was sore from lying on the wooden floor and I could scarcely move my right shoulder. To add to my woes, I had a persistent, dull thud in the back of my head. I eased myself gently into a sitting position and made an effort to focus my eyes on the dimly lit portrait.
There was something about the snub nose and the auburn hair that was vaguely familiar. I almost fancied it to be Lautrec's model for The Laundress, but there were subtle differences. This model looked unutterably sad and lacked Carmen Gaudin's determined set of the jaw. There was also a suggestion of desperation, the look of someone trapped. Could it be possible that I was looking at the lost portrait of Alain's grandmother?
That look of desperation was one I was beginning to identify with myself, as I gradually became aware both of my surroundings and my predicament. I crawled across to the window. The two gendarmes were still there, silhouetted under the streetlamp, and I could hear the murmur of their conversation. One was smoking a Gitanes. He was close enough for its pungent smell to drift through the broken glass. He turned towards me and spat a shred of tobacco from between his teeth. I shrank back into the shadows.
The silence was broken only by the thump of my heart and the sound of a solitary vehicle approaching. It drew up outside the building. I dared not look out to see what was going on. I could hear voices and a sudden guffaw of laughter as the new arrivals chatted with the two gendarmes.
Footsteps approached. I cast about in a panic and my eyes lit upon a paint-spattered drop sheet in the corner. I scrambled across and curled up like a hedgehog beneath it, making myself as small as possible as I drew it up over my head.
A floorboard creaked as they entered and a torch flashed briefly around the room. "Tout va bien ici."
I suppressed a sigh of relief.
The voice continued, "Seulement une heure avant l'arrivée de l'équipe de police scientifique. Ensuite, nous pouvons tous rentrer à la maison. Dieu merci!"
Only an hour before the forensics team would arrive. The place would be swarming with people and I was sure to be discovered. What a fool I was. What on earth had possessed me to return?
I knew I had to find a way out. As soon as I was certain the policemen had gone from the building, I started to investigate. The first grey fingers of dawn cast an eerie half-light, illuminating a doorway leading to what looked like a storeroom. My hopes rose as I set eyes upon curtains drawn partly across a sash window. There was now enough light for me to see a small empty yard leading to a laneway beyond. Gently easing the fastener, I began to raise the lower frame of the window. It moved quite easily.
I was about to climb out when I remembered the painting. There were two or three empty shopping bags on the table next to me. Why not? I was already a murderer. What difference would it make if I were also a thief? After all, if Alain was to be believed, the painting of Suzanne Gaudin rightfully belonged to him.
It was a small painting, probably not much more than a preliminary sketch, and it slipped easily into the distinctive Galeries Lafayette bag that I had taken from the top of the pile.
I was careful to slide the window shut behind me before edging from shadow to shadow across the yard to the lane beyond. A few minutes later, I emerged in Rue Petrelle. There was a chill in the morning air as the city began to wake up. The few people on the street hurried as they made their way to work, heads down and with wisps of mist trailing from their breath. An old man wrapped in a heavy coat and scarf tugged impatiently at his dog's lead as it paused to cock its leg on a lamppost.
I pulled up the collar of my coat and set off down the street. Being familiar with this area since my apartment on Rue Gabrielle was less than half a mile to the north, I headed purposefully for Le Café Royal. I remembered that it was around the corner at the end of the street. What I needed more than anything else just now was a mug of strong black coffee and a brioche.
The café owner gave me a strange look as I made my order. Glancing at my reflection in the window, I realised why. My hair was tousled, I was unshaven, and my eyes were bloodshot. In short, I looked as if I had spent the night on a park bench.
While he was preparing the coffee, I made use of his toilet facilities to splash cold water on my face and neck, and ran a comb through my hair. On the way back to my seat, I helped myself to a copy of La Monde from the pile on the counter. Predictably, the events of the night before were all over the front page. After glancing at it briefly, I slipped the newspaper into my shopping bag, making sure that it concealed the frame of the painting.
It was still only a little past 7.30, and the Carrefour Market opposite would not be open for another hour. I would have to pick up the few supplies I needed sometime later in the day. In the meantime, a brisk ten-minute walk to Rue Gabrielle would help clear the cobwebs.
It is hard to describe the sense of relief I felt when I eventually walked through the gate. My landlord, Monsieur Gerard, was on his way out, and he gave a cheerful wave as he saw me approach.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Brandon. Quel plaisir de vous revoir."
"Je suis content d'être revenu." How true that was. I was indeed happy to have returned.
Once safely in my room, I took the painting out and studied it more carefully. Toulouse Lautrec's signature was in the bottom right-hand corner and it was certainly in his style. If it wasn't an original, it was a darned good copy. However, only Alain would be able to tell me if it was of his grandmother.
It seemed an eternity since I had found the envelope addressed to her whilst browsing in the Paris Stamp Market. In fact, it had only been a few short weeks, but what weeks they had been! I was just beginning to retrace the journey in my mind when I heard voices at the front door, followed by footsteps on the stair.
Author Notes
Characters:
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Wing Commander Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, 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, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with international drug trade.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
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.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, assassinated by Charles
|
|
