Background
After a revealing night in a Versailles hotel, Charles and Helen continue their search for clues about the Gaudin family.
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End of Chapter 12:
The hotel had stopped serving breakfast well before we finally emerged, arm-in-arm, from the elevator. Our relationship had moved to a new level, one that put a lightness in the step and drove all logic from the mind.
The sun had almost reached its zenith by the time we began our search for Françoise Gaudin, the lady whom Father Lecroix had described as having a mental illness. It was through her that we hoped to find Alain, the brother who had spared no expense in erecting a monument to the memory of their mother, Estelle.
Was Estelle to be the star to light our way forward? That morning, I didn't really care.
Chapter 13
"I think we ought to retrace our footsteps," I said. "I have a gut feeling that the lady with the pink poodle knows more than she's letting on. What was her name again?"
"Madame Lefauvre, but I don't think you'll get very far with her. She wasn't very forthcoming last time."
"Maybe Dr Laurent can help us find her."
"I doubt it. Privacy laws are fairly strict these days."
"Perhaps, but it's worth a try. Besides, I noticed that there's a restaurant where we could have lunch, just a few doors down from the veterinary clinic."
"That would be great. I'm starving! What's it called?"
I tried to keep a straight face as I told her. "Au Chien Qui Fume."
"The Dog Who Smokes? You must be joking! Pink poodles and smoking dogs. Really!"
"I think we should give it a go. With a name like that, it must have something going for it."
"Hot dogs, I expect!"
"I could eat a horse! We missed breakfast this morning."
"...and whose fault was that?" Helen looked at me meaningfully before continuing. "We could ask Dr Laurent if The Smoking Dog's any good. She should know. After all, she is a vet."
I groaned.
As it happened, Helen was absolutely right. Dr Laurent apologised, but told us that she was unable to give us Madame Lafauvre's address. "Details about our clients are confidential, I'm afraid."
"I thought that might be the case," Helen said. "There's one other thing you might be able to help us with, though. Do you know of anywhere near here that would be good for lunch? We noticed a place called Au Chien Qui Fume across the street."
"Yes, that would be a good choice. It's one of the oldest restaurants in Versailles and has a great reputation for oysters, if you like that kind of thing."
"A bit late for oysters," I said to Helen with a grin.
"On the contrary," Dr Laurent said. "A bit early as it happens. Oysters are at their best during months that have an 'R' in them. They aren't really in season until September, but these days they are available throughout the year. For the tourists, you understand."
"I'm not sure that was quite what Charles meant, but thank you for the information, and for the recommendation. We appreciate it. What a strange name for a restaurant, though. Do you know the history behind it?"
"No - I'm afraid not. I'm told it used to be frequented by the market traders from Les Halles in the 18th century. Perhaps that had something to do with it."
"Les Halles de Versailles. Another famous market for my article! We should take a look."
"Not today, sweetheart. We need to keep our noses firmly glued to the scent of the pink poodle."
"That presents an unfortunate image. But you're right. After all, these are the dog days of July, aren't they? Woof! Woof!"
"Oh, what a wag you are."
Dr Laurent gave us a look that suggested she thought us both quite mad.
After a very fine lunch, Helen and I realised that we were no nearer to solving any mysteries than we had been when we got up. However, luck seemed to be on our side, for just as we were leaving the restaurant, we saw Madame Lefauvre dragging her unwilling poodle up the street towards the clinic.
We quickly crossed the street to catch up with her.
"Good afternoon, Madame. How nice to see you again. What a lovely little dog!"
I leant forward to pat him, but he snarled and she drew him away sharply.
"Perhaps he's not feeling too well," Helen said. "He doesn't seem very friendly."
Nor does she, I thought.
"We were wondering if you could help us," Helen continued, with a winning smile. "You mentioned yesterday that there were still Gaudins living here in Versailles. Do you know of a Françoise Gaudin by any chance?"
"Why do you want to know?" Her voice was abrupt and filled with suspicion.
"We're trying to trace her brother."
"Alain? He doesn't live here anymore. Good riddance, I say. A nasty bit of work. Not that it's any of my business."
"No, of course not. I perfectly understand. Do you know where he moved to?"
"I know why he moved. Stealing knickers off clothes lines. He was a part-time gardener. Strange eyes and a white streak in his hair. Nearly as batty as his sister, if you ask me."
"Yes, but where is he now?" Helen persisted.
"Locked up, I hope. The little pervert. The last I heard was that he'd gone to Giverny to work in the gardens there. More likely to look up the skirts of the tourists while pretending to weed the flower beds."
"I don't think he'd have much luck with that. All the tourists wear jeans."
Madam Lefauvre stared at me coldly. She reminded me of Madame Defarge, knitting away beside the guillotine like one of the Greek Fates, stitching in the names of her intended victims, as each unfortunate aristocrat mounted the steps to the jeers of the mob. I shuddered at the thought.
Helen more or less pulled me through the door. "Merci, Madame! Au revoir!"
"Wow!" she said as she danced down the street. "I think we're on the Monet!"
"Giverny will be hell at this time of the year," I said as we climbed aboard Fifi.
"Who cares? We're not going to be gawking at the famous water lilies, but tracking down a perverted gardener with a white streak in his hair. Much more fun! Besides, by the time we get there, the crowds will be thinning out."
"It's only about an hour's drive. We should be there by mid-afternoon."
But it was not to be. Just a dozen miles short of Giverny, where the Route Nationale runs alongside the River Seine, Fifi gave a cough and a splutter, then ground to a halt.
"Oh, God! What do we do now, Charles? Where are we?"
"According to the Sat Nav, there's a little village called Rolleboise just off to the left, less than a mile from the main road. Maybe there's a garage there."
"Can you look it up on your iPhone?"
I fiddled about for a few minutes, trying to open a web browser. "Blast! We seem to be out of Wi-Fi coverage. I guess we'll just have to take pot luck and walk."
"A walk through the Normandy countryside in the sunshine. How romantic!"
"That's one way of putting it," I said as we set out.
Half an hour later we found ourselves standing outside BSA Bacquet Seine Auto, where a pair of old boots were visible sticking out under the chassis of a green Citroen.
I cleared my throat loudly. "Bonjour, monsieur."
"Bonjour," said the owner of the boots, as he slid the trolley out, revealing dirty blue overalls and a cheerful face covered in grease. "Comment puis-je vous aider?" Then, seeing that we were tourists, he switched to English. "I'm Michel, the proprietor. How can I help you?"
We explained our predicament.
"That's not a problem," he said. "I have a tow truck. I'll get Claude to bring her in. Claude! Claude! Venez ici! Where the devil is the lad?"
A gangly youth appeared from the office, chewing gum. "Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"
"J'ai un travail pour toi. Sortez la dépanneuse, mon garçon. Il y a une Fiat 500 à ramasser du côté de la route nationale. Ces personnes vont vous montrer où."
Claude beckoned us to follow, and we were soon squeezed three abreast in the cab of the truck. There was a sickly smell of banana extract as he popped a bubble before crunching into first gear. We lurched forwards and were all nearly thrown through the windscreen.
"Merde!" said Claude, cursing under his breath and giving us an apologetic smile.
By the time we got back to the garage, it was nearly five o'clock. There was no chance of reaching Giverny before the gardens closed.
Michel cast a professional eye over Fifi and ran a couple of tests. "It looks like you've got a problem with your fuel pump," he said. "I should be able to fix it in the morning."
"Not till the morning," I said with dismay. "Is there anywhere nearby where we could stay overnight?"
"You could try Domaine de la Corniche. It's a nice place and only a few minutes up the road. My brother works there as a chef. I'll give them a ring if you like."
We both thanked him profusely as he disappeared into the office. A few minutes later he reappeared. "All arranged! If you are happy to wait while I lock up, I can give you a lift up there. It's on my way home."
"Oh, dear, Charles. It looks as if we are going to have to spend another night together. Are you up for that?"
A suggestive choice of phrase, I thought.
Author Notes
Cast of Major 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.
Madam Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles
Madam 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
Suzanne Gaudin: recipient of a letter posted in 1903 - deceased
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