Background
Having unwittingly acted as an assassin for MI6, Charles returns to the crime scene, where he steals a painting. He is lucky to make his escape before the forensic team arrives.
|
Last paragraphs of Chapter 49...
Once safely in my room, I took the painting out and looked at 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. Only Alain would be able to tell me if it was of his grandmother, Suzanne Gaudin.
It seemed an eternity since my purchase in the Paris Stamp Market of the envelope addressed to her. Yet it had only been a matter of a few short weeks. What weeks they had been! I was retracing the journey in my mind, when I heard footsteps on the stair.
Chapter 50
Who knew that I was back in Paris? My mind raced. It could only be one of Bamforth's people. Surely the police couldn't be on to me so soon. There was a gentle rap on the door. I slipped the painting back into its bag and slid it under the sofa.
"Who is it?"
"May I come in?" The voice was familiar, but no - surely it couldn't be. I must be imagining things. I went to the door and dropped the safety chain into place before opening it a crack.
"You are right to be cautious, Mr Brandon - or should I call you Charles?"
My blood ran cold. Actually, it didn't, but my reaction was a strange mixture of surprise and fear. The cheek of the woman! How could she possibly have known I was here?
I slipped the chain off to let her in. Her smart tweed suit - lavender and lovat green - exuded an air of efficiency. Her hair was tied in a bun, fastened by a pewter bobble, with an oval amethyst at its centre. Its metallic quality matched her eyes as she regarded me with sardonic amusement.
"You look as though you've seen a ghost, Mr Brandon."
"You were the last person I expected, Madam Durand - or should I call you Jeanne?" She brushed past me, ignoring my mimicry.
"I see your mission was successful," she said, glancing at the newspaper lying on the floor. "The world is well rid of that man. He was a danger to us all." She picked up the paper, folded it carefully in half, and placed it on the coffee table. "May I sit down?"
Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the room and seated herself primly on the edge of the chair by the window; the same chair I had been sitting on when Helen administered first aid to my injured arm.
My mind flashed back to the overpowering sensuality of Helen's perfume as she had leaned over me to dress my wound. I also recalled the James Bond moment when she had stuck the electric toothbrush into the small of my back, teasing me with, "I seem to have you at my mercy, Mr. Brandon. I suggest you stay very still."
I looked over at Madam Durand and suddenly felt very naked without a Walther PPK in my pocket. She sat there, saying nothing, waiting for me to make the next move.
"Where is Helen?" I blurted out.
"You needn't worry about Helen. She is quite safe. In fact, she is rather looking forward to meeting up with you again. We are keen on that, too - though this time on a professional basis, as well as a personal one. Your next assignment will be an interesting departure for you both."
What on earth is the woman talking about? Professional basis? Next assignment? She must be stark raving mad.
"I don't know what kind of a game you are playing, or what your part is in all of this, but I can assure you there isn't going to be a 'next assignment'."
She reached into her handbag and brought out a small envelope. "Before you make that decision, you may be interested in looking at these."
There were three photographs. One showed me standing with Gaston Arnoux outside his gallery. The others were of me handing the package over to him and of him disappearing into the gallery with it under his arm. Each one had a date/time inset.
"I think you'll agree, Charles, that it would be unfortunate if these were to fall into the wrong hands."
So that was what this whole scheme had been about. What a fool I'd been. Even a fairground coconut would have known it was being set up.
"You must understand, we had to make absolutely sure of your loyalty to the firm." My fist clenched and unclenched as I absent-mindedly crumpled the photos. Jeanne seemed unfazed. "Feel free to keep those as a souvenir if you like. They are only copies. As you probably now understand, I have been grooming Helen for her part in this for quite some time. I realised how ideal she would be from the moment we first met in Thailand."
My head was in a whirl as I processed what she was saying. Her actions in getting Helen out of Bangkok and installing her in Paris must have been part of an elaborate, long-term plan.
"Your appearance on the scene caused a bit of a hiccough, but when we delved further into your background, we realised how fortuitous it might be. Of course, convincing you of the need to serve your country did present a bit of a problem. However, I think that is all settled now, isn't it?"
I was aghast. "Do you mind telling me what this is all about?"
"All in good time. I just wanted to make sure that you had arrived home safely. We were a little anxious when we lost sight of you after the explosion. Where did you spend the night, by the way?"
"That's none of your business," I snapped.
I was relieved to hear that she did not know of my return to the gallery, and I intended to keep it that way.
"There's really no need to be so defensive. Anyway, it's not important." She turned to look out of the window. "I see that my chauffeur is getting impatient. Would you like a lift to the embassy? I believe you have an appointment there this morning."
"No thank you. I'll make my own way."
"Please yourself, Mr. Brandon. I'll see you there later anyway. Shall we say eleven o'clock? All will become much clearer to you when we meet with the new Air Attaché."
As she let herself out, she added, "You won't forget to bring your passport, will you?"
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, recently assassinated by Charles
|
|
