Murder

This is the third book in the Pays d’Oc series.  You won’t find it in any book shop, nor yet on Kindle.  Only in this blog will you meet Gaspard Petit, the most hated man in the little village of Morbignan la Crèbe.

You will also meet – or re-meet – some of the villagers who appeared in Tales from the Pays d’Oc, including the celebrated comic poet Richard Patterson who has graciously contributed some verses as prologue to this book.

Some – or all – of these characters have reason to wish Gaspard Petit harm.  The story will unfold month by month, until the big reveal when we discover, finally,

who killed the Little Cat

 

If you would like to know more about the real Morbignan, click on the tab At Home in the Pays d’Oc

 

Introduction

from the pen of Richard Patterson

 

Who killed the Little Cat?

 

Who killed The Little Cat?

‘I,’ said the wife, ‘with my little knife, I killed The Little Cat.’

I,’ said the rival, ‘I took up my rifle, and I killed The Little Cat.’

‘I,’ said the notaire, ‘with poison to spare, I killed The Little Cat.’

‘I,’ said the neighbour, ‘I borrowed a sabre, and I killed The Little Cat.’

‘I,’ said the belle, ‘I’m happy to tell: I killed The Little Cat.’

‘I,’ said the poet, ‘did you but know it, I killed The Little Cat.’

‘I,’ said the flic, ‘for his almighty cheek, I killed The Little Cat.’

‘We,’ said the steps, ‘as downward he crept, we killed The Little Cat.’

‘We,’ said the stones, ‘we broke all his bones, we killed The Little Cat.’

 

Was it mistress or rival, or the wife he betrayed?

Was it mayor or copper who wielded a blade?

Was it poison or gunshot or was it a fall?

Did one person do it, or perchance was it all?

Who killed The Little Cat?

 

The Story Begins

The boy and girl ran hand in hand down the stone steps behind the church.  Summer visitors to Morbignan, they had escaped their respective families for a secluded stroll along the river.

At the point where the steps twisted sharply to the left stood a crumbling building, the remains of an old wash house.  Weeds pushed up through the floor and the walls were encrusted with lichen.

The boy pulled the girl inside.

‘Not in here, Chuck,’ she protested.  ‘It’s filthy and it smells of pee.’

‘No, just for a minute. I want to show you something cool.’ 

There were some words scrawled on the wall in fading marker pen.  The boy read them aloud:

‘Question:  what is the difference between French beer and a dead frog?

Answer:  there’s more hops in a dead frog.’

The girl screamed.

‘Aw, come on, honey,’ said the boy.  ‘The joke’s not that bad.’

‘No, look!’  Her eyes were huge in her white face as she pointed. ‘A dead frog.’

The boy’s gaze followed her shaking finger out through the hole where a window had been.  The lower part of the steps was visible from here.

 Gaspard Petit lay twisted at the bottom, his neck bent at an impossible angle.  His open eyes stared up into the unseeing sky.

 

 

 

Chapter 1: 

EXPECTATIONS OF A PARTY,

RUMOURS OF A LION

 

 MORBIGNAN LA CRÈBE, WEDNESDAY

July in the little village of Morbignan la Crèbe, nestling beneath the Cévenne mountains in the heart of the Languedoc.  After a couple of false starts, the hot weather has set in with a vengeance.  Villagers abandon their winter quarters and seek the cool refuge of their garages, now set out as summer living rooms – salons d’été. The river, so turbulent in the winter rains, is just a slender trickle between dry beds of scrub and grasses.  The summer visitors take their picnics to the stepping-stones, never tiring of congratulating themselves on lunching in mid-stream.

In l’Estaminet Marie Claire, just back from honeymoon, can hardly keep up with the orders for chilled beers and Cocas, and the calls for ‘encore des glaçons, s’il t’plait’ (‘more ice, please’) keep her daughter Jeannette running back and forth to the big freezer behind the kitchen. Marie Claire’s new husband Gaston has made himself comfortable in a corner of the bar and is deep in conversation with his English son-in-law Henry.

In the Place de la République, dogs slump in whatever shade they can find, tongues lolling above the scorching earth. Tourists depart daily in sweltering cars, laden to the teeth with deck chairs and picnic baskets, to the derision of the locals who know better.  The good ol’ boys in the square have at last discarded their mufflers and heavy coats and sit at ease on the circular bench under the great plane tree, coloured handkerchiefs adorning their brows.

In her cool, stone-built house overlooking the river, Marianne was plotting.

‘Bon anniversaire, chéri,’ she greeted her husband, slipping a silver-paper-wrapped box into his hand.

Thierry was not to be cajoled.  He glowered at his wife.

‘Bah!  Happy birthday?  What is there to celebrate?’ he growled.  ‘Sixty years!  How can I be 60 years old? And how many years have I got left?’

Marianne planted a kiss on his mahogany pate and went to the kitchen to make the coffee.  She knew better than to broach the subject of a birthday party with her husband in this mood.

The phone beeped and she grabbed the handset before Thierry could hear and demand to know who was calling at this hour.

‘Maman?’ said her younger daughter’s voice.  ‘Tout est prêt?’

Marianne smiled.  She and Eloise were co-conspirators in the affair of Thierry’s party.

‘Oui, chérie, tout est prêt,’ she reassured her daughter.

All was, indeed, ready.  Thierry’s cronies had been primed.  P’tit Gui the builder, Sylvestre the woodman and Kiki, on a rare visit back to the village, would stop by next Saturday afternoon. They would, they promised, drag Thierry off to l’Estaminet for a celebratory drink.  They would brook no resistance.

Then, while Thierry was safely ensconced in the bar, Marianne, Eloise and her boyfriend Jean-Luc would make the house ready.  In no time flat they would light candles, blow up balloons, hang bunting and lay out the feast prepared in secret by Dominique, the couple’s elder daughter.  Friends, relatives, villagers and passing dogs were all bidden to be there à six heures pile – six o’clock on the dot.  And at six-thirty (to allow for the laxity of Midi timekeeping) the gang of three would escort Thierry back to his house for the grande surprise.

There would, Marianne knew, be a pretence of anger, a thrusting-out of lower lip.  But then Thierry’s eyes would start to twinkle and soon he would be revelling in the congratulations, the presents, the bisous, the shoulder thumps.

 

MORBIGNAN LA CREBE, THURSDAY

 

An invitation (Shh!)

The following morning, Richard Patterson was looking puzzled.

‘Martha, we’ve had a most mysterious note,’ he said walking into the kitchen where his wife was making coffee. ‘This has just been pushed under our door.’

He handed her a white envelope, blank except for the single word ‘Chut!’ scrawled in black letters across the front.

‘Here’s an idea:  why not open it?’ Martha Patterson regarded her husband with a mixture of affection and exasperation as he fished in the kitchen drawer. Forestalling him, she removed her best kitchen knives from his reach and handed him an elderly butter knife.  Carefully, he slit open the envelope and removed a scrap of paper.  ‘You are invited…’ he read aloud slowly.

‘Yes, yes, invited to what?’

Her husband blinked at her reproachfully.  ‘… to Thierry’s birthday party on Saturday.  But it’s a surprise.  Chut!  I presume that means Shhh!  We mustn’t say a word. And there’s more.  Marianne says there is going to be a very special guest of honour.  I wonder…’

‘It’ll be the author,’ Martha broke in excitedly.  ‘Marianne’s very thick with Joséphine, who’s organising the whole thing.  I’ll bet she has managed to get Ysabel de la Fontaine to come to the party.  Of course, Thierry won’t have a clue who she is, but it’ll be a huge coup for Marianne. I’m so looking forward to meeting Ysabel tonight.’

The village was abuzz with the news.  Ysabel de la Fontaine, a famous comic novelist, was coming to Morbignan for a talk and a meet-the-author session at the Salle des Fêtes.

Nobody really knew how this literary lion had been captured by the modest village.  One day a letter appeared on the desk of ‘Papa’ Pardieu, the mayor, graciously accepting his invitation to come and give a talk.  Try as he might, Pardieu couldn’t get to the bottom of it.  Who had issued the invitation?  Everyone on the fête committee denied knowledge. Still, one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so he replied, thanking her for her generosity and confirming the details.

Truth be told, the villagers weren’t great readers. A glance at the TV magazine or a peek into Marie Claire was about the height of literary ambition for most people. Still, they took a proprietorial interest in Ysabel, whose comic novels had taken the critics and the public by storm and who, rumour insisted, had actually been born in Morbignan!  No-one was going to turn down a chance to meet the famous author.

Martha Patterson had picked up a copy of Les Aventures de Glou-glou at the airport two weeks earlier, on a rare weekend trip back to the UK.  She was grinning before the plane had left the runway, and by the time they landed she could hardly contain herself.

‘You won’t believe it, it’s Gaspard!’ she had crowed to her husband on her mobile.

‘Hmm?  What’s Gaspard?’  As usual, it took Richard a moment or two to catch up with his wife’s exuberant exclamations.

‘Les Aventures de Glou-glou.  I got a copy at the airport because I left The Other Boleyn Girl on my bedside table, dammit, and I had to have something to read on the plane.  But you won’t believe this.  You know that author who’s coming to give a talk at the Salle des Fêtes next month? Ysabel de la Fontaine, she’s called.  She’s written a series of books about this character called Glouglou.

‘I’d never read any of them before, but this fellow is the spiting image of Gaspard Petit.  He’s fat and unpleasant and, as you would put it, he definitely crawled out of the shallow end of the gene pool.

‘Of course, it could be a coincidence; Ysabel is very mysterious about her origins but I heard somewhere that she was born in Morbignan, and that she has a Past.  You know what writers are like:  if this Ysabel person had ever met Gaspard, well, he’s absolute comedy gold isn’t he? And he’s extremely fond of rosé – I imagine that’s why she calls him Glou-glou.’

Silence from the other end.

‘Oh, honestly Rick, haven’t you learned anything?’ Martha huffed.  ‘Glou-glou means glug-glug.  As in wine?’

‘Well, he’ll never know about the book,’ Richard Patterson said.  ‘I don’t think he’s the sort who goes in for reading.’

He was to be proved wrong.

 

Enter the Lion

Joséphine, the mayor’s secretary, was all a-bustle.  Ysabel de la Fontaine was due to arrive at Montpellier station at 12:55.

‘Now someone will have to go and meet her from the train,’ Joséphine ordered.  ‘No, not you, Jean-Luc, your Peugeot is far too cramped:  remember she will have quite a bit of luggage with her.’

She looked expectantly at Gaspard Petit.  His Renault Nevada SUV was by far the most spacious car in the village.  Gaspard grunted.

‘I’ll take that as a “Oui, avec plaisir, Joséphine” the secretary said tartly.  ‘Now go and get yourself cleaned up, and for goodness’ sake have a shave!’

Stepping off the train at Montpellier, Ysabel swung the heavy silk shawl over her shoulder with a theatrical gesture.  Close on her heels, a young woman struggled with a big suitcase.

Ysabel looked about her for the person who was to meet them and couldn’t restrain a small cry of glee as Gaspard lurched towards her.  He was older, fatter, with the tale of many dissipations etched into his bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes; yet this was unmistakably the man who had changed her life.  As chauffeur to a celebrity, he left a lot to be desired. His jeans were ragged at the hem and his t-shirt, though admittedly clean, bore the ghost of many a stain.  On his chest was a battered enamel pin depicting a black cat sitting on a wall.

As expected, Gaspard did not offer to help Ysabel and her companion with their luggage.  Instead, he gestured abruptly and turned towards the car park, leaving the two women to follow as best they could.  Ysabel chuckled quietly:  she had her own agenda.

‘This is most kind of you, Monsieur Petit,’ she purred when they reached the car.  ‘And I believe you have also volunteered to take me back to Montpellier station when I return to Paris. I do hope you will allow me to take you to lunch, as a small thank you.’

And to herself she murmured: ‘You don’t recognise me, do you, mon chou?’ Now we’ll have some fun.’

Indeed, the svelte and glamorous author bore no resemblance to the naïve village girl she had been.  Her mind drifted back to those desperate months in Paris, some 20 years ago.

http://mybook.to/Athome

CHAPTER 2

GASPARD AND THE NOTAIRE’S DAUGHTER.

 

MORBIGNAN AND PARIS. 1998:  ISABELLE

 ‘Bienvenue,’ thought Isabelle, looking at the tiny bundle cradled in her arms.  ‘I shall call her Bienvenue because, in spite of everything, she is most welcome.’

Her thoughts drifted back to the previous year.  It was all Claude’s fault, she decided, Claude and his boring plans and his boring expectations.

To be honest, she hadn’t really wanted a boyfriend.  At 17, a gang of laughing friends and some serious studying took up most of her time.  And writing, of course.  Isabelle was going to be a famous writer.  Madame Coudroy said so, and the formidable head teacher was never wrong.

It hadn’t been the most auspicious of beginnings, though.  The students had started a clandestine newspaper; naturally it was never meant to fall in into the teachers’ hands and, naturally, it did.  The culprits were soon identified and summoned to the head’s study.  The paper, and not least Isabelle’s satirical take on the morning assembly, complete with pen portraits – of the least flattering kind – of all her teachers, had earned the editorial gang of six a month of detentions and a stern warning about applying themselves to their schoolwork.

What they didn’t know was that Eveline Coudroy had had some difficulty keeping a straight face as the downcast gaggle of teenagers made their way out of her office.  ‘She’s a little firecracker,’ Eveline had confided to her crony, Mademoiselle Dupuis, in the staff room later that day.  ‘If Isabelle Peitavy doesn’t make a name for herself with her writing, I shall be very surprised.’

Isabelle and her co-conspirators, meanwhile, were enjoying an unprecedented wave of popularity following the incident, and that was when Claude Laforge stepped into the picture.  Tall, athletic, with a carefully cultivated tumble of Byronesque curls and a lovingly groomed moustache, he was the most sought-after boy in their year.  Swept off her feet, Isabelle failed to realise, until it was too late, was that he was also the most boring.  When she was writing, he wanted to snog.  When she was working on her essay, he wanted to go to a rugby match.  When she talked of a career, he scoffed.

They had been dating for eight months when he proposed.  It was the night of the Christmas disco, the last she would attend as a schoolgirl. Isabelle had news to share.

‘It’s happening!’  Her eyes shone with excitement. ‘I’ve actually got a job with France Soir! In Paris! Coudroy fixed it.  Of course, it’ll be very junior, I’ll probably just be making the coffee, but it’s Paris!  I’ll meet artists and writers and…’ she tailed off.  Claude was looking at her, boot-faced.

‘Nonsense’ was all he said.  To her horror, he got down on one knee, producing a small red- velvet-covered box.

‘Isabelle, you are going to be my wife.  I have known this since the moment I met you.  You don’t need to worry about earning a living.  I am going to take care of you, so you’ll never have to work.  You will be a mother to our children and a wonderful asset to me in my diplomatic career, in which I intend to go far.’

‘No!’  Her hand shot out in denial, knocking the box from his grasp.

For a moment they both stood frozen, then she turned and ran from the school hall. At the very same moment, Gaspard Petit was slouching into the hall, eyes on the prowl for something tasty to flaunt on the pillion of his Harley Davidson motorbike, which was propped impudently up against the railings in the math’s teacher’s parking spot.

Isabelle had seen him around the school from time to time and taken note. He was everything that Claude was not.  A bit of a scoundrel, a bit of a waster, he made his living picking up odd jobs where he could – in the vines, in the café, at the cave coopérative.  A part-time post as school caretaker at the Lycée in St Rémy gave him ample opportunity to eye up pretty schoolgirls.  He was a sharp dresser, and only the keenest eye could detect any signs of ‘pre-loving’: he bought his clothes from the Frip’ – the second-hand clothes stall in St Rémy whose canny owner made frequent trips to Paris. And always, always he wore on his lapel the mysterious pin wth the black cat on it.

He was older:  his 27 years and dark good looks gave him a louche glamour in Isabelle’s eyes. He was also, as Isabelle was to find out too late, engaged to be married.

That evening, after the disastrous proposal, Isabelle was in the mood for adventure.  Speeding down the Rue de l’Eglise on the back of the Harley, she saw a world of possibilities open up before her.

In the days that followed, Isabelle was in a whirl of happiness.  Claude was forgotten.  True, when she outlined her plans to Gaspard, he was barely more supportive than the discarded boyfriend, but at least he didn’t laugh at her ambition.   Each evening, when the bell rang for the end of classes, she would dart out of school, thrilled to find him waiting for her astride his beloved motorcycle.  December was mild that year, and they would ride out through the vines and up into the hills beyond, where they would sit gazing at the patchwork of vineyards and houses spreading out before them.

Eventually, of course, the inevitable happened.  When Gaspard led her to the abandoned shepherd’s hut and took her in his arms, she surrendered in a mixture of fear and excitement.

‘I love you,’ she murmured, but he only said ‘Shh…’

Three months later, when she had gone to him in tears and hope with her news, he had shrugged his shoulders.  ‘Who’s to say it’s mine?’ he’d jeered.  ‘You should have taken better care; this was only meant to be a bit of fun.  You didn’t think I loved you, did you?  And if you tell anyone, I shall just deny it. Mimi and I are getting married soon.  Her father has 1,500 hectares of vines and a nice little wine bottling business on the side.  I’ll be set up for life when I marry her, so why should I bother with the daughter of a village notaire?’

Devastated, and unable to face her parents, Isabelle had turned to the one person she knew would help her, Madame Coudroy.  The head teacher had fussed and scolded and organised.

‘Well you’ve really messed up your life, you silly girl, haven’t you?’ she said.  ‘The best thing you can do is go and talk to your parents.’

Isabelle was adamant:  Maman and Papa mustn’t know:  they would be so angry and disappointed in her.  Madame Coudroy came up with a solution.

‘I’ve spoken to my sister in Paris,’ she told Isabelle two days later. ‘You can stay with her until after the baby is born and you decide what to do.  You can kiss goodbye to that job at France Soir, though, they won’t hold it for you.  You’ll just have to have a good think and start again.’

‘How?’ she had thought bleakly.  How could she start again?  She was 18, she had lost the job that was going to open doors for her, she would soon be a mother.  How could she provide for herself and the child and still have a life?  Nevertheless, her teacher’s words stayed with her.

 

Now, as she cradled her baby daughter, she began to have the glimmering of an idea.  Bur first – she looked at her watch – there were preparations to make.  There was wine to pour, pâté en croute to slice, salted almonds and pistachios to set out in bowls.  She was expecting her friends Annette and Marie-Paulle: they were coming to meet the most-welcome baby and inspect the tiny flat Isabelle had found in the sixième arrondissement.

Like herself, the two women were single mothers.  Isabelle had bonded with them at ante-natal clinics, regaling them with stories of her past – the stodgy boyfriend, the undesirable lover – and always with the comic twist that was becoming her trademark.  ‘Stop,’ they had begged her, tears running down their faces.  ‘Stop, or we’ll be wetting our culottes as well as our cheeks.’

The evening was a success.  They had brought their babies with them, and also Farouk, their friend, birthing partner and devoted slave.

‘You’ll love Farouk,’ they had assured her.  ‘He’s very… different.’

‘Enchanté mademoiselle,’ he had murmured, shrugging off his sage-green velvet cloak and bending low over her hand so that his exuberant moustache tickled her fingers.

‘Tell Farouk the stories about Claude,’ her friends begged her, and soon the four adults were howling with laughter as the babies slept.

‘Mademoiselle, you are a genius,’ Farouk declared as they left.  ‘You are a born raconteuse and, I suspect, an author in the making.  I beseech you, set these stories down and you will have a succès de foudre. A real  smash hit’

Isabelle reflected on his words as she tidied the flat and checked to see that Bienvenue was sleeping peacefully.

Then, opening her laptop, she began to write.

CHAPTER 3: 

LUNCH WITH A LION

MORBIGNAN LA CRÈBE, THURSDAY EVENING

 

The Salle des Fêtes had never been so crammed.  Every seat was taken, and Joséphine had to beg extra chairs from l’Estaminet, crowding them into the aisles despite the Health and Safety grumblings of Papa Pardieu.  Morbignan’s most celebrated daughter had returned in triumph from her mysterious exile of some twenty years, and the villagers were going to get to meet a real live literary lion.

Ysabel de la Fontaine’s talk was a success. Gasps and giggles punctuated her words as the listeners recognised their friends and neighbours (though never themselves), deftly caricatured in her readings from Les Aventures de Glou-glou, Les Malheurs de Glou-glou and – her newest book – Glou-glou, ce Héros.  Only the central figure was missing from the Salle des Fêtes:  Glou-glou himself. Gaspard Petit had no interest in hearing the ramblings of some random female, however comical her books were said to be.  No matter:  there were plenty among the audience that day who were looking forward to enlightening him.  No-one suspected the final bombshell that Ysabel was preparing to detonate.

MORBIGNAN AND ST RÉMY LES CEVENNES, FRIDAY

The day following the talk dawned hot, blue and gold.  But then the rain had come, as the southern summer rain will come, out of nowhere.  When Ysabel set out to keep her lunch date with Gaspard, a fierce sun shone and the sky was that deep purple blue that only a Languedoc summer knows.  But as the taxi climbed out of Morbignan she could see the black clouds gathering above the sprawl of St Rémy in the distance, and she knew they were in for a storm.

Sure enough, by the time they drew up outside Le Lion d’Or the rain tombait des halebardes – hurtling like spears to the ground and bouncing back off the steaming pavement. Cursing her lack of umbrella, Ysabel gripped the flowery concoction that was her hat, and dashed for the restaurant.

Chang, the Maître d’, was all smiles and bows.  What an honour, said his twinkling black eyes, what a privilege to have the famous author at his table.  He could see the kitchen door was ajar:  his wife Soo-ki was agog to see their distinguished guest, though little Nyam Nyam couldn’t conceal her disappointment:  she had been promised a lion but all she saw was a tall woman with a flowery hat perched on a complicated confection of red-brown curls.

Chang proudly led Ysabel to the best table in the room, already set for three, with delicate enamelled bowls, red-lacquered chopsticks and a vase containing two lotus flowers and a spray of fern.  Ysabel allowed herself to be seated and submitted to the flourish with which the head waiter shook out her damask napkin and laid it across her lap.

‘Perhaps Madame would like a drink while she awaits her guests?’ Chang murmured.

‘Thank you, Chang, no.  Just some tea, if you please.’

She glanced at the tiny gold watch on her wrist and tutted.  Gaspard was late.  Well, she shouldn’t be surprised:  neither manners nor punctuality were his strong suit.

 

On his way to St Rémy, Gaspard was in a fizz of anticipation and doubt.  Why had this woman invited him to lunch?  No-one formally invited anyone to lunch in Morbignan.  You just dropped in to someone’s kitchen around midi and looked hopeful, or else the invitation was issued casually over a drink at L’Estaminet.  And why had Ysabel suggested Le Lion d’Or, the swankiest Chinese restaurant in St Rémy?  What was she after?  She said it was to thank him for picking her up at the station, and volunteering to take her back to Montpellier at the end of her stay.  It seemed excessive to Gaspard.

Then there was that business of the laughter.  Although Gaspard knew who Ysabel was – he could hardly have avoided knowing it, these past few days – he had only a dim notion of what she wrote.  Suddenly, ever since Ysabel’s arrival in their midst, his neighbours had taken to pointing and giggling when they encountered him in the boulangerie or the bar.  Was this woman mocking in some way?  And if so, how?  Today, he resolved, he would get to the bottom of it.

 

Chang had brought Ysabel’s tea, and a plate of miniature spring rolls as an amuse bouche while she waited for her guest.  She bit into one and almost cried out:  her teeth had met something hard and gritty.  She held her napkin to her lips and discreetly ejected a small stone – clearly the bean sprouts hadn’t been washed carefully enough.  Chang would be mortified, she thought, glancing round the restaurant, but thankfully there was no sign of him.

Her eye was caught by a small screen placed high on the wall:  the CCTV camera, monitoring the restaurant entrance, showed her the ungainly form of Gaspard lurching in out of the rain. He had hardly made an effort for the occasion.   His T-shirt, though admittedly clean, was more grey than white and bore the ghost of many a splash of rosé.  Pinned to his chest was a battered enamel pin:  she could just make out that it bore an image of a black cat.

Ysabel sighed.  He had been so handsome in his youth.  Unpolished, yes, but delicious.  In her mind’s eye, she saw again the naive teenage village girl swept away by the rough good looks and Harley Davidson of the village ne’er do well.

She smiled as he approached her table.

‘Monsieur Petit, I am so glad you could join us.’ She extended her hand, which he ignored.

‘Us?’ he wondered.  There was nobody at the table apart from this rather strange woman.  He dropped into a chair, surveying the elegant table setting with disgust.

‘Here!  Ching-chang, or whatever your name is,’ he shouted, snapping his fingers.

Chang hurried up; he didn’t miss Ysabel’s look of embarrassment and apology, but his own face was professionally impassive.

‘Monsieur?  Is there something I can help you with?’

‘Take away this stuff and bring me something proper to eat with.  I like my food served on a plate, with a knife and fork, none of this foreign rubbish.’

‘Certainly, Monsieur, at once,’ said Chang smoothly.

‘Perhaps I have made a mistake?’ Ysabel enquired.  ‘Perhaps you would have preferred a Macdonald’s, or we could have gone to a Buffalo Grill?’

Irony was lost on Gaspard.

‘No, this is fine.  I like Chinese food, but I can’t be doing with all this flim-flam.  Why can’t they eat like normal people?’

Ysabel ordered; while the food was being brought Gaspard kept glancing curiously at the third table setting.

‘Who…’ he began, just as Ysabel was saying

‘I have a reason for inviting you today…’

She stopped, noticing his attention had drifted to the large gilt-framed mirror on the crimson flock wall behind her.  His piggy eyes lit up.

Ysabel rose to welcome a slim, auburn-haired young woman making her way towards their table.

‘This is…’ she began, but Gaspard was on his feet, enclosing the young woman’s hand in a massive paw and leering into her face.

‘Monsieur Petit,’ said Ysabel formally, ‘may I present…’ She leaned forward and her lips almost brushed his ear as she murmured an introduction.

Gaspard’s jaw dropped as he stood looking from the older woman to the younger.

 

 

Chapter 4:

FISTICUFFS AT A PARTY

 

MORBIGNAN LA CRÈBE, SATURDAY

 

For a man who had said he didn’t want a party, Thierry was the life and soul.  Presiding over a vast punch bowl, he welcomed one, welcomed all.

‘Salut, Romain!’ he cried as yet another calloused hand thumped on his shoulder with a hearty ‘Félicitations, mon ami!’

On this glorious Saturday evening, just five days short of Le Quatorze – the annual Bastille Day celebrations – the village basked in splendour. By half-past eight the sun was sinking into a green sky behind the crumbling church tower.  The chattering swifts had gone to roost and the first bats fluttered out into the dusk; in Marianne and Thierry’s little house above the river, the festivities roared on.

Richard Patterson stood by the window, glancing down to where the party had spilled out on to the path, and beyond to the uneven and weed-choked stone steps which snaked down behind the church to the riverbank.  Martha, Patterson’s wife, was, as usual, at the centre of a lively crowd.  And, as usual, Visitor sat at her feet, the little dog gazing up adoringly at the vol au vent in her mistress’s hand. Beside Patterson stood his closest friend, Bernard Durand.  They made an incongruous pair:  the tall, thin, balding English poet and the stocky, broad-shouldered French former detective.

The music changed and the voice of Georges Brassens belted out his famous song, Les Copains d’Abord.  Seizing the moment, P’tit Gui and Matthieu the plumber grabbed Thierry by each arm and processed round the room in a mad approximation of a can-can.  Everyone cheered wildly when François Peitavy, the village’s pompous former notaire, capered behind them twirling the ends of his moustache. It was amazing what a few glasses of rosé could do.

But every silver lining has its cloud.  Lurking in a corner – because it would have been rude not to invite him – was Gaspard Petit, the most hated man in the village.  If he had set out deliberately to antagonise every one of his neighbours, Petit could not have been more successful.  Nursing his glass – his fourth, to Marianne’s certain knowledge – he stared round the room from beneath belligerent brows.

Euphoric on a cloud of music and wine, the dancers didn’t notice their unpleasant neighbour.  Until, that is, Peitavy, eyes closed and lost in the moment, tripped over Gaspard’s size 11 boots and almost landed in his lap. Gaspard leapt up with a roar, tumbling Peitavy to the floor.

‘You clumsy oaf,’ he yelled, at the same time as Peitavy protested,

‘Why can’t you keep your big feet to yourself?’

The two men glared at each other.

‘I know all about you, you bastard,’ Peitavy snarled.  ‘You betrayed my daughter and then abandoned your wife and snuck off to Pars like the cowardly villain you are. One of these days someone is going to make you pay, and that someone might just be me.’

‘I’ll see you in hell first, you blithering oaf!’ Gaspard lunged at Peitavy, fists clenched, just as Peitavy threw a wild punch at his head.  Ducking easily under the former notaire’s flailing arm, Gaspard stepped in and grabbed him by the shoulders.

‘Now, now, now!’  Bernard Durand’s voice boomed across the room.  ‘Peitavy!  Petit!  This is a celebration, not a brawl.  How dare you disrespect Thierry at his birthday party, and Marianne and her daughters who have created such a wonderful fête for us all to enjoy?’

‘Oh, it’s the great detective,’ Petit sneered.  ‘Well you weren’t so high and mighty in Paris all those years ago, sprawled out in your culottes for all to see.’

Durand went beet-red.

‘Why you…’ he charged at Gaspard, who stepped back, laughing at the memory of past triumphs. It looked as if the party was about to turn ugly, when a quiet voice began to sing.

‘Allons, enfants de la patrie…’ Desperate to salvage her fete, Marianne had reacted in the only way she knew.  Within seconds, all the French guests had taken up the song — and all, as they had been taught in school, snapped to attention to honour their national anthem.  Durand paused in mid-swing and Gaspard in mid-sneer.  Bloodthirsty lyrics – “let the tainted blood of tyrants slake the thirsty furrows of our fields” – nevertheless poured balm on the confrontation.

Still seething from Gaspard’s taunt, Durand returned to seek solace in the company of Richard Patterson, who had been watching proceedings with some bewilderment.  A moment later Peitavy joined them.  ‘What was that all about?’ the Englishman wanted to know.

Durand winced.  ‘Something and nothing,’ he muttered.  ‘I knew that oaf when I was with the police in Paris.  He tried to make a monkey of me, but I had the last laugh.  It was through Petit that I met my wife.’  He glanced across the room to where Lili, resplendent in an emerald parure, was surreptitiously feeding a vol-au-vent to Visitor, the Pattersons’ dog.  The sight of the still-beautiful singer bending over the pretty little dog caused all three men to soften.

‘Go on, then, tell the story,’ said Patterson.  Durand took a deep breath and began.

PARIS, 1998.  

 The policeman berated

‘Aaaargh!’

Bernard Durand opened one eye and hastily closed it again.  The sunlight was no respecter of persons:  it cheerfully bullied its way through the meagre curtains of his bedroom, forcing him to fling one arm across his face in protest.  Despite his very best efforts, bits and pieces of yesterday’s humiliation rose to the surface of his consciousness.

Commandant Leboeuf had not been pleased, and he’d let it be known.  Summoning Durand to his office, he’d glared at him across the expanse of his polished rosewood desk.

‘Well, Durand, what have you got to report?’ he’d barked. ‘There was another incident last night. This time it was the wife of the Mayor.  The Mayor, Durand.  As you can imagine he is asking some very pointed questions.  And what have you done to catch this impertinent thief?  Nothing.’

‘But, Monsieur le Commandant,’ Durand began, but the senior officer overrode him.

‘But?  There are no buts, Durand.  You are a useless specimen of an officer of the law.  Seven times this salaud has struck, and not at insignificant people, oh no.  The Vietnamese ambassador is furious and Député Marceau is demanding I be sacked.  You can be sure that your job is a lot less safe than mine.  Now get out there and catch this thief or you’ll be on traffic duties until hell freezes over.’

Smarting from this severe tongue-lashing, Durand had done the only thing possible:  he had gone out and got right royally drunk.

Lili

As the young policeman was waking to the mother of all hangovers, across the city another awakening was about to bring wails of dismay.

Lili la Voix was the toast of Paris.  Born Liliane Dumont in a genteel suburb of Paris, Lili was known for two things:  her sunny nature, and her love of singing.  She was the first to put her hand up in school when there was talk of a recital.  At the morning assembly she sang La Marseillaise, the national anthem, with fervour and great energy.  She adored her music lessons and practised each vocal exercise assiduously, bringing tears to the eyes of her fond parents.  Alas, they were not tears of joy.

Truth to tell, Liliane had a perfectly terrible voice.  Her teachers, knowing her enthusiasm, tried to be kind.  M. Dattas, the choirmaster, didn’t have the heart to exclude her.  Instead, he urged her merely to mime the words the other children were singing.

‘Your voice is too rich, ma petite, he would cajole her.  ‘You put the others in the shade.’

Then, the age of 13, Liliane found her voice.  Or, more precisely, she lost it.  Laid low by a terrible flu that swept through the school, Liliane was silent for a week.  When her speech returned it was only a croak; undaunted, she returned to school the next day, belting out ‘Allons enfants de la patrie…’ at assembly with her usual gusto.  One by one the others fell silent, stunned by the basso profundo issuing from Liliane’s mouth.

As one teacher later described it in the staff room: ‘It sounded like a cross between Edith Piaf and a coal-scuttle being dragged across a concrete floor.’

Did they but know it, Liliane had set her foot on the path that was to lead to international stardom.

When she was 16, the Lycée decided to stage a new musical version of La Belle au Bois Dormant (Sleeping Beauty).  Taking the libretto from the original Perrault fairy tale, M Dattas, now the head teacher, composed an original score with a dozen songs, to accommodate as many eager young vocalists as possible.

Liliane, of course, yearned to play the title role.  Her petite frame, long blond hair and blue eyes certainly qualified her for the part; her voice did not.  M. Dattas consoled her.

‘Never mind, mon chou, I have a very special role in mind for you.’  He handed Liliane a marked score. ‘What do you say to Carabosse?’

Traditionally, the wicked fairy has very little to say beyond pronouncing her curse on the sleeping baby princess.  M. Dattas had changed all that.

On opening night, an audience of some 300 parents, brothers, sisters, teachers and assorted well-wishers gathered expectantly in the school auditorium.  The play proceeded along conventional lines until, just as the last good fairy was about to bestow her gift, the stage suddenly went dark to the crash of thunder and a screech as of demons. When the lights came up the audience gasped, then simultaneously burst into laughter.

Instead of the expected crone, with wild hair and a warty nose, there in the spotlight stood a pretty little girl.  Her blonde hair cascaded from beneath a jewel-encrusted diadem.  Her wide blue eyes surveyed the gathering.  Then, with her hands clasped demurely before her, she took a deep breath and launched into the song M. Dattas had written specially for her: ‘Je te souhaite’.

Gleefully, in that inimitable voice, Carabosse described all the terrible things she wished on the baby, culminating in the prediction that on her 21st birthday she would prick her finger on a needle and die.

On a final shriek of ‘Tout ça je te shouhaite’ (‘all this I wish you’), she lunged towards the cradle, scattering the terrified courtiers. There was an eye-watering flash of light, followed by darkness, and the curtain came down.

For a moment there was total silence, then a roar of applause, catcalls and whistles swept through the auditorium.  Seizing the moment and Liliane’s hand, M. Dattas dashed on to the stage; standing before the curtain they took their bows.

After the play, the classroom designated as the girls’ dressing room was abuzz with congratulations.  Jean-Pierre and Suzanne Dumont hugged their daughter fiercely and even Jimi, her 12-year-old brother, managed to mutter ‘pas mal, Lili’ before rushing off to join his special crony Simon, who had played the first footman.

Among the mélée no-one particularly noticed a small, tubby man in a camel hair coat who drew Liliane’s parents to one side.  After a few muttered words he left, but not before pressing a business card into Jean-Pierre’s moist palm.

‘Who was that man you were talking to, Papa?’ Liliane wanted to know.

‘His name is Maurice Laforge.  He’s some kind of cousin of your head teacher’s.  He came along tonight because M. Dattas said he would see something extraordinary.  You.’ Her father extracted the card from his waistcoat pocket.

‘Laforge runs Le Coq Affamé – it’s a club in the huitième arrondissement. It’s not very well known but it is becoming popular.  He wanted to know if I would allow you to sing there.  I said no, of course.’

‘Papa,’ Liliane began on a wail, but her father held up his hand.

‘Liliane, j’ai dit non.  I said no.  You are much too young to be in a place like that. You will stay at school and finish your studies.  Do well in your Bac and we shall see.’

Liliane sulked for a week, but Papa’s word was law. Gradually the excitement of the school play was forgotten in the intensive round of studies Liliane needed to prepare for her Baccalauréat.   When she eventually emerged from the examinations, armed with exceptional grades, she departed for the university of Montpellier to study marine biology.  And, like thousands of students before her, she was also enthusiastically exploring another kind of biology, though she was careful not to tell her parents about that.  Never short of suitors, Liliane happily played the field for a year before allowing herself to be won by her classmate Marco – half-Italian, half-French and wholly her devoted slave.

Marco was a musician – a bass guitarist in a student folk-rock band called Les Copins du Port.  This was a nod towards the Languedoc’s famous son, the singer Georges Brassens, whose best-loved song was Les Copins d’Abord (mates first).  The band’s name also reflected the fact that most of their gigs were in tiny harbourside cafés where, like as not, their “fee” consisted of a bowl of whatever the establishment was serving that day and as much vin du pays as they could drink.

Les Copins was fronted by Amélie, a philosophy student with drop-dead good looks and a voice nobody would write home about.  But, and this was important, Amélie was the petite amie of Gérard, the band’s founder, lead guitarist and manager.

Everything changed the day Amélie and Gérard had a spectacular row.  Gérard had, it is true, been paying rather a lot of attention to Marco’s blonde girlfriend. Amélie had, it is true, been flirting with a suave café owner who promised her stardom in exchange for just a little kindness.

Whatever the reason, the resentments boiled up to the point where irrevocable insults were exchanged and Amélie departed in a swirl of black hair and Anaïs Anaïs.  This would have been unfortunate at any time:  on this particular morning, it was catastrophic.  Gérard had secured for the band an important appearance at the toro piscine in Palavas-les-Flots. This was a much-loved tourist attraction involving bull calves and a large inflatable paddling pool, invariably accompanied by live music from a local band.  Gérard had done a lot of schmoozing and bought not a few demis and petits pastis to get them this prestigious gig.  And now here he was without a vocalist. Casting about for a solution, he had an idea.

‘Marco,’ he began, ‘your girlfriend is a singer, isn’t she?’

Marco looked at him dubiously.  ‘Have you heard Liliane sing?  Her voice is… unusual, to say the least.’

Gérard was not to be deterred.

‘I’d say her voice is different.  What’s wrong with that?  Do you know the American singer Tom Waits?  She sounds a lot like him, and he isn’t doing too badly.’

Liliane was beside herself.  A real performance in a real band!  True, the band would be competing with excited tourists playing at matadors, the cries of vendors vaunting churros and barbe à papa – candy floss – and the wails of a distant fairground organ.  It mattered not:  this was her first semi-professional gig and she was going to make the most of it.

‘We’ll have to find a new name for you,’ mused Gérard.  ‘Liliane Dumont isn’t the coolest of names for a folk singer.’

‘My family always called me Lili,’ Liliane said.

‘Yes, that might do,’ said Gérard.  ‘We’ll call you Lili…Lili… ’ he paused, scratching at his sparse goatee.  Inspiration struck.  ‘It’s your voice that makes you who you are.  We’ll call you Lili la Voix.’

And in that moment a star was born.

Lili the Voice made her début with another classic Georges Brassens song, Chanson pour l’Auvergnat, making it her own from that day forward.  And, from that day forward, every time she sang it, she heard the funfair noises, smelled the warm sugar of frying doughnuts, felt the scorch of the July evening sun on her shoulders as her imagination took her back to that first time in the little seaside town of Palavas-les-Flots.

Now, waking in her luxurious hotel near the Madeleine, she was blissfully aware that Paris was at her feet.  Stretching like a cat, she relived last night’s triumph at the Paris Olympe and the breathless journey that had taken her here.  That first performance in Palavas had swiftly brought her more engagements, and a professional manager.  Marine biology was forgotten. Marco, with lingering regret, was forgotten.  Lili’s return to Paris had catapulted her into a social whirl of artists and musicians, and a life of wealth and luxury that Liliane Dumont could only have dreamed of.

Languorously she turned her head on the pillow – and screamed.  Her scarlet leather jewel case stood empty on the reproduction Louis XV bureau.  Her priceless emeralds were gone.

‘Madame?  Vous êtes malade?’ The maid had heard her screams and came rushing in after a perfunctory knock.

Lili was in hysterics.  ‘La police.  Appelez la police,’ she moaned.

 

The policeman smitten

The telephone buzzed through Bernard Durand’s head like a pneumatic drill.  Groaning, he peered at his watch:  7:30 am.  As he picked up the receiver his boss was already in full spate.  ‘Durand?  Durand, what are you doing?  Get your lazy carcass over to the Hotel Intercontinental tout de suite.  There has been another incident.’

Thirty minutes later Durand was walking into the scented and softly-lit hotel suite of Lili la Voix.  Although, at the great age of 28, he considered himself a hardened professional, he couldn’t help feeling just a little star-struck.  The room was immaculate.  A pair of fur-trimmed slippers stood neatly side by side, like prim schoolgirls, beneath the bed.  An eau-de-nil silk robe patterned with green and blue dragons hung from a hook on the bathroom door. An array of lotions and potions stood regimented on the glass-topped dressing table on which not a trace of dust or a speck of powder could be seen.

The only things out of place were a scarlet jewel case sprawled open across the bureau, and a rumpled coverlet on the bed beneath which a tangle of blonde hair sobbed piteously.

‘Madame?’ he began tentatively.  Then, more loudly, ‘Madame Lili?’

‘Mzzl’ came from the heap of bedclothes.

‘Pardon, Madame?’

‘Mademoiselle,’ said Lili more clearly.

The girl sat up, raking scarlet-tipped fingers through her curls.  Durand gazed into a pair of cornflower blue eyes and was lost.

 

http://mybook.to/TalesDoc

CHAPTER 5

GASPARD AND THE POLICEMAN

PARIS 1998

 ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said hoarsely:  his throat had gone unaccountably dry.  ‘Can you tell me exactly, please, what time you got back to your hotel room, and what you did then?’

‘I must have got up to my room about two,’ Lili said.  We went for supper at Maxim’s after the show, then Pierre, my manager, and his wife came back to the hotel for a nightcap.’

‘And did you put your jewel case away or leave it out?’

‘I put it away.’  Lili was emphatic. ‘I always insist that my hotel room has a safe.  Some of my jewels are valuable, especially the emeralds.  They were a gift from my grandmother and I wouldn’t lose them for anything.  I always make absolutely sure they are locked away, no matter how late it is. The safe is over there, behind the bathroom door.’

Durand strolled across the room.  The safe door was closed but not locked. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he wound it round his fingers before easing the door open.  The safe was empty apart from a postcard, showing a black cat sitting on a wall.  Turning the card over, Durand read the words he expected to find there:

‘Le Petit Chat vous remercie.’

‘The little cat says thank you’. Durand felt his heart sink.  The Little Cat, as the thief called himself, had struck again.

The ironic message, the image of the cat, the surname – all added up to one villain:  Gaspard Petit.  Gaspard Petit had been a thorn in Bernard Durand’s side since they had both entered the école maternelle at the age of five.  They had been born within days of each other in the little Languedoc village of Morbignan la Crèbe.  But while Gaspard had emerged from his mother, red-faced and bawling, at an impressive 4.2 kilos, Durand was a slender, pale and quiet baby half his weight.

It soon became clear, however that what Bernard lacked in bulk he made up for in brains.  As a schoolboy he was always one of the first to put up his hand in class, and his lively wit was earning him the respect of his teachers and fellow pupils. Sadly, though, neither intelligence nor wit protected him from the bullying taunts and heavy fists of Gaspard Petit.

 

Le Petit Chat

At the age of 18 Durand took his guitar and a baguette stuffed with jambon and Pélardon, the local goat’s cheese, and set off for Paris to make his fame and fortune.  The dream barely outlasted the sandwich.  No impresario, no record company magnate swooped in to carry him off to stardom from the left-bank cellar café where, for a plate of couscous and a handful of euros, he nightly massacred the songs of Brassens and Brel.

It was Bernard’s great good fortune that the restaurant was staffed with illegal immigrants and didn’t possess a music licence.  The day that the police raided was a turning point for

him.  Seduced by their stern voices, their quasi-military uniforms, the sexy bulge of their holstered pistols, he decided there and then to join the Sûreté.

And so far he hadn’t made a bad fist of it.  His arrest record was impressive and the operation he had led to catch a gang of bank robbers had earned him a minor commendation.  At 28, he was on track for high office — until Le Petit Chat came into the picture.

This daring thief targeted the wealthiest citizens, the most high-profile of victims. Slipping in and out of their homes like a ghost, he selected only the finest jewels, melting away long before the police arrived on the scene –- but not before he had left his ironic calling-card.  At the scene of each crime a picture postcard would be found.  On its front, the picture of a black cat sitting on a wall; on the back, the words ‘Le Petit Chat vous remercie’.

Despite the attempts of the police to keep the story under wraps, it wasn’t long before Le Parisien got hold of it; soon the exploits of Le Petit Chat were the talk of Paris.  Who was this mysterious cat burglar, a modern-day version of Raffles, the legendary jewel thief?

Bernard Durand, on the other hand, thought he knew perfectly well who Le Petit Chat was.  He remembered the day the hulking Gaspard Petit had arrived back from the summer vacation to begin the new school year in troisième, proudly sporting a nascent moustache.  Alas, the effect was not what he had hoped.

‘Hé, Gaspard, tu as un chat sous le nez?’ shouted Marc Sériex, the school comedian.  Twenty-two fourteen-year-old boys shrieked with laughter, falling to the ground with exaggerated mirth.   It wasn’t so much the vision of the unfortunate Gaspard having a cat on his upper lip that had them wetting their trousers, but the lewder meaning of the word chat – or, as one might say in English, pussy.

Seething with rage and humiliation Gaspard fled from the playground and was absent from school for the rest of the week.  The following Monday, though, there came a transformation.  Gaspard swaggered into the playground resplendent in a battered black leather jacket, clearly the product of the frip’ – the second-hand stall in the local market.  On the lapel was an enamel pin badge with the image of a black cat.  Gaspard Petit had owned Le Chat.

Now, fourteen years later in Paris, Durand reflected, a ‘cat’ burglar calling himself Petit could only be that inky schoolboy, re-inventing himself in the capital. And yet he had niggling doubts.  The Gaspard Petit he had known in Morbignan was not notable either for his brains or his finesse.  Could he really have morphed into the suave, dangerous, glamorous thief who had been holding all Paris to ransom?    Certainly not without guidance, Durand concluded.

Even before Le Petit Chat had made such a name for himself, there had been a spate of audacious jewellery thefts in the city.  And there had been hints:  the words les sacrés jumeaux (the blasted twins) were beginning to be whispered in the press and in the corridors of the Sûreté.  If these elusive burglars had taken Gaspard under their wing – or, more likely, were using him for their own advantage – that would go a long way to explaining Le Petit Chat.

None of this was any help, though.  Knowing who Le Petit Chat was and actually catching him were two different things.  And Bernard couldn’t help thinking that his old schoolmate was taunting him.  He was to be proved right.

As he left Lili La Voix’s hotel suite, a plan was forming in his mind.

 

A piece of string

Back at the police station, he stared at the large-scale Paris street map on his office wall.  It was studded with seven red-topped drawing pins.  Thoughtfully, the young policeman took a box of drawing pins from his desk and shook out one more, affixing it to the map over the Hotel Intercontinental.  Then, employing the most high-tech of methods, he began to connect the pins with string.  When he was done, he gave a ‘voila!’ of satisfaction:  the strings all intersected at one point, in the sixième arrondissement.  This must surely be the hub of Le Petit Chat’s operations, he mused.

It took him two days walking the streets of the sixième to find what he was looking for:  a modest – not to say seedy – hotel tucked up a narrow side street.  The concierge, persuaded by the suggestion of a couple of ten-euro notes, readily identified Gaspard Petit from an old school photo Bernard had dug out from a box on the top of his wardrobe.

‘He’s older than that,’ the concierge said, considering the 14-year-old features, ‘but that’s him all right. Shall I tell him you are asking for him?’

Hastily turning down the man’s offer, Durand left.  He had plans to make.

Rightly assuming that Gaspard Petit would be out about his unlawful business during the hours of darkness, he returned to the hotel at 9pm.  A quick flash of his Police Nationale badge persuaded the night porter, a grimy individual with a dewdrop on the end of his nose and the evidence of many a meal on his shirt, to show him Petit’s room and let him in with the pass key.

Although the furniture had seen better days and the curtains were ragged, the room was clean and immaculately tidy.  A side table held a wilting cactus in a pot within a chipped green cache-pot, and a battered cabin trunk stood against the wall.  Durand lifted the trunk’s lid and gave a cry of triumph.  Lying atop a treasure trove of jewels and objets d’art were Lili’s emeralds.

A footfall alerted him:  someone was coming up the stairs.  There was no escape, nowhere to hide.  Grabbing the emeralds, he lifted the cactus and thrust the necklace into its outer pot, replacing the plant and turning back into the room just as the door opened.

For a breathless second the adversaries confronted each other, then Petit roared, rushed at the policeman, and knocked him to the floor.  His head hit the corner of the trunk and he knew no more.

 

An insistent light was trying to pry his eyelids apart, boring its way into his brain.  Durand groaned and rolled over in the bed.  It was hard, and very cold:  it almost felt like stone.  Dimly he became aware of voices, of laughter; as he dragged his eyes open he could see booted feet surrounding him.

‘Qu’squispasse?’ he groaned, ‘whass going on?’ at which point the laughter became louder.  Disobeying his body, which was screaming at him to curl into a ball and nurse his aching head in his arms, Durand sat up.  He was not at home in his familiar bed, but the surroundings were equally familiar:  he was on the steps of the police station. And no wonder he was cold:  he was clad only in his boxers.  His Star Wars boxers. As a colleague, kinder than the rest, helped him to his feet, something fell out of the waistband.  It was a small card with an image of a cat on it.  On the back, when Durand could focus, were written the words: ‘Le Petit Chat vous demande pardon.’

The insolence of the apology was breath-taking.  Crimson with rage, Bernard Durand swore vengeance.

 

Told off again

Crimson with rage, Commandant Leboeuf berated the hapless policeman, now respectably clad in borrowed uniform trousers and a spare shirt.

‘You let him get away?’ bellowed the commandant. ‘You actually found the criminal and you let him get away?  I’ll have you on school patrol for the rest of your career, you useless specimen of a policeman.’

‘Oui, mon commandant.’  Durand could only hang his head:  the reprimand was well deserved, he supposed.  Truth to tell, the events of the previous evening were hazy.  He remembered his triumph at finding Petit’s lair at last.  He remembered the burglar rushing at him, and then nothing more.  But –- wait!  One small, insistent memory was nagging at him.  Something to do with jewels. Lili’s jewels.

Durand ran the gauntlet of his colleagues’ sympathetic stares back to his desk, where he slumped, his head in his hands. A kindly desk sergeant placed a strong black coffee at his elbow; Durand thanked him with a vague wave of the hand.  Headache and humiliation forgotten, he was thinking furiously.

Six hours later, he was once again walking up the steps to the hotel in the sixième. The night porter’s eyes widened: surely the flic would be very, very angry.  Surely he had come to arrest the man who had helped bundle him into a cabin trunk?  As he began to babble his excuses and denials, Durand held up an imperious hand.

‘The key,’ he demanded.  ‘Give me the key to that room.’

‘But monsieur – officier – that gentleman is no longer there.  He, er, departed last night…’

‘Never mind.  Give me the key at once.’

Clutching the key, Bernard Durand made his way up to the room that had been Gaspard Petit’s.  It was as he remembered it: the mismatched furniture, the ragged curtains, only the cabin trunk was missing.  Durand couldn’t have cared less:  there, on the listing side table, stood the plant in its green cache-pot. Carefully, he lifted the plant from its holder.  A brighter green sparkled beneath:  Lili’s emeralds.

 

Policeman in Paradise

At four o’clock Durand was in the sumptuous lobby of the Hotel Intercontinental.

‘Madame Lili?’ he enquired of the haughty concierge.

‘Madame is resting.  She has a performance this evening and has particularly asked not to be disturbed,’ was the disdainful reply.

The policeman handed the concierge his card.

‘Please send this up to Madame Lili and tell her I have something to impart which will be of great interest to her.  I think she will receive me.’

Reluctantly, the concierge summoned a bell-boy and entrusted him with the message and within minutes Durand was once again in the scented boudoir of the famous singer.  With a certain theatricality he withdrew from his pocket a package wrapped in tissue paper.

‘Can it be?  Have you really found my emeralds?’  Lili flung her arms around his neck, covering his face with kisses.  He did not resist.

After the first raptures were over, Lili poured them both a glass of champagne from a bottle standing ready in an ice bucket on a side table.

‘Now,’ she demanded, ‘tell me how you did it.’

Bernard Durand spun the story out as long as he could, enchanted by the blue eyes which never left his face.  The part about the boxer shorts he omitted to tell.  When the tale was concluded, they went on to discuss other things, many other things.

When it was time for Lili to change for her performance, Durand left her.  As he walked down the carpeted steps to the hotel lobby he was whistling a Georges Brassens song:  J’ai rendez-vous avec vous.  I have a date with you.

 

Chapter 6:

GASPARD AND THE COUSINS

 MORBIGNAN LA CREBE, SATURDAY

 Patterson and Peitavy were hanging on every word as Durand finished his tale.  To his credit, the Englishman had resisted the temptation to howl with glee at the image of his dignified friend sprawled out in his underdrawers on the police station steps.

‘Go on, laugh,’ said the policeman good-naturedly.  ‘I know it’s funny, and I can laugh about it too, now.  You know, it was years till I told Lili the full story, but when I did she just smiled and said, “Well, you had the last laugh, didn’t you?”  She was right:  if it hadn’t been for that fellow we would never have met.’

‘Yes, it turned out fine for you,’ Peitavy commented, ‘but things didn’t go so well for my daughter.  At least, at first…’

He closed one eye in a suggestive wink. ‘No, I’m saying no more.  You will see what you will see.’

Gaspard had been watching the three men, suspecting rightly that they were talking about him.  A burst of laughter galvanised him out of his chair, and he swaggered over to them.

‘Who invited you to join a private conversation?’ Peitavy snarled.  ‘We’ve been hearing all about your goings-on in Paris, and now you’re right back here where you began, and what have you got to show for it?  There’s a nasty shock in store for you, mark my words.’

‘At least I went to Paris,’ Gaspard retorted, ‘unlike you, stuck in your muddy little village for all of your life.  And I had a successful career there, too, which is more than you can say for yourself.’

Durand raised a sceptical eyebrow.  ‘A successful career?  Do you know, that doesn’t sound like you, Gaspard.  Oh, yes, I know all about Le Petit Chat…’  Gaspard smirked.

‘But,’ the policeman continued, ‘somehow I doubt the success you boast of was all your own.  Perhaps you had a little help?’

He wasn’t wrong.

 

 PARIS, DECEMBER 1997

 They made him feel like a country cousin, these sophisticated thirty-somethings in their Armani suits and gold jewellery.

And, indeed, that was just what he was.  Only two days earlier, Gaspard Petit had arrived in the capital, bewildered by the noise and the crush of people who thronged the boulevards.  He’d found refuge in a small hotel in the sixième arrondissement, neither elegant not particularly clean, but it was all his budget could afford.  After depositing his duffel bag on the bed, he went back down to the lobby to find the hotel’s one telephone.  Smoothing a much-folded letter, he made his call.   ‘Yes,’ said his cousin on the other end of the line, ‘we will meet you at ten o’clock tomorrow at Le Café des Arts.’

The next morning, Jean-Luc and Jean-Marc regarded Gaspard out of identical dark eyes as he sipped his demi and tried to look at home in this fashionable café near the Arc the Triomphe.

‘So,’ said Jean-Marc, lighting his third Gitane, ‘you have finally made the break from your dreary little village and come to join your cousins in the bright lights. Or did your dreary little wife get tired of you and kick you out?’

Gaspard scowled.  ‘Not so much the wife, though she’s dreary enough,’ he answered. ‘But the Papa – awful man!  No sense of family. I did him the great honour of marrying his daughter.   I was quite a catch, you know,’ he boasted, unaware of the smile that passed between the twins. ‘And papa’s not short of a franc or two, so naturally you’d expect him to bring me into his nice little wine business on the management side.  Bur oh, no, he expected me to work in the damn vines like a lowly paysan.  All the money was tied up tight for Mimi and any brats she might produce.

‘And as for Mimi, well you’d expect a woman to speak up for her husband, wouldn’t you? But no, she sided with papa. “It’s for our children,” she said.  ‘Well, she can whistle for children, I wasn’t going to hang about in that dreary village, as you so aptly call it, to be treated like a serf.”

Jean Luc and Jean Marc exchanged a look.  ‘Well, there’s plenty of fric to be had in Paris if you’re prepared to learn the business,’ they promised.

‘Lead me to it!’ Gaspard’s eyes gleamed with greed.

‘Not so fast, little cousin,’ said Jean-Marc.  ‘You have quite a bit to learn.  ‘First and foremost, we have to get you out of those provincial clothes.’

Gaspard blinked.  He had thought he cut quite a dash in his distressed leather jacket and fashionably battered jeans.

‘Here.’ Jean-Luc tossed a bundle of 500-franc notes on to the café table.  ‘Get yourself a decent suit.  You look like a burglar in that outfit.’  The twins burst out laughing; Gaspard couldn’t see the joke but feared it was at his expense.

‘Tomorrow is Réveillon, New Year’s Eve,’ said Jean-Luc.  ‘Le tout Paris will be out on the streets, partying at Sacré Coeur or watching the fireworks off the Pont Neuf. That’s when we go to work. You’ll need a dinner jacket too:  we’re going into high society.’  ’

 

‘Do you think he’ll do?’ queried Jean Luc after Gaspard had left the table in search of the stylish yet affordable tailor they had recommended.

‘Bah, who knows?’ his brother shrugged.  ‘But we have two scenarios here.  Either he makes a complete mess of things, in which he’ll get arrested and we’ll disappear with no-one the wiser.’

‘Or,’ Jean-Luc cut in, ‘he’ll turn out to be brilliant and…’

‘…we’ll be all the richer’ the twins finished as one, laughing.

‘He has one great advantage,’ Jean-Marc went on.  ‘He is not, yet, “known to the police” – especially that interfering idiot Durand.  That one is getting a bit too close for comfort. And, come to think of it, Petit is a good bit younger than we are, not to mention’ — he patted his embonpoint affectionately — ‘a good bit slimmer.  He’ll worm his way into much smaller spaces than we could these days.’

It was true, the wages of sin had been kind to the brothers, sitting sleekly about their hips and on their well-groomed jowls.

 

Gaspard was almost unrecognisable when the three met again at noon the next day.  He slouched to the café table in a dove grey three-piece suit, a matching cap pulled fashionably over one eye.  Gone were the grubby white Nike Air-Max trainers, replaced by classic Ted-Baker-style black brogues.  An excess of Aramis hung about him like a miasma. Only the wide tie splashed with tropical flowers in startling blues, yellows and greens betrayed his own secret preferences.

The cousins took it all in.  Wincing slightly, Jean-Marc fished from his pocket a slim maroon tie with a subtle stripe.   ‘Put this on and lose the stupid hat.  Then you’ll just about pass muster’ was his only comment.

 

 The Diamonds, the Dancing,  the Disaster

Sylvie de Lacoste was all of a flutter. Tonight was New Year’s Eve and she was about to go to her first grown-up dance at a grand hotel.

‘Will this do, ma tante?’ she asked anxiously, holding up her best dress, a rather creased dusky rose affair with last year’s sleeves. Madame La Marquise de Saint-Esprit sighed, but resisted an eye roll.

‘Non, non, ma petite,’ she scolded her niece.  ‘We can do better than that.  Madame Félix will be attending us presently with a selection of suitable gowns.  The George V is the finest hotel in the finest city in all of Europe if not the world.  The Réveillon will be a glittering affair attended by all the great and the good.  Remember that and mind your manners tonight.’

Like Gaspard, Sylvie was new in Paris:  she, too, had arrived only yesterday, from the small southern town of Clermont l’Herault, some 25 km from Gaspard’s own village.  Unaware that their lives were soon to brush, if only tangentially, she could barely contain her excitement about the coming ball.

By eight o’clock the two ladies, following the ministrations of Madame Félix, were ready to be gowned in splendour. As befitted her youth, Sylvie had been allowed to choose a pale eau-de-nil frock which flattered her slim figure and displayed a modest, though becoming, décolletage. The Marquise had lent her a delicate white-gold chain from which depended one flawless teardrop sapphire.  Tiny sapphiress nestled in her ears, behind which her aunt had dabbed a whisper of Arpège.  She was ready.

Not so her aunt.  Fret though Sylvie might, Madame la Marquise would proceed at her own pace.  Rising at last from her dressing table, where she had paid lengthy attention to her face and neck, she allowed her maid to help her into the voluminous folds of grenadine velvet that Madame Félix had pinned and tucked and fussed over not four hours ago.  She was resplendent.  A deep plunge cradled her not inconsiderable, and well-powdered, bosom, a fitting shelf for the diamonds that she placed there. Chandeliers of diamonds and sapphires cascaded from her ears and the look was completed by a cuff of the same jewels abut her right wrist.  She too was now ready.  Together aunt and niece proceeded to the hotel dining room, festive in its trimmings of silver and blue.

For Sylvie the dinner passed in a whirl:  the oysters unnoticed, the foie gras swallowed inattentively, the majestic roast turkey sending up its rich odours in vain.  All her being was focused on the ball to come.  Just as her impatience was becoming unbearable, the sound of violins tuning up announced that the dance was about to begin.  From her seat at the table, Sylvie watched as the doors to the ballroom were flung open.  With studied dignity the diners rose, abandoned their coffee cups and digestifs and made their way across the narrow hallway.

What was, in the day-to-day, the conference room, was now unrecognisable.  Gone were the vinyl and tubular steel chairs, the individual desks, the lectern, the whiteboard.  Gone was the serviceable brown needlecord carpet with its inevitable stains of spilt coffee and insufficiently wiped shoes.  A polished expanse of oak gleamed softly under the chandeliers.  Little gold chairs upholstered in red velvet  lined the walls.  On the dais at the end of the room sat the string quartet, the men in full evening dress, the cellist in a white satin ruffled blouse and a wide, modesty-preserving skirt of black velvet. A subtle scent of vanilla and jasmine hung  in the air and the first mellifluous strains of a waltz completed the transformation.

Halfway through the evening the burglarious trio made their move.  Jean-Luc and Jean-Mark had been observing the dancers closely.  ‘See that enormous woman in purple, with the pretty little girl at her heels?’ said Jean-Marc.  His twin nodded:  he too had spotted, considered and calculated the value of the diamonds that glittered at the Marquise’s throat, ears and wrists.

‘Usual routine?’ he grinned.

Gaspard looked at him questioningly.  Quickly the brothers outlined their plan, which brought a catch of glee to the country cousin’s throat.  To him fell the task of distracting the niece, a task for which he felt more than ready.

As the string quartet paused for refreshment, a bevy of waiters circulated among the dancers, offering trays of champagne and canapes and cool moist towels to soothe the heat of their exertions.  Turning to speak to Sylvie, Madame de Saint-Esprit was startled but not displeased to find at her elbow a tall, well-made young man in immaculate evening dress.  Dark eyes caressed her face and figure as he bowed and introduced himself.

‘Madame, I am Pierre de la Condamine, younger son of the Duc de Mersault whom you may see over there conversing with my mother.  I would be most honoured if you would grant me the next dance.’

Sylvie, meanwhile, had her own admirer.  Trying hard to look suave and nonchalant in a new blue velvet dinner jacket, Gaspard had captured her hand and was murmuring in her ear.  With her aunt distracted, Sylvie allowed herself to be led away onto the dance floor just as the musicians returned.

Jean-Luc, the supposed Pierre de la Condamine, had chosen his moment well. A few discreetly folded 100-franc notes had ensured that the next dance would be an up-tempo Viennese waltz.  He was an accomplished dancer, and the Marquise found herself one minute whirled and flung to arm’s length and the next clasped close as the young man – impudently but not disagreeably to the older woman – nuzzled at her shoulder, his fingers lightly caressing the nape of her neck.

The night was fine, though frosty, and the doors at the end of the long room had been opened onto a canopied terrace. The momentary cold was welcome as Jean-Luc expertly steered his partner out onto the candle-lit paving.  The waltz finished with a tremendous flourish, and the young man whirled and twirled the Marquise into the shadows, momentarily letting go of her hand until, just at the last moment when she feared she would spin out of reach, he caught her hand again and brought her into a close embrace.

Laughing, breathless, the Marquise clasped her hand to her bosom, and shrieked.

‘My diamonds!  My diamonds have gone! What have you done with my diamonds?’

Sure enough, the opulent parure had disappeared from her throat, and her wrist was bare.

‘I, Madame? Why, I have been with you this whole time.  Is this some kind of a trick?  Do you dare accuse me?’  Indignation flashed in the black eyes that had smouldered so intimately into her own.

‘Call the police,’ moaned the Marquise.

The manager of the Hotel George V was summoned, and quickly alerted the authorities.  Within a few minutes a young police officer, introducing himself as Bernard Durand, had appeared on the scene.  Of course, the young man was questioned closely.  Of course, it was soon established that no such person as the Duc de Mersault was present. This being the case, Durand had no hesitation in searching the impostor:  his pockets, his shoes — even his underwear was not immune.  No diamonds were to be found, and the Marquise herself could attest that her partner had never for one moment left her side.  A scam, Durand decided, but as to who was scamming whom, that was less certain. Bowing his apology he withdrew, promising to make further enquiries.

Provisionally exonerated, Jean-Luc melted into the crowd and was gone.

 

Back at their apartment, Jean-Luc and his twin brother howled with laughter.

‘It works every time,’ Jean-Marc cackled.

Dressed alike in sharply tailored evening dress, the twins were indistinguishable. Timing the moment to perfection, Jean-Marc had stepped in in the fraction of a second when his brother relinquished the Marquise’s hand, allowing Jean-Luc to slip away with the jewels in his pocket and the lady none the wiser.

Gaspard had almost fallen at the first hurdle.  His thick fingers had fumbled clumsily at the clasp of Sylvie’s chain, causing her to gasp and start back.  Luckily, an ardent kiss placed just at the corner of her mouth had swept away all alarm, and the necklace found its way safely into the apprentice thief’s pocket.  In the brou-ha-ha of the Marquise’s diamonds the emerald was not missed for some time.

It was, if not a triumph for Gaspard, at least a fairly auspicious beginning.  Over the next few weeks, the three men carried out several more successful capers, though none as elaborate as the New Year’s Eve scam.  Gaspard was learning his trade, and with every operation his swagger grew.  Soon he grew impatient under the twins’ tutelage, confident that he could make his fortune alone.  Jean-Luc and Jean-Marc held a private summit, after which they confronted their younger cousin.

‘It’s time for us to retire,’ they announced.  ‘At least for the time being.  We’ve done well, but there have been a few near-misses and that bastard Durand is getting closer.   We are going to our parents’ summer home at Carcassonne, and we advise you to take some time away from Paris as well, until the heat cools down.’

Gaspard was having none of it.  He had learned a trick or two from his mentors, and a plan was forming in his head. A plan that involved an old but treasured enamel lapel pin, with the image of a small black cat…

So it was that Le Petit Chat was born.

 

In the spring of 1998, the hotel robberies began. Gaspard had learned one important lesson from his cousins:  the trick of invisibility.  As a concierge, a manager, a messenger, a delivering florist, a maintenance man — now in jeans and trainers, now in brown overalls, now in suit and tie — he slipped unobserved in and out of the grandest hotels, targeting only the wealthy and the powerful.

Wisely, he kept his success to himself. Others had come to grief, he knew, by ostentatiously splashing their ill-gotten cash.  His base of operations remained the seedy hotel where he had first taken up residence; by day he was just another young man in jeans and a leather jacket, picking up work where he could, careful to pay his bills on time.

He travelled to Senlis, some 50km from Paris, and sought out an obscure print shop in a back street, where he commissioned the cards which would deliver his ironic message:  on one side, the image of a black cat sitting on a wall; on the other, the words Le Petit Chat vous remercie.  Months later the printer would read, in an old copy of Le Parisien, of the daring exploits of Le Petit Chat.  He wondered, briefly, if he should tell what he knew, but the rich and famous were no friends of his and he shrugged and let it go.

Then came the affair of the singer’s jewels, which brough near catastrophe to the budding burglar.  Le tout Paris was talking about Lili La Voix, her great beauty. her extraordinary voice, the dazzling jewels she wore.  Her three recitals at the Paris Olympe quickly sold out and tickets exchanged hands on the black market for thousands of francs. This, Gaspard decided, was to be his great coup, the jewel in his crown as it were.  He smirked, congratulating himself on the pun.

It didn’t go to plan.  Yes, he slipped into Lili’s bedroom in the darkest hours of the night.  Yes, he made short work of the hotel safe and successfully abstracted the fabulous emeralds.  But that was when it all went wrong.

Nobody could have been more astounded than Gaspard when, returning to his hotel the night after the emerald theft, he was confronted by Bernard Durand. Acting on instinct and panic he pushed the policeman away; Durand stumbled and fell, hitting his head against the cabin trunk where Gaspard kept his loot.  Summoning the night porter, Gaspard bundled the unconscious Durand into the trunk and, sweating and cursing, the two men carried it  downstairs and loaded it into the night porter’s Renault van.

‘Where shall we take him, Monsieur?’ asked the porter.

Gaspard chuckled.

‘Why, to the police station, of course,’ he said.

The man looked at him aghast.  Then a slow smile spread across his wrinkled features as Gaspard outlined his plan.

 

Two hours later, Gaspard was moving fast.  It had been a close call, too close for comfort.  And the humiliated police officer would soon be on his trail.  Paris had been a success, he was now wealthy beyond his imagining, but it was time to move on before he got caught.

With mixed emotions, Le Petit Chat turned his steps towards the south, and Morbignan la Crèbe.

 

Chapter 7:

REVELATIONS AT A PARTY

 

MORBIGNAN LA CREBE, SATURDAY

Thierry was having none of it.  Three of his most distinguished guests in a huddle with the most undesirable member of the party?  This would not do.  Turning the music up a little higher, he strode over to where Peitavy and Petit stood in a glowering head to head, while Durand and Richard Patterson looked on.

‘Allons, mes amis,’ he cajoled them. ‘Venez danser.’

Gaspard scoffed.  ‘Dance?  I have no intention of dancing.’ And with that he slumped once again into the armchair he had vacated.

Durand demurred.  ‘I’m sorry, Thierry, but I’m not up to any more capers.  My knee is telling me it’s time to sit down.’  Patterson noticed for the first time the walking stick with its elegantly curved handle which leant against his friend’s chair. Nearing the end of what turned out to be an illustrious career, Durand had caught a stray bullet in his knee while preventing a bank robbery.  The stick had been a retirement present from his colleagues.  Durand normally used it more as an accessory than a necessity, but there were times when he was glad of its support.

Peitavy, on the other hand, didn’t need to be asked twice. The music had set his toes tapping and soon he was off round the room again in a wild fandango of his own devising until, with an “ouf!”, he sat down again with a thump and fanned himself with his hand.  Beads of sweat glistened in his moustache. ‘I’m getting too old for this kind of tomfoolery,’ he complained to Henry Prendergast, who sat nursing a petit blanc and watching the proceedings with a certain amount of bewilderment. Henry’s wife Jeannette, perched on the arm of his chair, laughed with the elderly ex-notaire.

‘I’m afraid my husband hasn’t quite got the hang of village celebrations,’ she said.  Her father, Gaston, was dancing an excited polka round the room with his new wife, Marie Claire.

Henry leaned across.  ‘I was at the talk in the Salle des Fêtes yesterday.  The atmosphere was amazing, that author really had the audience in the palm of her hand.  She must be a very funny writer, judging by the huge amount of laughter going on all around me.  I’m only sorry my French wasn’t quite up to understanding all of it.’

Peitavy tapped the side of his nose.  ‘Well, now, I’m going to let you into a little secret…’ he began, but he was interrupted by a huge cheer.  Underneath the music and the brou-ha-ha of the party, Marianne had detected a discreet knock at the door and had rushed to open it for their distinguished guest.

Ysabel had dressed for the occasion: her cream silk skirt fell in soft folds to her ankles, cinched by a wide scarlet leather belt.  The shawl about her shoulders was splashed with scarlet poppies, and long earrings of the same colour brushed the shoulders of her silk blouse.  A strikingly pretty young woman with long auburn hair had slipped in behind Ysabel, almost unnoticed, and stood smiling shyly at the gathering.

At once Ysabel was engulfed in a tide of exclamations and compliments – everyone wanted a word with the celebrated writer.  Disengaging herself with smiles and polite murmurs, she went up to Thierry; kissing him three times on the cheeks in Languedoc fashion she presented him with her gifts:  a signed set of her books and a box of fine cigars. ‘Bon anniversaire, Thierry,’ she congratulated her host.

She turned to where Peitavy had risen to his feet, bursting with pride.  ‘Bonjour Papa,’ she said and embraced him.  Some of the party guests gasped, others exchanged ‘I knew it all along’ smiles.

‘It is true.’  Peitavy swelled like a turkey cock, the ends of his moustache quivering with delight.  ‘Mesdames, Messieurs, I have the honour to present to you my daughter, Isabelle, better known to many of you as the celebrated author Ysabel de la Fontaine.

‘And here,’ he held out his hand and the younger woman came forward.  ‘Here is my beautiful grand-daughter, Mademoiselle Bienvenue de la Fontaine.’

‘Luckily for her – and for me,’ Peitavy continued over the babble of voices, ‘Bienvenue is nothing like her father.’  The room fell silent; expectant eyes turned towards the former notaire.

‘It is no honour to me,’ he went on, ‘to present to you the disreputable lout whom I have the great good fortune not to call my son in law.  This despicable voyou once took advantage of the naïve affections of my innocent daughter.  Then, leaving her shamed and heartbroken once he had had his way, he married another woman and then skulked off to Paris and got up to who knows what villainy.  I can only applaud Isabelle for her determination and courage in making a new life for herself and for her lovely daughter.

‘Perhaps you would care to know the identity of this sale type?’  Heads nodded vigorously, eyes widened with expectation.  ‘Very well than.  Step forward, brave and honourable… Gaspard Petit.’

‘Salaud!’ A small, feisty woman who had been sitting quietly chatting to Marianne launched herself at Gaspard and delivered two resounding slaps to his face.  It was Mireille Petit.

‘You despicable son of a syphilitic camel,’ she spat at her husband.  ‘Was it not enough to deceive me, to marry me for my father’s money and then to run away when he expected you to work for it?  That betrayal was bad, but this is far worse.  Isabelle was a child when you left, you disgusting bastard.  You seduced her and then dumped her when she told you she was pregnant.  And then you came crawling back when whatever you were up to in Paris went sour.

‘I am the fool in all this,’ she went on, turning to the partygoers who were lapping up the scene with a mixture of fascination and horror.  ‘I took him back, when I should have kicked him out of the door the moment he showed his ugly face back in Morbignan.

‘My dear, I am so sorry,’ she said, addressing Ysabel. ‘None of us had any idea what had happened to you, or who was responsible.  If I’d known, I’d have gone to Paris myself and dragged his sorry backside here and made him make amends. Forgive me.’

Ysabel embraced her.  ‘There is nothing to forgive.  You were young too, then.  And I know just how charming Gaspard could be, back in the day.  I have had my revenge – yours is still to come.’

Mireille smiled.  ‘Yes, I have my own story,’ she conceded.  ‘and as for revenge… well, we shall see.’

 

Chapter 8: 

GASPARD AND THE WIFE

 

 Morbignan La Crèbe  1998

It wasn’t the triumphant return Gaspard had envisaged. He saw himself arriving in splendour, wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, to fill the villagers with awe and show that cretin of a father- in-law what a splendid husband his daughter Mimi had managed to capture.

If the truth be told, he hadn’t imagined returning to Morbignan at all. Oh yes, he would have passed through like a shooting star, trailing clouds of glory, but his sights were set on new horizons, new triumphs.

But now, with Durand seeking him in Paris and nowhere else to go now that his cousins had retired, Morbignan seemed a useful temporary refuge. He grinned to himself at the thought of the policeman desperately trying to track him down in the capital, while all the time he, Gaspard Petit, was back in the village right under Durand’s nose, so to speak.

And here was Mimi, waiting for him, not exactly with open arms. Mimi. It was all her fault. She was supposed to be The One:  not the love of his life but, far more importantly, his passport to a life of leisure and comfort. If Mimi and, especially, her salaud of a father, had been more amenable, things would have been very different.

 

Three years earlier

It had started well enough, Gaspard remembered. Mireille – or Mimi as everyone called her – was a newcomer to the Lycée where he worked as a caretaker. By this time, he had grown into his physique:  he was almost half a metre taller than the schoolboy tormented by his schoolmates for his attempts at a moustache. His broad shoulders, narrow waist and snake hips gave full value to his wardrobe, purchased from the most stylish of the friperies (second-hand clothes stalls) in the market in St Rémy. Carefully cultivated sideburns complemented the moustache, still in place but now shaped and groomed to perfection.

In première (Year 12), just at the time when teenage boys were beginning to realise that girls weren’t so stupid after all, Mimi had exploded into the classroom. She had begun her studies in Paris, under the watchful eye of an aunt, but certain rumours had reached her family, causing her father to recall her to the village school to do her Baccalauréat in less exciting surroundings.

With her dancing green eyes, anarchic sense of humour and fashionable clothes, Mimi took the class by storm. All the boys wanted to go out with her, all the girls wanted to be her.

Gaspard played it cool. Confident in his looks, he knew that being eight years older, an adult, gave him a considerable advantage over the puppyish students who fawned on Mimi. Biding his time, he took extra care with his hair and clothes; his fingernails were clean and a ghost of Brut followed him down the school corridors.

He realised that Mimi was used to being pursued; in fact, she expected it. As the boys in her class followed her around with stars in their eyes, Gaspard could see her casting surreptitious glances over to where he was engrossed in something other than her. Sometimes he would allow her to catch his eye, and he would smile and bow slightly and then go back to what he was doing. He could tell it infuriated her. More and more, he noticed, she was finding ways of crossing his path, always with downcast eyes and a moue as if of disdain. He wasn’t fooled.

‘She will be mine,’ he boasted to his cronies in L’Estaminet. ‘It’s just a matter of time:  I will let her chase me until I catch her.’  It was probably the only witty thing he ever said.

It was Le Quatorze that presented him with his opportunity. The July 14^th Bastille Day celebrations were a communal affair in Morbignan. Trestle tables were set up in the square and the whole village congregated to eat moules marinières and brochettes de veau and drink as much of the famous local Château Rouge-Gorge as they could consume. There was music and dancing, and the highlight of the evening was a spectacular firework display.

Mimi’s family were all there:  the wealthy vigneron Jean-Jacques Depardieu, accompanied by the 17-year-old Mireille, her younger sister Florence and his wife Dulcinée. Mimi’s little dog, Bambou, trotted happily at their heels, his bright eyes never missing an opportunity to snatch a morsel from an unwary diner’s plate.

Bambou was quite blasé about fireworks: distant bangs and crackles held no terror for him. But, unbeknown to the Depardieu family and most of the villagers, the fête committee had decided to mix things up a little this year. Instead of holding the display down by the river, nearly half a kilometre away from the village square, they had decided to let off the fireworks sur place, in a cordoned-off area which most people had supposed to be reserved for the musicians.

An ear-splitting bang announced the start of the fireworks display, followed by the loud crackle of cascading stars in blue and green and silver. Bambou almost jumped out of his skin and hit the ground running. Before Mimi could grab him, he had rounded the corner of the boulangerie and disappeared into the dark labyrinth of streets in the oldest part of the village.

Gaspard, who had been leaning against the bench under the plane tree, seemingly engrossed in conversation with his copins, had been keeping a speculative eye on  Mireille’s family. Scarcely had Mimi dissolved into tears in the comforting arms of her mother, Gaspard was away. He hared off in pursuit of the little dog, his ears attuned to the terrified scrabble of paws on cobbled streets. It wasn’t long before he found Bambou, huddled shivering in a doorway; he scooped him up and brought him back in triumph to his mistress. Mimi’s thanks were all that he could have wished for. As he kissed her cheek and took her hand to lead her to the dance area, maman and papa looked on approvingly.

Soon the news was all over the Lycée:  Mireille had found herself a handsome boyfriend, a grown-up with a motorbike and money to spend. The boys were in despair, the girls consumed with envy.

Gaspard played his cards cleverly: this was no passing fancy, to love and leave. Mimi was the girl he would marry. He knew her papa was rich in acres of supremely productive vineyard and also owned a lucrative wine bottling business. Mimi, as his elder daughter, would one day be a wealthy heiress; in the meantime, Gaspard could see a cushy life for himself running papa’s thriving enterprises.

The couple settled into a steady courtship. Gaspard was careful to keep Mimi on side, unaware – or so he thought – of his occasional peccadilloes. After all, he reasoned to himself, he would be doing her a great favour by marrying her, and a man was entitled to the occasional dalliance.

Mimi didn’t quite see it that way. Yes, Gaspard was handsome and pleasing, but he was by no means the only string to her bow. If he proved unsatisfactory there were others who would step in, only too pleased to squire the prettiest and most popular girl in the village and, furthermore, the girl blessed with the rich papa. If Mimi had known about her boyfriend’s affair with Isabelle, she would have shrugged her pretty shoulders and laughed. Gaspard was hers, until she decided otherwise.

They announced their engagement on Mireille’s 19^th birthday and married the following year. When, days before the wedding, Isabelle had come to Gaspard in tears, confessing her pregnancy, he had laughed at her. On the day the devastated girl fled to Paris, Gaspard and Mireille stood before the maire and made their vows.

If Gaspard expected it all to be plain sailing, now that he had captured his prize, he was in for a rude awakening. On the morning after the couple arrived back from honeymoon, Gaspard strolled nonchalantly into Jean-Jacques’ office.

‘Now, papa,’ he began cheekily, ‘what have you got for me?’

Jean-Jacques regarded his son in law with a baleful eye. He had the measure of this young man. Yes, he was Mimi’s choice, and as a doting father he wanted nothing more than his daughter’s happiness. But the young whelp as a trifle too cocky for his liking and needed to be taken down a peg.

‘Welcome to the family, mon fils,’ he began. ‘I am not so young as I was, and it is good to have a strapping young man to shoulder some of the burdens of my many enterprises.’

Gaspard smiled, smugly:  this was going to plan.

‘I take it you know nothing of the wine business?’

Gaspard shook his head.

‘Well, tant pis, I am sure you will soon learn. First of all, you should spend a few months in the vines with my foreman, Gui. He will show you how we weed and prune the plants, to get them ready for the fruit bearing season. There is quite a lot of work at this time of year, but I am sure you won’t mind that. Then, of course, there is the vendange. We do bring in some casual labour to help with the harvest, but the family does the main part of the work.’

Gaspard was looking at his father-in-law with disbelief.

‘What?  You expect me to work in the vines like a common paysan?  Me, who married your daughter not three weeks ago?’

The vigneron regarded him calmly.

‘Of course, what did you expect? Did you think I was just going to hand over the reins to you, when you know nothing of the business. You’ll learn your trade first, my lad, before there’s any talk of management.’

That evening, Gaspard and Mimi had their first serious row. He stormed into their cottage full of indignation and poured out his tale of outrage.

‘And worst of all,’ he concluded, ‘your sacré papa expects me to labour in the vines, as if I weren’t your husband and a valued member of the family.’

Mimi looked at him placidly over the cassoulet she was preparing.

‘Eh bien?  Why are you so surprised?  This is a working family – what made you think things would be any different for you?

‘Well, if that’s what you and your precious papa think, you can just think again.’

Gaspard stormed out of the house and went to sleep at his friend Marc’s house. Marc was all sympathy and indignation.

‘How dare they treat you this way?’ he exclaimed. ‘Doesn’t Mimi know what a catch you were?  Doesn’t Jean-Jacques realise what a valuable asset you could be?’

‘Well, it’s their loss.’  Suddenly, Gaspard made up his mind. ‘I’m not staying here to be disrespected like this. My cousins have been begging me to join them in Paris – they have a very nice little business going there. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but I know they make a lot of money. I’m going to have me some of that, and Mireille and her family can go to hell.

Used to his friend’s outbursts, Marc nodded encouragingly.  There was no way that Gaspard, however big a fish he was in the small pond of Morbignan, would venture to the big city.

Yet, three days later, Gaspard was gone.

 

Chapter 9:

ROBBED OF HIS BIG MOMENT

Gaspard was fuming.  That oaf of a notaire had made a fool of him.  He had been planning to make his own announcement:  the moment Ysbabel made her entrance he had seen an opportunity.  He could hear himself:

‘Welcome, ma belle,’ he would cry.  ‘How proud I am that my little village girlfriend has made such a glittering career for herself.  Oh, yes,’ he would continue proudly as the jaws of the gathering dropped.  ‘I have been following her triumph for years, and I am delighted that, in my own modest way, I have contributed to it.  Yes, indeed: Glou-glou, c’est moi!’

Here he would pause for the applause and congratulations that he knew would come his way.  And then, with a deprecating cough, he would continue:

‘And how overjoyed I am to see my beautiful daughter here today.  You can tell, can you not, how she takes after her Papa in beauty and charm?’

None of it had gone to plan.  It was Peitavy, the stupid bumpkin with his absurd moustaches, who had made the announcement.  It was Peitavy who received the plaudits that Gaspard knew were his due.  And then, to cap it all, his own wife had humiliated him, slapping his face in public like that.

With a growl he launched himself at Mimi, hands grasping for her throat.  He would end this charade once and for all.

‘Now, now, NOW!’  Someone grasped his arm and a peremptory voice rang out.  ‘I’ve told you about that kind of thing before, have I not?’

Gaspard blinked. There before him, arms akimbo, stood a stocky Englishwoman, as wide as she was tall and with a belligerent scowl on her face.

‘You!’ he bellowed, face crimson.  You are the mother of that sale métisse, the deaf English girl of who knows what paternity.  Ever since your accursed family moved into the house next door to me you have gone out of your way to make my life a misery.’

Betty Brayford regarded him calmly.  Her French wasn’t yet fluent enough to make out her neighbour’s words, but the tone was unmistakeable.  Still holding Gaspard’s arm in a firm grip, she squared up to him.

‘Now listen here,’ she said slowly.  ‘You are a bully and an oaf.  I’ve been watching your behaviour and, trust me, it leaves a lot to be desired.  If my Larry were here, God rest his soul, he’d have a thing or two to say about it, you mark my words.  But don’t fool yourself that just ‘cos I’m a woman I don’t know how to deal with yobs like you.’

She could see it was wasted on him:  he was barely competent in his own language, let alone in English.

‘In other words, my lad…’ she took a deep breath, than proudly produced the sentence she had learned only a week ago.  If the accent was atrocious, the words were nonetheless clear.

‘Va te faire foutre!’

There was a collective gasp, then a storm of cheers and applause for the valiant little Englishwoman.  Mimi burst into laughter, repeating:

‘Oui, mon cher, do as the nice English lady tells you:  va to faire foutre!’

‘Enough!’ Gaspard bellowed.  Furious, humiliated, he pushed Bettty aside and stormed out of the door.  No-one noticed who slipped out behind him.

Still chuckling, Betty walked over to where her daughter Alex and son in law James were chatting to Richard Patterson.  Henry Prendergast joined them.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘did that mean what I thought it meant?’

‘It most certainly did,’ she answered with a smile.  ‘And it’s thanks to my charming neighbour that I learned how to say it in French.

‘I take it you have had a run-in or two with Gaspard Petit,’ said Patterson.  ‘He’s the bane of all our lives, in a way, but mostly he is too drunk to be any real problem.  And he’s the biggest coward:  if you face up to him, he soon backs down.

‘He turned up on our doorstep once, drunk as a skunk and ranting some nonsense about the Queen of England.  Martha opened the door to him, and her French is a lot better than mine, but she just stood there and laughed at him.  Howled with laughter, in fact.  The more he threatened the more she giggled until he finally gave up and went away.  He hasn’t given us any trouble since.’

‘Unfortunately  he is our next door neighbour,’ James said.  ‘We’d hardly moved in before he started acting up.’

 

Morbignan la Crebe, one year earlier

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, James, let me do it!’ Betty swung the cardboard box onto her shoulder and strode off in the direction of the studio.  James Carcenet gazed at his mother- in-law with a mixture of affection and exasperation.  Approaching her 70^th year hadn’t slowed Betty down, nor had it softened her acerbic tongue.

Would it work? He gazed round the kitchen, its red-flagged floor almost invisible under boxes and carrier bags and a heap of coats, shoes and a solitary slipper.

Alex puffed up the front steps, grinning, her curly black hair glinting with sweat.  ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ she signed, waving her hand in front of her face.  James’ heart lifted.  Of course it would work, he told himself.  He and Alex would make a home of this rambling old village farmhouse, with its two-foot-thick walls and tiled floors.  Betty, independent as always, would nest in what they had christened the studio, a stone-built barn facing the house across a small courtyard.  Already P’tit Gui and his workmen had been into the studio, setting a proper frame in the ragged hole which passed for a window and shoring up the teetering staircase.

‘Time for a cuppa.’ Betty was back.  She had unearthed a kettle and a box of tea bags from the chaos.

‘Tea?’ queried Alex, ‘in this heat?’

Betty turned to face her daughter.  ‘Best thing in the world to cool you down,’ she said distinctly.  ‘If there’s one thing your good-for-nothing father taught me it was that. And he knew a thing or two about heat.’

Alex laughed.  Growing up, she had never tired of hearing tales of Deaf Larry, her glamorous, villainous dad, and his East-end crew.  Ask Larry where he came from and he’d say ‘Hoxton,’ with a stare that challenged you to question him, but his dark skin and dark- treacle accent hinted at origins much further south and east.

Betty went to plug in the kettle and stopped.

‘Oh, dear.’  She looked in dismay from the three-pin English plug to the two-hole French socket.

‘I think this is what you’re looking for.’ Handing her a continental adapter, James smiled to himself.  He knew that Betty regarded him as something of a wimp.  About as useful as a chocolate teapot, as she would say. After all, a mild-mannered antiquarian bookseller had come as a bit of a surprise after the previous boyfriends Alex had brought home.

‘I have my uses,’ James thought to himself, as Betty busied herself making tea.

‘Let’s walk over to the bar later,’ he suggested. ‘Get to know a few people.’

The Carcenet family were by no means the first English people to settle in Morbignan la Crèbe. Henry Prendergast – forever dubbed l’anglais’ – and the poet Richard Patterson had made their niche in the little community.  They and their wives shopped conscientiously in the épicerie and the boulangerie, said bonjour politely when they encountered a neighbour, swept their front steps and stood in line like everyone else, of a Thursday evening, for one of the aromatic pizzas cooked up by Jo-Jo in his little catering van.

After much consideration, the villagers had decided they were des gens correctes and welcomed them into their midst. Subject to approval, they were ready to extend the same courtesy to James, Alex and Betty. True, Alex’s spectacular good looks and caramel skin had raised a few eyebrows when Jean-Jacques the estate agent had first brought them to view the house.  Luckily, Betty’s warm, no-nonsense approach and optimistic attempts at French had soon melted some of the frost.

‘By the way,’ Betty said, pouring tea, ‘I’ve already met one of the neighbours.  That is, I’ve seen him. He was at the window of the house just across the way.  He seemed friendly enough at first:  he grinned at me. But when I tried saying bonjour, Monsieur’ – James winced – ‘he just shrugged and turned away.’

Next door, Gaspard Petit was lurking at the window of his kitchen, the only room that overlooked the Carcenets’ house.  He held a half-full bottle of rosé in his fist and glowered through the gap in the shutters.

‘Some people have moved into that Dubosc woman’s house,’ he muttered.  ‘They’re English, and one of them’s black. Sales anglais, sale métisse,’ he spat.

Mimi went on chopping onions, ignoring her husband. Gaspard took another big glug of wine and stormed out of the kitchen.

‘Call me when dinner’s ready,’ he ordered.

#

Later that evening, James and his family strolled across the little village square towards the café. Half a dozen of the local good ol’ boys were sitting on the circular bench under the plane tree; they greeted the newcomers with much doffing of caps and waving of canes.  Their ancient eyes lit up with approval at Alex’s skin-tight jeans and skimpy top, and they accorded her a special ‘Bonsoir, Madame,’ twinkling at her benevolently. Alex waved cheerfully and James gave a half-bow, mustering his best ‘Bonsoir, Messieurs.’

Conversation stopped abruptly in l’Estaminet as they walked into the café.  Glasses of beer halted mid-way to lips and heads swivelled to inspect the newcomers. The café’s owner, Marie Claire, came out from behind the bar to greet them.

‘Soir, m’sieur-dames.’ she said, then, screwing up her face with the effort, she added ‘Good eevenink, sir and ladies.’

They found a shady table on the terrace and Marie Claire brought out their drinks: a pastis for James, a coffee for Betty and for Alex a newly discovered diabolo menthe – iced lemonade with a dash of mint syrup. Marie Claire paused to smile at the younger woman, signing energetically to her mother, then turned and headed for a table inside the café. A moment later, a tall, distinguished-looking man approached the Carcenets’ table.

‘Good evening, I’m Richard Patterson,’ he introduced himself, as his fingers repeated the same message.

‘James Carcenet,’ said James, surprised, ‘my wife Alex and her mother, Betty. You sign?’

‘Yes, my brother is profoundly deaf, and we all learned together as children.’

Alex’s fingers were busy again and James frowned.

‘Sitting on a bench?’ he queried.  ‘I don’t understand.’

Alex nodded, smiling up at the Englishman.

Patterson laughed, colouring slightly.

‘Aha, do I detect a fan?’

Seeing the blank look on James’ face he explained,

‘I’m a poet.  Well, I wouldn’t go that far: more of a versifier, really.  I wrote a parody of that Lewis Carroll poem – you know, the white knight, “sitting on a gate”.  Mine is “sitting on a bench,” which by happy coincidence is a perfect rhyme for French.  It’s dedicated to our local good ol’ boys – whom I gather you’ve met,’ he added with a laugh.

‘The poem had some small success back home in England, and people always seem to greet me with those words.’

James apologised.  ‘I’m so sorry, my interest has always been in old books and old texts.  I’m not really up to date with modern writing.  Alex is the reader in the family.’

A round, dimpled woman wandered over to join them.

‘I’m Martha,’ she said, tucking her hand into the crook of Patterson’s arm. ‘And I have the great good fortune to be wife to this lofty lump of oddity.  You must be the people who have moved into Héloïse Dubosc’s house on the rue de l’église.  We live just round the corner in the chemin du barrage.’

‘Woof,’ said a small brown and white head, peering round Martha’s legs.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ Martha said, bending to ruffle the dog’s ears.  ‘I didn’t introduce the most important member of the family.  This is Visitor.’

‘B and B might question your use of the words “most important”,’ grumbled Patterson.

Alex had been following the conversation carefully.  Now she looked confused.

‘B&B?’ she signed.  ‘Bed and breakfast?’

‘Oh, sorry, I should have explained.  We have two black and white cats, too, brothers called Banjax and Bandicoot.’ Richard Patterson signed the names carefully, letter by letter, and Alex burst out laughing.

‘Yes, I know, rather outlandish names.  You can blame Martha for that.  She names everything!  And when we got the boys she told me that ever since she was a small child she’d wanted two black and white cats called Banjax and Bandicoot.  So there you are.’

‘And Visitor?’ Alex wanted to know.

‘Ah, thereby hangs a tale.  For about a year she would turn up at our house from time to time, so we called her Visitor.  Then she sort of became ours, as nobody seemed to own her, and the name stuck.’

The little dog in question, meanwhile, had made herself comfortable on Alex’s lap.

‘Would you care to join us,’ James said, ‘as your dog appears to have done so already.’

As they seated themselves and James ordered another round of drinks, Betty said, ‘Everybody in the village is very friendly, so far.  But we do have a rather peculiar neighbour.’

Richard and his wife exchanged glances.

‘I saw him at his window,’ Betty continued. ‘He grinned at me, so I said ‘bonjour monsieur’ very politely, and the next thing I knew he’d slammed the shutters closed.’

‘The grin is meant to terrify you,’ Martha said, grinning herself. ‘That’s old Gaspard Petit.  We call him Cat Little. He was a kind of burglar in Paris, many years ago, called himself Le Petit Chat – the little cat.  You ask our friend Durand: he was a copper in Paris at the time.  He’ll have a thing or two to tell you about Petit.

‘The man hates everyone, especially the English. He’s quite meek if you stand up to him, especially if he isn’t full of rosé, but there have been one or two nasty incidents, so watch out for him.’

Betty snorted.  ‘Nasty incidents?  I’ve handled a few of those in my time and no little turd of a Frenchman – ‘scuse my French – is going to give me or my family grief.’

Looking at her belligerent jaw and the steely spark in her eyes, Martha could well believe it.

#

The Carcenets settled in almost seamlessly.  The villagers were, on the whole, well-disposed to the English in Morbignan la Crèbe, especially those who were prepared to buy up the old and rather inconvenient stone-built houses and live in them.  Holidaymakers they viewed with scorn and the Parisians, of course, they hated, as any right-minded Languedocian would.

Gaspard Petit kept a low profile, confining himself to the occasional oath hurled from his kitchen window.  His wife, Mimi, would smile at them in the street but declined to stop for a chat.  As the hot days continued and, like everyone else not blessed with le clim’ (air conditioning), the Carcenets kept their shutters closed and windows open day and night, they often found the gentle night sounds of roosting swifts and hunting barn owls interrupted by the less than dulcet tones of Gaspard ranting at the world.  Sometimes Mimi’s voice could be heard, attempting to soothe him, but more often than not she stayed silent while her husband roared.

‘Do you think she’s afraid of him?’ Alex wondered.

Betty sniffed. ‘Not in this universe,’ she said.  ‘That girl’s got a spark in her eye.  Strikes me, she’s just biding her time.’

Mimi could indeed hold her own: it was her very feistiness that precipitated the first round of what was to be an ongoing battle between Gaspard and the Carcenets.  It was a Wednesday, and Betty was returning from the tiny weekly market in the place du marché.  She had gone to buy potatoes and onions and one of the delicious daubes dished up by the visiting traiteur from St Laurent:  Maison Dupuy.  Instead, she had encountered Tiphaine, on one of her occasional visits to the village market, and all thoughts of food had flown out of her head.

Tiphaine was the local antiquaire, her stall piled high with questionable antiques:  worm-eaten milking stools, chipped bowls, corroded ‘solid copper’ pans, lurching standard lamps, collectable coffee tins – anything to set the eyes of the holiday-homers a-gleam.  She had made it her business to acquire a fluent, if idiosyncratic, command of the English language, and she made a nice living doing the round of the villages where the prosecco set had their maisons secondaires.

Something in the heap of rubbish had caught Betty’s eye.  ‘Is that a thing for smoking meat?’ she said, holding the object aloft.  Rusty and cobwebbed, it was a set of four deep hooks joined in the centre to form something like an upturned hand. ‘It’s a crémaillère,’ said Tiphaine. ‘You hear French people say pendre la crémaillère, it means warming the new house.  A party.’

Betty wasn’t listening.    Whatever the thing was, and whatever it had to do with parties was irrelevant.  A touch of wire brush, a touch of Hammerite and she could just see it hanging in an alcove in her kitchen with aromatic bunches of herbs dangling from its four arms.  ‘How much?’ she enquired.

Five minutes later she was hurrying home clutching her prize, for which she had paid considerably less than Tiphaine had asked, and a tad more than Tiphaine had hoped to get.  Such is the way of market transactions.

Raised voices alerted her as she turned up the rue de l’église.  Gaspard, well-fuelled with rosé, was laying down the law at the top of his voice. Mimi, facing him with fists on her hips, was unimpressed, and her voice matched his in volume.  Sensing a run-of-the-mill domestic, Betty was about to take a tactful detour when Gaspard lunged at his much smaller wife and shook her roughly by the arm.

‘Here, here, we’re having none of that,’ Betty said, marching up to the couple.

Gaspard’s rather piggy eyes popped with astonishment:  was this diminutive Englishwoman daring to challenge him?  He raised his fist and swung.  Almost casually, Betty caught the fist in flight and, stepping back, used his own momentum to send him sprawling.

‘Now,’ she said sweetly, ’piss off and behave yourself, or you’ll have me to deal with.’ And as Gaspard lurched to his feet, muttering threats, she helped him on his way with a tap on the backside from her size 7 Doc Martins.

‘Brave as a lion, that one,’ she remarked.  ‘The cowardly lion from the Wizard of Oz, that is.’

Mimi was shaking, tears running down her face.

‘Bravo!’ she said, choking on laughter, ‘C’est bien fait! (well done).’ And, revealing a surprising command of English, she added: ‘One of zese days I will keel zat man.’

#

‘What is the matter with that man?’ James enquired the following evening, as he and Richard Patterson shared a pre-dinner p’tit pastis in the café.’ ‘Is it the English in general he hates, or have I done something to offend him?’

‘I think your ma-in-law may have had something to do with it,’ said Patterson.  ‘Old Madame Meunière just happened to be looking out of her window and she saw the whole thing.   You know what a gossip she is: by the next morning the whole village was laughing.  Petit walked into the bar yesterday and someone shouted, ‘Attention à la grandmère!’ (Watch out for the granny!) and everyone fell about.

‘But the truth is, he hates all foreigners, and the ironic thing is, he isn’t even French: he’s Portuguese, at least on his mother’s side. Nobody in the village has much time for him, and how that lovely wife of his puts up with him I do not know.  She could do a lot better.’

#

At first, Gaspard Petit was nothing but a source of innocent merriment to the Carcenets.  When he grinned from his window, whoever was in the courtyard would grin back.  When he shook his fist, they waved amicably.  When he pursued them in the street shouting ‘Sales anglais, go home to your Queen Elizabeth’ they laughed and offered to shake hands.

Things were a little less funny when he took to pursuing Alex if she went out alone.  He would mimic her signing with obscene gestures or creep up behind her and pounce, grabbing her arm or jumping in front of her making monkey faces.

Alex was her mother’s daughter, not easily intimidated, but James grew increasingly angry.  ‘Someone needs to put a stop to that drunken bully,’ he remarked more than once, ‘and if no-one else does, I will.’

‘You’re right,’ said his mother-in-law thoughtfully.  Sooner or later, something will have to be done.’

 

 

CHAPTER 10

INCROYABLE!

 

MORBIGNAN LA CREBE, SATURDAY

‘Well, that was a bit of entertainment Marianne hadn’t planned,’ Richard Patterson laughed as Gaspard Petit departed and the ruckus died away.  ‘He really is an awful lout, that man. ‘

‘But what I don’t understand,’ he went on, ‘is how Ysabel got him so bang to rights.  According to Martha he’s exactly like the fat oaf she describes in her books, but surely when Ysabel knew him he was young and apparently quite handsome.’

James Carcenet leaned forward.  ‘Oh, I can answer that one,’ he said.

‘I had quite a chat with her the other night, after the signing.  She speaks surprisingly good English, by the way.  I told her about our experiences with Petit and after she’d finished laughing she promised faithfully not to put them in her next book, but I’m not convinced.

‘Anyway, it seems she kept in touch with happenings in Morbignan.  She contacted her parents soon after the baby was born; they’ve been to Paris to see her a few times and they talk on the phone and exchange emails all the time. When she started writing the Glou-glou books, Peitavy used to tell her all about Gaspard.  He even managed to get a photo of him once:  he was taking photographs of the Foire de Morbignan, the spring fair, and Petit just happened to walk by.

‘She saw him, you know,’ Carcenet continued.

‘Who saw who?’ said Richard, somewhat ungrammatically.

‘Ysabel saw Gaspard.  It was in the early days, just after he came to Paris.  That hotel that Durand found him in, it was in the sixième arrondissement, just a couple of streets away from her first apartment.  She said he was wearing a flashy suit and he looked like a wannabe Mafioso.  Needless to say, she did not speak to him.’

‘Do you suppose she knew then just what a voyou he really was?’ Henry Prendergast wondered. ‘I mean, we’ve all had a laugh at his expense, and some of us have had our problems, but who knew, until Durand told us, that he was the glamorous jewel thief they called Le Petit Chat?’

‘Excuse me?’  An elegantly dressed, grey-haired woman had been standing unnoticed behind Alex Carcenet’s chair.  Now she edged forward.

‘Forgive me for interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you said.  That fat man, the one who was making all that noise, that’s Gaspard Petit, yes?  And you say he was Le Petit Chat?  Incroyable!’

Patterson laughed.  ‘It’s certainly incroyable to look at him today but, yes, he had a brief career as a jewel thief in Paris some decades ago.  Our friend Durand, the policeman, very nearly caught him once. It’s a good story, you must get him to tell it to you some day.  He actually met his wife through Petit:  he recovered her emeralds which Le Petit Chat had stolen.  But I imagine from your reaction that you have your own story to tell.’

The woman coloured slightly.  ‘Of course, where are my manners?  I should have introduced myself.  My name is Sylvie Thornfield, but I was Sylvie de Lacoste when I had the misfortune to come across that man. I was in Paris for my first big bal de réveillon, that’s the New Year’s Eve ball, at the Hotel George V.

‘My aunt, the Marquise de Saint-Esprit, had invited me up to accompany her.  It was my first time in Paris and I was very excited.  When the ball started, an awful young man introduced himself as the son of the Duc de Mersault and invited my aunt to dance.  At the end of the dance her wonderful diamonds were missing.  Everyone was sure he had stolen them, but no-one could prove it.  Of course, there was no Duc de Mersault present at the ball.’

Betty had been listening attentively.  ‘And Petit?’ she prompted.

‘Petit?  Oh, you mean Le Petit Chat.  Well, he asked me to dance while my aunt was dancing with the so-called Duke’s son, and then I discovered my sapphire necklace was missing too.  And so was the young man!  I’m sure those two were working together; the police questioned everybody at the ball, but nobody knew anything.’

‘But you said your name is now Sylvie Thornfield?’ Betty asked.  ‘There’s an Englishman in the village called Thornfield, is that a coincidence?’

She looked over to where a white-haired man, bulging out of his skinny jeans, was talking a little too intimately with Ysabel’s daughter Bienvenue.  As Betty watched, Ysabel smoothly scooped the girl up on the pretext of introducing her to a neighbour.

Sylvie followed her glance.  ‘No, no coincidence,’ she sighed.  ‘That’s my husband, Robin.  Soon to be my ex, though.  Oddly enough I met him through Le Petit Chat as well.’

 

 

Morbignan la Crebe 1998

‘He still isn’t too bad looking, in a louche kind of way,’ Mireille Petit said to herself. ‘I suppose I could do worse.’

That shock of white hair above a youngish face certainly made him striking, she reflected.  That is, until you noticed the soft sag under the chin, the pinkness about the eyes, the suggestion of embonpoint straining the buttons of his faded denim shirt.

Robin Thornfield fancied himself as Jack-the-Lad in the little village of Morbignan la Crèbe.   He and Mireille had had a mild fling some years earlier, while she was still studying for her Baccalauréat. Confident in her looks and sex-appeal, Mireille had played the field with enthusiasm, all the while keeping a surreptitious eye on Gaspard Petit, who was proving a more difficult fish to land.

Mireille giggled to herself as she remembered the day Gaspard had finally proposed.  She and Robin had snatched a few romantic moments while Gaspard was supposedly working.  When he suddenly burst into the bar and strode up to the secluded corner where the guilty couple were snuggling, it almost came to blows.   The fight, of course, was all bluff and bluster:  two dyed-in-the-wool cowards batting at each other with outstretched arms like six-year-olds.  Still, it caught Gaspard’s attention, and two days later he asked to marry him.

Since Gaspard’s precipitous departure for Paris at the end of the previous year, Mireille hadn’t lacked for company. Of all her admirers, Robin Thornfield was the most persistent.  She was just debating whether to give in to his advances when, equally suddenly, her husband reappeared in Morbigan.

Mireille and Robin had met by arrangement in L’Estaminet.  Just as Robin was returning from the bar with their drinks, who should slouch in but Gaspard Petit?  Mireille gasped, raised her hand half in greeting, half in protest.  Cutting straight across Thornfield, Gaspard swept Mireille up in his arms and gave her three hearty kisses on the cheek before latching his mouth onto hers.  Over his shoulder, Mimi’s eyes signalled to Thornfield that now was the time to quit the scene.

‘Me voilà, ma belle, tu es contente de me revoir?’ (‘Here I am, my beauty, aren’t you glad to see me again?’) he roared at full volume, and then:

‘Toi!’ he roared even louder, spotting Thornfield.  ‘You get away from my wife, you saulaud, or you won’t be seducing the ladies when I have finished with you.’

Thornfield smiled and shrugged.

‘Bah! What do I care for your wife?’ he taunted.  ‘There are other fish in the sea, younger and prettier than your Mimi.  I was just doing her a favour, keeping her company while you got up to god knows what in Paris.’

Inwardly, though, he was seething.  Was Mimi going to ditch him for a village lout who obviously couldn’t make it in Paris and who had come home with his tail between his legs? Never mind that he, Robin Thornfield, had enough female company and to spare. Never mind that he had a steady girlfriend safely tucked away in Les Herbes.  Never mind that he had a ‘wife’ and two children in Clermont l’Hérault, whom he visited often enough to convince her that they were really married. None of this mattered.  Not only was Mimi a luscious morsel, she was also a rich prize, with her wealthy papa. She should by rights be his.

Mireille disengaged herself and regarded her husband coldly.  No, she said, she was far from delighted to see him again.  But privately she had to admit that his reappearance was timely.  A day or two later and she might have started something with the Englishman, and an affair was complicated and time consuming.  On the whole, she thought, she would settle for what she had and make the best of it.

And as for Thornfield, she was under no illusions about his motives.  In his own eyes he might be the great seducer, but to her, and to most of the village, he was nothing but a grubby chancer.  Being the daughter of a rich vigneron had taught Mimi well.

Thornfield left the bar with as much dignity as he could muster.  ‘I’ll show them,’ he muttered.  I’ll invite Désirée down from Clermont, without the brats. She’s a stunner, when she makes the effort.  Or I’ll ask Clémencie over, she’s always saying she wants to see where I live.  Or perhaps I’ll invite them both! Just think of that oaf’s face if I walked in with two beauties on my arm!’

Instead, Fate handed him the perfect revenge.

 

Chapter 11

GASPARD AND JACK-THE-LAD

MORBIGNAN LA CREBE 1998

 

Gaspard was broke when he got back from Paris.  For all his rich pickings during his career as Le Petit Chat, he had spent as freely as he had robbed.  He returned with a wardrobe of fine clothes, a small and battered enamel pin with a cat on it, and no money.

Mimi was not sympathetic.  ‘No, I’m not going to lend you any money,’ she said.  ‘If you want fric you’ll have to work for it.  Or why don’t you take some of your fancy clothes to the friperie in St Remy?’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll get a good price for Paris fashions, even if they are a little gaudy. After all, where are you going to wear them in Morbignan?’

Gaspard slammed out of the room indignantly, but his wife’s words resonated.  Why not sell some of the handsome suits and trendy jeans?  They would bring in enough to tide him over until he found another source of income.  He went to his wardrobe and pulled out the dove grey suit and its matching cap, the first things he had bought in Paris.  No, he couldn’t bear to part with that.

Next to it hung the midnight blue dinner jacket he had worn at the Bal du Réveillon.  That should bring in a pretty penny: he would take it to the Frip’ on Saturday. Running his hands over the smooth velvet, he noticed something in the right-hand pocket.  It was the white gold and sapphire necklace he had liberated from Sylvie’s neck during the waltz. Merde!  He had forgotten all about it.

Paris was awash with small jewellers in shady corners who didn’t enquire too closely into the provenance of any jewel a customer wished to sell.  The same could  not be said for Morbignan, and even St Rémy was too close for comfort.  He would have to go to Clermont l’Hérault and find an accommodating bijouterie.

While Gaspard was making elaborate excuses to justify a trip to Clermont, Robin Thornfield was also headed to the big town to see one of his petites amies.  Clermont l’Hérault is not a big town, but big enough to make a meeting between the two men unlikely.  Fate had other ideas.

Maison d’Or.  Despite its grandiose title, the jewellery shop was small and dingy, tucked away in the corner of a small square. Its owner, rejoicing in the serendipitous name of Herr Doktor Goldschmidt, was bent and wizened but his eyes were sharp.  ‘Here comes a likely one,’ he muttered to himself the moment Gaspard entered the shop.

Gaspard produced the necklace. ‘It’s my aunt’s,’ explained.  ‘She’s an old lady in straitened circumstances and she has asked me to sell it for her.’

Goldschmidt took the jewel to the window to examine it more closely; as Fate would have it, a young woman was just about to enter the shop.  Seeing the jeweller and what he held in his hands, she gave a little scream and wrenched open the door.

Sylvie Lacoste was in Clermont on an errand:  to buy her mother a birthday present.  She’d noticed Maison d’Or several times while in the town; it looked modest enough to stock something pretty which was within her budget.  But now…

‘That’s my necklace!’ she exclaimed.  ‘It was stolen from me in Paris last New Year’s Eve. How do you come to have it?’

‘Mademoiselle, you are mistaken,’ said Petit at his most suave.  ‘This trinket belongs to my aunt, who has asked me to sell it for her.  There must be many similar baubles like this one but this, I assure you, is not yours.’

Sylvie was insistent.  ‘No, it’s mine.  It was a present from my aunt, the Marquise de Saint-Esprit. And the man who stole it from me…’ she broke off and looked closely at Gaspard.

‘Call the police,’ she demanded.  ‘Call the police in Paris and ask for that kind Monsieur Durand.  He’ll remember me and what happened.’

‘One moment.’  Goldschmidt disappeared into a back room and returned with a pile of old newspapers.  ‘I keep these for wrapping parcels,’ he explained, ‘and I’m sure I saw… yes, yes! Here it is.’

He produced a copy of Le Parisien dated January and opened it.  Two pages were devoted to the daring robbery at the Hotel George V on New Year’s Eve, and the coverage included photographs of the stolen jewels.

‘It certainly looks like yours, Mademoiselle,’ he said.  ‘Perhaps we had better call the police after all.’

‘You fool!’ Petit snarled.  ‘Your bleary old eyes couldn’t tell a sapphire from a hen’s egg.  That bijou is mine, I tell you, and I am not going to stay here and be insulted by the likes of you and this hysterical girl.’

He grabbed the necklace and walked swiftly towards the door. His exit was blocked by a stout man with white hair.  A man Petit recognised.

Robin Thornfield was also in Clermont in search of jewellery.  He needed something gaudy enough to pacify his girlfriend Désirée but cheap enough to be affordable.  He was just debating whether to go in to the bijouterie when the raised voices inside caught his attention.  He decided to investigate.

Entering the shop, he almost cannoned into his hated rival.

‘You!’ spat both men simultaneously.

Sylvie was weeping quietly into a small white handkerchief.  Robin rushed to comfort her.

‘Now, what’s all this about?’ he wanted to know.

Three voices rose in a tangle of explanations, protestations and exclamations.  Thornfield listened for a moment, then quietly took the copy of Le Parisien from the jeweller’s hands.  A short perusal told him all he wanted to know.

‘So,’ he said, ‘Le Petit Chat is it?’  Well, that would make a nice story to tell in l’Estaminet.  What do you think your precious wife and her miser of a father would say if I told them they had a thief in the family?  You’d be out on your ear before you could say Le Petit Chat.

‘I think I’ll take care of that,’ he continued, and removed the necklace from Petit’s  hand; with a flourish, he bowed and presented it to Sylvie.

‘Yours, I believe, Mademoiselle,’ he murmured.

‘And as for you,’ he turned to Gaspard. ‘I’d mind my manners if I were you.  You don’t want the story getting out, do you? And I think I’ll keep this copy of Le Parisien, just as insurance.

Sylvie was beside herself.  ‘Oh, Monsieur, thank you so much.  How can I express my gratitude?’

‘Well,’ he looked into her pretty, tear-stained face, ‘You could start by letting me buy you a drink.’

Triumph was within his grasp.  What would Mimi’s face be like when he walked into the bar with this delicious titbit?  He licked his lips at the thought.

 

Chapter 12

LE PETIT CHAT EST MORT

MORBIGNAN LA CREBE, SATURDAY

‘So that’s how I met him,’ Sylvie sighed.  ‘Isn’t it strange?  You say the policeman met his wife through Le Petit Chat, and that’s how I met my husband too. Gaspard’s got a lot to answer for.  Although,’ she paused, looking over at Durand, who had his arm round Lili’s waist and was laughing at some story Thierry was telling, ‘it seems to have worked out better for him than it did for me.

‘Robin was quite handsome back then, believe it or not.  Do you know, he’s had that white hair since he was sixteen.  Apparently his mother did too, it runs in the family.  It was what they call a whirlwind courtship; he swept me off my feet and we were married within three months. Of course, what I didn’t realise until too late was that he believed I was very rich.  Yes, my aunt is a Marquise, but she hasn’t got any money to speak of, though of course she pretends to be a grande dame.  The diamonds were in the mont-de-piété, the pawn shop, more often than not.

‘Anyway, we got married, and it wasn’t long before I found out about all the other women in his life.  One of them actually believed he was married to her!’

‘And yet you’ve stayed with him all these years?’ Betty raised an eyebrow. ‘You are either a saint or a very foolish woman.’

‘You could say the same for Mireille Petit,’ Sylvie retorted. ‘Seeing her with Gaspard around the village I’ve often wondered why she stuck with him.  I wonder if she ever found out about Le Petit Chat.  As for me, I made the best of it, as women do.  I have a reasonable home, two lovely children and lots of friends.  I go my way and I let Robin go his, though he’s finding it harder to be the great seducer these days, now he’s getting fat.’

‘So what has changed?’ Betty said. ‘You said he was soon to be your ex.  Is that by your choice?’

James Carcenet kicked his mother-in-law in the shin.  Sometimes Betty could be too forthright – some might say nosy.

Sylvie sighed.  ‘You could say Gaspard Petit has something to do with that too.  He and Robin have always had history.  Robin had a fling with Mimi when they were much younger, but recently he’s been sniffing around her again.  I could put up with that, after all I’ve had enough practice.  But now there’s this money thing.’

Betty opened her mouth, but James shot her a warning look ad she closed it again.  To her gratification, Sylvie continued.

‘Robin’s awful with money.  He’s never been in regular employment; he gets odd jobs here and there, but he never keeps them very long.  To tell the truth, I’ve always wondered if he isn’t a bit light fingered.  And lately he’s started borrowing from everyone who will lend to him, and of course he never pays back.

‘Mimi was foolish enough to lend him a thousand euros a while back.  When Gaspard found out he was furious, and he and Robin had an almighty row last week. Robin came home muttering all kinds of threats abut what he’d do to him — heaven knows why, because it’s he who is in the wrong. Anyway, it will never come to anything, just six-year-olds fighting in the playground, if you ask me.

‘But it’s started to get really embarrassing.  Practically everyone we know is owed money by Robin, and suddenly I realised I’d just had enough. I wish….  What on earth is going on?’

A babble of shrieks and hysterical voices was coming from the terrace.  Marianne rushed to open the door, and as everyone crowded round to see what was amiss, two incoherent teenagers burst into the room.

‘He’s dead, he’s dead!’ sobbed the girl, shivering in the boy’s protective arm.

Lili came forward and took the girl’s hands.  ‘Calme-toi, ma petite, calm yourself. Who is dead?’ she said gently.

The boy made an effort to take charge of the situation.  ‘Down there,’ he said, gesturing behind himself.  ‘On the steps, les escaliers, a dead man.’

Agog and appalled the partygoers trooped down the winding stone staircase that ran from just underneath Thierry’s terrace and disappeared round the church.

At the bottom lay Gaspard Petit, his neck bent at an impossible angle.  His open eyes stared up into the unseeing sky.

 

CHAPTER 13

AN ACCIDENTAL REVELATION

 

MORBIGNAN LA CREBE, THREE WEEKS LATER

‘Papa’ Pardieu was in his element.  The fussy little mayor smoothed his moustache for the third time and looked round at the expectant faces gathered in l’Estaminet.

‘Alors…’ he began. Twelve mouths opened in a gape of anticipation.

‘We now have the results of the coroner’s enquiry into the untimely death of our fellow Morbignanais, Gapard Petit. The findings are as follows.’ He paused, relishing their attention.  ‘The findings are that there was nothing untoward in this death; it was, in fact, a tragic accident, no doubt brought on by an excessive consumption of Chateau Rouge-Gorge rosé.  Monsieur Petit, as we all know, was exceedingly fond of that particular beverage.’

Twelve faces fell.  It wasn’t the juicy piece of tittle tattle they were hoping for.

Pardieu went on.  ‘There was one detail which might have accounted for our friend’s tragic demise. On Monsieur Petit’s right leg, just above the ankle, was a curious crescent-shaped bruise.  One might surmise that the deceased caught his foot on a protruding root, and this caused his fall.  However, no such root was seen to be in the vicinity.  That being the case, the coroner had no choice but to return a verdict of accidental death by means unknown.’

Having had his moment, the mayor rose, gave a stiff little bow to the assembled villagers and departed. His secretary Josephine would be waiting at the mairie with his afternoon tisane and two madeleines.

The patrons of L’Estaminet broke into a babble of voices as groups formed and excited discussions began.

‘In a way, it’s the end of an era,’ said Richard Patterson, cradling a demi and munching on an olive. ‘We’ve all had our issues with Petit — you more than most,’ he chuckled, turning to his friend Durand, ‘but you have to admit he was one of the village characters.’

‘Maybe so,’ said James Carcenet, ‘but you didn’t have to live next to him.  He was on the whole quite an unpleasant neighbour.  He took against us for some reason, and when he was drunk he used to shout and swear at us in the street. He even cut our phone wires once, and he reported us to the préfecture because he said we had cut a window in our end wall without official permission.

‘A man arrived from Clermont to investigate and he was most displeased when we showed him the paperwork, signed by our very own mayor!  I think he was going to have a strong word with Petit about wasting his time.‘

‘To be honest, if someone did do him in, they would have been doing us a favour.  Ow!’ Once again James had kicked Betty sharply in the shins.

Bernard Durand sucked thoughtfully on his pipe.  ‘I know it’s delicious to speculate, but honestly I doubt if it was murder.  The brute was drunk most of the time, and it’s not surprising if he took a tumble. Ah, here’s Lili.  She said she might be joining us.’

As the singer made her way towards them, Durand leaned across and, with an expert twist of his wrist, used the curved handle of his walking stick to hook a chair for her from a nearby table.

Richard Patterson stifled a gasp.  Watching the manoeuvre, he had a sudden flash of insight.  Pardieu’s words came back to him:  ‘A curious crescent-shaped bruise, just above Petit’s right ankle.’

He looked at his friend with a wild surmise.

 

 

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