By Cass Carlton
An Evening in Paris
Pierre St. Cloud sat at the corner table in the Cafe de Boulevard with a cup of coffee going cold in front of him.
An image of the agonised face of his friend Alphonse Lombard staring at him leapt before his mind's eye.
"Please Pierre, you must speak to Inge. She will know what to do. All will be well if you speak to her and tell her. You must go to her. There is no one else to help."
Pierre could hear the blood bubbling in Alphonse's lungs and knew there was no time to spare.
He held the dying man's head to his chest and asked," Where will I find her?"
"The Cafe de Boulevard. Ask for my usual table. She comes in around 7-7.30 pm- - -" he broke off, choking.
With a superhuman effort Alphonse rallied himself and went on speaking.
"'The call sign is :"Keep your coat buttoned, it's cold tonight".' When she hears that she will know you have come from me".
"But, I don't know her Alphonse. How will I- - - ?"
The pain filled eyes kindled with a last smile.
"She knows of you Mon Brave. I have spoken of you to her many times Trust her. You will be safe with her." The rasping breath became a trickle of air as Alphonse gasped his last words."Adieu Mon Brave, Bon chance."
The grasp on Pierre's coat sleeve relaxed as Alphonse died in Pierre's arms.
Pierre laid his friend's lifeless form back onto the bed and covered him with a rug.
He stood gazing at him for a moment realizing he should remove himself from there while he safely could.
He picked up the slim volume of poetry he had left on the table and replaced it in his coat pocket.
It was to have been a gift for Alphonse.
The dingy little room bore no further imprint of his presence.
The remains of Alphonse's address book and other papers were already a pile of ashes in the fireplace when he had arrived in answer to the phone call at the airport.
The phone? There it was, under the table, its cord wrenched out of the wall.
He stood there for a moment, his gloved hand on the light switch.
The old clock on the mantle piece had stopped and the room was still and quiet.
With a final glance at the motionless form on the bed and a murmured "Rest in Peace",Pierre flicked the light off, closed the door quietly behind him and went back down the stairs.
The late afternoon air felt fresh on his face as the squalid reek of the building was swept away with the scent of flowers from a nearby barrow.
There were few people about, just a woman in a long green coat, who was obviously going somewhere else, and a man who strolled off in the same direction.
Pulling his collar up against a fresh little breeze, Pierre headed for the river where he could find a seat and some quiet time to think.
His mind was a whirl of unanswered questions.
He tried to clear his head of the confusion since the phone call that had met him at the airport.
He had heard the PA over the hubbub and din of Orly airport and felt a chill of premonition.
"Telephone for Msr.Pierre St. Cloud, arriving from London.Telephone for Msr. Pierre St. Cloud. "
It had been Alphonse, brassy voice diminished, but still easily recognizable after nearly three years.
"Pierre, my dear friend. So sorry not to be there to meet you, but there's been a cock up and I want you to meet me at the apartment".
There was a note in Alphonse's voice that put a little trickle of icy uncertainty down Pierre's neck.
He was surprised at Alphonse's change of plans. Seldom had he been directed to another place to meet other than the cafe where Alphonse held court, or the lovely chateau on the coast of Brittany the Lombard family had called home for generations.
Alphonse and Pierre had been friends since early youth, as close as brothers, but as different as chalk and cheese.
To be continued.
By Cass Carlton
Pierre was the son of elderly parents who died when he was twelve. Most of his early adolescence was spent in the company of older cousins and relatives, who, although fond of the quiet, young boy, were mainly pre-occupied with their own affairs.
Being a solitary soul by nature, Pierre didn't really feel the lack of close companionship
That changed dramatically when he was sent to the college of St. Etienne in Switzerland.
It was one of the world's best schools for scholastic excellence.
Pierre's own father had been a Head Boy in his time as a student at St.Etienne's and so Pierre was accepted without question.
He soon grew used to living with three other boys in their suite of two bedrooms and a bathroom but realized early on that he was smarter than a good percentage of his classmates, but decided to keep that particular fact to himself.
One of his room mates was Alphonse Lombard. The youngest son of Msr Gaston Jacques Lombard , an advisor to the French Ministry of Defense.
A year older than Alphonse and already fluent in several languages, Pierre made it his task to coach the young French lad in English.
It was then that Alphonse realized he had a natural flair for languages and settled down to study under Pierre's tuition.
They kept it between themselves and so when Alphonse passed an English exam with flying colours, the master accused him of cheating.
An indignant Alphonse rang his father who immediately descended on the hallowed halls of St.Etienne's College For Young Gentlemen and loudly announced that his son was leaving.
It was only Pierre's skilful diplomacy that prevented Msr.Lombard Snr. from doing as he intended. An international incident was averted, and Pierre's reputation as a diplomat was assured.
From then on Alphonse and Pierre became fast friends, with holidays spent at Chateau Lombard, sailing in the lovely little yacht Pierre inherited from his father which they kept at the chateau's boat marina.
After he left school with distinctions in his studies of ancient Eastern
languages, PIerre found a position at the Louvre as a categories clerk in the
Oriental section. His work was satisfying and interesting, and, well paid, enabling him to purchase a three bedroom apartment overlooking a small, elegant park in a tree filled Parisian suburb and furnish it to his liking.
He was also able to indulge his fancy for pre 17th century art and many other lovely things that took his eye.
He was a shy person, who never considered himself attractive to women. So, he remained celibate, although he was well past his 30th birthday. Far from mean, he was naturally frugal so his position at the Museum brought him more than he needed in the way of financial rewards.
************************************************************
Alphonse was different! Mon Dieu! How different!
Loud was the word! loud laugh, loud automobile, loud clothes, loud parties.
Always some woman draped over his arm .
Always another ever eager to take her place.
All beautiful, elegant and ready for any escapade that Alphonse suggested.
The recollection of the first occasion he had met the rowdy crowd, filled Pierre with amused disgust .
It had proved to be an unruly assembly, under the trees in the Wintergarden of an hotel out on the Rue de la Russe and wasn't what Pierre had anticipated when he accepted the invitation.
He had expected to be one of a select few joining Alphonse at a celebration of the end of University days and the announcement of his acceptance of a junior posting in a Government department .
This was totally different.
So many people! So many voices and accents!
Alphonse was in his element.
Switching from French to English, from German to Russian, he worked the room.
Wherever he stood there would be a crowd of laughing faces surrounding him.
His lean, tanned face lit by a piratical grin, his glass never empty, his arm around some lovely, laughing nymph, this was what Alphonse craved.
Excitement!
No dull job at a departmental desk for him. He had found his niche in life and was resolved to follow it through to what ever the end might be.
It occurred to Pierre that his friend was intent on a course of self destruction.
He realized that if Alphonse was determined to follow this path, there was little he, Pierre, could do to alter his friend's decision.
They would stay friends, but at a distance, which caused Pierre an odd sadness although his acceptance of the situation was as stoic as ever.
Then, to his amazement, he learned of Alphonse's liking for the poetry Pierre had been translating from an obscure Oriental text.
There had been one piece in particular which had touched Pierre the most.
It was a love poem written centuries ago by a lonely soldier on a distant outpost .The thoughts were ancient, but the words were timeless.
As he read them Pierre was surprised with a sense of kinship towards the young soldier who had written them more than a thousand years ago to a girl he barely knew.
Her name was "Nightingale Moon."
Thinking of her name was enough to jerk Pierre back to the present. The girls! Their names! He thought there was one called Yvette. He was almost sure there had been a Ninette.
His brain would not co-operate and he fell back to wondering what Inge looked like.
Was she short or tall.? Dark haired or fair.? More to the point, did she know what he looked like?
to be continued
.
By Cass Carlton
Pierre's mind began to buzz again with the unanswered questions regarding this fateful rendezvous, so he took himself for a slow stroll around the boulevard to collect his thoughts and fill in some of the time before he needed to be at the table waiting and watching for Inge.
Flower sellers were there with great bunches of sweet peas, nosegays of violets and bouquets of early roses. Pierre found the perfume from them intoxicating and drew their sweetness into his lungs with deep breaths.
An organ grinder played an old tune on an ancient barrel organ while a small monkey in a tiny coat and hat collected coins from the passersby.
Pierre's proffered coin was snatched by the tiny, claw-like hand as the monkey fled away chattering excitedly.
The organ grinder smiled and raised his hat as Pierre went on his way.
A flock of telegram boys sat loitering around the side door of the Post Office, their bicycles a tangle of wheels and handlebars along the curb.
One or two glanced up at him as he passed, taking in the tall, lean figure in the slate grey suit, and returned to their nicotine reeking idleness.
From the nearby church a peal of bells announced the approaching Angelus hour as a cold little wind blew across the cobbled expanse of the boulevard, drawing day closer to night.
Pierre continued on his way around the square, although he had little interest in the modish little boutiques selling elegant gowns and smart chapeaus that clustered along the far side.
Finally, Pierre turned towards the royal blue and gold awning above the door of the Cafe de Boulevard .
The interior of the cafe was as elegant as the blue and gold entrance, carrying the colour scheme through with golden Fleurs de Lys decorating everything from menus and wine lists to edging the great mirrors in the foyer and over the bar.
The Maitre de Hotel was a tall, elegantly thin man, his pale face arranged in a carefully neutral expression.
As he came to Pierre's side he assessed in one all seeing sweep, the Saville Row tailored clothes, the Italian shoes and the clear grey eyes, slightly above level with his own.
"Monsieur?" he smiled into Pierre's face," It is early for dinner, but perhaps we can find a table----"
"I wish," said Pierre in faultless French," to sit at the table of Msr. Alphonse Lombard".
The head waiter recoiled slightly as his face resumed its neutral mask.
"Who?" he asked, raising his eyebrows enquiringly.
"Lombard. Alphonse LOM-bard. He dines here every Monday evening."
"Does he?" The waiter was giving nothing away and Pierre felt a sense of mild irritation. He decided on a more direct approach.
"Mr. Lombard's table is the one in the far corner. No.1 as I recall. I wish to sit there tonight. No where else will do, it must be there.
I am PIerre St. Cloud, a close friend of Msr. Lombard".
Pierre's eyes met the waiter's in a clash of cold, grey ice as he turned towards the corner table.
Then, he peeled his Saville Row overcoat from his shoulders and dropped it onto the waiter's hands. The waiter froze , outrage flushing his elegantly pale cheeks.
Without waiting for a chair to be set for him, Pierre pulled one out from the table and sat down, looking out towards the door.
He glanced up at the waiter and said, with a resumption of his usual quiet tone," Cafe, si'ls vous plait. Noir. Tres noir."
The Maitre de snapped his fingers to a passing underling.
"Black coffee for this gentleman. Smartly! And" he added "Have them hang this coat in the cloakroom. The name is St. Cloud."
The coffee soon arrived and Pierre sipped it absent mindedly, his eyes on the people filtering through from the royal blue foyer for an early dinner.
None of them looked like someone called Inge. He found himself grappling with the strange events of just a few hours ago.
A phone call at the airport had diverted him from his booking at the Hotel Metropole to a set of dingy rooms Alphonse had referred to as "the apartment".
There he had found his friend dying from a fusillade of bullets.
He must have known of the approaching danger, because a heap of papers was already curling into ashes in the fireplace.
Alphonse had stumbled to the door in answer to Pierre's knock and fallen unconscious briefly, but roused himself to speak his dying words.
The rasping voice echoed in Pierre's ears as Alphonse's life ebbed away. "Pierre, my friend. There is great danger. Go to Inge. She knows what to do. I am sorry to leave you this way, but all will be well once you find Inge."
Realization flooded Pierre's mind as Alphonse's words beat into his brain.
A woman was in deadly danger and he, Pierre St Cloud, was all that stood between her and her nemesis.
He had never allowed himself to become embroiled in any of the goings on of Alphonse's odd friends, but this was proving to be the exception to the rule.
He wondered briefly what the danger was that threatened her so acutely.
No matter. Whatever it was, he, Pierre St Cloud, would save this unfortunate young woman and set her on a safe path through life.
. In the days that followed he would offer It up as a farewell gesture to Alphonse.
A new emotion filled him. A sense of purpose, of being involved.
He wrapped it around himself like an old seadog wearing his colours into battle.
He sat gazing out at the growing crowd of patrons, when a bevy of laughing, fashionably dressed young women came in and stopped dead at the sight of Pierre sitting at the corner table.
His eyes raked over each pretty face briefly, waiting for some response, but none came.
The women's voices dropped to urgent whispers as one slipped back out of the door. She didn't return.
Pierre could feel them watching him and considered going over to speak to them.
Then, She came in.
to be continued
| Author Notes |
Engaged in a life-or-death mission to save an unknown woman named "Inge", Pierre St Cloud has spent a couple of hours sitting at the table where his friend Alphonse told him to sit and wait for "Inge" to make an appearance.
now read on |
By Cass Carlton
She was tall, dark haired and swathed in rich, red velvet. And, she was alone.
She too, stared at him sitting in Alphonse's place, but soon adopted an expression of boredom and sat lounging at a side table, smoking out of a long cigarette holder, while her heavily painted eyes flicked from the room to the door.
It was apparent that she was waiting for someone, but who?
Was she the one whose life depended on a single sentence?
What would happen if he failed to warn her?
Suddenly the blue curtains were thrust aside as a man wearing a chauffeur's uniform entered.
He stood at the scarlet clad woman's side and clicked his heels.
She glanced up at him and rose to go.
Galvanized into action, Pierre leapt to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him.
"Wait!" he cried, aghast that she might be walking blindly into danger.
"Un moment, Madamoiselle"
Startled, she turned as Pierre's hand touched her sleeve.
The painted eyes looked up at him with a serpent like intensity.
For a moment Pierre froze under the cold, reptilian gaze and completely forgot what he had to say.
Frantically he tried to remember."Er, don't go out it's cold. No that's wrong."
Her arched brows drew together in a haughty frown as she turned away.
"No!Please! Mamselle!"
She whipped around on him at that and snapped
"Madame if you please.. Now get out of my way."
Like a line of illumined writing the message came back to him.
He leaned closer and spoke softly in her ear.
"Keep your coat buttoned. It's cold tonight."
She looked at him intently for a moment before her face writhed into a leer.
"This coat doesn't have buttons on it. Codhead. Wanna know why? It makes it easy for my old man, going home in the car."
She smirked at the look of revulsion on his face and pushed past him to the door.
The last he heard was a cackle of artificial laughter as she climbed into the gleaming limousine waiting at the front of the restaurant.
The car slid away into the night leaving Pierre rigid with shock, stunned at her vulgarity.
to be continued
By Cass Carlton
Pierre became aware of a gentle but firm hand under his elbow as a deferential waiter courteously led him back to his table.
The maitre de had righted his chair and stood behind it ready to push it in when Pierre sat down.
When he was seated, a fresh pot of coffee and a platter of cheese and greens materialised before him on the crisp white cloth.
The head waiter's thin, aristocratic face was almost sympathetic as he poured coffee into a fresh cup and leaned over to speak.
"A most distressing occurrence," he said his eyes on Pierre's pale face. "As a friend of Monsieur Lombard I regret such an incident in my establishment."
Pierre looked up at him, the shock he had received still evident in his face.
"I needed to meet someone. I thought that she----"
The maitre de shrugged eloquently.
"Not that one. She is Madame Louise Goudet. Wife of Colonel Richard Goudet, the head of a Government Ministry. Something to do with supplying the Army I am told."
PIerre nodded absently, asking himself if Inge had come and gone un-noticed in the brief furore.
The other man slid into the chair opposite Pierre and went on speaking.
"They hate each other, but he is too rich for her to leave him and she is too dangerous for him to abandon.So she frequents her old haunts and he collects her on the way home from his club.
She is vicious , that one. Fortunately we don't see her here very often."
He leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur.
"If Monsieur is lonely, there is a small establishment not far from here which I can vouch for. Their discretion is assured and---"
Pierre's expression flashed from disgust to anger and then Just as rapidly to amusement as the track of the Maitre de's reasoning hit him.
Of course it would appear to be an attempted pickup. A lucky thing too, since it would have hidden his real intentions.
He smiled into the dark eyes of the man opposite.
Relief flooded the head waiter's face as he smiled back at Pierre.
He feared at the moment of speaking that he had misjudged this tall, elegant man and brought shame and disgrace upon himself for actually being wrong.
"Where is this place?" asked Pierre.
"Not far Monsieur, Just across the boulevard and down Rue de la Roi. It's the house on the corner with roses growing along the pathway."
Pierre had already decided that his mission had failed and saw this as an opportunity to retreat from the Cafe de Boulevard. He was angry that he had failed in this simple task.
.Angry with himself and sickened as he realized some hapless woman remained oblivious to a deadly danger at his failure to warn her.
The waiter was still speaking and Pierre heard him say
"But keep your coat buttoned, it's cold tonight".
Pierre's eyes widened.Had the waiter just given the call sign or was it just coincidence?
He felt his knees buckle under him slightly so he sat down again . Their eyes met and in that fraction of a second the waiter unmistakably winked.
At that moment a waft of perfume enveloped them as a soft, husky voice asked, "Excuse me, but is that Camembert Swiss or French?"
PIerre looked towards the newcomer, but all he could see was a mane of golden, hair haloed against the light.
A pale, long fingered hand reached out and took a small wedge of creamy cheese from the platter. She tasted it and announced
"French".
The maitre de uttered an exclamation of pleasure and caught the lovely hand to his lips with an effusive greeting. Then, beaming he swept away to bring another setting to the table.
Pierre rose to draw a chair for her, but she patted him back into his seat and sat down gracefully. He felt she was no stranger to the Cafe de Boulevard, but was unsure of how to proceed.
She took some more cheese and a couple of crisp little wafer biscuits and ate them carefully, washing them down with a sip from the brimming glass that had appeared as if by magic before her.
"I" she said,"am Inge".
to be continued
By Cass Carlton
Pierre stared at the lovely face smiling at him. After spending the last few hours wondering what she would look like he was astonished to find she was just as he had imagined she would be. Blonde, blue eyed and beautiful.
So", she said " What has happened?"
Pierre didn't know what to say to her direct enquiry so he repeated the line of words he had committed to memory ." Keep your coat buttoned; it's cold tonight."
Her eyes widened for a moment before she turned away, and Pierre realized she was in tears. He reached out and caught her fingers in his and they curled into his palm like a child's seeking comfort.
Her cheeks had paled but she held herself together, taking another sip from her glass.
"We must keep ourselves ready for such- - - events," she said with a quaver in her voice ,"but it is always such a - -shock .Especially with one such as he".
A tear trickled down her cheek as she spoke, and Pierre was glad that she was faced away from the room to spare her any embarrassment.
His chivalrous instincts were well and truly aroused by now as he held out an immaculate white, monogrammed handkerchief from his own pocket.
She took it with a murmur of thanks and dabbed at her eyes.
"Now I am a mess . Non?" she asked, attempting a watery smile.
"Non!" he insisted, his hand still entwined with hers.
He stopped himself from launching into voluble French compliments, wondering where the impulse had come from.
Instead he returned to the final words Alphonse had spoken.
"Alphonse's last thoughts were of you. He was very concerned for your safety. He was most concerned that you are in danger and he pleaded with me to seek you out. To warn you ---"
"Me?" she exclaimed, "It isn't I who needs protection Mon ami, but you!"
Pierre was confused. He felt as though someone had pulled the rug from beneath his feet and he was spinning in a helpless tumble towards the floor.
The main reason he had avoided becoming involved with Alphonse and his odd bunch of cronies was this kind of situation. It was complete anathema to his quiet, orderly mind.
"I am in danger?," he repeated "How can that be? From whom? Why?"
Inge removed her fingers from Pierre's grasp and sat back in her chair.
Her self- control had returned and she was once more in command of herself.
She studied him for a moment before she went on.
"I think, " she said "we should leave here and go to the house down the Rue de la Roi."
Pierre's heart sank. A bordello? A Maison de la femmes ? Surely not!
Inge smiled mischievously at his expression of concern.
"Come Pierre, I have been there many times before. It is not quite as you think. You will meet many friends you didn't know you had.
They all wish to meet you. Let's not disappoint them."
Pierre helped Inge into her coat and then donned his own. With a nod to the Maitre de they left the Boulevard Cafe and went out into the night.
They didn't speak as they walked across the cobbled surface and down the Rue de la Roi towards a large house with roses growing profusely along the path to the front door.
They went down the passage past several beautifully appointed boudoirs.
From some came the sound of laughter and the clink of glasses, while from one came the sweet sound of a mandolin and a woman singing a love song.
They emerged into a large, open room with windows open to the evening air.
They found somewhere to sit as their coats were removed and swept away to the cloakroom.
Other people were present, sitting at small tables or standing in small groups.
They ordered drinks as Inge went on with her conversation.
"Alphonse never told you just what his interest in your poetry translations was, did he?" Pierre shook his head,
"Alphonse was the head of a secret division of cryptographers hidden deep in the ranks of the UN.
He took the position right from the end of University days and was by far the most talented and skillful of all the men who had headed this branch for years."
Pierre smiled, recalling the weeks he had spent as a youth teaching Alphonse the intricacies of the English language.
Inge had stopped speaking and Pierre turned to her.
"When did Alphonse begin to use my -that is- the poetry books for his work.?"
" It was some years ago. He was about to transcribe a message from the Kremlin when he noticed a similarity in the placement of words in a little book of translated Laotian poetry he had received from you that very day.'
Pierre recalled the small volume she spoke of.
It had been his first foray into translating ancient poetry from the old language into the new speech of the modern day. He had called it " Laotian Shadows" and was amazed when it sold out within hours with every store clamoring for more.
A subsequent edition had the same effect, so he started work on another publication slightly larger than the first .
He made it of Cambodian poetry intermingled with a few folk tales, illustrated with the original sketches nearly 800 years old.
It too was a smash hit, with the Cambodian Embassy inviting Pierre to a delightful soiree at the Art Gallery.
Alphonse had been there too, as noisy as ever, but he had at least
acknowledged Pierre's skill as an interpreter and translator.
The lovely woman Alphonse had escorted was of oriental ethnicity and she had shyly asked Pierre to autograph her copy of "Echoes of Cambodia".
He had done so and returned the slim volume to the gracefully bowing woman with an embarrassed smile and a hurried excuse to extricate himself.
Inge's quiet voice broke in on Pierre's reverie as she said,
"If you had been discovered as the author of the codes Alphonse used so successfully for so long, your life would have been in danger."
Pierre felt a chill run down his spine as the import of her words struck him like a wave of icy water.
Minutes ago that he was imagining it was someone else, a woman, whose life was threatened.
It had been his life all along.
All of Alphonse's erratic behaviour fell into clear perspective as Pierre saw, for the first time his friend's unceasing efforts to keep him safe from the death he ultimately suffered.
It might have been Pierre St Cloud who died in an out of the way corner, not Alphonse Louis Lombard!
"If they had found you they would have kidnapped you first, possibly to attempt to turn you to their way of thinking.
It wouldn't have been pleasant and probably not the worst thing you would suffer.
It would end in only one way. With a bullet between the eyes."
He felt his stomach churn at the idea of suddenly being "liquidated" and sat very still as his head slowly stopped spinning.
to be continued
By Cass Carlton
Inge tells Pierre of the merciless reception he would have met had the enemies of the Network found him first.
Pierre was filled with a sense of utter dread. It was as if one of his childhood nightmares had retuned to haunt him. He wanted to flee this whole miasma of intrigue and darkness and return to the quiet life he had always known. But, was this possible now.?
Now Read On
In the midst of Pierre's confusion a man put his head around the corner.
"There you are", he beamed, " come along, time to be introduced."
He reached a long arm to Pierre. "Jim Wilson", he announced." I know who you are.
Alphonse spoke of you often. You were his dearest friend and companion. He loved you."
These words spoken by a complete stranger had a salutary effect upon Pierre.The handshake was reassuring in its firm, dry grip as Jim leaned over to plant a kiss on Inge's soft cheek with a "Hiya gorgeous".
Inge spoke softly to Pierre as they followed Jim out to the patio where they were met with a small pattering of applause.
"Jim is- was Alphonse's right hand man. He knew as much about the codes and ciphers as Alphonse did. He must be shattered by this night's news."
Jim held his hand up and they all fell silent. His French was tinged with a British accent.
"Tonight, my friends, we mourn the loss of one of our own.
It is with great sadness that I must advise you that Alphonse Lombard has died. He protected The Network to the last but paid the ultimate price.
He was found by a friend who loved him and whose loyalty and decency I can vouch for."
Jim's tear filled eyes looked blindly out at the assembled people.
"To me" he went on," Alphonse was more than a friend. He was a fellow fighter against the sickening tide of evil that threatens to engulf us.
He was quite simply my brother-in -arms. Together we stood against the child traffickers, the slave trade, the drug runners, the gun sellers.
We made a difference he and I and all our confederates in "The Network", but now he has gone we must find another."
Jim waited a minute or so before continuing as there had been a flutter of hands blessing themselves and from some a softly spoken orison to farewell their fellow cryptographer.
Using the moment to compose himself, Jim's measured voice continued.
"However, the work will go on. The one who made our organization as safe as it is today stands among us at this very moment. He is Pierre St. Cloud."
There was a burst of spontaneous applause that made Inge smile delightedly into Pierre's eyes to be met with an answering grin.
Jim draped a long arm around Pierre's shoulders and stood introducing the people who came up to meet him.
Pierre realized that far from being overwhelmed by all this unusual attention, he was very much at home.
He smiled into their eyes and made some small personal remark to each one, leaving them feeling as though he knew something about them and were intrigued to know what it was.
They were people from all walks of life, and Pierre was surprised to see the organ grinder in the crowd.
There was also a young boy he recognized as one of the lads lounging around the side door of the Post Office.
Pierre smiled back at the boy's sly grin and raised finger.
His name was Charles- Henri and he had been with the Network since he left school.
The young lad had an air about him of quiet confidence, as if he knew what the future would require of him and he was just biding his time.
"One day," he said to Pierre, " I shall be a Master of Ciphers like Monsieur Lombard. Then I shall have an automobile just like his with many lovely ladies to keep me company."
Pierre smiled at Charles- Henri's aspirations, but believed that he would do far more than drive a fast car and drape pretty companions with expensive presents .
There was a slight stir as the monkey from the boulevard landed, with the impact of a falling autumn leaf, on Pierre's shoulder.
He reached up and stroked the tiny head, his long fingers gentle to the mouse-like creature.
It went through his pockets one by one until it found a half a peanut and squeaked its delight.
It sat on his shoulder with the morsel in its little hands, chittering happily.
. When the organ grinder reached out to take the monkey back, it let out a tiny shriek of protest and clung to Pierre's fingers, scolding all the while.
The organ grinder grinned at Pierre and shrugged. "He likes you, Monsieur." He chucked the monkey under its chin and held out his hand ,fingers cupped. He made a soft, shushing noise the little creature imitated and the next thing it settled down to sleep in the big warm hand.
Pierre was charmed by such trusting behaviour.
He gently tucked the tail in and with one finger stroked the tiny head. It was fast asleep.
"Baptiste is never wrong when he chooses his friends. He has chosen you, so I, too will be your friend." Pierre was touched by the swarthy man's words and made a swift rejoinder.
" And I shall be your friend, and a friend to this small one, also."
The response was a white grin under the heavy moustache as a large hand took his and the man announced ,
" I am Jean -Luc Despard. The small one is Baptiste. I found him on the docks in Marseilles one rainy night five years ago.
He saved my life that night and has done so more than once since then, so he is not only my friend but a guardian angel."
Pierre was intrigued at Jean-Luc's words, but made no distinct reply as he noticed a hard faced woman glaring at Jim from the doorway of the veranda.
She looked slightly familiar to Pierre, but was staring at Jim with an expression of utter hatred.
To Be Continued
By Cass Carlton
The woman vanished just as Pierre was about to remark on her to Inge.
He looked about to find her and was stunned to see she was inching closer to Jim Wilson's back.
"Jim!" he called, "Look out," Pierre half rose from his seat, too far away to do anything except watch as the woman moved closer to her prey.
Horrified, he and Inge watched as the woman pushed her way through the small group of people surrounding Jim. Her expression had intensified as she raised an arm holding a large vase to bring it crashing down on Jim's unsuspecting head.
He fell like a tree in the forest and lay as still as a statue.
There was pandemonium as the woman began shrieking profanity at Jim and someone else called Dorian.
"You lied to me ," she shrieked. "You tricked me into telling you about the shipment of "sensitive goods". You knew what they'd do next. Why didn't you warn me?" the woman sobbed hysterically as Jim lay prone on the floor, a pool of blood starting to flow from under his head .
Jim groaned and sat up amongst the shards of broken pottery.
His face was a mask of pain and he winced as his fingers found the wound on the side of his head. He glanced up at the sobbing, struggling woman.
"Falina," he muttered, "how the hell did she get in here?"
Then, Pierre had a flash of memory as he placed her outside the building where Alphonse had met his end.
Over near the flower sellers. Yes! He could see her clearly in his mind's eye.
It was certainly the same woman. Taller than average, she had been attractive once, but time had laid lines across her face and changed a pleasant expression to one of suspicion and fear.
She was hunched in her green wraparound coat, her face almost hidden in the fringed collar as she gave the organ grinder a wide berth and went the other way from where Pierre stood.
Jim stood up and gave an order to a man standing nearby. He nodded and took the woman by the arms and led her away..
As she passed Inge and Pierre, she turned and looked him right in the face. Her mouth curved into a parody of a smile as she leaned towards him and hissed,
"Your noisy friend didn't like me, but I sorted him out once and for all."
Pierre stared at her for a moment, the import of her words bearing in like a wall collapsing in front of him.
Quite unconsciously, he reached out, grabbed the front of her coat and yanked her off her feet.
She shrieked in terror at the expression on Pierre's face.
HIs jaw was set like granite and his grey eyes were blazing with a fury he had never experienced before.
He lifted the woman as if she was a rag doll and her feet slipped out of her shoes as she wavered between the floor and somewhere above it.
JIm's jaw dropped in astonishment at the sight of Pierre's furious response to the woman's mocking remark.
Very quickly other men stepped in and released her from Pierre's iron grasp, and she was led away sobbing in terror.
Pierre was quite stunned at his own actions. This was so unlike the self- effacing man he had always believed himself to be.
Inge gazed at him in admiration, causing his heart to skip a beat.
He smiled back at her not knowing how the softening of his features made her pulse beat faster just as his had done.
He distinctly recalled an encouraging squeeze of his shoulder as people had swarmed around them and someone murmured "Bravo mon fils" in his ear.
Inge looked at him with something other than the friendly courtesy she had hitherto displayed, and Pierre felt his spirits rise.
Jim had been ushered away to have his wound seen to, while amid a coldly silent group of onlookers, Falina Dupont was taken away in a large car with darkened windows.
Pierre watched as the car glided away into the night, his heart sick at the thought that such a person as she had ended his friend's life.
There was a slight movement on his collar as Pierre felt the little monkey return to his shoulder. It chittered into his ear as its master Jean -Luc Despard, the organ grinder fixed him with a laughing look and shook his head.
"Mon Ami, you speak for us all. That one," he said as he nodded towards the receding tail lights of the large, dark windowed car," Was trouble from the start. Never quiet, always the great drama. N' cest pas, ma chere madamoiselle?" He turned to Inge for confirmation of his words .
"Yes, indeed," she agreed." One minute she was condemning the man we sought and then, in the next breath she was sobbing about how she'd put herself in danger by speaking to us."
Her face hardened from its youthful expression to one of cold anger as she went on." She came to us in the first place. There was no coercion or persuasion involved."
Jean -Luc grunted in agreement.
" She wanted to be paid," he said, " A large sum in American dollars."
Inge took up the tale, her quiet voice clearly sounding in Pierre's ears.
"Once it was paid, she began asking for more and then, when finally they refused, she threatened to expose the Network. Alphonse was furious.
He met her at the 'apartment' to see if he could convince her to reconsider.
We had no idea she was as disturbed as this, but we think to get close to Alphonse she must have had an accomplice."
Pierre remembered the man who had strolled away in the same direction as the woman and said,
" Possibly. It could have been a man. One who could get close to Alphonse without it being remarked upon."
Inge and Jean-Luc looked at each other and spoke in unison.
"Theodore Montpelier."The owner of the building where Alphonse had died .
He was a hazy, indistinct character who professed to champion the Network and its ideals, but who had been found to be closely linked to those whose ethics had never been compliant with the Network's.
Pierre had no idea who they were talking about, but gave a full description of the man he had seen. Even down to the claw-like left hand and the slight limp assisted by a built up heel on his left shoe.
Jean-Luc and Inge were grim faced when Pierre had finished speaking. He had described Theodore Montpelier exactly and they knew a decision must be made.
However, that decision wasn't theirs to make. A report was written and sent immediately to a desk "somewhere in MI6."
There were other matters which were held against Theodore Montpelier and it was decided that retribution needed to be swift and definite.
A skilled assassin was sent to dispatch this person who had encompassed the death of their beloved leader, and his report was short and to the point.
Sometime before dawn on the next morning, an Email landed on an out of the way web site. It said, "The house is empty. Vaya con Dios."
Alphonse Lombard had been avenged.
Falina Dupont was known to be mentally unstable, so she was sent to an asylum for the criminally insane.
It was a well run, elegant establishment with electronic devices all over the grounds and buildings. The place was known for its discretion although the darker side of the institution was not known to the general public.
The residents in that part of the complex were all treated with humanity and respect, but their medication was zealously supervised.
No-one was ever let off taking their nightly pills and people like Falina , guilty, but insane, would live brief lives of comfort and ease, before succumbing to pneumonia or some other well documented malaise.
Pierre felt as if his face was graven in stone as he learned what was in store for Falina, but as Inge continued to relate the story, he heard that she was all alone in the world and had been mentally fragile for as long as they had known her.
The degree of fragility hadn't been known to them until just lately when she had picked up a large knife and threatened to slit the throat of Dorian le Marque, Jim's partner in Falina's imagined crime.
As they sat back and relaxed, Jim returned from having his wound dressed. He dropped into a chair and gazed at them owlishly from beneath a faintly piratical bandage covering half of his scalp and face.
He fixed Inge with a tender expression and said softly, "Hiya gorgeous, will you marry me?"
to be continued
' '
By Cass Carlton
Inge fixed Jim with an amused expression and shook her head. She glanced across at Pierre and smiled reassuringly at him.
"It's alright," she explained,"whenever he has an anaesthetic he becomes very fond and chivalrous. It would be a mistake to take him seriously."
Placing her hand on Jim's arm she addressed him sympathetically.
"You need a couple of days to recover yourself, Mon cher. Soon you will be home with Margo and Alysse. They will call Henri in to lift you and put you to bed. All will be well.
Jim nodded docilely and sat with his eyes closed, his tanned face pale.
Inge glanced at Jean-Luc who was already heaving himself out of his chair. He hefted Jim easily onto his shoulder while Pierre took the other side of Jim's lanky form and helped him walk up the passage to the front door.
A car stood at the curb. As they came out of the front door of the house, the back door opened and two large young men came forward to take Jim into their care.
One was very tall and seemed to be on close terms with the older man.
He wrapped his arms around Jim and led him to the car.
For a moment Jim demurred and insisted on turning back to Pierre and Inge.
He drew the young man to stand in front of him.
"This," he announced, "is William, my son." Inge smiled up at him and Pierre offered a hand to shake. The young man turned to his father.
"You've been playing rough again, Papa. What will Alysse say when she sees you with a bandage?" Jim gave a watery grin and shrugged.
"Your wife will forgive me. If you ask her to that is." he added.
The second young man spoke quietly to Inge. " He has lost some blood and needs to go home to bed for a few days. He has been given a sleeping tablet which will knock him out in about," he looked at his watch, " twenty minutes. So don't keep him up a minute more than you have to."
He chivalrously took her hand and kissed it.
"Bon Nuit, Mam'selle," he murmured "make sure he isn't disturbed. All he needs is sleep and peace and quiet for a few days."
Inge nodded. She recognized the young man as a doctor from a nearby hospital, who hunched himself into his anorak against the cold night air and walked away, whistling.
Inge had been an occasional guest to Jim's home in a small chateau once owned by Alysse Wilson's family on the outskirts of Paris.
His daughter-in-law Alysse had been gifted the chateau on the day she married William or Guillaume as he was called by the members of Alysse's family.
It was a pretty place with extensive gardens, a coach house and tall, stained glass windows.
Some of the furniture was centuries old and the bed in Jim's room was a four poster with rich, brown, brocade curtains.
He didn't live alone. A household of several off shoots of Alysse's family numbering nine people in all included William's two children Anton and Marie Margaret.
It was a happy home where four generations lived very comfortably.
Jim's bedroom was on the second floor, overlooking the drive and commanding a view of the rose garden out the front.
. It had a secret door which enabled him to come and go unobserved. He had yet to use it.
It was also fitted with a very sophisticated alarm system, so Jim would be quite safe from harm while he slept away the effects of this disasterous encounter.
Inge thought of the people in that household quietly busying around him and knew he would be well looked after.
Jean-Luc pulled his collar up around his ears and with a gruff "Bon Nuit" took his leave, the little monkey disappearing into the front of his jacket.
As the car vanished into the night Inge fixed Pierre with a smiling gaze and a question.
"What now Mon Ami?"
Pierre had spent some time mulling over that same question and had already made his decision.
His head was still whirling with the events that had taken place since he landed at Orly Airport a few short hours ago.
He wasn't going to return to his old, humdrum existence after all that had happened.
His friend Alphonse had died defending something he believed in.
Like it or not Pierre was a part of that, with the poetry he had translated used to make codes and ciphers to protect the people Alphonse had recruited.
Suddenly he remembered the little book of poetry he still carried in his pocket. He took it out and placed it in Inge's hands.
She looked at it blindly for a moment and then burst into tears.
"Oh, Pierre," she sobbed, "do you really mean to stay? With us? The Network? Your life will never be the same. Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," he said, "never been so sure of anything in my life."
Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around him and clinging closely to his chest. He looked into her drowned, blue eyes and said softly, ' You're beautiful when you're sad."
She spoke quietly, although her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it .
"I am not sad, my dear, I am joyful that you want to remain with us. To be one of us----"
Pierre stopped her with another kiss and said firmly,
"Look at us. Standing on the curbside as if we have no homes to go to. And," he added, "I am hungry. Where can we go to get something to eat?"
Maxine's", she answered promptly. "You can have anything you want there.
A snack or a cup of coffee or a three course meal. Any time, day or night." He pulled her close to him again and kissed her slowly and with a warmth that excited her. He saw the pulse start in her throat and smiled.
"Maxine's it is then," he said, waving to a passing taxi .
As they settled into the cab for the short trip to the restaurant, Inge cuddled close to Pierre.
They were both aware of a powerful, mutual attraction and neither were in the mood to deny their feelings.
Maxine's was a quiet little place with booths and unobtrusive lighting for those who wished
to remain un-noticed. Omelettes from Maxine's were said to be the best in Paris, so they both chose an omelette for supper and enjoyed them to the full.
With the remainder of the wine in their glasses, they sat talking quietly of the day's events.
There was much to consider, although the changes in Pierre's life needed to be as seamless and unobtrusive as possible.
He decided to give his notice in to the Museum, citing .his translations as taking more and more of his time. Then he would be free to travel and conduct Network matters with much less difficulty.
His apartment in Paris would become his home and not just a pied a terre.
He thought about the lovely place he had purchased several of years ago and realized he felt homesick for it. He had a vision in his mind of the sun coming up and touching the trees outside the windows.
Then he had even clearer image of Inge in the big bed, her golden hair across the pillows, her eyes closed in sleep,
"It grows late, Pierre, we need to get some rest too," she said, as if aware of his thoughts.
He nodded and sent the waiter to ring for a taxi. While they waited, they heard a love song being played on a radio somewhere, and Pierre took up the chorus and sang it softly to Inge.
He had a pleasant tenor voice that covered the range of the tune well, and at the song's end she applauded , standing on tip toe to place a kiss on his lips.
The taxi arrived and they drove the short distance to Pierre's apartment.
He looked up at the elegant portico of the building and gave a small sigh of pleasure.
Inge looked out of the cab window and saw a graceful two storey house surrounded by extensive gardens.
"Where are we?' she asked although she didn't really mind where they were provided they were together.
Pierre felt his heart quicken as he sought for an answer to Inge's question.
Finally he thought of what to say.
He stood on the pavement and flung his arm backwards towards the house.
" Home," he said with a catch in his voice. "This is my home now. Do you want to-- that is will you?---" He looked at Inge helplessly as his old habits of shyness and inability to speak threatened him once more.Suddenly he swept her up in his arms ad carried her to the door. The key turned in the lock as if it was yesterday he had been there last and they stood together in the hallway.
Inge wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
"Home?" she said with a query in her voice. "Whose home Pierre?"
"Mine," he said softly into her hair. "and yours too if you wish it."
"Home," she repeated. "Home sweet home."
"Inge", he whispered, "stay with me tonight."
"Here?"
"Yes here. The bed is made and there's breakfast in the refrigerator."
Inge's heart turned over at the thought of waking in the morning after a night in Pierre's arms.
She wound her arms around his neck and offered her lips to his.
"Home." she said in his ear. "Home at last."
THE END
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