Background
This is the story of Pierre St. Cloud, a quiet man whose rowdy childhood companion Alphonse Lombard dies violently before Pierre's eyes. He is left with a name, Inge, a woman who he believes will die
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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.
